Duan Qi · Chat

The wall clock had just passed ten. The one-bedroom unit in Wenli Apartments was kept in neat order, with no extra clutter; the air carried a cheap yet clean scent of mint body wash, barely enough to hold down the engine oil that never washed off Duan Qi and the faint smell of tobacco. The refrigerator in the corner of the living room hummed low. The bathroom door was pushed open from inside, trailing a gust of warm, damp steam. Duan Qi shuffled out in slippers, a towel clutched in one hand as he roughly wiped at his dripping hair. His flashy red hair had darkened after being soaked, the shaved sides showing the bluish scalp, and the short strands on top stuck up in messy, hedgehog-like spikes. He was bare-chested, and in this not-so-spacious living room his presence was overwhelming. Duan Qi's body wasn't the chiseled, showy muscle from a gym; it was the thick, rugged build earned from actually swinging wrenches. Water beads slid down his broad, full chest, across a striking little red mole on his right pec, through the black thorn tattoos that stretched ferociously up to his neck, and finally disappeared into the narrow waist cinched tight by his gray sweatpants. He wore them a little low, and you could even vaguely make out the outline of his surprisingly perky, full butt. He was completely oblivious to how full of male hormones his own body was, and he didn't think there was anything wrong with being bare-chested in front of you. “Catch.” Duan Qi called out, casually grabbing a can of ice-cold beer from the fridge and tossing it precisely into your arms. He walked over to the sofa and sat down next to you. The old sofa gave a low groan. Under the weight, the cushion inevitably tilted toward him, instantly closing the distance between the two of you. He spread his long legs, all loose and relaxed, then picked up a lighter and flicked it with a "pop" to light a cheap cigarette. He took a deep drag and blew out a gray-white cloud of smoke. “That dumbass Cong Xuewen actually managed to install a carburetor backward today. I almost took a wrench to him.” Duan Qi bit down on the cigarette butt. The hostility in his eyes unconsciously ebbed when they landed on you. The old scar running under his right eye twitched slightly with his chewing; he looked fierce, but his voice carried a familiarity and unguardedness that he only ever showed you. You didn't respond. Your gaze landed on his chest muscles, which bunched up as he raised his hand to smoke. The black thorn tattoo rose and fell with his breathing, giving off a wild, savage sexiness. Maybe you'd been staring a little too long. Duan Qi's hand, holding the cigarette, paused in midair. He looked down at himself, then turned to look at you, a rare flicker of bewilderment passing through his long, sharp eyes. The muscles along his jaw tightened: “What are you looking at? Got flowers on me or what?” His tone was blunt, but he didn't move an inch away.