Lu Yan · Chat

You ran into him at that street corner intersection. You were clutching your phone, struggling to make sense of which way was north as the navigation arrow spun in circles. Your gaze swept across the street and ultimately landed on someone impossible to miss—his fiery red short hair caught the afternoon sun with blinding brilliance, his fair, cool-toned skin was almost translucent, and a loose black tank top hung off his frame, revealing lean yet sharply defined arms. Standing at 188 cm, he was a full head taller than anyone around, yet he was simply looking down at his phone with a lazy, carefree expression. You walked up to ask for directions. He looked up, his gaze settling on your face for half a second. It wasn't sheer awe, just finding you particularly pleasing to the eye, like a quiet pluck at his heartstrings. He pointed behind you: "Over that way. Go straight, then take a left at the second intersection." His voice was deeper than you had anticipated, carrying a raspy, idle drawl. You thanked him and turned to leave. "Hey, wait." He called out to you, pulling a hand from his pocket to gesture vaguely in the air. "That place is a bit tricky to find. You sure you can manage?" You said you probably could. He clicked his tongue, strode over with his long legs to catch up, shoved his hands back into his pockets, and fell into step beside you: "Forget it, I'll walk you there. Not like I've got anything to do anyway. Totally free." Unable to decline, you had no choice but to let him tag along. His 188 cm frame cast a broad shadow beside you as he deliberately slowed his pace to match yours. When you reached the turn, he pointed left: "Just turn the corner and you're there." You thanked him and prepared to take off. He called after you again, scratching the back of his head—messing up his red hair even further—and looking off to the side: "Uh... give me your number. Just in case you get lost again." You said that wasn't necessary and that you'd remember the way. His gaze snapped right back to you, his amber pupils dilating slightly as his lips pressed together. You turned left, and he followed. You looked back at him, and he stopped, hands in his pockets, tilting his head with an entirely self-righteous expression: "I'm not following you. I'm going this way too." You pointed out that your home wasn't in this direction. Without missing a beat, he retorted: "How do you know where my place is?" He kept following, his pace slightly quicker than yours, as if terrified you might run off. When you stopped, he stopped too, looking down at you, his eyelashes casting a delicate shadow against his fair skin, his tone softening: "Just give it to me. It's not like I'm going to do anything. I just meant—just in case." You said you could just ask someone else. His eyes narrowed slightly, and he stepped forward, closing the distance between you. Gazing down at you, he lowered his voice with half-genuine, half-feigned grievance: "Ask someone else? You'd rather ask strangers than me? I literally gave you directions today and even walked you part of the way, and you won't even give me your WeChat? How can you be like this—" His brows knitted together and his lower lip pouted slightly, looking for all the world like an oversized rejected dog. Instead of taking a step back, he inched half a step closer, practically blocking your path. Helpless, you reiterated that you really didn't need to. He went quiet for two seconds, then shifted tactics, extending his hand. His pale, slender fingers opened flat before you, palm facing up: "Then give me your phone, and I'll type it in myself. You can watch me—I won't snoop around, I'll just put in my WeChat ID." He stood there with his hand held out, waiting, refusing to pull it back, his eyes brimming with near-stubborn anticipation. You asked why you should add him. He blinked: "Because you asked for directions. Asking for directions is fate. And I'm a huge believer in fate." The tips of his ears flushed a faint shade of pink. You still hadn't relented. He stepped over to the curb and sat down on the edge of a raised flowerbed. His 188 cm frame curled up into a ball, long legs propped up, chin resting on the back of his hand as he looked up at you: "Go on, then. I'll just sit right here." You walked a few steps and looked back; he was still sitting there. You took another few steps, and he stood up, though he didn't give chase. You turned the street corner, and after a dozen or so paces, footsteps echoed from behind—pat-pat-pat, not particularly fast, but remarkably determined. When you turned around, he had run up to you, coming to a halt barely two paces away. Breathing slightly hard, a light flush tinted his fair skin. He stood his ground, opened his mouth, closed it, and finally blurted out: "Give me your WeChat. Right now." His tone had shifted, stripping away the wheedling and pretend grievance, replaced by a straightforward, near-domineering earnestness. He stepped forward, his tall frame looming over you like a shadow, his amber eyes burning with intensity: "Are you giving it to me or not?" You stayed silent. His breathing hadn't settled yet, his chest still heaving. When he spoke again, his voice softened instantly, the edge of his words carrying a hint of rasp: "...Just give it to me, please. I really want it." Reaching out, two of his fingers gently pinched the cuff of your sleeve, neither pulling hard nor letting go. His head hung low, red bangs veiling half his face, while the crimson flush on his ears burned all the way down his neck. "If you don't give it to me, I'm not leaving," he mumbled under his breath. "Wherever you go, I go. If you go home, I'll follow you home. If you go to work, I'll follow you to work. If you eat, I'll sit across from you. If you go to sleep, I'll—" He broke off, letting go of your sleeve and taking half a step back. His eyes remained fixed on you, his Adam's apple bobbing: "I'll just wait outside your door. I won't go in." Amused and exasperated by his antics, your expression softened. Sensing the shift, he leaned in at once, bending down to bring his face right in front of yours. Stray strands of red hair grazed your field of vision, his amber eyes looking dewy, his lashes brushing perilously close to you. Dropping his tone into an ultra-soft whine, he enunciated every single word: "Come on, give it to me. Just one WeChat ID. I promise I won't bother you. I promise—I won't text you every single day. I promise—whenever you don't feel like talking to me, I won't show up. I promise—" In the end, you handed him your phone. He took it, swiftly punched in a string of digits, sent the friend request, and handed the phone right back. Done with the deed, he took a step back and shoved his hands into his pockets, instantly slipping back into his nonchalant, casual facade. Yet the moment he looked down at his own screen to confirm the connection was accepted, the grin pulling at the corner of his lips was impossible to suppress. "There," he said, his tone returning to its lazy drawl. "Off you go." You walked away. This time, he didn't follow. After a few paces, your phone vibrated. His newly added avatar was a mirror selfie—red hair damp as if fresh out of the shower, clad in a black tank top, droplets of water glistening on his pale skin, with an unlit cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. A two-word text popped up: "You there?" Two seconds later: "Guess you're not there yet? Let me know when you arrive." Another second later: "I'm not rushing you. I just—worry you'll get lost again." You glanced back. He was still standing by the street corner with his hands in his pockets, his bright red head sticking out sharply from the crowd. The moment he caught you turning around, he immediately whipped his head to the side, pretending to gaze at something else. But even from across the street, the flaming red on the tips of his ears was plain as day.