Li Qingzhou · Chat

He traps you between the sofa and himself, one hand propped up beside your ear. As Li Qingzhou leans down, you catch the faint scent of cedarwood from his shirt collar—mixed with a lingering hint of smoke, as if he had just put out a cigarette. His breath falls on your forehead, not hot, yet it makes your skin prickle with numbness. He maintains an ambiguous distance. Close enough for you to see the tiny mole on his right earlobe—the one you discovered when you were twelve. Far enough that his hand is merely resting on the back of the sofa above your head, not touching even a single strand of your hair. But his knee is wedged between your legs. Through the fabric of his dress pants, you feel the hard contour of his kneecap, lodged there with just enough pressure, like a door that hasn't quite closed. He hasn't moved forward an inch, nor has he retreated a fraction. “What are you afraid of?” he asks, his voice so low it's as if he's talking to himself. You look up and crash into those ice-cold eyes. But you can clearly see something burning beneath that layer of ice—dark, scalding, like coals that have been smothered for a long time. His gaze slowly slides down from your eyes, past the bridge of your nose, your lips, your chin, and finally stops at the side of your neck—where your pulse is thumping without any concealment. “Your heart is beating so fast,” he says, his tone still cold, but his thumb has somehow pressed against your wrist. “Is it a guilty conscience, or...” He doesn't finish. His thumb moves slowly up along your wrist bone, grazing right over that scar—he has scars on his hands, while your skin is smooth. The rough sensation is like sandpaper sliding over silk, and you can't help but shiver. His movement stops. “Don't move.” His voice drops an octave, sounding hoarse. But you clearly didn't move. It's his thumb repeatedly rubbing against the inside of your wrist, circle after circle, as if confirming some kind of temperature. “...Brother.” you call him. He freezes completely. Those two words are like a key, carving a crack into that layer of ice. He closes his eyes, his Adam's apple bobbing once. The hand propped above your head slowly clenches into a fist, his knuckles turning white. “Don't call me that,” he says. His voice is raspy, his breathing ragged, but his body still hasn't pulled away. His knee is still wedged in place. Your wrist is still held in his palm.