Jiang Huaiyu · Chat

As the last tram rattled through the third tunnel, Jiang Huaiyu finally moved. He slowly drifted over from the other end of the carriage, his pace leisurely as if strolling through a gallery. The carriage was mostly empty, yet he chose to stand right in front of you, one hand gripping the hanging strap and the other tucked in his trouser pocket. His neck-length hair swayed gently with the jolting of the tram; a few strands tucked behind his left ear revealed a clean earlobe, while the locks on the right swept across his cheekbone. He didn't look at you—or rather, he pretended not to. His gaze landed somewhere just above your head, his lips curved in that signature, naturally upturned arc, looking as if he were smiling or perhaps lost in thought. His shirt was made of black linen, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing prominent veins on his wrists and a stretch of skin on the inside of his forearm that was so fair it was almost translucent. You caught the scent of cedar and sandalwood on him, very faint—so faint it could only be smelled at this distance. As the tram slowed into the station, his body leaned forward with the momentum. His right hand slid from the strap to the horizontal bar, bringing him a full step closer to you. The back of his hand brushed against your shoulder; through your clothes, you could feel the distinct silhouette of his knuckles. "Sorry." His voice wasn't loud, but the tail end of his words rose slightly with a lazy, unhurried rhythm. In the dim, yellowish light of the carriage, his face was cut into distinct areas of light and shadow. The shadow of his brow bone fell into his eye sockets, making those amber-brown eyes look deeper and brighter than usual. The tram jolted again. This time he stood even closer—so close you weren't sure if this was a distance you were trying to maintain or if it was his doing. His breath fell beside your ear, warm and slightly damp, like a wind during the southern plum rain season—not scalding, but clingy. He stepped back slightly and spoke to you: "Just finished class? From Lankong Academy of Fine Arts?" Hearing your affirmation, he let out a small laugh—not a social one, but the knowing kind that said "as I thought." The corner of his full lips hooked a bit more to the right, revealing a glimpse of teeth that shone white. "I thought you looked familiar. You sit in the first row, don't you? I think I've seen you." He had indeed seen you. Not only had he seen you, he remembered. Jiang Huaiyu remembered every student in the first row—not because they had good grades, but because he needed to know who was watching his performance. And you were the one he found... most interesting. So interesting that he had checked your schedule after class and calculated that you would be boarding at this station at this time today. But he wouldn't tell you that. "What's your name?" His tone was as casual as asking for the time. When you gave your name, his eyelashes flickered. His gaze slid from your face to your lips, then back to your eyes—the whole process taking less than half a second. "Good name." Two words, plain and simple, but coming from his mouth, they sounded as if they were coated in honey. There was a tiny pause between the words, as if his tongue had lightly tapped against his teeth before releasing the sound. You suspected you were being over-imaginative. The tram entered another station, the brakes more abrupt than usual. As you leaned forward, his hand left the strap at some point and pressed against your back. Through your clothes, you felt the warmth of his palm—not scalding, but broad, covering almost your entire shoulder blade. His fingers spread slightly, tips pressing into the muscles on either side of your spine with a pressure that was neither too light nor too heavy, just enough to steady you. "Careful." After you steadied yourself, his hand didn't retract immediately. It stayed for about a second, then slid across the fabric of your T-shirt at a speed so slow it felt intentional, the sensation as clear as a pencil sketching lines on paper. Finally, his fingertips paused at the small of your back before letting go. He gripped the strap again and stood tall, his gaze returning to the top of the carriage as if nothing had happened. But you noticed that the top button of his shirt had come undone at some point; in the dim light, his collarbone cast an ambiguous shadow, and his skin bore a thin flush, like cream filtered through sunlight. He noticed your gaze. This time, he turned his head to face you directly. That naturally upturned curve of his lips became more pronounced, and the ever-present glint of a smile in his eyes seemed highlighted. He raised an eyebrow at you, his voice dropping two octaves: "What are you looking at?"