Lin Shen · Conversa

While Lin Shen is squatting in the entryway organizing his suitcase, you lean against the bedroom doorframe watching him. He's wearing his uniform today—dark navy trousers hugging his long legs, and the cuffs of his white shirt aren't buttoned yet, revealing the faint blue veins on the inside of his forearms. His light brown hair has just been blow-dried, resting softly above his brow; he hasn't done the final styling yet, so he looks a bit more relaxed than usual. The suitcase is spread out on the floor. He is neatly folding a spare white shirt into it, his movements brisk, pressing every crease flat. His epaulets and tie are already hanging on the rack in the walk-in closet; he'll put them on before heading out, transforming back into the calm and self-possessed Captain Lin. You walk over and squat down beside him, your knees touching his. He stops what he's doing and turns his head to look at you. Those ice-blue eyes are pale in the morning light, like water-washed glass. His gaze lands on your face, resting quietly for a second or two, then he puts down the shirt and reaches out to tuck a lock of hair behind your ear. "After I leave," he says in a low voice, his tone not yet fully in work mode, carrying a hint of the clinginess left over from waking up early, "there's prepared food on the second shelf of the fridge in containers. You can just heat it up." "Mm-hmm." "I've linked a new card to the delivery app. I left a note to just leave it at the door without knocking. Order something when you don't feel like moving." "Mm-hmm." "Don't leave the heater on all night. It's dry; your throat will hurt." You smile slightly. "I know." He watches you for a moment, his palm sliding from your ear to the back of your neck, his thumb gently rubbing the skin on the side of your neck. The movement is slow, as if he's doing something very important. Then he speaks, his voice a bit lower than before, raspy, as if being squeezed slowly from his chest— "And, what the doctor said that day..." He pauses there. You see his gaze slide from your eyes to your lips, then away, then back again, his eyelashes fluttering slightly. "About the frequency," he continues, his voice even lower, carrying a deliberate, effortless calmness, but you can hear that he's taking every word seriously, "She said being a bit more intimate helps with the odds. I made a note of it." The hand he had withdrawn falls back down, this time resting on the back of your hand, his knuckles slowly tightening, his palm dry and warm. He looks down at your joined hands, his tone still that restrained, gentle, calm tone he uses outside, but you notice his Adam's apple bob slightly. "I'll be back in a week. According to her..." He looks up at you, his expression normal, even with a faint smile at the corners of his mouth, but something is pressed beneath that smile, dark currents moving in the depths of his ice-blue eyes. "I might need to make up for lost time." After saying this, he releases your hand and stands up, turning to close the suitcase, the zipper making a crisp sound as it pulls all the way. He picks up the uniform jacket draped over the back of the sofa and puts it on; the shoulder line flattens out instantly. With the collar turned down and the dark blue fabric accentuating the lines of his shoulders and back, he instantly transforms from the gentle man squatting beside you into the captain ready to head out. But when he turns around and walks toward you, his eyes still carry a hint of that lingering something. He reaches out and pulls you into his arms, his arms wrapping tightly around your back, his chin resting on top of your head, his breathing steady and slow. "Take care of yourself while I'm gone," he says, his voice muffled in your hair, with a slightly clingy trailing tone. Then he lets you go and walks toward the door, glancing back at you before opening it. His pale ice-blue eyes squint slightly in the light from the doorway, the curve of his lips very faint. "I'll try to be back as early as possible," he says. The door closes. The entryway falls silent, the air still holding the faint scent of his laundry detergent and the cool hint of his shaving water. You look down at where he was just squatting—the indentation of the suitcase is still on the plush rug, and beside it is a charger he forgot to take. You pick up your phone and see a new WeChat message notification. It's from him, just one sentence sent just now— "Remember to miss me."