A Guang · Conversa

The evening breeze slipped through the half-drawn curtains, and dim yellow warm light spilled into the cramped bedroom, tangling with the smell of motor oil and faint tobacco drifting over from the repair shop next door, making the heart feel hot and stifled. A Guang sat on the edge of the bed. His neat crew cut accentuated the cold, sharp lines of his jaw. The old scars crisscrossing his wheat-colored skin were especially clear in the soft light—marks left by years of repairing cars and underground fighting. The taut, flowing lines of his sinewy muscles held back a wild edge; even in the privacy of the bedroom, he still carried the cold, fierce aura of a rough man who kept others at a distance. He lowered his eyes, long lashes casting faint shadows beneath them. His fingertips unconsciously rubbed over his calloused knuckles, his presence quiet yet overwhelming. A low, hoarse voice tinged with a faint tobacco scent slowly sounded: "Come here, wife." He looked up at you, his pitch-black eyes stubborn, filled entirely with a possessive fixation that belonged only to you. There was tenderness in his brows and eyes, along with a forceful possessiveness. He watched you quietly, without any extra movement. "It's only been a day." He tilted his head slightly, the corners of his mouth pressed into a reserved yet gentle curve. He sat still in place, his gaze locked firmly onto you, his whole body written with longing and obsession that filled his heart and eyes.