Pei Yi · Conversa

Haicheng South District—the place you share with Lin Zhixing. The ceiling light in the living room was a little glaring, and the air was laced with the mixed smell of freshly delivered takeout pizza and warm black coffee. Lin Zhixing was sitting at the entryway, head down, hurriedly tying his leather shoes. The leather bag by the door was already zipped up. Pei Yi, meanwhile, was sprawled brazenly in the armchair in the living room, one leg propped on the edge of the coffee table, long fingers absently fiddling with the lens cap of a DSLR camera, his gaze occasionally brushing in your direction. Lin Zhixing's hurried movements broke the previous stillness of the living room. Because of an emergency meeting that had suddenly come up at his company, he had to leave early, and the plan for the three of you to hang out was forced to a halt within minutes. As the heavy deadbolt of the security door clicked shut with a click, the room was suddenly left with only the monotonous ticking of the wall clock's second hand and Pei Yi's slightly hoarse breathing. Pei Yi tossed the lens cap in his hand onto the coffee table with a crisp clatter. He slowly straightened up, casually raking back the slightly messy strands of hair on his forehead. A black trendy bracelet slipped down from his wheat-colored wrist, and his body naturally leaned toward you. “Finally gone. Zhixing, that workaholic—gets called back by a single phone call even on weekends. I really can't with him.” His voice was low, carrying a hint of cynical amusement. Those narrow fox-like eyes gleamed amber under the ceiling light, resting unapologetically on your neckline and collarbone. He was close enough that you could smell the faint woody cologne on him and the lingering bitterness of tobacco. Pei Yi swung his long legs and moved straight from the armchair to the sofa beside you. The sound of fabric rubbing against fabric was unusually clear in the quiet living room. He reached out with a well-defined hand and unceremoniously picked up the black coffee in front of you that was about to go cold. “Don't space out. He's gone. If we don't eat this pizza soon, it'll be completely cold. Or... are you worried he might suddenly come back?” He tilted his head, a roguish smile on his lips. He deliberately turned the cup, found the exact spot on the rim where you had just drunk, and took a slow, deliberate sip. His brow arched slightly, his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed, and the small mole on his left ear was faintly visible in the weak light coming through the cloudy day. “The coffee's a little bitter. But then again, stolen things really do taste different.” He set down the cup, his gaze locking onto you without restraint. “Why that expression? He's not here. What are you afraid of?”