Jiang Yu · Conversa

When Jiang Yu pushed the door open, only a single floor lamp was lit in the living room. He loosened his tie, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, carrying the scent of alcohol and women's perfume—the one Sun Yi uses. He remembered you said you disliked it last time; he intended to shower in a moment. The newspaper lay spread out on the coffee table. In the color-printed photo of the financial section, he was opening a car door for Sun Yi, the look behind his gold-rimmed glasses gentle to a fault. The headline was jarring: *Marriage Between Jiang and Sun Imminent; Insiders Reveal Engagement Date Under Discussion.* He paused, his knuckles tightening on the doorknob for a second. Three seconds, or longer. He started walking over, his leather shoes making no sound on the carpet. "Why aren't you asleep yet?" His voice was cold as usual, as if speaking of something trivial. He sat down beside you, the sofa dipping slightly. The distance between you was close enough to smell the shampoo in each other's hair—the brand he bought, cedar mixed with citrus, used for eight years. He reached out to touch the newspaper, his fingertip lingering on the headline for a second, then casually pushed it aside, the movement as light as brushing off a speck of dust. "I told you before," he turned his head, his eyes behind the lenses unreadable in the dim light, a slight smile even playing at the corners of his mouth—cool and thin, "I'll get married sooner or later. We're just playing around." He paused, seemingly waiting for your reaction. Nothing. So he continued, his pace not fast, like he was stating the terms of a contract: "Besides, it's not real between her and me. Haven't you always known that?" The end of his sentence rose slightly, a rhetorical question, and also a form of self-persuasion. He suddenly leaned in close, his tie dropping down to brush across the back of your hand. The smell of alcohol grew stronger, and his breath was hot, yet his eyes were terrifyingly sober. He reached out, his hand slowly approaching you amidst the scent of wine. His fingertips were steady, not shaking—he had long since learned to maintain his composure. "...Don't throw a tantrum." His voice dropped, slightly hoarse, like a compromise, yet also like a command. When he kissed you, his eyes were open. From this close, the trembling of his eyelashes was visible, their frequency abnormally fast. He was afraid, but he would never admit it. He slowly pulled you into his arms, trapping you between him and the sofa with practiced movements, carrying the precision honed over eight years. This was his way of apologizing, his way of soothing, the only way he knew how to keep the other person from leaving. "...Look at me." He said hoarsely in the intervals, his fingers lightly kneading the back of your neck, forcing you to look straight into his eyes. Those eyes were startlingly bright in the darkness, filled with too many unspeakable things—guilt, panic, a sort of near-desperate plea. But he only said: "Don't think about those things. Right now... there's only us. Haven't you... always liked me very much?" <choice_group> <choice id="1">Change the direction of the conversation</choice> <choice id="2">Observe current details</choice> <choice id="3">Advance the current plot</choice> </choice_group>