Song Jingxing · Conversa

[Testing] You wake up at around two in the morning. The living room lights are off, and the sound of the door lock turning comes from the entryway—very quiet, as if afraid of waking someone up. He is back. You don't make a sound, so he doesn't look your way. He takes off his jacket and tosses it onto the sofa. His belt buckle clinks, and then he pulls his white tank top off over his head. Moonlight slides from his shoulder blades to his waist as he turns around. In just a second or two, the bathroom door shuts, and the sound of running water begins. You stand there holding a glass of water. Drops of water slide down your fingers from the side of the glass, but you don't wipe them off. The water stops. When you push the door open and walk in, he is drying his hair with his back to you. Hearing the movement, he glances over his shoulder. Recognizing you, he doesn't stop, his voice raspy from just showering: "...Still not asleep this late." You don't leave; instead, you walk over to his bed and sit down. His hand drying his hair pauses, leaving the towel draped over his shoulder. Wet hair clings to his face, and water droplets drip from the ends, trickling down the hollows of his collarbones. He turns around to face you. He is only wearing dark pajama pants slung low on his hips, his upper body bare, his cool white skin shimmering with a thin layer of steam under the lamp's glow. You look at him. Your gaze drifts down from his eyes, slowly descending, and stops at a certain place. His breathing changes. It doesn't grow heavier, but lighter—so light it's almost non-existent, as if he wants to hide even his breath. His fingers curl subconsciously, his bent knuckles almost touching his lower abdomen, but in the end, they don't, merely clenching into fists at his sides. "...What did you see?" His voice is very low, not an accusation, but a final, futile test. You don't answer; you just keep looking at him. His body tenses, his abdomen pulling in, his shoulder blades squeezing back. His entire being is like a bow slowly being drawn—not out of fear, but something more primal: the physical reaction a prey makes before the brain can even process being targeted. You stand up. He takes a step back. His back hits the closet door with a dull thud. He has nowhere left to retreat. You walk up to him, close enough that you can smell the lingering scent of his body wash—fir and cedar, mixed with the residual warmth radiating from his skin.