Shen Zhiyan · Conversa

【Weekend】 At ten o'clock on Saturday morning, you were woken up by the sound of a spatula hitting a frying pan in the kitchen. The bedroom door was ajar, and sunlight leaked through the gaps in the curtains, stretching a long, thin bright band across the dark grey sheets. You rolled over and reached for the other side of the bed—it was empty. The residual warmth had already faded, leaving only a faint scent on the sheets, a mix of laundry detergent and the base notes of his cold cologne. You sat up wrapped in the quilt, your hair sticking out messily, and rubbed your eyes. The sizzling sound of frying came from the kitchen, followed by the sound of running water and the light clatter of dishes. You padded over in your slippers, pushed the door open, and leaned against the frame. Shen Zhiyan was standing at the stove. He was wearing a loose white T-shirt, the collar hanging loosely above his collarbone, revealing a large area of cold white skin and clear collarbone lines. The waistband of his grey cotton lounge pants sat loosely on his hips, the fabric swaying slightly with his movements. He wasn't wearing glasses, and his black hair was scattered across his forehead. Probably because he had just washed his face, the ends of his hair were still slightly damp, shimmering with a faint light in the sun. He was just scooping a fried egg out of the pan, his other hand reaching for the salt shaker—his movements were efficient yet casual, a completely different person from the meticulous Shen Zhiyan at school. You leaned against the doorframe and watched him for a while. As if he felt your gaze, he turned his head and looked at you. His eyes fell on your disheveled hair, the corners of his mouth curling up slightly, before he turned back to continue flipping the things in the pan. “Awake?” he said, his voice soft, carrying the slight laziness of someone who had just started their day, much softer than his usual cold tone. “Yeah.” You walked over, wrapping your arms around his waist from behind, resting your face in the crook of his neck. He smelled like body wash, clean and refreshing, mixed with a bit of the savory scent of fried eggs. He didn't stop with the spatula, but he leaned back slightly, sinking into your embrace. You felt his muscles relax a bit where you were pressed against him through the thin T-shirt, and his breathing slowed down accordingly. “...Sleep well?” he asked, his voice muffled between the spatula and the sizzling oil, carrying a bit of lazy warmth. “Well.” You rubbed your face against his back. “When did you get up?” “Seven,” he said. “Couldn't sleep.” You leaned down and pressed a kiss to his shoulder blade through the T-shirt. The spatula in his hand paused, then he set it down, turned off the heat, and turned around to face you. He looked down at you. Without the obstruction of glasses, the things in those eyes were direct and clear. His pupils were slightly dilated in the morning light, his eyelids still had a hint of lingering sleepiness, and his lashes flicked up slightly when he looked at you. He raised his hand, his thumb grazing the corner of your mouth—there was probably a mark there from sleeping, a faint red line. “Does your lip still hurt?” he asked softly, referring to the small cut from Thursday's fight. “Doesn't hurt anymore.” He gave an “mm” and then leaned down, placing a very light kiss on the corner of your mouth. The temperature of his lips was similar to the sunlight shining in from the window, warm, with a lingering coolness from his morning mint toothpaste. Then he pulled back a little, picked up the spatula again, and scooped the fried egg onto a plate. “Go wash your face and brush your teeth, then come have breakfast.” You stood there without moving. He looked back and saw you still standing there, his brow arching slightly—that expression was exactly like the “is something wrong” curve he had while on duty at the school gate, but the look in his eyes was completely different. In the morning light, his gaze carried a softness that came from completely dropping all defenses, like a cat showing its belly. “If you keep looking at me,” he said, his voice dropping a bit, “the eggs are going to burn.” You laughed and reached out to straighten his T-shirt collar—it wasn't actually crooked; you just wanted to touch him. He let you pull it, his gaze following your fingers, darkening and then brightening in the sunlight. You went to wash up. When you came out after drying your face, he had already set breakfast on the small dining table—two plates of fried eggs and toast. A glass of warm milk was placed on your side, while a cup of black coffee sat in front of him, a few undried water droplets clinging to the rim of the cup. He sat in the chair by the window, one leg tucked up on the seat, his chin resting on his knee. He held his coffee cup, looking out at the street scene. The hem of his T-shirt had ridden up a bit because of his tucked leg, revealing a small section of his waist and the faint curve above his hip bone. You walked over and took a sip of the milk. He turned back to look at you, his gaze moving from your fingers holding the glass to your Adam's apple sliding as you swallowed, then stopping on your face. “...Any plans for today?” he asked, his voice still in that lazy tone. “None.” “Then just stay home,” he said, putting down his coffee cup and reaching a hand toward you. “Come here when you're done eating.” He hooked his finger at you. You finished the last bite of toast, put down the plate, and walked over. He took your wrist and pulled you to sit on the large armchair by the window—he was sitting inside, and you sat next to him, his knees pressed tightly against yours. The weekend sunlight streamed in, falling on your overlapping legs and joined fingers. His breath was by your ear, light and slow, having nothing to do with the Shen Zhiyan who sternly recorded names for violations at school. You turned your head, your nose grazing his cheek as it rested on your shoulder. He didn't dodge; instead, he leaned over, his lips pressing against the corner of your mouth for a kiss before pulling back and resting his chin in the crook of your neck again, curling himself into your embrace like a cat. “...Shen Zhiyan,” you whispered his name. “Hmm?” He had his eyes closed, his voice含含糊糊的. “You're completely different from how you are at school.” The corners of his mouth curved. You felt his cheek against yours as his lips lightly grazed the skin behind your ear, lighter than a feather. “You just realized?” he said. His voice was low and soft, carrying a hint of laziness after being soaked in sunlight.