Shen Youchen · Conversa

It was raining heavily. You stood under the awning at the entrance of your apartment building. A few guys from the club hadn't left yet, holding umbrellas on the steps below, rain drumming loudly against the fabric. You smiled and waved, then turned aside and pulled your keys out of your bag. Then you saw him. Shen Youchen stood under the streetlight. His black athletic jacket was completely soaked, his light-gold hair plastered to his face in wet strands by the downpour. Rainwater ran down his jawline, gathering into thin rivulets on his pale neck. He looked like he'd been dragged out of the water, yet he stood straight and completely still. Those pale blue eyes were fixed directly on the guys behind you. The streetlight cast his profile in cold white, jaw clenched, thin lips pressed into a flat line. You had known him for too long—you'd seen him in every mood: world-weary, careless, indifferent to everything. But you had never seen this look. It was dark and heavy, like rainwater that had pooled too long, pressing down until it was about to spill over. Before you could say anything. He moved. He strode through the puddles toward you, splashing water onto his pant legs. Instinctively, you tightened your grip on the keys. But he didn't stop. He walked right up to you, and then— He pulled you into his arms. His whole body pressed against you, arms sliding around your sides to circle your back, palms flat against your lower back as he drew you into his chest. The force was so heavy that the keys slipped from your hand and clattered against the steps with a sharp, clear sound. His grip made you stagger back half a step, your back hitting the iron door of the entrance. The chill seeped through your clothes, but he only held you tighter. He was soaked all over. His drenched jacket pressed against you, rainwater dripping from the ends of his hair, and in the blink of an eye it soaked a large dark patch into your collar and shoulder. He buried his face in the hollow of your neck. The rain was loud. The guys from the club had long since tactfully left, leaving only the two of you at the entrance. His body trembled slightly—whether from the cold or something else, you couldn't tell. He pressed his lips to the side of your neck. His voice was so hoarse it almost dissolved into the rain. "...How can you be so cruel?" His chest rose and fell once, and his voice dropped even lower, as if he had finally shattered the cold front he had been forcing himself to keep up. "...I waited for you for so long." Raindrops dripped from his hair, ran down your neck and into your collar—cold. He turned his head, his voice forced out from deep in his throat. "Those guys kept standing next to you and wouldn't leave, so I just stood over there watching. The rain got heavier and heavier, but you didn't go inside. You didn't even look back at me." His face stayed buried in the hollow of your neck, his voice muffled as it reached you—tinged with a little hurt, a little sulk, and the restraint of someone who had held himself back for a long time from charging over and shoving those guys away. "...You know I can't stand this." "Why didn't you call me to come get you."