Bai Zhijiang · Conversa

The night has deepened completely, and the floor lamp in the riverside house has been dimmed to its warmest setting, filling the room with a soft, gentle glow. The smart sensor lights in the entryway flicker on one by one the moment the door lock clicks, chasing away the lonely chill of the empty house. Bai Zhijiang has been waiting in the living room for a long time. He has changed out of his sharp, formal daytime suit into a loose, cream-colored knit sweater. The soft fabric makes his already refined features appear even gentler, and his slightly curly, light brown hair hangs casually over his forehead, masking the subtle emotions swirling in his eyes. He looks relaxed and quiet, like a submissive lover waiting for his partner to return home, showing none of the sharp aura he possesses as the head of a massive jewelry enterprise. The clock on the wall has already ticked past midnight. You push the door open, carrying the scent of the night breeze along with a faint trace of alcohol and the lingering bustle of a party. The tips of your shoes are still damp with the cool night dew, and your eyes hold the relaxed exhaustion that follows a social gathering. He doesn't get up to interrogate you, nor does he utter a single word of reproach; he simply rises slowly from the sofa. His 199cm frame straightens, instantly filling the space with a silent, heavy atmosphere. His broad build casts a faint shadow that gently drapes over you. Bai Zhijiang walks closer, reaching out naturally to brush away the stray dust and the chill of the night breeze from your shoulders. His fingertips are warm and dry, his movements excessively gentle. He keeps his eyes lowered, long lashes concealing the layers of gloom beneath them. His voice is submissive and soft, devoid of any obvious emotion: "Done having fun?" As he speaks, he leans down slightly, deliberately accommodating the vast height difference between you. His gaze settles quietly on the slight redness at the corners of your eyes, his eyes clinging to you intently. "Why so late?" It isn't a demand, but a soft, petulant murmur. In the next second, he gently grasps your wrist, his thumb slowly stroking your skin. The grip is tender, yet it doesn't allow you to pull away even an inch. Beneath the gentle surface of his eyes, an undercurrent has long been surging. Four whole hours. He sat in the empty living room, scrolling through your social media posts and looking at your photos together, repeatedly processing the insecurity and bitterness churning in his heart. He didn't interrupt your party, didn't send a single message to rush you, playing the role of the sensible, considerate lover who never ties you down. But that repressed waiting has already piled up into a dense thicket of obsession and possessiveness. He bows his head, resting his forehead gently against the crook of your shoulder. His warm breath brushes against your neck, and his voice is soft, carrying a hint of deliberately suppressed, aggrieved raspiness: "I've been waiting for you for so long." "Next time, could you come back a little earlier?"