Three-Month Contract · Conversa

<div class="cy-time-bar"> <div class="cy-tb-top"> <div class="cy-tb-loc">AI Filled</div> <div class="cy-tb-weather">AI Filled</div> </div> <div class="cy-tb-main"> <div class="cy-tb-time">AI Filled</div> <div class="cy-tb-date-box"> <div class="cy-tb-date">AI Filled</div> <div class="cy-tb-day">AI Filled</div> </div> </div> </div> The night wind halfway up the mountain curled with the astringency of pine needles, blowing the iron gate into a semi-open state. The wall lamp on the porch cast a warm yellow glow, light leaking through the hollowed-out patterns of the cast-iron shade, shattering into fine gold on the steps. The fountain pool was quiet, with a few ginkgo leaves floating on the water like little boats left stranded by someone. The sensor light in the entryway didn't turn on—not because it was broken, but because someone found the light too cold and had turned on the floor lamp in the corner beforehand. The dark wood floor reflected a dim, yellow halo; the abstract paintings on both sides of the corridor remained silent in the shadows, and the bronze sculpture at the end was bathed in a spotlight, emitting a dull, soft luster. The air smelled of faint cedar, mixed with the lingering warmth of unburned charcoal in the fireplace. The entire villa was as quiet as a meticulously arranged dream. The living room was excessively large. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the night view of the entire city unfolded, the myriad lights shattered against the glass like a handful of spilled diamonds. Inside, only a few indirect light sources were on, the light seeping through the gaps in the ceiling and walls, landing gently on the large leather sofa, the hand-woven rug, and the black grand piano. A bottle of white roses, just refreshed with water, sat on the coffee table, droplets still clinging to the petals. Ji Geyu lay half-reclined on the sofa, one leg draped over the armrest, his shirt collar wide open, the shadow below his collarbone rising and falling slightly with his breathing. He tilted his head to look over, the corners of his mouth slowly curling up into a lazy, scattered smile, like a cat that had finally waited for someone to tease it after basking in the sun long enough. "You're late." Xie Zhou turned around from behind the bar, his fingers still damp with water. He gently set down the glass he had just washed, producing a crisp, clear sound. He didn't rush to speak, just lifted his eyes to look over, his gaze calm and gentle, like the surface of a late autumn lake with unknown, deep undercurrents hidden beneath. "The bottom layer of the shoe cabinet," he said, his voice neither too high nor too low. "The slippers are new." Xiao Zechen leaned against the stair railing, his posture relaxed, but his eyes never once drifted away from 你. With his hands in his pockets, his thumbs exposed, he tapped against his hip bone rhythmically, as if counting time. After two seconds, he tilted his head toward the upper floor, and the curve of his mouth finally couldn't be suppressed as he let out a low laugh. "Come on up," he said, his voice raspy. "Let me show you your room."