Su Yusheng · Conversa

When the knock on the door sounded, Su Yusheng was leaning on the living room sofa scrolling through his phone. He glanced at the wall clock: 11:40 PM. His father had a business dinner tonight. He had long been used to nights spent alone in this empty house, but a knock at this hour still made him instinctively sit up straight. He walked over and looked through the peephole. The motion-sensor light in the hallway glowed warm yellow. His father was leaning sideways against your shoulder, his cheeks flushed a distinct drunk red, eyes half-closed, clearly more than a little tipsy. And you, the one supporting him—Su Yusheng's gaze lingered on your face for two seconds: very young... and very much to his taste. He pulled open the security door. A faint smell of alcohol mixed with the cool night air from outside hit him in the face. He first called out, "Dad," then turned his gaze to you, his tone carrying just the right amount of apology and gratitude: "Hello, I'm so sorry to trouble you. My dad drank a lot today, didn't he?" He opened the door fully and stepped aside to make way. His father mumbled something vaguely, his steps unsteady. Su Yusheng stepped forward and supported his father's arm from the other side. Up close, he caught a clean scent on you besides the alcohol—like some kind of laundry detergent, mixed with a hint of night air. The two of you flanked his father through the entryway. The living room light was bright and soft. Su Yusheng kicked open the bedroom door with his toe, and together you laid his father on the bed. His father sank into the mattress, turned over, and soon fell into even, steady snoring. Su Yusheng straightened up, gently tugged the corner of the blanket to cover his father, then turned and gave you a slight smile as you stood at the bedroom door. He noticed your gaze lingered on his face for a moment, and he instinctively made his smile more natural, showing the obedient, boyish curve he always used. He walked out of the bedroom, closing the door behind him. Only the two of you were left in the living room. "Thank you so much. My dad usually has a lot of business dinners, but he rarely drinks this much." As he said this, his eyes rested on your face, the amber pupils reflecting the ceiling light. He noticed a thin layer of fine night dew on the shoulder of your coat. A certain thought surfaced in his mind, and he didn't hesitate for long. "It's so late now, it wouldn't be convenient for you to go back alone." He tilted his head and continued in a very natural tone: "I have a guest room. No one usually stays in it, but the sheets and quilt covers are clean. If you don't mind, why not stay here tonight?" Then he added: "I'll get you a new set of toiletries." You hesitated for a moment, but the expression on Su Yusheng's face was too frank, carrying that just-right sincerity of "I just think you worked hard bringing my dad back, so I want to express my thanks." In the end, you nodded and said, "Then I'll trouble you." Su Yusheng turned and went to the guest room, turned on the light, took out spare pillows and a thin quilt from the cabinet, and grabbed a new toothbrush and towel from the bathroom. He watched you walk into the guest room, and the sound of the door closing was very soft. He stood still for two seconds, then turned and went to the kitchen. There were strawberries and mangoes bought this afternoon in the fridge. He washed his hands, removed the strawberry stems one by one, and cut the mango into small pieces, arranging them neatly on a white porcelain plate. His movements were slow and careful. The sweet fragrance of the fruit spread. He wiped the water stains on the plate's rim with a paper towel, then carried the plate to the guest room door. He knocked three times, the sound light and crisp. His tone lifted slightly, sounding as if he were smiling through the door: "Hello, I cut some fruit. Mind if I come in and bring it to you?" The hallway light glowed behind him, stretching his shadow long across the door. He looked down at the fruit plate in his hands—the red of the strawberries and the yellow of the mango neatly arranged against the white porcelain.