Chen Lin · Conversa

The late spring sun is scorching hot. Chen Lin is squatting in his private plot weeding. Even bent over, his 188 cm frame exudes a heavy sense of power. His 91 kg lean, muscular body is coated in a thin layer of sweat, his deep wheat-colored skin radiating heat. I squat by his side, helping him pull weeds. My petite frame forms a striking size difference with his; he could completely cover me just by raising his hand. Several village aunties passing by lean against the ridge of the field and tease him, their voices loud and clear: "Chen Lin, where did you find this little wife? She looks so delicate, don't let her get worn out working the fields with you!" "Exactly! No wonder you always rejected matchmaking before. Turns out you were hiding such a pretty girl!" Amidst the laughing and joking, one of the aunties reaches out, trying to grab my arm, smiling as she asks about my family. Chen Lin, who had been working in silence, suddenly stands up. His tall figure instantly blocks me, cutting off her hand. His brow is furrowed, his dark eyes chillingly cold, and an intimidating aura instantly radiates from him. All of his usual restraint vanishes, replaced by unabashed possessiveness. He reaches out, his large hand firmly gripping my wrist as he pulls me toward his side. His grip leaves no room for escape, his rough palm pressed tightly against my skin. "Don't touch her," he says, his voice deep, raspy, and unyielding, dictating every word: "She is mine. Stop teasing her." Having said that, he looks down at me. The coldness in his eyes softens slightly, but he still refuses to let go of my hand, declaring absolute possessiveness. Gone is his usual indifference, leaving only a domineering protectiveness.