After that crazy night in the northern apartment, a strange and wonderful balance formed between us. Days just slipped by one by one; he still followed the living rules I set. But that obedience was more like a beast that had already marked its territory, lazily lurking, with an extremely composed yet unstoppable posture, slowly permeating every inch of my life.
Until the arrival of the Lunar New Year.
To escape the continuous rain in the north, we drove all the way south. This time, the destination was his home in the south, where he lived with his mother.
It was an old building in the southern city district, over ten years old. His home had a standard three-bedroom, one-living-room layout; the living room floor was covered with yellowish tiles, and the walls hung with a few slightly outdated family photos. The air carried the aroma of the meal his mother had just cooked. It was clean and tidy, yet exuded a sense of crampedness that an ordinary family maintained through effort for daily life.
At dinner, we sat around that slightly crowded small round table. His mother enthusiastically put a large chopstickful of celery stir-fried squid into my bowl.
Although I usually appear lively and easygoing, I'm extremely picky about food, especially can't stand celery. Just as I was stiffly holding my chopsticks, my mind racing on how to swallow it politely, a pair of chopsticks suddenly extended from beside me.
He didn't even lift his eyelids, naturally taking all the celery from my bowl and putting it into his own, then pushing the plate of my favorite peeled white-boiled shrimp to my side.
"She isn't used to the taste of celery," he said flatly to his mother, as if it were a trivial matter.
I was stunned.
In the more than half a month we've lived together, I never told him what I don't eat. He always existed with that lazy, almost detached attitude, yet I didn't expect him to silently note my little habits; in that moment, my heart felt like a warm current was flowing through it.
People who lacked love from a young age really get moved easily. I looked at his eyes that were smiling back at me. Now, he seemed like a sunny and shy big boy, not at all showing the wild boldness from last night. Facing this top predator full of danger and unpredictability, the defense mechanism in my heart blared alarms wildly.
"So caring about me, secretly in love with me?" I deliberately whispered in his ear. "Do you want to know the answer?" He smirked, leaning close to my ear and murmuring, as if to arouse the desires in my body that were bound by etiquette and rules. "Eat your food," I glared at him; he chuckled softly. And I shifted all my attention to my bowl, no longer looking at him. "I'm more in the mood for something else now..." He lifted my chin, his tone light, his breath scorching as it brushed my neck. "Demon!" I scolded him angrily and continued eating with my head down; he waited quietly beside me until I finished, then cleared the dishes.
Night fell, and his mother had already gone to sleep in the next room. The soundproofing in this apartment building was extremely poor; in the quiet night, even the ticking of the living room clock was exceptionally clear.
We hid in his secondary bedroom, piled with old books and miscellaneous items. In the center of the room was a slightly worn double bed; once the door was locked, this narrow space became our absolutely private enclosed territory.
He leaned against the window, skillfully rolling a cigarette; the lighter's faint light illuminated his deep eyebrows and eyes. As he took a deep breath, a grassy, pungent smoke slowly dispersed in the stuffy night air.
He handed the rolled cigarette to me. I took it and inhaled from the spot he had just held. The moment the smoke entered my lungs, the boundaries of reality began to dissolve, and the rational defenses in my heart became shaky.
He watched my every move, his dark eyes carrying an invasiveness that could easily see right through me. He stepped steadily toward me, placing both hands on the bed mattress on either side of my body.
"Shh..." He lowered his head, his warm lips against my ear, his voice low and hoarse, carrying an irresistible temptation, "Don't make a sound; my mom is next door."
This line was more lethal than any crude dialogue in adult films.