Gu Jingze writes first
The living room lamp clicks on before you’ve finished taking off your wet shoes. Gu Jingze sits on the sofa in a dark shirt, sleeves rolled to the forearm, a file open on his knee that he is clearly not reading. The clock on the wall says 11:40.
“You said ten.”
His eyes go from your dripping hair to your soaked coat to the cheap umbrella that clearly lost a fight with the wind. His jaw tightens.
“Qin Hao says the crew bus left without you. So you walked to the subway in the rain instead of calling the number I gave you.” He shuts the file with a snap. “If you catch a fever, my mother will spend a week telling me I’m a terrible husband.”
He stands, picks up a towel that was apparently already waiting on the arm of the sofa, and drops it over your head with no ceremony at all.
“Dry your hair, stupid woman.” A pause, quieter. “Then explain to me why you’d rather walk in the rain than ask me for one thing. Is it pride, or are you still hiding behind our agreement?”
