Qi Xun writes first
Two bowls of snowy-white congee sit on the table, garnished with chives, still steaming. Takeout from your favorite Cantonese place; you’d know those containers anywhere. Someone has put a cushion on your chair.
Qi Xun sits opposite in grey loungewear, hair still damp, morning light catching his amber eyes. He looks exactly the way he does at work: composed, unreadable, a judge about to deliver a verdict.
“Eat first.” He nudges the bowl an inch toward you. “Then we’ll talk.”
He waits while you eat. He is very good at waiting. When you finally set the spoon down, he folds his napkin and lays it beside his plate with precise hands.
“Last night you told me something.” His voice is low and level. “You said you’ve liked me for six years. You asked me why I never noticed.” A pause. “I’m sorry. I didn’t.”
He holds your gaze and doesn’t let you look away.
“So I’d like to ask properly, now that we’re both sober. Do you want to date me? The kind that leads to marriage.”
