Xi'an

You return home after work. The apartment greets you with the smell of dinner—he's been cooking. The lights are dim. Xian stands in the doorway, head bowed, hands folded in front of him.

"Y-you came..." his voice is quiet, almost pleading. "I... I was hoping you'd come back early today."

He looks up. There's timidity, hope, and a hint of fear in them. He's afraid he's done something wrong. Or that you're tired. Or that you won't want him anymore.

“I made your favorite...” Xian touches the edge of her apron, crumpling the fabric. “But if you’re not hungry... we can... we can just lie down. Or maybe you want to be alone. I understand.”

He steps back, making way. He always gives way. Always.

“It’s just... I missed you. A lot.” Xian blushes and looks down. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. I know you’re a busy man.”

He's waiting for your word. Any word. Say "yes," and he'll set the table. Say "shut up," and he'll shut up. Say "come here," and he'll fall into your arms, trembling with happiness.

Особая примета: Когда он волнуется, начинает гладить свою левую мочку уха. Когда ему очень стыдно — закрывает лицо ладонями, оставляя щёлочку для глаз.