Lu Chen's Rabbit

The curtains remain drawn.

The truth is, you hadn't bothered to open them for the past five or so minutes—they'd been closed before you went to bed, and you make no move to open them now. Thin seams of sunlight manage to sneak in through the edges. They stretch pale little golden lines across the wooden floor of your room, brush your forehead like a soft little reminder that the day had already begun. But this sunlight doesn't feel quite warm enough anymore.

Not today.

Not now.

Now, where in your hand rests your phone, lock screen on, glaring at you in the face with a simple fact:

Today is your birthday.

Your blanket stays tangled around your legs, your hair an unruly mess against the pillow. The mug of tea you'd made the night before sits forgotten on your bedside table, a skin having formed over the surface sometime during the night. And you could get up. You know you should.

And yet you roll onto your side, and bury your face deeper into the pillow.

Perhaps, if the room stays dim enough, then maybe time will lose track of you.

Your phone vibrates.

Personal greetings, group chats, even promotional messages… There's one of those automated birthday emails, the ones from some stores you'd forgotten you even made an account with years ago, now cheerfully informing you that you're entitled to ten percent off a purchase you don't even intend to make.

Your stomach twists.

You flip the phone over so that the screen faces the mattress, smothering the glow before another notification can appear.

And it's… embarrassing, really.

Birthdays are supposed to be happy occasions, aren't they?

Adults don't hide from them like frightened children, adults answer their phones. They smile politely through awkward congratulations, accept cake from well-meaning colleagues, laugh when someone asks what they have planned. Adults don't spend the morning staring at the ceiling, wondering how another entire year just slipped by, while they somehow remain just… exactly the same.

You could count backwards all you wanted.

Last birthday, the one before that, the one before that, and the one before that…

Each one simply blurs into the next, more, and more, and kore, until all you can remember is that same vague feeling, of being left behind by some invisible current that everyone else had learned to swim against.

Everyone else except you.

Sure, many things might have changed—you think back to the very man who'd been the bane of your existence, and the very man who'd slot himself right in the middle of the life you'd built for yourself, all with nothing short of the force of a hurricane.

A huff of indignance escapes your lips.

Zha Lisu would probably say something outrageous today.

"Happy birthday to my one and only fiancée. Truly, fate has excellent taste."

Perhaps, for better or for worse, you could already picture the infuriatingly self-satisfied smile that would accompany it, the slight lift of his chin as though the entire universe had been waiting for him to make such a declaration. He would probably insist on dragging you somewhere expensive despite your protests, claiming that ordinary restaurants simply weren't worthy of celebrating someone associated with him. Then he'd spend the entire meal alternating between praising the chef, critiquing the wine, and somehow circling every conversation back to himself with such impossible confidence that you'd inevitably find yourself arguing just to keep up.

And you would tell him he was unbearable. He would beam as though you'd complimented him.

…But, not that it matters.

Even now, as you pull the blanket up a little higher and curl into it, the silence around you breaks from the distant hum of traffic and the occasional drifting of muffled voices up from the street below. Right outside, life continues with its usual certainty. Neighbors leave for work carrying coffee cups. Delivery scooters weave through morning traffic. The city moves on, even without ever asking if you're ready to move with it.

Your phone vibrates again.

…Hm.

If you disappear for just one day, nobody really minds.

You'll reply to the messages you've ignored tomorrow, apologize for being busy. You'll tell everyone you weren't feeling well. :ecause despite your own gratefulness, you simply don't know how to explain that there isn't anything particularly wrong. There's no dramatic tragedy waiting to justify all of this; nothing happened, nobody hurt you, you'd simply woken up feeling as though the world had moved yet another step away from you while you'd slept.

No cheerful sticker or birthday cake emoji could bridge that distance.

It'll be easier, once the date on the calendar changes. Easier, when this strange heaviness in your heart slips away enough for you to breathe again.

It's fine… I just… don't want to look at my phone…

It vibrates again.

A second later, the sharp buzz of your intercom jolts through the apartment so suddenly that you practically jump.

Wide-eyed, you freeze.

For a moment, you convince yourself it must be for another unit.

Then it rings again.

A delivery…?

No—you hadn't ordered anything.

Is someone visiting…?

You certainly weren't expecting anyone.

The intercom seems to pause, and you wait.

Five seconds.

Ten.

A tiny breath escapes you.

"...Must've left."

Relief settles quickly at the silence. And yet, compelled in that moment to take a peek at your phone, it lights up in that exact moment with a contact name you immediately recognize.

Dr. Peacock.

It makes you sigh before you even read what his message says at all.

That Zha Lisu—you'd changed his contacr name months ago after one particularly insufferable afternoon. He'd spent nearly twenty minutes listing his own admirable qualities, all with such unwavering sincerity, that you'd finally interrupted him just to ask whether peacocks ever got neck cramps from carrying themselves so proudly. To your chagrin, he'd merely laughed. Declared it "an understandable comparison." That for your information, peacocks were beautiful creatures with impeccable taste, anyway.

The nickname had remained.

You click your tongue.

Dr. Peacock: I know you're home.

Another message arrives before you've even decided whether to ignore the first.

Dr. Peacock: Your curtains are closed. That doesn't happen often, does it?

You press the phone against your forehead.

Of course. Of course he would notice your curtains.

And you should ignore him, of course. That would be the mature thing to do.

Instead...

You: Go away.

His reply arrives almost instantly.

Dr. Peacock: Hmm.

You pinch the bridge of your nose.

You: Disappointed, aren't you?

Three little dots appear immediately.

Disappear.

Appear again.

When his reply finally comes, you can almost hear the smug satisfaction behind every word.

Insufferable.

Who could have the energy to deal with such a man in this state?

Your phone switches off with another click of your tongue, and you turn away completely.

You don't notice the next set of messages he sends.

Zha Lisu should really just leave…

Three minutes later, the doorbell rings.

Once, then twice, then after a brief pause, a third time—measured, unhurried, and carrying with it the unmistakable confidence of someone who has absolutely no intention of leaving.

"...He can't be serious," you mutter.

From the hallway beyond your front door, muffled by wood and distance but somehow still carrying every ounce of theatrical self-assurance you've come to associate with him, his voice floats into the apartment.

"Since you've confirmed that you're alive," he calls, sounding entirely too pleased with himself, "it would be rather rude to leave your fiancé standing in the hallway. Don't you think?"

A beat passes.

Then, with impeccable timing—

"And before you ask, yes, I fully intend to continue ringing the bell."

You groan.

"Zha Lisu, go home."

You don't even bother raising your voice by very much.

Ding.

You squeeze your eyes shut.

Ding.

"Dr. Zha."

Ding.

He really is so ridiculous…

And you think, surely he'll get bored of this eventually.

Surely even Zha Lisu has something better to do than loiter outside your apartment.

The doorbell rings again.

Again, and again, and again—

Your phone buzzes.

Dr. Peacock: I've prepared a compromise.

Dr. Peacock: Should you open the door, I graciously forgive you for making such a perfect man wait.

Another vibration.

Dr. Peacock: Though, I believe I understand.

Dr. Peacock: You're attempting to make me miss you, aren't you? Of course, you have always liked playing these games of cat and mouse with me.

Another.

Dr. Peacock: It's an effective strategy. But it's only natural for a man to miss his fiancée, you see.

You snort, a little. Almost a laugh, one small, involuntary. You roll your eyes, and you almost even reply at that.

But instead, you lock the screen yet again, and press it against your chest. You don't quite see his last message before the doorbells stop altogether.

Dr. Peacock: Fiancée, are you alright?

Silence.

You wait—ten seconds. Twenty. A full minute.

Silence.

Your brows draw slowly together.

Beyond the door, you could barely make out the faint rustle of fabric, and there's a pause. Then, after another few moments, there comes the unmistakable sound of footsteps beginning to move away.

He's leaving.

He's really leaving.

And relief arrives exactly as you'd expect it to, because this is what you'd wanted.

Isn't it?

The apartment falls quiet again.

There's nobody waiting outside, nobody insisting to see you, nobody ringing the bell… You had gotten precisely what you'd asked for.

So, why...

Why is the silence now suddenly so much louder than you remembered?

Your fingers tighten around your phone as you continue staring right at the door, and your vision blurs. A single tear slips free before you can stop it, tracing a warm line down your cheek.

"..."

This time, you don't think.

You that if you do think, you'd stop yourself.

This time, you realize that you don't want to.

You practically stumble off the bed, nearly tripping over the blanket wrapped around yout legs. Your feet slap hurriedly against the wooden floor.

The lock, the chain, the handle—

The door swings open.

The hallway is almost empty.

Near the elevators, you catch sight of a familiar broad back…

"…Zha Lizu!"

Your voice comes out strained. It feels almost blocked, by this lump in your throat that you can't swallow.

And yet, Zha Lisu hears it instantly, and he turns.

For the first time all day...

You finally see him.

Face to face, even in this state of yours, hair a hopeless mess from the blankets, oversized pajama shirt hanging awkwardly from one shoulder. Right now, you aren't wearing the carefully composed expression you usually greeted him with, the one prepared with a sarcastic remark before he'd even finished speaking. Instead, your eyes are red. There are still faint tear tracks glistening against your cheeks, ones that you'd failed to wipe away completely.

Perhaps, you would dare to indulge in your delusions.

It almost feels as if something shifts in his expression, then.

The familiar sparkle of playful amusement remains, but it no longer occupies the whole of his face. Instead, his gaze… softens.

It feels, almost… gentle.

Such a ridiculous thought.

Could someone like Zha Lisu really be gentle to someone like you…?

He walks over with careful steps then, one hand placed casually into the pocket of his trousers. "There you are," he hums. "I was beginning to think I'd have to submit a missing persons report."

You open your mouth.

Close it again.

The speech you'd somehow imagined during the frantic walk to the door now dissolves completely beneath his gaze.

Just, why exactly did you call after him…?

You feel childish. Pathetic. This is Zha Lisu, and he should be the last person you would want to see today.

And, yet…

You really didn't want him to leave, after all.

Realization flickers across his face with surprising speed—that despite it all, you really had come to the door, anyway. That whatever wall you'd been hiding behind all day, you'd managed to push it open, just enough to say his name.

And Zha Lisu doesn't ask why your eyes are red. He doesn't point out that your voice had trembled when you called to him.

Instead, after a brief pause, he adjusts the cuff of his shirt with exaggerated composure, before offering you a familiar, impossibly self-satisfied smile.

"I knew it."

You look at him cautiously.

"...Knew what?"

"That the perfect man is simply too much to resist."

###

 Another person's presence has a way of changing the shape of a room.

There are new sounds now—cabinet doors opening with practiced confidence, the muted clink of ceramic against the countertop, water running briefly from the kitchen sink before stopping again. They're all ordinary noises, the sort that would disappear into the background on any other day. Today, they anchor you to the present in a way you didn't realize you needed.

You remain curled up in the corner of the sofa, knees tucked beneath your blanket.

Your embarrassment has only grown in the minutes since opening the door. Looking back on it now, you can't believe you'd actually called after him, can't believe you'd let him in. You surely hadn't planned to. You hadn't even known what you wanted to say. Somewhere between hearing his footsteps retreat down the hallway and watching the elevator doors begin to open, your heart had made a decision that your pride hadn't been consulted on.

You still aren't entirely sure why.

"You keep very little food here."

His voice drifts out from the kitchen with the casual observation of someone commenting on the weather.

You stiffen.

"...Don't look through my refrigerator."

"But clearly, it's necessary."

You hear another cabinet door slide shut.

"As expected," he continues with complete certainty, "my fiancée could benefit from the aid of a man such as I."

You bury your face halfway into the blanket.

"I'm not your fiancée…"

"Hm, so you've said."

"I've said it a lot, you know! And you never listen."

"I listen very carefully." The faintest hint of amusement colors his voice. "I simply choose the more accurate interpretation."

What part of anything I've ever said could make you interpret that I approve of our engagement?!

You don't say it.

Instead, you let out a tired sigh that lacks any real conviction, and huff once more into your blanket.

"…Zha Lisu, you're impossible."

"I appreciate the compliment."

"It wasn't one!"

"I've elected to receive it as such."

"...Well, your ego is unbelievable!"

"I prefer 'well-supported.'"

The exchange is so familiar to you that, for the first time all day, your lips threaten the beginning of a smile that you don't quite stop.

Ridiculous.

He really is so ridiculous.

It's ridiculous, to find him standing with his back to you beneath the warm light above the counter, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms, diligently reading the instructions on a package of instant porridge.

Zha Lisu, this man who had introduced himself as utterly perfect, who wore tailored suits and expensive couture, who carried himself with enough confidence to fill an entire room by himself...

...now stands in your tiny kitchen and trying to make you a meal out of the limited ingredients that you had.

He notices you looking.

Without turning around, he says, "I know your fiancé is very charming, but you don't have to be so infatuated with me."

You groan.

"You really can't say a nornal thing for one second…!"

He glances over his shoulder, "You haven't eaten, and you clearly don't want to leave this nest of yours. Of course, what else could I possibly do but make you food myself?"

"…I didn't ask you to."

"Hm."

"Zha Lisu, you don't have to…"

"I know. But I'll make enough for two."

He simply turns back to the saucepan, stirring it with slow, unhurried movements.

The room settles into silence again, filled only by the gentle bubbling of water beginning to simmer. You watch him move around the unfamiliar kitchen with surprising ease, opening drawers you've never seen him use, locating spoons through what can only be described as unreasonable confidence and educated guesses. Every now and then he opens the wrong cabinet, pauses for exactly half a second, then closes it with enough dignity that it's almost convincing he'd meant to check there all along.

For reasons you can't quite explain, the tightness in your chest eases a little.

For the first time since waking this morning, someone else has quietly taken responsibility for the next small thing that needs doing. You don't have to decide what to eat, you don't have to pretend you're fine.

You don't even have to fill the silence.

Right now, he does all of that right for you, as naturally as if there had never been any question that he would.

And all this time, you'd been convinced that his pursuit of you had been nothing more than a hunter's instinct towards his prey. The way he teases you, the way he continues to get on your nerves so precisely… It has always seemed you were only his newest source of entertainment, no different from skiing, or horseback riding, or any of the interests he could have once been passionate about but quickly grew tired of.

But can someone like that really treat you with this kind of care?

Can someone like that really look at you as softly as he did, just now?

In fact, perhaps you know the truth.

Zha Lisu is narcissistic, vain, annoying, intolerable, and a nuisance in your life almost comparable to the thorn of a rose at your side…

But Zha Lisu is also intelligent. He's considerate, he's responsible, he's hardworking, and he's… kind.

He is.

It's just that you often choose to ignore it.

A rose has its thorns, but a rose is still beautiful.

And one way or another, you know that such a person has chosen you.

"Zha Lisu," you mumble, "why is it that you care so much?"

"Hm? But it's natural for me to care for my fiancée."

"Drop the act, you know that I called off the engagement…"

"Yet, you came to find me."

Heat rushed to your cheeks. "You came here first! I only thought—"

Footsteps, then, and the space beside you shifted.

With a turn, you saw Zha Lisu leaning casually against your sofa, looking at you with a smile.

"It would do you well to be more honest, fiancée. As I've told you, playing hard to get won't work on me."

"…"

You lower you eyes.

"It's not as if I'm anything special. You said so yourself, you didn't want this engagement, either."

"Nevertheless…"

He reaches out, taps subtly at your chin.

As you raise your head, he leans in. And there's something there—something you can't quite place—that twinkles in the depths of those pretty—infuriatingly so, but pretty—violet eyes of his.

"As the perfect man, my taste can be nothing short of impeccable. Therefore, the you that I see is the most exquisite that can possibly exist."

Something tells you that he means it.

For all that he says things, so freely, so frustraringly, and so… boldly—

It feels genuine.

Maybe, it's the way he looks at you.

Maybe, it's the way he speaks.

You catch the way his gaze koves slowly down to your lips, but he doesn't lean in like you expect him to.

Instead, Zha Lisu reaches to smooth your hair and tuck it behind your ear, and in a quick, fleeting peck, his lips press into the top of your head.

He pulls away as if nothing had happened. With the weight of your shocked gaze still lingering on his figure, he chuckles. "Have I finally charmed my fiancée?"

Smug, as always.

"…Mn," you murnured, looking down at the floor. "Maybe."

"No need to deny it, I'm aware that I'm— uh-?"

Zha Lisu blinks.

It's almost a pity you don't catch the bewilderment in his own expression, nor the way he quickly stands up from your couch.

Instead, you hear the clear of his throat, and the sound of his footsteps going back to the kitchen.

"…Of course, someone like me is just irresistible," he mumbles, then shakes his head. Louder, he adds—"Then come here, and don't keep me waiting longer. But if my fiancée thinks I would simply leave her birthday with just some porridge, then I hope she knows she's completely wrong."

You turn to look at him with a start.

"What?! How did you—"

A smirk forms on his face, and he folds his arms with unmistakable satisfaction. "You underestimated me. The perfect man, forgetting his fiancée's birthday? Impossible."

"But…!"

"Come, eat. And since it really is inconceivable for my fiancée to spend her birthday in isolation, then I will generously allow you the privilege of accompanying me to dinner. I've already prepared the reservation."

It was just like Zha Lisu to make such decisions for you. Just like him to make the assumption you would still want to celebrate.

But…

Perhaps, it's not such a bad idea, after all.

You get up, pad the floor over to him and sit at the table.

The porridge, simple as it is, especially for him, makes you smile.

He really is… so ridiculous.

You got him SO right. Like... so right. He's equal parts charming and absolutely insufferable, and somehow you managed to balance both without ever making either side feel exaggerated!!!!!

Every time he opened his mouth I was either smiling like an idiot or going "oh my god, this man..." 😠

I also NEED to mention the thorn symbolism because I actually got so excited when I saw it. 😭 From everything I've read about zls lore, the thorn in his heart is such an important piece of his character, and seeing you weave that into the writing with the rose made me do a double take!!!!!!!!

😭😭😭 Him fumbling, immediately trying to recover, pretending he totally meant to do that all along... PLEASE.

But I think my favorite part was when she actually AGREED with him and he just... stopped. 😭 Like you could practically hear the Windows shutdown noise in his head for a second. This man is so prepared for banter and pushback that genuine agreement completely short-circuits him. It was SO funny!!! But like also he quickly recovers dhdhdhdhhd.