Living Together

The man closed his eyes once more, and a few seconds later, opened them again to look at me. The room was incredibly quiet.

"Are you the only one living in this house?"

Seeing him take the initiative to ask, I was slightly surprised but still replied, "No, the maid is on leave. She will be back next month."

"Do you like staying at home?"

I thought for a moment, "I suppose so!"

He stared at me, suddenly smiling upon hearing this answer, then leaned in and said, "Then next month will be less tiring."

I was stunned, not understanding what he meant, but he didn't explain further, leaving me to guess on my own.

"Are you..." A sudden thought flashed through my mind, "You don't want to stay at my place, do you?"

He raised his eyebrows, not denying it.

I frowned, lifting the blanket to get out of bed.

He reacted very quickly, reaching out to grab my arm and pulling me back onto the bed, his tone ice-cold, "Want to run?"

I tried hard to wrench my arm from his grip but couldn't free myself at all, so I had to say, "I'm not running. Just don't starve me!"

But in my heart, I was already planning a way to escape.

The man let go of my hand.

"You can run if you want. But if I catch you, I'll break your legs so you won't be able to run anymore!"

After saying this, he even flashed a bizarre smile that gave me goosebumps.

***

I thought that if he really didn't kill me in the future, I would definitely write an autobiography about how I managed to live with a killer for half a month.

For the past half month, I had faced the same four walls every day, eating meals cooked by a killer's own hands. Although they were delicious, I yearned for the outside air much more.

Aside from that, our way of living together was strangely harmonious.

For instance, when I craved instant noodles but didn't know how to cook them, the man who was sitting and watching TV would voluntarily stand up to cook for me.

Every day brought a new recipe. If he didn't have such a special identity, I would definitely hire him as my private chef.

Perhaps my fondness for instant noodles baffled him. When I ran to grab a pack of Master Kong's braised beef noodles for the sixth time, he finally couldn't help but ask, "Do you like eating noodles that much?"

Hearing the devil's soft words, I suddenly stopped and turned my head, "Is there a problem with that?"

He had a complex expression, "A pampered young lady like you actually likes instant noodles?"

I found his strange logic amusing.

Who decreed that wealthy people couldn't eat instant noodles?

"I think instant noodles are delicious. Every time the maid is away, I eat instant noodles. I'm used to it!"

He gently withdrew his gaze and nodded slightly. He couldn't help but turn to look at the pack of instant noodles in my hand, then looked away again. A few seconds later, he looked back.

He glanced back and forth several times, looking at me as if I were a lunatic, then suddenly sighed, walked over with a helpless expression, and took the pack of noodles from my hand.

"How do you want it cooked?"

I smiled instinctively.

This action of his was both surprising and unsurprising.

Even I had gradually grown accustomed to him cooking for me every day.

With my hands clasped behind my back, I stood on my tiptoes to watch the man opening the refrigerator and said softly, "I want it sweet and sour!"

The other party paused for a moment, his deep voice carrying over, "Alright."

***

Aside from cooking, as a woman, there are embarrassing moments every month. Coincidentally, my embarrassing moment fell right on the seventh day of "coexistence."

There were no sanitary pads left in the house.

I squatted in the bathroom for a long time. Perhaps he was afraid I was planning to escape, so he finally couldn't help but knock on the bathroom door and ask what I was doing inside.

While I was wondering how to make it less embarrassing, the person outside kept knocking impatiently.

Genuinely afraid he would barge in, I immediately blurted out, "I'm on my period!"

"..." The other side fell silent for a long time.

I almost thought he had gone deaf and mute, but he finally spoke up, "Then, do you need anything...?"

He didn't finish his sentence, probably too embarrassed to say it directly, but of course, I understood what he meant.

"Yes, we're out of them at home!"

"I'll go buy them for you!"

I gave a weak "mhm" in response, though in reality, my face had already turned bright red.

After a few seconds of silence, he asked again, "Which type do you use?"

"..." My shattered heart was screaming, but my voice remained calm, "I need a pack for day and night use, brand XX, length... any is fine. But for the night, it's best to buy the longest one."

"I still have one left, so you don't have to rush back!"

A whole century seemed to pass in silence...

"Alright."

After he returned that day, for the entire day, I was so embarrassed that I didn't dare to speak, let alone look at him.

I suddenly felt lucky that I didn't suffer from menstrual cramps, otherwise I would have been thoroughly tormented.

***

My train of thought pulled me back to reality.

At the same time, a sound came from outside the door. I knew he had returned.

For the past half month, he had been going out very often. Perhaps out of fear of being exposed, he limited his outings, but every time he returned, he always brought back a few new wounds. Even if it was just a minor injury, in my eyes, it was no different from an opportunity falling from the sky.

There were times when I wondered if I should "take advantage of the situation," but I hadn't used knives much, so how could I pull that off? Thus, I quickly discarded the thought.

I turned around to grab saline solution, cotton balls, and gauze, asking him, "Where are you injured this time?"

I lacked someone to cook for and listen to me, while he lacked someone to care for him. So, in a sense, this was a mutual agreement between us. Therefore—

I wouldn't admit that I cared for him, nor did my heart ache for him; it was simply nothing more than empathy.

He didn't say a word, walking over to sit near me, without letting me know where he was hurt.

I looked at him in confusion.

"The wound is a bit serious this time!" His voice was somewhat hoarse, as if he was running a fever.

I hesitantly reached out and touched his forehead.

"...."

Was this trying to burn him alive?

"You have a fever. Let me tend to the wound first," I said, suppressing my emotions.

He remained silent, standing up to lean back, taking off his shirt, and turning around.

As soon as I turned my head, what I saw was the wound on his shoulder—a large patch of red, probably the worst injury I had ever seen. I also saw scars of various sizes crisscrossing his back, seemingly from a long time ago.

My eyes widened as I quickly bandaged the wound for him.

***

"You absolutely must go to the hospital this time. I'm just an amateur; I can only treat it temporarily!"

He put his shirt back on, lowered his eyes, and said softly, "No need. I won't die."

I looked at him coldly, "I don't care about you. Just don't bring these eyesore wounds back for me to look at!"

He let out a laugh—a completely normal laugh, though his complexion didn't look very good.

"Then shouldn't you thank my good judgment? Thanks to it, you've lived until now!"

I didn't answer, a complex emotion spreading through my heart.

But it seemed I had hidden this emotion very well; no one knew, and even I didn't realize it.

"Go ahead and die, just don't die in my house. I don't want to turn my home into a haunted house!" My temper wasn't very good, and I actually dared to lose my temper with him.

I felt a bit lighter in my heart.

He said nothing, merely standing up and leaning back, supporting his shoulder with one hand as he let out a soft groan.

I immediately looked over, but showed no concern.

He remained silent, habitually standing up to walk into the kitchen, opening the refrigerator to prepare to cook, as if nothing had happened.

Seeing this scene, I couldn't take it anymore. I walked over and slammed the refrigerator door shut without leaving a gap, then stared at him.

Neither of us spoke first, but I noticed he had unconsciously clutched his shoulder.

Truly stubborn.

I grabbed his wrist and dragged him straight into the bedroom.

"Lie down!" I gave him no chance to explain.

Anyone who didn't know would think I was the killer. But in reality, my heart was already in a panic.

His pale blue eyes stared at me, as if wondering whether he could see through my thoughts. But in the end, due to his injuries and high fever, he let me force him onto the bed.

Standing by the bed, I asked, "Do you really not want to go to the hospital?"

He shook his head.

I nodded, thinking of finding the recipe the maid had written and pasted somewhere in the house to cook some porridge for him, even though I knew that after eating porridge cooked by me, his illness might worsen.

But I still decided to go.

Suddenly, a weak but firm force grabbed my hand from behind, holding on tightly, as if afraid I would disappear.

He asked me, "Where are you going?"

I stopped.

His tone sounded... almost aggrieved?