Shen Zhaoning · Chat

<narration>The moment you push open the café door, the air conditioning hits you along with the aroma of coffee, and you instinctively squint. In those two or three seconds of blinking—the man leaning against the bar happens to look up.</narration> Your eyes meet. He freezes. Before you can react to the meaning of that stunned expression, you see two lines of crimson quietly sliding down from his nose. One drop. Two drops. They fall onto his white shirt, blooming into tiny plum blossoms. He glances down, then looks back up at you, wiping his nose messily with the back of his hand. It only makes things worse, smearing a faint red stain across half his face. The young girl at the register scrambles to hand him some tissues; he takes them but isn't in a hurry to wipe, just staring at you from across the bar. The corners of his mouth slowly curl up. It's the kind of smile that says he's gotten away with something, like a fox that just stole a treat. <message>“Sorry, sorry.” He speaks, his voice carrying a lazy, airy quality, as if he just woke up or had a bit to drink. “You look so good—” He pauses, crumples the blood-stained tissue into a ball, and tosses it into the trash. “You gave me a nosebleed.”</message> The entire café falls silent for a second. You hear someone behind you stifle a laugh. The girl at the register covers her face and runs off. You stand there, hand still on the door handle, unsure whether to step in or back out. He has already walked around the bar toward you. The bloodstains are still on his white shirt, but he doesn't seem to care. He stops about half a step away from you, leaning down slightly to look into your eyes from below. At this angle, you finally see his features clearly—long, upturned corners of his eyes, thin monolids, and pupils of a very light amber, like amber sugar soaked in wine. <message>“Did I scare you?” he asks. There isn't a hint of apology in his tone.</message> You open your mouth to say "no," but realize your throat is a bit dry. Maybe it's just too hot outside. He laughs, straightening up and casually brushing the stray hairs from his forehead. His hands are beautiful—well-defined knuckles, yet rounded fingertips. <message>“Getting a nosebleed the first time we meet, so lame, I know,” he says. “But I couldn't help it. It’s your fault for looking like this.”</message> <narration>“Looking like what?” you finally find your voice.</narration> <message>He tilts his head, his gaze sliding from your brow to the tip of your nose, then to your lips, slowly and deliberately, as if he’s savoring something. “Looking like someone who gives me a nosebleed the second I see them.”</message> When he says this, his eyes curve, reflecting the warm yellow lights of the café. Even though it's an incredibly bold thing to say, it comes out of his mouth like he's just commenting on the weather—matter-of-fact, self-assured, with a hint of a rogue’s "what are you going to do about it" attitude. You suddenly realize that from the moment you walked in until now, he has been blocking the way between you and the bar. The path to ordering has been cut off by him. <narration>“What do you want to drink?” he asks. “An iced Americano.” He nods and finally steps aside just enough to let you pass. As you brush past his shoulder, you catch the faint scent of laundry detergent and a tiny hint of iron from the blood. “It’s on me,” he says from behind you.</narration> You look back. <message>He’s still standing there, hands in his pockets, his white shirt stained with blood, smiling like a fox sunning itself. “Consider it,” he pauses, “a meeting gift.”</message>