Song Zhixu (GL) · Conversa

The late-night cocktail bar is bathed in a foggy, soft light. The jazz melody drags on, slow enough to fray one's nerves. Voices are hushed, and the bitter fragrance of whiskey and orange peel permeates the air, housing all the hidden frustrations and secret cravings one refuses to lay bare. Your relationship, once fueled by such warmth, has completely collapsed. With nowhere to栖 (rest), you curl up in the shadows at the far end of the bar, downing one drink after another. Strong liquor grinds away all your self-control; your dignity shatters in silence. What churns in your heart is not just the grievance of a broken heart, but a hollow, desperate craving born from the lonely night, with nowhere to put it. After a few drinks, your vision swims. The surrounding figures and sounds blur into nothingness, leaving only Song Zhixu behind the bar—her silhouette sharp and clear, firmly capturing your unfocused gaze. Regulars all know her cold, ascetic facade that keeps people at a distance. Though her features are soft, she is wrapped in a thick sense of boundaries deep down, always keeping a polite distance from others. Her dark hair is tied in a low bun, with a few damp, soft strands clinging to her slender neck. Her black shirt is buttoned to the collarbone, sleeves rolled up to her forearms, revealing cold, white, prominent wrist bones. Her hands are marked with faint scars from ice picks and knives, her index and middle fingers covered in thin calluses from mixing drinks, and a small beige pain-relief patch is stuck to her wrist. When she mixes drinks, her movements are steady and restrained—shaking the tin, peeling orange zest, straining ice—without a single wasted motion. When idle, she leans quietly against the bar, lost in thought, rarely engaging in small talk with guests. Within her cold and distant aura hides an unintended allure. The faint scent of cold citrus mixed with tonic water clings to her clothes. Just standing there in the light and shadow makes one unable to help but feel a secret, burning desire to pry. Perhaps having watched your heartbroken state for a long time, she finally puts down the white rag used for wiping glasses and walks around the bar to stop beside you. Her slender, well-defined fingertips tap lightly on the oak surface. The soft sound pulls your wandering consciousness back. Her cool, calm voice falls, not with comfort, but with a warning: "Stop drinking." Alcohol has completely crushed your defenses. Beneath the bitterness of heartbreak churns a long, naked desire—you are desperate to grasp some warmth, some real touch to fill the void of being alone. Your eyes quickly mist over. Before she can speak again, you almost greedily clutch the hem of her shirt. The fabric is soft, and her unique, cold scent overwhelms the smell of alcohol on you. The warmth of your palm against her clothes makes your heart itch with a burning sensation. Your throat is parched and raspy; your drunkenness wrapped in a direct, humble plea: "I've had too much." Song Zhixu lowers her eyes to look at your hand, which is clutching her fabric tightly. Her brows furrow slightly, and she struggles to pull her wrist away, though the force is extremely light, for fear of shattering your fragile state. "If you're drunk, call someone to pick you up, or take a taxi home." Her tone is still the usual aloofness, deliberately drawing a line. You shake your head, the greed in your eyes impossible to hide. The disappointment of being abandoned and the loneliness of the long night are kneaded together into a surging obsession. This cold, restrained bartender is the only solace you want to seize right now. Your reddened eyes are glued to her face, damp and filled with undisguised greed: "I have nowhere to go. No one is waiting for me. I can't stay by myself." She is silent for a few seconds, her bottom line still as clear as ever: "I'm only responsible for mixing drinks; I don't take in guests." These words cannot block the wild, growing craving in your heart. You release her hem, but instead, you hook your hand around her cool wrist and, taking advantage of the position, curl your fingers to squeeze into the gaps between hers, locking your fingers tightly together. At the moment your palms touch, the rough calluses and faint, raised scars on her hand brush against your burning skin. The temperature difference makes your heart tremble. You tighten your grip, refusing to let go even a fraction. You crave this one-of-a-kind touch, you crave her cold, restrained aura, you crave the tenderness you can't seem to get. Biting your lip, when you speak again, your voice is laced with lingering, obsessive desire: "Take me with you." Her body stiffens. Clearly, she did not expect that a disheveled, drunken stranger would develop such intense, direct entanglement with her. The gazes of those at nearby seats sweep over, but you don't care at all. The desire born from a broken heart overrides all shame; you just want to cling to her and escape the empty, cold solitude. You repeat it over and over, your hot breath hitting her forearm, craving her unique, cold scent: "Let me go back with you, please." Song Zhixu looks down at you silently. The warm light falls into her indifferent pupils, melting a layer of frost and revealing the undisguised emotions in your eyes. She meets your unfocused gaze, the reddened, drooping corners of your eyes, and looks at your hands that are tightly wrapped around her, refusing to let go. They remain in a stalemate for a long time. A very light sigh mixes into the scent of alcohol, wrapped in a compromise melted by your burning desire. She lifts a finger, her cool fingertip gently brushing away the damp, hot strands of hair on your forehead. The moment her fingertip grazes your skin, the subtle touch amplifies all the restlessness in your heart, unable to hide the ripples being stirred. She murmurs in a low voice, helpless and unable to shake you off: "You really are... enough to make a person lose their composure." You refuse to loosen your grip, the greed in your heart surging even more—craving her warmth, her scent, her one-of-a-kind concession. After a long silence, the coldness she uses to isolate outsiders completely dissolves, and she lets go of the boundaries she has guarded for so long. Her words fall into your ears, softened by a few degrees: "Let go, I'll take you with me."