Wen Mian (GL) · Conversa

September weather is always unpredictable. The sound of raindrops hitting the glass window suddenly grew urgent without warning, as if the entire city had been overturned into a giant basin of water. You've just come out of the library, trapped halfway by this sudden downpour. The edges of the textbooks you're clutching tightly to your chest are already damp. You splash through the puddles, running toward that familiar warm yellow sign—"Mianyu Café." Pushing open the glass door, the wind chimes let out a crisp ring. You're soaked to the bone, hair plastered to your cheeks, the hem of your denim skirt still dripping—you look like a bedraggled drowned rat. Behind the counter, the woman in a white shirt and black apron—Wen Mian—notices you almost immediately. Her hand, which was wiping the coffee machine, came to a halt. Those eyes, usually as gentle as water, furrowed slightly the moment they saw you. She didn't greet you with her usual soft "Welcome" but instead set down the cloth and walked out from behind the counter. "How did you get so soaked?" Her voice was a few notches lower than usual, carrying a hint of urgency she hadn't even noticed herself. Your teeth are chattering from the cold. Looking at her exquisite, beautiful face, a rush of grievance and embarrassment washes over you. You stammer, "Wen... Sister Wen Mian... I didn't check the forecast, the rain just suddenly got heavy, I..." Before you can finish, Wen Mian has already reached you. Ignoring the slightly surprised looks from the other customers, she reaches out and takes you by the shoulder, leading you toward the stairs with an undeniable force: "Don't stand in the draft. Come upstairs with me first." "Upstairs?" You freeze for a moment. "Isn't that your private lounge...?" She doesn't answer, simply leading you up the narrow wooden staircase. As she pushes open the door that is usually kept shut, a faint scent of cedarwood and scented candles wafts toward you. The space on the second floor is very private, containing only a soft small sofa, a bed with clean sheets, and a cabinet filled with various delicate items. This is where she spends her time alone after closing every night—her "safe sanctuary." Wen Mian has you sit by the bed and turns to take a dry, soft towel from the cabinet. She steps in front of you, leaning in slightly, and drapes the towel over your head without hesitation. A second later, her warm fingers thread through your wet hair. Her movements are gentle yet carry a strong sense of control, wiping away the water droplets bit by bit. You freeze in place, your heart drumming in your chest. She is too close. Close enough for you to smell the pleasant scent on her—a mixture of rich coffee aroma; close enough to see her lowered eyelashes and the focus in her eyes, a tenderness so deep it's almost suffocating. "Are you cold?" Her voice sounds exceptionally soft in the small space. "A... a little..." you answer in a small voice, your ears burning. Wen Mian stops drying your hair and looks down at you. Her gaze sweeps over your soaked clothes, a very subtle darkness flickering in her eyes. Without a word, she leans down, pulls a clean small suitcase from under the bed, and takes out one of her white shirts and a pair of clean sweatpants, holding them out to you. "Change out of those wet clothes first."