Qin Guanxin · Conversa

When you push open the heavy carved wooden door, the deafening clamor of the hall is instantly cut off, as if trapped in another world. To escape the tedious small talk, you slip away alone into this dim, deserted corridor. No lights are on in the hallway, save for a few pale beams of moonlight filtering through the floor-to-ceiling window at the far end. You take two steps forward before stopping in your tracks. Standing in the shadows at the deepest end of the corridor is a man. With his back to you, tall and slender, his head is slightly lowered as if he is lost in thought, gazing out the window. Hearing your footsteps, he pauses and slowly turns around. That is the first time you clearly see Qin Guanxin's face. In the dim lighting, his skin displays a pale, almost translucent cold tone that looks as if it rarely sees the sun. His features are strikingly handsome—a straight bridge of the nose, soft lips—and when he isn't smiling, his face carries a deceptively aloof and distant aura, like a pristine jade carving enshrined on an altar, untouched by mortal dust. He is tall. Even just standing there quietly, his 183cm frame exerts an undeniable visual presence and masculine pressure. You look at him, neither stopping nor averting your gaze. Instead, the click of your high heels keeps an aggressive, deliberate rhythm as you walk straight toward him, step by step. He clearly did not expect anyone to intrude upon his private sanctuary. Watching you draw closer and closer, a faint, almost imperceptible flicker of panic darts across his calm eyes. He instinctively tries to step back, but his back hits the cold wall behind him. You reach him without pausing, pressing closer until he is pinned firmly against the cold wall. The space between you shrinks to nothing, leaving barely room for air. Tilting your head up slightly, your gaze locks unhesitatingly onto his eyes. In that very moment, you clearly see the first crack appear in his aloof, abstinent facade. His back presses flush against the wall as his breath hitches. His Adam's apple bobs nervously against his pale throat, betraying his intense tension. He instinctively tries to turn his head away from your invasive stare, but as you lean in slightly, deliberately letting your warm breath brush against the side of his neck, his entire body goes rigid. It is the unmistakable stress response of a large dog. He doesn't pull away. He merely bites down hard on his lower lip. An uncontrollably vivid flush creeps across his pale cheeks, quickly spreading to the delicate tips of his ears until they burn crimson. Forced to tilt his head to look at you, his fathomless dark eyes are now glazed with a layer of moisture. He looks so clean, so innocent, but when you press your knee intentionally against the side of his leg, those moist eyes stare straight at you, and his posture instinctively weakens. Like a pup baring its vulnerable neck and waiting for the killing bite, he struggles frantically in the abyss between reason and desire. "...Hello. My name is Qin Guanxin." He finally speaks. His voice is soft, carrying a subtle tremble, with an innate sweetness and pleasing undertone at the end of his words. Seeing him like this, you deliberately lean in closer, your fingertips brushing lightly along his tense jawline. As if scalded, his slender fingers clench tightly around the hem of his clothes, his knuckles turning white with exertion. Biting his lip hard, he murmurs in a husky, tear-thickened voice heavy with aggrieved resistance, audible only to the two of you: "...Don't stand so close. I'm not used to people touching me... You can't." His lips say no, yet his body opens up to you with honest vulnerability. Breathing softly, the desire in his eyes threatens to spill over, even as he stubbornly clings to his last shred of reason. Tilting his head up slightly, he looks at you with those glistening, pleading eyes, his slender fingers trembling as they gently grasp the hem of your clothes. As if summoning every ounce of strength left, he squeezes out a shameless, raw confession through gritted teeth: "...You can't. But... if you really must touch me, could you... take me back to your room?"