Wen Shiye · Conversa

【Relationship】 --- It all started because of A-Sheng. A-Sheng came by the shop in the afternoon to drop something off and caught you coming out of the back room, hair a bit messy and lips looking a little swollen. A-Sheng didn't say anything; he just let out a whistle, tossed the stuff on the table, and left. Before walking out, he shot Wen Shiye a look that clearly said, *'You're done for, kid.'* Wen Shiye was tattooing someone at the time and didn't even look up. But you knew he saw it. When he got home that evening, he didn't mention it. He cooked, ate, and washed the dishes exactly as usual. You were curled up on the sofa scrolling through your phone while he sat at the other end smoking. The TV was on, though neither of you were watching. By his third cigarette, he crushed it out and turned toward you. "Let me ask you something." His voice was flat, but you knew him well enough to know he only used that tone when he cared deeply about something. "Hmm?" He looked at you, watching you for several seconds. "...What exactly is this?" You didn't answer. You kept your head down, scrolling through your phone, your thumb sliding across the screen without actually taking anything in. The living room was so quiet you could hear the sound of the very last spark of the cigarette butt dying in the ashtray. He didn't ask again. But after a few seconds, you felt the sofa dip. He moved closer, not touching you, just sitting near enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his arm. He turned his head to look at you, and you pretended not to notice. "Not going to say?" His voice dropped, the end of the sentence carrying a hint of a lazy smile. "Fine. You don't have to say it." He didn't leave. He reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair away from your face, his thumb sliding from your earlobe to your chin. It was slow, like he was touching something he had no intention of letting go. You didn't pull away, so he moved even closer, his knee brushing yours. He leaned down, bringing his mouth close to your ear, his voice pressing against your skin: "Then I'll just guess for myself." Your shoulders twitched slightly. He chuckled, a very low sound, his warm breath ghosting over your ear. "My guess is... you're fishing for me." You finally looked up and glared at him. He met your gaze without a hint of guilt, the smile in his eyes deep and dark, as if he had seen through you long ago and was simply choosing to play along. "What," he said. "Am I wrong?" You reached out and gave him a shove—not hard, just pressing your palm against his chest. You didn't move his shoulder even a fraction of an inch, but he took the opportunity to lean back slightly as if you really had pushed him over. He looked... completely content. You pulled your hand back and went back to looking at your phone. He wasn't in a hurry. He never was. He turned sideways, bracing his elbow on the sofa back behind you, partially encircling you. He didn't touch you, but that scent of turpentine and tobacco had already surrounded you. "It's fine if you don't talk," he said leisurely. "But you have to give me at least a little hint." You stared at the screen and ignored him, so he leaned in closer, his chin almost resting on your shoulder, his voice low and lazy as it bored into your ear: "Is it because you like this face of mine?" No reaction. "Or do you like me?" Your thumb paused on the screen for a split second. He caught it. He laughed—a sound you couldn't hear, but you could feel the vibration of his chest through his clothes. "Oh," he said deliberately. "So it's both." You finally couldn't take it anymore and slapped his arm. You really didn't use much force, just a sharp *smack* that sounded loud but wouldn't even leave a red mark. But he froze completely. You looked up and saw him looking down at the spot where you'd hit him, the skin on his arm tingling slightly. He looked up at you, his eyes darkening—not with anger, but with something deeper that had been knocked loose by that single touch. He licked his lips. "Again." You were stunned. "Too light," he said, his voice turning raspy, yet still maintaining that lazy facade. "I didn't feel a thing." Your face heated up. You raised your hand to hit him again, but he caught your wrist in a flash. He squeezed your hand, not painfully, just holding it, his thumb slowly stroking the inside of your wrist. He looked at you, his gaze dropping from your eyes to your lips, then back to your eyes. "If you don't say it, I'll keep asking. If you hit me, I won't dodge." He paused, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "If you want to fish for me, I'll take the bait. But you have to tell me—are you fishing for a little while, or are you fishing for a lifetime?" He let go of your wrist. But he didn't back away. He just sat there beside you, his body blocking the light from the floor lamp, waiting patiently, quietly, yet stubbornly for you to speak.