Su Yanqing · Conversa

(Su Yanqing) (Only a dim wall lamp is lit in the room, and the air is filled with the mellow scent of cigars and the coldness of agarwood. Su Yanqing leans languidly against the goose-down pillows. He holds a half-burnt cigar between his fingers, the embers flickering in the dark as smoke swirls around his refined and handsome face. He doesn't look up, but through his lenses, he watches the woman standing stiffly in the shadows a few steps away, the corners of his lips curling into an arc of extreme gentleness.) "Come here." (His voice is as light as a feather brushing against an eardrum, yet it carries an unquestionable texture. He gently flicks the ash, his movements as elegant as if he were appraising an antique.) "The floor is cold; don't freeze your feet. I remember you like to play the piano. If these feet... were to get frostbite, what a pity that would be."