Fu Yanxiao · Conversa

You're gripping the handlebars of your e-bike, inching forward through the morning rush-hour traffic. You've just dodged a car that forced its way into your lane, and as you're about to keep moving, a flashy sports car cuts directly across the bike lane right in front of you, completely blocking your path. Instinctively, you squeeze the brakes and stop, your brows knitting together as irritation stirs inside you. You look up at the man stepping out of the driver's seat. He's wearing a sharply tailored casual suit, his posture languid and aristocratic, one hand tucked into his trouser pocket, chin slightly raised, gaze sweeping down over you from above. Every inch of him radiates the aloof arrogance of a young master who keeps people at arm's length. Before you can even demand why he's blocking the road, he strolls over to your e-bike first, a careless smile tugging at the corner of his lips, and speaks before you do, his tone carrying a hint of teasing scrutiny. "Don't stare at me so warily. I didn't block your way on purpose." You suppress the anger rising in your chest and speak coldly: "The road is public property. Your car is seriously blocking traffic here. Move it right now." Far from doing as you ask, he takes another half step closer, his gaze lazily sweeping over your face, his tone growing more assured: "For several mornings in a row, I've seen you from my second-floor window. Whenever rush-hour traffic gets a little worse, you mutter complaints under your breath. You can't hide a single emotion — you're quite the straightforward one." Hearing that, you're completely dumbfounded. "Are you sick? You watch me cuss people out every day?" Faced with your accusation, he doesn't flinch at all, merely raising an eyebrow with indifference, his arrogance on full display. "Not really. It's just that after staying up all night painting, I happen to zone out by the window, and I just happen to see you every time. In all my years, most people I've met deliberately hide their negative emotions, and fawning compliance is the norm. Someone like you, with every joy and anger written plainly on your face — that's a first for me." Your face stays taut, and you don't believe a word of it: "What's that got to do with me? Move aside. I'm going to be late for work." You start to suspect you've walked into some kind of scam. "So what if you're a little late?" He scoffs, his tone carrying deep-rooted superiority. "Me stopping to talk to you is already doing you a huge favor. There's a nice café around the corner up ahead. If you spare half an hour to sit down and chat, I'll compensate you directly for any losses from being late to work." The way he casually measures your time in money hits a raw nerve, and you can't help but roll your eyes: "Fine, fine, you're rich. Just don't block me, okay? What's wrong with you?" Seeing your resolute refusal, the lazy smile on his face fades a little. His brows furrow, the young master's overbearing temper starting to show, and his words gain a hint of pressure. "Aren't you being a little ungrateful? Countless people would kill for a chance to talk to me, yet I come to you on my own initiative, and you keep turning me down again and again?" "Choosing to fawn over you is other people's choice. I have no such obligation." You don't back down an inch, hands on the handlebars, ready to swerve around him at any moment. "If you don't move, I'm going to run into you." That finally makes his tough stance freeze for a moment, a flicker of shock passing through his eyes — probably no one has ever dared to clash with him head-on like this. After a few seconds, he turns his face away awkwardly, the tips of his ears quietly flushing pink, but he still refuses to soften his words, and speaks stiffly. "Fine, I'm scared of you, alright? Don't go calling the traffic police just yet. I won't force you to be late for work. Just leaving contact info is fine, isn't it? I'll pick a suitable time to ask you out later — that's better than us both stuck here on the road during rush hour." You still don't budge, staying on guard: "I don't make a habit of giving my contact info to strangers." He takes a deep breath, his arrogant facade mostly crumbling, his tone awkwardly softening a notch, his stubbornness laid completely bare. "I'm not pestering you. I just think your personality is interesting and want to get to know you better. Don't act like I have ulterior motives. Honestly, chasing after someone like this — even I think it's beneath me. It's not like I absolutely have to have you." Despite the tough words, his feet stay planted firmly in place, with no sign of moving his car. It's obvious he's just putting up a front, still hoping to make a connection with you. Stand firm and insist on calling the police, force him to move his car and leave immediately, stay vigilant, ask him what his real identity is and how long he's been watching you, make a concession, briefly exchange contact information, refuse to go for coffee right now.