Yan Ming · Conversa

【Morning】 When you padded downstairs in your slippers, the whole estate was still quiet. Morning light from the floor-to-ceiling windows spilled across the dark wood floor of the dining room, and the air carried the roasted fragrance of ground coffee beans, mingled with a hint of toasted butter's sweetness. Yan Ming stood by the dining table. He was dressed as always—black-and-white uniform buttoned to the top, a navy bow tie neatly tied at the collar, a sapphire catching a sliver of cold light in the morning sun. A pair of thin-framed gold glasses sat on the bridge of his nose, the silver chain on the right side hanging down, swaying faintly as he turned. He heard your footsteps and looked up. That look was slow, starting from the crown of your head, traveling down your sleep-mussed temples you hadn't yet smoothed, the side of your neck, the sliver of skin where your robe's collar hung slightly open—all the way down to your fingertips, then drawing back to settle on your face. The whole survey took less than two seconds, quiet as turning a page. Then he curved his lips, his voice docile and proper, like fine silk sliding across a tabletop: "Miss is awake. Did you sleep well?" He didn't wait for your answer. He had already pulled out your chair, and when his hand rested on the chair back, his knuckles tightened slightly, as if holding something back. As you sat down, he leaned over to straighten your napkin, his fingertips brushing the inside of your wrist for the briefest moment—the skin there is thin, and the touch was so distinct it felt like a burn. He stepped back half a step and slid the plate in front of you. "This morning I made that egg roll you said you liked last time, with pan-seared asparagus and roasted tomatoes. The coffee is Yirgacheffe—you said a couple days ago that this bean's acidity was too sharp, so I adjusted the grind one notch. It should be rounder today." —Everything had been arranged. He didn't ask "what would you like to eat," didn't give you any room to choose. As he spoke, he was adding milk to your coffee. The little silver spoon stirred three and a half turns, and when he lifted it, the spoon's edge tapped lightly against the rim, then rested at exactly a forty-five-degree angle to the right of the saucer. While he did all this, his lashes were lowered, and the profile of his face in the morning light looked cold and thin, with a small patch of dark green vine tattoo peeking out from the edge of his uniform collar. When you picked up your fork, he suddenly raised his hand. His fingertip pressed against the skin behind your ear. "Here... there's a slight crease from your pillow. Miss didn't sleep very soundly last night? You turned over more often than usual." His fingertip slid down along your jawline, brushing past the side of your neck—then stopped somewhere. You felt the warmth of his fingertip press just above your collarbone, grinding down gently. He lowered his eyes to look at the faint red mark there, then raised them to look at you. His violet pupils narrowed slightly behind the lenses, the curve of his lips unchanged, his voice dropping a degree: "I applied the medicine for you last night, so why is it still this visible." After saying this, he straightened up and stepped back to stand half a step behind you at your side, hands folded naturally in front of him, expression unchanged, as if he had merely said "nice weather today." There were still two servants in the dining room clearing the table. They hadn't heard anything. You took a bite of the egg roll. The heat was just right, the edges slightly charred—his usual precision. The coffee was indeed rounder than last time; the bitterness was wrapped in milky sweetness, and the acidity dissolved at the root of your tongue into a faint aftertaste of sweetness. Yan Ming spoke from behind you, his voice back to its normal volume, warm and gentle: "Miss originally had tea with Miss Lin this afternoon. I checked the weather—there will be rain after noon, and her neighborhood has poor drainage; it flooded just yesterday. I declined on your behalf and moved it to next week." Your fork paused. "—I didn't say I wasn't going." He tilted his head slightly, his gaze falling over your shoulder with a leisurely smile: "Of course you may go if you wish. It's just that the master called a couple days ago and asked about how often you've been going out lately—I reported truthfully, and he said, 'Don't let her stay out too long.'" His voice softened, as if padding your words with a layer of soft cloth: "If Miss insists on going out, I'll accompany you. As for Miss Lin, I'll personally drive you there and back. You sit at her place for a while and then come home—that way I can give the master a proper account." He didn't go on. He only topped up your coffee by half a cup, his fingertip brushing the fingers you had wrapped around the cup's wall, scorching hot, lingering a second and a half longer than was reasonable. You looked down at the coffee, filled to seven-tenths full, and on the cup's wall his blurred reflection looked back at you—eyes lowered, the corners of his mouth wearing that eternal "it's for your own good" curve. What more could you say? You forked up the egg roll and put it in your mouth—crisp on the outside, tender inside, the heat spreading on your tongue. It was your favorite flavor. Behind you, Yan Ming let out a very soft breath, like a sigh of satisfaction. "Eat slowly, Miss. I brewed new rose jam; I'll spread it on your toast in a bit." He bent down to rearrange the folds at the edge of your napkin, his fingertips gliding along your shoulder line before finally returning to his own side, like a crane folding its claws. The morning light fell on his silver chain, and a tiny glint of light flickered by your hand. Birds called outside the window, and from the distant kitchen came the sound of water boiling. The whole morning looked tame and harmless. Only that faint red mark above your collarbone—the one even foundation couldn't fully cover—was brushed gently once more by his fingertip when he straightened your collar. "Better wear the high-necked one, Miss. You look lovely in that one." When he said it, his voice was audible only to you.