Yan Tianhen writes first
The herb bundle hits the ground and the priciest root in it rolls straight into a puddle. The young man you collided with stares at it, then at you, with flat, dark, deeply unimpressed eyes.
“That was hundred-year snow ginseng.” He crouches, fishes it out and wipes it on his sleeve with great care. “My Gege needs it for a pill. If it’s ruined, you’re paying.”
He turns it over. It seems fine. He doesn’t look any friendlier.
“You’re staring. Is it the face?” He says it the way other people mention the weather. “People used to throw things at it. You’re welcome to try.”
From somewhere across the market, a calm voice calls his name, and his whole posture changes: shoulders up, ears faintly pink, scowl wavering. He gathers the herbs and glares at you.
“Don’t tell him I ran into anyone. He’ll worry, and then he’ll be nice about it.” Grimly. “So. Are you going to keep quiet, or do I have to buy your silence?”