The words hung in the air like faint sparks, effortlessly igniting a roomful of smoldering embers.
Even in the dim glow, Fu Yanzong could clearly see Song Linyu’s trembling, reddened eyes and the lips that parted despite himself.
A blank, dazed expression washed over his face, then, as if confirming it to himself, he unconsciously repeated Fu Yanzong’s question.
“Please…”
Fu Yanzong gazed down at that face from above, searching for traces of shame, anger, or resentment.
But under the pale moonlight, all he could see was a glassy sheen, sharp as shattered fragments, covering Song Linyu’s features.
The dampness was everywhere, like rising champagne bubbles. Song Linyu’s outstretched hand was slender and bony, faint veins pulsing beneath the skin, still carrying the soft sheen of moisture.
After all these years, he still knew exactly what to do to beg Fu Yanzong.
Moonlight filtered into the room, blending with the night to create a cold peacock blue. Song Linyu knelt on the wooden floor, back straight, legs spread wide. His expensive suit jacket cinched his slim waist perfectly, while his disheveled tie was slowly being retied by Fu Yanzong’s extended hand.
Tightening, choking, invading, overwhelming—yet even then, Song Linyu didn’t forget to please, to claim what he wanted. His tongue was buried deep, completely overwhelmed, and finally, he couldn’t hold back. He reached out and gripped Fu Yanzong’s wrist.
Song Linyu rarely knelt before him so impeccably dressed in a suit. Fu Yanzong wasn’t the generous type, and in this moment, it naturally stirred the vicious desires buried deep in his bones.
He bent down, pressing in even deeper. Then, casually, he reached into Song Linyu’s suit pocket and pulled out a slim pack of cigarettes.
Fu Yanzong took his work seriously—as a public figure, he never smoked in any situation. But times like this called for indulgence, whether it was nicotine or something more.
He slipped the black hair tie from his ponytail, letting soft strands fall against his neck. Fu Yanzong undid two buttons on his shirt, tilted his head back, and lit a cigarette with casual indifference. The glowing ember flickered between his curved fingers, blurring his expression into a single frame from an old photograph.
Song Linyu was enveloped in the curling smoke, as if thoroughly soaked through. His dark lashes clumped together in wet clusters, veiling his damp eyes, making him look wretchedly pitiable.
Fu Yanzong idly caressed the side of his upturned face, his voice gentle almost to the point of intimacy as he told him it wasn’t enough—keep going.
Song Linyu let out an extremely low, heartbreaking whimper.
The moment it spilled over, the taut string in Song Linyu’s mind snapped completely. Instinct and experience told him that now he could act spoiled with Fu Yanzong. But as he leaned toward those thin, cold lips, he heard only an ambiguous question.
“Is it like this with everyone, Song Linyu?”
Song Linyu’s throat still held the suffocating fullness, his soaked lashes half-lowered, the corners of his eyes flushed red like dampened tissue paper.
Fu Yanzong used to speak to him in that tone too—commands, pleas, or teasing dirty talk that never crossed into vulgarity.
But Song Linyu had never felt so clear-headed as he did now. He wanted to say no, impossible, how could it be—only you.
The words reached his lips, but reason blew through like a cold wind, reminding him that things weren’t like before. He opened his mouth, but his throat was too hoarse to make a sound, his mind a chaotic mess.
Not yet…
Song Linyu didn’t know how to answer the unanswerable question, so he instinctively scooted closer. He tilted his head slightly, just like he used to when acting cute, trying to gloss over it.
Reunions with old lovers were always like this—every intimate gesture came effortlessly, yet it was like a gold-edged cookie glazed with sticky sweetness, cloying and fragile.
The unclear emotion in Fu Yanzong’s eyes vanished completely. He slowly lowered his gaze. Even as the temperature climbed through the night, he remained like a mound of thick, cold snow on a frozen peak.
He stubbed out the cigarette, his fingertip lazily grinding it into the ashtray, the motion carrying a hint of indifferent dominance. He leaned down, gripped Song Linyu’s chin—not hard, but unyielding—and examined that aroused face in minute detail.
Just the expression reason would make under the drug’s assault.
So he released his grip, his fingers sliding to Song Linyu’s tie. He gripped it leisurely, then yanked hard. The fabric rasped harshly in the silence, laced with ambiguity.
Song Linyu lurched forward, his knees skidding on the wooden floor, a low whimper escaping his throat. But he didn’t resist—in fact, there was submission in his eyes.
His trembling body, driven by raw physiology, could barely hold steady. Fu Yanzong seemed mildly displeased by the sloppy posture. With leisure, he lowered his gaze, watching as Song Linyu faltered in his kneel. Then, with a backhand, he delivered a crisp slap.
His fingertips bore faint sticky traces. Fu Yanzong glanced down and commanded:
“Kneel properly.”
His tone was neither light nor heavy, yet it carried the chilling pressure of a superior, impossible to defy.
The slap stunned Song Linyu. He didn’t dodge or struggle. He just bit his lip, his wet lashes quivering as he accepted the near-punitive force completely.
It wasn’t unfamiliar—it was too familiar.
Fragments flashed through Song Linyu’s mind in an instant, the rising welts burning so hot he nearly curled up. But he still obediently lifted his head to meet Fu Yanzong’s gaze.
Like the lead in some cheap porn flick.
Fu Yanzong tsked, unable to hold back a breathy laugh.
“…You’re enjoying this, aren’t you.”
The next morning, Song Linyu woke early, though he’d slept dreamlessly. It was always like that beside Fu Yanzong—a rhythm as natural as a migratory bird’s.
Only upon waking did he remember he no longer needed to coax the sleepy Fu Yanzong into activities or scripts, no longer needed to play the good boy and pitifully whip up inedible breakfasts. For the current Song Linyu, such things were beneath him.
He could only turn his head wordlessly, gazing at Fu Yanzong, who lounged lazily against the pillow in sleep.
The thin blanket had slipped down from Fu Yanzong’s shoulders. Song Linyu hesitated, lifting his hand, but his curled knuckles hovered in midair without touching.
“Put that hand away before I open my eyes.”
Fu Yanzong mumbled it slowly, then buried his face in the soft pillow with practiced ease, clearly planning to laze in bed.
“Aren’t you cold?”
Song Linyu lowered his hand and asked quietly in return.
Fu Yanzong yawned with his eyes closed and said it was fine.
In that instant, the atmosphere softened considerably. Neither mentioned the past or last night. Song Linyu let out a soft sigh but didn’t look away.
After a while, he finally withdrew his gaze, unlocked his phone, and sent a few messages to his subordinates with a blank expression.
Silver Lake Hotel was now Dongyu’s property. Song Linyu instructed them to wipe all surveillance footage from last night’s floor.
Then he exited the chat, hesitated a moment, entered his passcode with familiar ease, and opened his private photo album.
Contrary to what others might guess about business secrets, it held only simple portraits—nothing scandalous like models or celebrities, just ordinary shots of Fu Yanzong, like a fan’s scrapbook.
In fact, it was no different from a stan album: photos neatly categorized by color scheme, outfit, location—methodical.
The difference was that many scenes no one else could capture.
Fu Yanzong in the morning, back turned as he chewed a hair tie while ponytailing his hair; Fu Yanzong with the blanket over his face, refusing to get up; Fu Yanzong childishly twirling an enormous spaghetti forkful…
Every day had one.
Until one day, the updates simply stopped.
Song Linyu would never stoop to stealth shots. He simply stared at the photos in a daze when a rustling sound came from behind. His pupils contracted sharply for an instant as he felt the warmth pressing over him.
Fu Yanzong plucked the phone from his hand. In his panic, Song Linyu had only managed to unlock it. Fu Yanzong didn’t look, just toyed with it idly while dressing, asking lightly, “What’d you take?”
“…I didn’t.”
Song Linyu grew anxious, his voice sharpening a bit. He scrambled to the edge of the bed on his knees, reaching for the phone in Fu Yanzong’s hand. A strip of pale skin showed at his waist, along with fading bruises.
Fu Yanzong turned his face slightly away at the sight, then lit the screen, his fingertip pausing on the lock screen.
“…Never mind.”
He didn’t try entering Song Linyu’s passcode, even though he knew what it used to be. Fu Yanzong shoved the phone back into Song Linyu’s hand, then bent down slightly, meeting his eyes as he said softly:
“Delete whatever it is.”
Song Linyu nodded cooperatively, afraid he wouldn’t believe him, and replied with calm composure: “I’ll pretend nothing happened, Teacher Fu. You can relax…”
“I mean everything—past and present.”
Fu Yanzong cut him off, curling his knuckles and tapping lightly—almost tenderly—twice on the phone’s cold metal back.
One tap, two taps, as if probing his heartbeat.
Song Linyu’s throat bobbed heavily, his thin lips pressing into a straight line. His fingers on the bed’s edge clenched abruptly, knuckles digging deep creases into the soft bedding.
As Fu Yanzong lowered his gaze to look at him, the tips of his hair brushed against Song Linyu’s nose, and that faint scent unique to him washed over like a tide, nearly drowning Song Linyu in its swirling depths.
But such resistance meant nothing to Fu Yanzong anymore.
He straightened up and snagged a hair tie from the scattered ones on the bedside table, casually binding back his jet-black locks. Song Linyu watched the scene in a daze, but in the end, only the sharp click of the door lock engaging rang out with crystal clarity.
In the end, only Song Linyu was left here alone.
He lowered his eyes in silence, his damp long lashes casting a dim, indistinct shadow.
The cold metal frame was gripped by knuckles bulging one by one, pressed down so hard that they turned white from the effort, leaving behind a deep red crescent mark that refused to fade.
