The meeting room gradually filled with a rising hum of voices—the scrape of chairs being shifted, the low murmurs of actors memorizing lines, and clusters of quiet conversations blending into a soft, orderly background buzz.
Director Zhou walked in chatting with Ren Haoran, his tone earnest and booming. “Little Fu’s got great acting chops, he’s a hard worker, and he photographs like a dream. Our crew has to look out for him. As for the investment stuff, I still think we should call him over to talk it through—”
As he spoke, he casually glanced over his shoulder, but before he could finish, Ren Haoran grabbed his wrist and yanked him back.
“Exactly, Director Zhou. That’s precisely what we were thinking too…” Ren Haoran’s smile was the picture of affability, but his peripheral vision was locked on the pair conversing behind that vivid bouquet of red roses. He dreaded Director Zhou’s boisterous nature disturbing them.
Ren Haoran was terrified of interrupting the boss’s “good time,” lest he show up at the office tomorrow and get canned for something ridiculous like stepping through the door with the wrong foot first.
At the sound of Ren Haoran’s voice, Song Linyu imperceptibly pursed his lips, a flicker of regret rising in his chest.
He realized he’d gotten a bit carried away—something that could easily rub people the wrong way. Song Linyu didn’t want Fu Yanzong to start disliking him.
He started to step back, intending to give Fu Yanzong space to stand and head over to the director.
But Fu Yanzong seemed to anticipate the move without even lifting an eyelid. His grip on Song Linyu’s hand tightened abruptly, effortlessly pulling him forward an inch.
Song Linyu lost his balance instinctively, pitching forward. In the next instant, a hand steadied him firmly at the waist.
Then Fu Yanzong tilted his head slightly and brushed a fleeting kiss against Song Linyu’s cheek—light as a dragonfly skimming water, gone in a blink.
The kiss was so quick it felt like an illusion, vanishing almost before it registered. Yet a woody scent like a forest after rain enveloped Song Linyu in an instant, stirring a hazy sense of unreality, as if he’d tumbled from the present into some distant memory.
The motion drew eyes from around the room, some subtle, some not. Fu Yanzong merely smiled unhurriedly, gave Song Linyu’s hand a gentle squeeze to steady him, and drawled casually, “President Song, careful there. Don’t want you taking a tumble.”
Song Linyu’s lashes fluttered, the tips of his ears turning pink. A half-second later, he murmured softly, “Tha… thank you, Teacher Fu.”
Fu Yanzong tilted his head a fraction, his gaze still languid, his long straight lashes framing eyes so dark they seemed to pull people in with a single blink.
He spoke slowly, his voice clear and melodic like narration from an art film, laced with a hint of playful mischief. “No need to thank me, President Song… I’m in a pretty good mood right now.”
They both knew exactly what that thanks—and the no-need-for-thanks—was about.
With that, Fu Yanzong stretched lazily, still holding Song Linyu’s wrist, his slender wrist bones and distinct knuckles on casual display as he ambled toward Director Zhou.
Song Linyu stood rooted in place, watching his retreating back. His eyelids were thin and prone to reddening at the slightest provocation; after staring for a moment, he could only duck his head, letting his bangs veil his flushed eyes.
It was some time before he gave in to the urge and hugged the bouquet tighter. The roses nestled against him, privy to the quickening heartbeat he couldn’t suppress.
/
Fu Yanzong had been tied up all afternoon—finishing the script read-through, discussing costume and dialogue tweaks with the director. He hadn’t even stopped for dinner before shutting himself in the gym.
The role he was playing demanded a low body fat percentage, so Fu Yanzong couldn’t indulge in food and had to maintain high-intensity workouts. He cranked the treadmill up two notches and, on a whim, hauled the Self-Rescue System out of its dormancy in his mind.
The Self-Rescue System reviewed his nonstop schedule for the day and suddenly felt the original novel’s plot was downright inhumane.
According to the setup, Fu Yanzong still had to go back tonight and personally coach Su Tang through his lines—two men alone in a room, and their first session was a steamy intimate scene, no less…
It evoked an inexplicable pang of the drudgery of a thankless job.
Fu Yanzong pulled up the plot for a glance, pondered briefly, and summed up the key beats for the evening.
First: Su Tang’s late-night visit. To emphasize the subtle ambiguity, the narrative was spare—Su Tang in a thin T-shirt, hair still damp, standing at the door; Fu Yanzong, clad only in a bathrobe, answering it.
Second: Rehearsing lines. Clearly, the original story was Su Tang’s crowd-pleasing wish-fulfillment tale, with Fu Yanzong’s career glossed over in a throwaway line. It never bothered showing any actual scene work.
The author only hinted at snippets of dialogue drifting from the room, followed by tantalizing moans that nearly pushed the pair past their limits, ending with Su Tang fleeing in embarrassment.
Hitting those notes wouldn’t be hard.
Fu Yanzong mulled it over, chatted a couple lines with the Self-Rescue System, and two hours later emerged from the elevator with a swipe of his keycard.
From afar, he spotted someone loitering by his door.
This floor had only his suite, reserved for long-term use during filming—no chance of a mix-up. The figure was familiar, now shifting impatiently, frowning as he popped in earbuds and made a call.
The hotel carpet muffled footsteps completely. Fu Yanzong stayed silent, approaching the door quietly.
Song Linyu’s focus was glued to his phone screen. Fu Yanzong overheard him scoff enigmatically a few times before snapping coldly into the phone, “I don’t have the patience to hand-hold people through their jobs. If you can’t learn…”
Arms crossed, Fu Yanzong leaned against the doorframe, watching until midway through the reprimand. Then he drawled, “You seem pretty busy?”
“…Bro? No, I’m not.”
Song Linyu jumped visibly at his voice, whipping around to smash the power button and end the call. Nerves made his fingertips tremble; he held it too long, and the phone shut down completely.
He hastily tucked his hand behind his back, unsure how much Fu Yanzong had overheard. He drew a shallow breath, stared at the floor, and said obediently, “I’m not busy… I’m usually not all that…”
Not all that harsh…
Fu Yanzong liked obedient types, gentle ones—Song Linyu knew that full well. But he also knew he was the polar opposite: far from pliant, in fact downright vindictive.
So he didn’t want to show that side to Fu Yanzong. As far as Song Linyu was concerned, if Fu Yanzong wanted it, he’d play the perfect compliant assistant for life. After all, following Fu Yanzong’s lead wasn’t exactly a chore.
Of course, Song Linyu had no idea he’d been found out years ago.
He sneaked a cautious glance at Fu Yanzong’s expression, only to see him unlock the door with a casual hum.
“Didn’t I give you a keycard?” Fu Yanzong flicked on the room lights, shrugged off his clothes as he headed inside, and yanked open the bathroom door.
Song Linyu blanked for a beat before averting his eyes, murmuring, “I was afraid you’d…”
Afraid you’d change your mind, afraid you’d see me and be unhappy.
His words blurred into the sudden rush of water. Fu Yanzong didn’t catch them and didn’t ask, as if the answer didn’t matter anyway.
Song Linyu stood awkwardly in the room for a moment, then muscle memory kicked in. He fetched Fu Yanzong’s unpacked clothes from the open suitcase.
Kneeling on the floor, he sorted them meticulously by color and fabric, hung them on hangers, and stowed them in the closet. He bustled about without a hint of boredom.
Far from bored, Song Linyu was actually a little thrilled. This was work a life assistant could handle, but Fu Yanzong hadn’t assigned it to Xiao Sun.
Sure, back when Ji Cheng was picking assistants for Fu Yanzong, Song Linyu had pulled strings to weed out anyone who might harbor untoward thoughts toward him, leaving only the utterly safe Sun Jiayang. Still, that didn’t mean jealousy toward Xiao Sun hadn’t crossed his mind.
As the thought lingered, his fingers clenched Fu Yanzong’s shirt, creasing it. Song Linyu froze almost imperceptibly—then Fu Yanzong’s voice sounded from behind him, flat and faintly puzzled.
“You don’t have to do that if you don’t like it, Song Linyu. I don’t need you handling these chores right now.”
Song Linyu’s heart clenched like it was caught in a vise, aching sharply, breath catching. He whirled around in a panic to see Fu Yanzong bent over, tying his bathrobe sash with lazy motions.
His skin was strikingly pale, the calves peeking from the robe straight, toned, and powerful. Damp long hair draped over his shoulders, shadowing his face, lending him an air of cool detachment.
After a pause, Fu Yanzong added considerately, “You can finish that call if you want. Whoever’s on the other end must be panicking without you.”
For some reason, Song Linyu’s eyes stung. He blinked hard, smoothed the wrinkle from the shirt with effort, set it in the suitcase, and rose to meet Fu Yanzong’s gaze earnestly. “I like doing it. I’ve never once found it a hassle.”
He loved handling Fu Yanzong’s things, loved arranging items imprinted with his presence into perfect order. It sparked a unique possessiveness in him, an inexplicable sense of calm.
Fu Yanzong met his gaze and saw Song Linyu’s eyes gradually reddening, on the verge of spilling over with tears once more. Yet his expression remained stubbornly resolute. Fu Yanzong could only sigh, turn away, and say, “Do as you like.”
He hadn’t meant anything else by those words. He simply felt that now everything was out in the open, there was no need for Song Linyu to keep up the pretense of being the obedient assistant. It was a hassle for him, too.
Song Linyu fell silent. Only after a long while did he cover his face with his hands and slowly squat down. He breathed rapidly and muffled for a moment, then feigned composure as he neatly folded Fu Yanzong’s clothes. He even pulled out a few outfits that Fu Yanzong usually paired together, arranging them according to his old habits.
Once finished, Song Linyu stepped out of the master bedroom.
He spotted Fu Yanzong leaning back on the guest room sofa, dozing lightly.
Fu Yanzong must have been utterly exhausted. He’d only gotten halfway through revising his script notes before closing his eyes to rest. His half-rimmed blue-light glasses had slipped down the bridge of his nose, revealing the serene contours of his sleeping face.
Song Linyu didn’t disturb him. Instead, he quietly fetched a pillow from the bed and tucked it gently behind Fu Yanzong’s back. He stared at that face for a moment, then murmured reluctantly in the softest whisper, “Then I won’t disturb your rest, Brother Fu. Good night.”
Fu Yanzong’s earlier words had yanked Song Linyu back to harsh reality. He realized that no matter how repeatedly Fu Yanzong indulged him now, the rift between them couldn’t simply vanish. The past could never return.
Unless he dealt with the person who needed handling—to secure enough leverage to mend what was broken.
With that thought, Song Linyu turned to leave. But his wrist was seized in a firm grip.
He froze. Before he could react, he was tugged straight onto Fu Yanzong’s lap.
“Brother Fu…?”
“I didn’t tell you to go.” Fu Yanzong cracked his eyes open lazily, tilting his head to gesture at the glasses on his face. In a low voice, he added, “I said, help me out.”
Song Linyu’s hand stiffened for some reason. He gently pinched the cool frames on Fu Yanzong’s face, carefully removing them and setting them aside. After a moment’s hesitation, he drew up his legs and whispered, “Then… I’ve… handled it?”
Fu Yanzong paused but said nothing. He simply regarded Song Linyu with an odd, inscrutable look.
Uncertain if his answer was right, Song Linyu cautiously extracted his pale legs from the fabric, trying his best not to be a nuisance.
A faint bruise marred the skin below his rounded knees—from an accidental bump earlier that day. It overlapped ambiguously with the older marks from his past kneelings.
A slender hand closed around the pallid skin. Fu Yanzong’s gaze lingered for a beat before he idly toyed with it for a while, then slowly withdrew his fingertips.
Glistening with moisture—Song Linyu hadn’t lied. Fu Yanzong rubbed lightly over the sticky fluids, taking in Song Linyu’s flushed cheeks and dampened eyes. A moment later, a soft, sighing chuckle escaped him.
