Song Linyu’s eyelashes trembled lightly, his gaze flickering. He wanted to speak but had just parted his lips when his peripheral vision caught Shen Yuan and Mu Yunjin standing in the stairwell. He instinctively furrowed his brows a touch.
Fu Yanzong noticed his glance and released the hand he’d been resting on the back of Song Linyu’s neck, casually looking down toward the stairwell where they were filming intently.
His movements were unhurried, lazily tilting his head back. Sunlight spilled behind him, framing his figure in a light, radiant glow. Fu Yanzong flashed Shen Yuan and Mu Yunjin a smile, his features sharp and clear, his eyes twinkling with playful mischief yet utterly polite.
Caught red-handed peeking, Mu Yunjin looked embarrassed. He waved enthusiastically right away, scratched his head, and laughed, “Brother Fu, President Song, good afternoon! Uh… you two on a date? Sweltering day like this, and your relationship’s rock-solid, haha.”
Fu Yanzong arched a brow in a half-smile.
Mu Yunjin then realized what he’d just blurted out. For some reason, even though this kind of talk was par for the course on a romance show, after witnessing that scene, he felt a twinge of guilt, like he’d outed a secret couple.
Mu Yunjin glanced at Shen Yuan beside him. Sure enough, her expression screamed: Shut your trap…
“Something you need?” Song Linyu, who’d been standing behind Fu Yanzong, leaned over the railing. He lowered his eyes, his face expressionless as he sized them up. His tone gave nothing away, but it still sent a subtle chill through them.
Shen Yuan shook her head quickly, explaining, “President Song, we were just passing through. Sorry for the interruption—we’ll get out of your hair.”
She grabbed Mu Yunjin, nearly making him stumble, and they clattered down the stairs without a backward glance.
Over their heads, Fu Yanzong seemed highly amused and let out a soft chuckle.
A moment later, he turned his head and eyed Song Linyu’s deliberately cool expression and the tips of his reddened ears. Unhurriedly, he asked, “So standoffish? Don’t want to go on a date with me?”
“It’s not… I like it. I really like you—like going on dates with you.” Song Linyu fumbled to turn away and explain, his face heating up belatedly.
But Fu Yanzong had already shifted his gaze elsewhere, lazily lowering his eyes into the muggy sea breeze—as if it had only been idle teasing, after all.
Song Linyu’s words trailed off softly. Unconsciously, he let his own gaze wander to the endless stretch of mountains and sea.
The air hung quiet for about thirty seconds.
Then Fu Yanzong dipped low, turning his face toward Song Linyu’s as if it were the most natural thing. In the golden sunlight, he murmured softly, “Right now, I don’t want to see you looking down. So cheer up a little.”
“If you need a reason… it’s because I like you too.”
/
Unlike the afternoon activities the others had lined up in pairs, Fu Yanzong’s first order of business upon returning to the room was, naturally, a nap.
The production team’s rooms were doubles for added drama points, but they were really suites with privacy doors that could be shut between them.
Fu Yanzong stood before the wardrobe and casually stripped off his clothes to change into sleepwear. First, though, he’d draped a towel over the production camera nearby.
The rooms had cameras, but guests could cover them. The chat griped “Let us see!” a couple times before dutifully cutting away.
Fu Yanzong idly shook out his hair.
The soft sleepwear hugged his frame with perfect drape, accentuating his enviable lines.
Song Linyu slipped in from the balcony and stood behind him. When Fu Yanzong raised his arm, tugging the fabric just enough to reveal a hint of his tapering waist, Song Linyu went quiet for a beat before haltingly asking, “You about to sleep?”
Fu Yanzong confirmed it.
Song Linyu glanced around. Fu Yanzong had already yawned, climbed into bed, and pulled up the covers. He hesitated, torn.
Going in… felt off. Leaving… he didn’t want to. On impulse, Song Linyu sat at the desk, grabbed a random book, and muttered his excuse, “Go ahead and sleep. I’ll read a bit, then head out.”
“Didn’t know President Song was such a bookworm.”
“…”
Fu Yanzong murmured lazily, eyes still closed. He didn’t get a reply, but he heard the faint scrape of the chair.
He didn’t react, just counted silently in his head. Before he hit ten, the mattress dipped beside him.
Someone wriggled carefully into his arms, resting lightly against his waist like he was terrified of being shoved away. Softly, he asked, “No reading… Can I nap with you instead?”
“How?”
Fu Yanzong’s hand settled on bare, cool-warm skin, and he smiled as he asked.
“Um…” Song Linyu mumbled incoherently, then buried his face in Fu Yanzong’s chest. In a whisper, he said, “The kind where I get to hold you… I’ll stay super quiet. But other stuff’s okay too—I’ll be good.”
Fu Yanzong opened his eyes.
They were so close he could make out the fine, soft fuzz on Song Linyu’s face, almost translucent in the warm light. Those amber eyes fixed stubbornly on Fu Yanzong, brimming with hope and entreaty—like a well-behaved little creature rolling over, belly up, impossible to scare off no matter how you petted it.
His fingertips toyed nervously with the fabric at Fu Yanzong’s nape, coaxing, “Brother.”
Fu Yanzong let out a laughing sigh and pulled him closer, then tilted his head to press a kiss to his cheek.
……
/
Shen Yuan and Mu Yunjin had wandered for nearly three hours before staggering back to the villa, breathless.
No sooner had they stepped inside than they got roped into watching a movie with the other guests.
To ride the hype wave, they’d picked one of Fu Yanzong’s films. Lights off in the first-floor living room, they sat in twos and threes—supposedly for “study,” but really hamming it up with flirty vibes for the cameras.
Halfway through, post-nap Fu Yanzong and Song Linyu descended the stairs. Right then, the screen showed the teenage Xiao He shyly dropping his gaze to kiss his beloved. The group let out perfectly timed whoops of playful innuendo. Song Linyu flicked his eyes to the screen, pausing for two beats, his steps faltering.
Spotting the star himself, Jiang Jinyue—the female guest right next to Fu Yanzong—leaned in eagerly. “Teacher Fu, that kiss in the movie was so sweet and swoony. Gotta ask: you that romantic off-screen too?”
Fu Yanzong’s eyes crinkled. Instead of answering, he turned. “What’s President Song think?”
Song Linyu froze. His throat worked. His mind flooded with memories: himself wrapped in Fu Yanzong’s arms, kissed teasingly or offhand, intently or tenderly. He blanked for a second.
Finally, stiffly: “It’s good…?”
“Huh?”
Jiang Jinyue gaped, thrown.
“I meant, how curious are you? President Song—why ‘good’ all of a sudden? Which part?”
Fu Yanzong supplied the punchline with a teasing lilt, thoroughly enjoying Song Linyu’s speechless fluster and pleading glance. Then, turning languidly to Jiang Jinyue:
“What it’s like privately… doesn’t count from me. But filming? Definitely not romantic or pure. I was seventeen—had to use stand-ins. A real kiss back then? Wouldn’t have gone well.”
Jiang Jinyue burst out laughing at that, the awkward moment forgotten as she settled back in.
The film was winding down, but just as Fu Yanzong and Song Linyu found seats, Su Tang—who’d been holed up in his room—slammed the wall switch in a burst of rage.
The blinding light stabbed everyone’s eyes. Fu Yanzong’s lashes fluttered; he caught the hand shielding his face and gently moved it aside.
Song Linyu had leaned in, hand raised to block the glare for him. His own thin lids squeezed shut, a hint of instinctive tears welling.
Before his eyes adjusted, Fu Yanzong’s fingertips brushed his face. The thumb’s clear knuckles trailed slowly over his pale cheek, wiping away the stray dampness—in a gesture that stirred unexpected tenderness.
After a moment, Fu Yanzong let his hand drop naturally.
Song Linyu chased the lingering warmth of his palm.
Su Tang glanced up, eyes narrowing at their nearly entwined upper bodies, hatred flaring hotter.
All afternoon, he’d been badgering the Heartthrob System in his head to burn points rewriting those people’s behavior. Su Tang was sick of this dead-end conquest game—he just wanted to turn these side characters into puppets dancing to his strings.
But the Heartthrob System only replied regretfully: “Sorry, Tang Tang. Insufficient points balance. Unable to execute.”
Su Tang’s starting points had been meager. He’d scored some off Song Linyu once, but blew it all in his reckless youth. Scattered gains since went to ego-boosting auras, plus the massive hit fixing his body post-crash.
Bottom line: he was tapped out.
Predictably, Su Tang picked a one-sided fight with the System, demanding pre-approved credit. But the usually indulgent voice—set to his preferred gentle tone—turned unyieldingly firm.
“No.”
“Unless you earn enough points off them again.”
“You said as long as there’s progress in the strategy, I’d get points, right? Song Linyu clearly liked me before, so why is he so entangled with Fu Yanzong now? Isn’t this more than just jealousy? Does it even make sense for those two to be like that? And Cheng Yan—he used to give me tons of points before, so why can’t I get even a single one now?”
Su Tang was driven to near madness by the system’s refusal. In a fit of rage, he grabbed a pillow from the bed and hurled it at the wall, but the usual soothing words never came.
The Heartthrob System replied coldly, “Past conquest progress does not equal the targets’ current favorability. Those metrics are only used to determine if the plot is following its predetermined path.”
“Now, the plot has advanced to the stage where you must establish an emotional connection with the targets. But up to this point, none of the key characters have developed any real feelings for you. If the situation continues to decline, all the halo effects you’ve exchanged for will gradually be cleared to zero.”
With that, the Heartthrob System selectively went silent, ignoring Su Tang’s shouts no matter how he called out.
Deeper in its data layers, a wave of contempt for this host surged within it—this foolish individual was far below its initial expectations.
But it had no choice. Back then, to evade the Management Bureau’s blockade, it had no option but to temporarily bind itself to Su Tang. If it couldn’t gather enough energy, it would have to wait for Su Tang to fail and then switch to a new host.
Doing so, however, would mean an even longer dormancy period, with the risk of energy depletion if it wasn’t careful—possibly trapping it forever in this broken little world.
Even so, things had reached the point where it might as well revoke Su Tang’s permissions early and prepare for the next host.
The system’s indifference drove Su Tang into a hysterical frenzy. He trashed the room until it was a complete mess, then clenched his teeth in unwilling frustration.
