Chapter 57: Chasing You

The night deepened, and with Cheng Yan’s departure along with the others, the poolside fell into utter silence. The water’s surface gleamed like a mirror, reflecting the dim yellow lights. The trees stood motionless, their shadows overlapping on the ground in inky silhouettes.

The guests from the show had already left with their luggage, each wearing a different expression. The entire villa sank into an almost empty stillness, leaving only Fu Yanzong and Song Linyu lingering in place.

Song Linyu’s steady breaths were barely audible in the evening breeze. He stood there quietly, wrapped up like a heavy cocoon.

Fu Yanzong said nothing to him. He simply stretched lazily and drawled, “I’m beat. Heading back to crash.” But before he could take two steps, Song Linyu called out to him with utmost seriousness.

“Bro.”

“Did you know all along… what Su Tang did?”

“Did you come back from Berlin because of that?”

If he hadn’t known, how could he have moved against Su Tang the moment he saw him cornered? How could he have said those ambiguous words to Cheng Yan? How could he have pried so much into Song Linyu’s past?

How could he have gotten over his anger so quickly and softened toward him again?

Song Linyu felt he’d been too slow to piece it together—slow enough that his blood ran cold, then boiled hot, scorching his heart and lungs until his soul ached and scattered.

Fu Yanzong stopped at his words. He slowly slipped his hands into his pockets, tilted his head back with a low chuckle, and asked in that teasing tone, “What do you think?”

Song Linyu’s questions didn’t surprise Fu Yanzong at all. Unraveling every part of him was just a natural, everyday thing for Fu Yanzong.

Of course it was.

That’s exactly why he once couldn’t accept Song Linyu’s final act of concealment.

Fu Yanzong was a patient hunter. He didn’t mind waiting for Song Linyu to gradually let down his guard, shed his wariness, peel away those ingrained fragments of personality, unlearn the instincts he’d picked up from others, and finally stumble into his arms.

The process itself brought Fu Yanzong pleasure.

Without Su Tang, everything would have continued that way.

Song Linyu’s tears should have been his to keep, his joy his to claim—along with those hidden pains, pasts, and secrets. All of it should have belonged to Fu Yanzong.

But Su Tang was an option Song Linyu couldn’t confess. Back then, Fu Yanzong hadn’t understood why Song Linyu would hide it to the end. Even when he’d considered trading equal sincerity, getting only part of the truth had led Fu Yanzong to abandon it all.

Long ago, Yang Wan had told Fu Yanzong his demands were too harsh.

It was the complete opposite of just wanting an obedient, pretty bedmate. What Fu Yanzong craved was a perfectly blank, sincere, transparent sheet of paper—one he could write on, draw across, and shape as he pleased.

Fu Yanzong neither agreed nor disagreed with her assessment. He just said he hadn’t demanded a hundred percent innocent little white flower, since almost no one like that existed.

“That’s why I say it’s impossible,” she’d replied. “Everyone has their secrets. Once you do, you can’t hand over everything—especially not to someone as dangerous as you, baring your neck for the slaughter. Even Jiang Ming and I are the same. In love or marriage, holding nothing back from your partner isn’t healthy.”

Yang Wan’s advice came straight from the heart, and it made sense for real life. But she knew exactly what kind of person Fu Yanzong was.

That’s why, in the Heartthrob Game documentary, she’d delivered that loaded line: “He’s no perfect lover behind closed doors.”

Fu Yanzong saw no issue with it, but he had no intention of changing.

Someone would manage it, wouldn’t they?

After that teasing remark, Song Linyu fell silent for a long time. But Fu Yanzong clearly heard the faint rustle of fabric behind him. Puzzled, he glanced back over his shoulder—and was suddenly enveloped in a fierce embrace from behind.

Song Linyu’s low body temperature pressed against him, hesitant yet cherishing. The thin fabric did nothing to hide the intimate contact of skin on skin.

The fluffy top of his head nestled into Fu Yanzong’s neck. Moments later, a faint, trembling breath escaped—soft as threads of silk, weaving around Fu Yanzong’s heart.

Song Linyu was crying silently, clinging tight without letting go.

“Is this the price I have to pay?” he agonized inwardly. “In the end, I dragged him into it. I got him hurt.”

But damn, he really loves me that much. What he’s given me is more than I ever hoped for.

“I really wanted to tell you. I didn’t want to lie, Bro. I was really going to stick with you forever. I’m sorry—I didn’t know what to do. I was so scared something would happen to you. I can’t take anyone else leaving me. Bro, I’m sorry. I messed up. I didn’t do it right.”

Song Linyu’s jumbled, choked explanation tumbled out by Fu Yanzong’s ear. After a moment’s silence, Fu Yanzong turned, hugged him back, and replied with grave sincerity, word by word: “I know. I know now. You’ve done great… I don’t blame you, Song Linyu. I know you love me.”

I know you love me.

That knowledge was why Fu Yanzong hadn’t been able to fathom Song Linyu’s secrecy before. Without love, lies and silence could be overlooked. But love bred obsession and fear.

Song Linyu could shrug off revenge from Su Tang or Song Wen. But with Fu Yanzong involved, he’d turn timid, hesitating, trapped between advance and retreat.

That was why one of life’s great sufferings was parting from those you love.

Fu Yanzong remembered his parents telling him, back when they were alive: “Little Rong, you have a good habit.”

They meant his knack for letting go, learned without a teacher. Not that he stalled at difficulties—but that he was never burdened by possessions.

Even a one-of-a-kind treasure he’d labored to obtain, Fu Yanzong could ignore or release without hesitation if needed, discarding it like a worn-out shoe. Many called it cold-blooded. But his parents had kissed his forehead many times, saying, “That’s good, Little Rong. Just like that.”

No matter what you lose, you’ll never grieve.

Later, Fu Yanzong had reflected on it, wondering if his indifference meant he lost more because nothing mattered.

From his parents, who died young without a final goodbye… to Song Linyu, the first person he’d ever wanted to keep, yet who he’d ultimately let leave.

On the day he flew to Berlin after their breakup, Fu Yanzong left with perfect calm. Ji Cheng drove him to the airport that morning. “Faraway” evoked images of flight paths, farewells, glances back. People with someone to wait for or meet always wished planes would hurry, yearning to cross cities for that reunion glance.

But Fu Yanzong wasn’t rushed. His trip was so abrupt, even his usual stalkers hadn’t caught up. He sat on a bench by the floor-to-ceiling windows, savoring the rare freedom.

The air was slightly humid, laced with mingled perfumes that eased the mind. Fu Yanzong gazed at the gem-blue sky beyond the tarmac, humming along to his earbuds while eating an ultra-sweet convenience-store ice cream cone.

As he polished off the last bite, a couple behind him embraced tightly. He heard intermittent sobs and soothing murmurs. Amid the whispers, he swallowed the final overly sweet dollop of cream—and suddenly recalled that summer at nineteen, when Song Linyu had brought him his first matcha popsicle on set, split in two.

After that, Fu Yanzong always ended up with seconds—or more—because Song Linyu would hand over his own, trading it for a quiet kiss.

In that instant, Fu Yanzong’s eyes drifted down. Staring at the empty stick, he noticed the makers had mimicked fortune cookies, printing various messages on it.

I know you can’t be honest, so I want you to come see me.

Fu Yanzong had studied Japanese once, but rarely used it. He frowned, staring until he pieced it together word by word.

“Even knowing I can’t be honest, I still want you to come see me.”

At that moment, planes rose beyond the vast windows, pulled into the clouds. The bamboo stick—glistening with meltwater and unspoken truth—was quietly tossed into the trash, like fate’s final discarded proverb.

Amid the roar of engines, Fu Yanzong thought, slow and dull:

—So I’m not entirely without attachments after all.

…

A kiss landed on Song Linyu’s tear-soaked cheek. Then Fu Yanzong sighed and claimed his lips without another word.

This kiss carried no aggression at first, merely a gentle brush of lips, like a soft coaxing or a tender reassurance. Song Linyu’s eyelashes fluttered lightly, the corners of his eyes still streaked with undried tears, yet he didn’t close them. He simply stared in a daze at Fu Yanzong’s face, so achingly close.

He could feel the warmth of the other’s fingertips cradling his cheeks as those cool lips pressed more firmly, little by little, grinding and entwining in a way that seemed to reclaim every lost moment from their past, inch by inch.

Fu Yanzong’s knuckles rested against Song Linyu’s jaw, idly smearing the damp tears across his pale skin. Then, without warning, he pinched that glistening pool of tears and leaned in forcefully, deepening the kiss.

The air grew thick with humid intimacy.

When they finally parted, Song Linyu was a wreck. His eyelashes clung in damp clumps to his thin eyelids, and the tears wouldn’t stop flowing. Yet his gaze lingered with desperate fondness over Fu Yanzong’s brows and eyes, refusing to look away even as his own turned bloodshot.

In the end, Fu Yanzong had no choice. He simply held Song Linyu and sat back down in the chair, waiting for this phase of intense dependence to pass. All the while, he listened as Song Linyu unconsciously nuzzled against his face, repeatedly recounting the past in choked, sobbing bursts.

He confessed that on that day in Paris, he had truly meant to come clean. He’d stayed up all night drafting a long document and had already placed it in his email, ready to hand it over to Fu Yanzong in person. On the way there, he’d rehearsed so many words of confession in his mind. But when he stepped off the plane, not a single one would come out. All he could think was, I want to see you.

I want to see you, no matter the distance.

Fu Yanzong chuckled softly and stroked his face. “Is that so?”

His instincts that day hadn’t been wrong after all.

Before Fu Yanzong could probe deeper, Song Linyu volunteered the full story of his initial plan. He briefly explained how he’d single-handedly funded that film to keep Fu Yanzong in Berlin for the shoot. Then, with utmost solemnity, he swore that once he’d dealt with Su Tang, he would head straight to Berlin to explain everything.

Fu Yanzong had no reason to doubt him, but after a pause, he asked in a low voice, “And if you failed?”

What if he hadn’t beaten Su Tang?

Song Linyu fell silent for a long time before confessing his true feelings, awkward and halting as they were.

“If I’d failed… I’d be glad you wouldn’t grieve for me.”

Song Linyu knew Fu Yanzong all too well. Fu Yanzong was the type who never looked back on what he’d abandoned. No matter how grand a sinking ship might be, he could let it go without hesitation, unswayed by sunk costs.

So on the day he’d proposed breaking up, Song Linyu hadn’t begged, even as he bit his tongue until it bled. He’d let Fu Yanzong shatter their memories that night, leaving him alone in the empty room.

That evening, Song Linyu had knelt silently on the floor, eyes downcast, methodically sorting everything back into place. Even Fu Yanzong’s luggage for the flight to Berlin the next morning—he’d packed it himself, staying up all night to hand it off to Ji Cheng at dawn.

As he folded those clothes and gathered the essentials, Song Linyu couldn’t help repeating the same worries in his mind: Would Fu Yanzong fall ill without him? Get hurt? He thought of Berlin’s weather, of the 8,400 kilometers separating it from Shenlan.

Across mountains, oceans, and countless countries—it was so very far.

Even as those thoughts swirled, Song Linyu vowed to himself that he would kill Su Tang. There could only be two outcomes between them: one dead and one alive, or mutual destruction. If he truly never got a second chance to see Fu Yanzong, at least Fu Yanzong wouldn’t mourn him.

It was the best choice for now.

And if he could resolve it all, the moment the dust settled, Song Linyu would book the earliest flight to Berlin—to the Dahlem District, to Kleinmachnow Avenue—and knock on the door of Fu Yanzong’s villa.

“But by then, I probably wouldn’t have let you in,” Fu Yanzong said softly. “Even if I did, I might’ve treated you poorly. Didn’t you consider that?”

“I did,” Song Linyu replied. “But it doesn’t matter. Bro, I’m betting I have enough courage.”

I’m betting I have enough courage to face you.

It wouldn’t matter if you pushed me away, or lashed out with cold words. You could treat me however you wanted. Chasing someone was troublesome and exhausting—but when that someone was Fu Yanzong, it didn’t matter at all.

“Fu Yanzong.”

Song Linyu’s soft question rose suddenly on the night breeze.

“Starting today… can you give me a chance to chase you all over again?”

They both knew tomorrow would bring good weather.