The night was utterly quiet. The dark quilt draped over his waist and abdomen, leaving only his fair calves exposed.
Qi Jing’s hand still rested on the other’s shoulder, his lips lacking the strength to close fully, revealing a moist, rosy interior.
Bo Chengyan was propped up on the bed in a forward-leaning posture, his gaze lowered toward the man beneath him.
His eyes were dark and shadowed.
“Hmm?”
There was no emotional fluctuation in his voice.
Just simple surprise.
In truth, Qi Jing hadn’t driven things forward much at all. His waist had arched backward, and he’d been almost entirely pinned down. In the end, when he’d run out of strength, it was the other’s large hand that had supported him.
His breaths escaped in faint, ragged wisps.
“Let’s stop.”
Qi Jing said it with a hint of depression, his voice hoarse and muffled. Then he was pulled into a tight embrace.
Skin pressed against skin, his calf cradled in the man’s palm.
The bedside lamp cast a warm yellow glow.
Bo Chengyan merely lowered his eyelids as he kneaded the calf muscle. His other hand stroked the slender back, tracing vertebra by vertebra.
“Good.”
Qi Jing’s eyelashes were damp. Once one calf had been massaged, he wanted the other tended to as well.
And so they fell asleep in each other’s arms.
It felt like half an hour had passed.
Qi Jing drowsily woke again.
Only then did he realize he was still nestled in the man’s embrace. A wave of attachment welled up inside him. He reached out, grasping at the shirt and letting out a soft, breathy sound.
“Where does it hurt?”
Bo Chengyan lifted him by the hips, adjusting his position for comfort, then bent his head to ask.
All he could see was the top of Qi Jing’s head and his half-closed eyes, the straight lashes drooping without their usual curve.
“My stomach.”
“It’s sore.”
Qi Jing sounded aggrieved. He felt that doing this sort of thing for an entire night was just too long. Was it always like this?
Having a child must be even more grueling.
Sex didn’t even guarantee pregnancy. If people trying to conceive had to do this every day…
Once at night was already a whole evening. Would they have to continue into the daytime?
Qi Jing’s face paled slightly at the thought. That would surely wear the body out.
He nagged at himself inwardly with fragmented worries.
Bo Chengyan’s movements paused for a moment, but he continued rubbing Qi Jing’s stomach. The young man in his arms let out faint gasps.
He resembled a kitten.
Before long, Qi Jing grew sleepy again. Still, he tilted his head back to ask, “Aren’t you… finished yet?”
“It’s fine.”
“I-I can use my hand—”
“No need.”
Qi Jing was gently laid back onto the bed. His chin was lifted lightly, and Bo Chengyan bestowed a tender kiss.
Then he rose and headed to the bathroom.
~~~
Sexual intimacy between partners was an extremely important matter.
After all, it underpinned their entire relationship.
Qi Jing found himself plunged into confusion. At the outset, he’d genuinely believed Bo Chengyan was… inept in that regard. The man had always seemed so refined and gentlemanly.
He never lost his temper.
He never laid a hand on anyone in anger.
He came across as utterly asexual.
But now… it clearly wasn’t the case. The moment Qi Jing closed his eyes, a jumble of chaotic images flooded his mind.
Much of the time, Bo Chengyan was the one guiding him—teaching him how to control the rhythm, how to chase pleasure, how to voice his own desires.
It was all so rational.
The only issue was the duration. It stretched on endlessly.
The pleasure wasn’t a trickle; it was a vast ocean, threatening to drown him.
It was as if a switch had been flipped inside his body.
Fluid gushed forth without end.
Qi Jing desperately sought help. His first thought was the internet, but every post he made got censored. One time, it was worse—he was outright banned from the platform.
The reason: obscene content.
The young man was truly at a loss, his cheeks burning red.
He sat on the bed, lost in thought for ages, but he still couldn’t bring himself to ask Bo Chengyan directly.
Why did this world demand procreation but refuse to teach people how to make love?
With a aggrieved pout, Qi Jing stared at his phone.
He tried appealing the ban, but to no avail.
It was silenced until 2074.
After some deliberation, Qi Jing decided to consult Jiang Xiuyuan instead. He was a bit older, after all.
A twinge of embarrassment colored his message.
Hates Broccoli: Are you there?
The standard opener when seeking help.
111: ?
111: Nope.
Qi Jing felt utterly dejected—until another message pinged through.
111: What’s up? Spill it.
Jiang Xiuyuan was spending the New Year in Capital City. Tonight was New Year’s Eve, and there had been plenty of daytime orders. A few local staff members had pitched in to handle them, but the shop would be closed for the next few days.
“Alright, alright, go get some dinner.”
The young man, apron tied around his waist, leaned against the work counter. He let the employees clock out early and lowered his gaze to his phone.
He tilted his head slightly.
Hates Broccoli: Sorry… I need to consult you about something again.
The boy on the other end felt a bit sheepish.
From a social etiquette standpoint, one shouldn’t treat friends like tools—only reaching out when in need.
That was rude.
Jiang Xiuyuan’s lips curved upward involuntarily as he typed.
111: Aren’t you busy with your romance?
111: Sounds time-consuming.
Hates Broccoli: Sorry, I really did plan to visit you, but I only wake up in the evenings… so no time.
111: ? What kind of schedule is that?
At first, Jiang Xiuyuan assumed it was just ordinary late-night habits. But then came a barrage of messages that could only be described as explicit.
Hates Broccoli: Are you offline?
Hates Broccoli: Can I come see you?
Jiang Xiuyuan snapped to attention, drawing in a deep breath as yet another new message arrived.
He intervened promptly.
111: Whoa, whoa, easy there—this is my work account. Don’t get it banned.
111: Come on over.
Qi Jing left the house without issue. He’d rested for a full day by then, and Bo Chengyan wasn’t home.
Something urgent had come up at the company.
The young man dressed himself properly and headed to the entryway, ready to step out.
But his footsteps halted as a realization struck. His wrist was bare.
Qi Jing turned and hurried back upstairs. He felt he should wear it, anyway—it had become a habit.
Taking it out was safe.
It was a bit like one of those kids’ smartwatches?
Except this Smart Wristband had far more functions.
Qi Jing searched the bedroom thoroughly, then checked the guest room. Still nothing. He couldn’t even recall all the places he’d taken it before.
He dashed to the bathroom next.
No luck.
Finally, he made his way to the study.
The study was done in dark tones, heavy and solemn. One entire wall was lined with books. Qi Jing had once asked curiously if Bo Chengyan had read them all; the man had replied that they were mostly for show.
He only used the room for work.
Qi Jing paced around until he spotted the Smart Wristband tucked into a corner of the bookshelf. He fastened it onto his wrist.
As he turned to leave, however, his clothes snagged on the edge of a drawer in the redwood desk. It yanked open wide, and the contents rattled around inside.
The young man nearly lost his balance but glanced back—and there, inside, was a white medicine bottle.
Qi Jing picked one up for a closer look.
~~~
The investigation into Harbor City matters had yielded some preliminary results.
Qi Jing hadn’t yet mentioned those assets to him. Perhaps out of lingering caution, or maybe he simply hadn’t thought it through fully.
That was his prerogative.
Bo Chengyan viewed his own interest as perfectly reasonable concern. He needed to know who his partner was associating with.
Nothing more.
Harbor City’s local powers were chiefly the Huo Family and Sincerity Union Group… though word was that the latter’s leadership had turned over recently.
“Seems quite young. Only in his twenties.”
Bo Chengyan paused in his reading of the dossier for a second or two before asking, “How old, exactly?”
“Twenty-four this year.”
A trace of silence hung in the air.
The assistant spoke up at once. “That said, his style is apparently quite dictatorial. Very much the impulsive sort, full of youthful vigor.”
The boss simply resumed flipping through the materials.
Bo Chengyan studied them for a moment, then frowned. “He has a same-sex lover?”
“Yes, but details are scarce.”
“Reportedly some behind-the-scenes investor. All we know is the surname Gu.”
Bo Chengyan set the documents aside and said, ever the picture of refined courtesy, “Can’t we dig deeper?”
The assistant was straightforward in professional matters.
“Truthfully, no. There’s always someone willing to outbid us. The information trail just cuts off.”
That happened often enough.
“Understood.”
Bo Chengyan set the matter aside for the time being. With the New Year holidays approaching, he needed to head home early.
Yet Lin Se, on the far side of the ocean, apparently remained uneasy and initiated a video call.
Perhaps because he’d returned to his hometown, he slipped back into English.
The young man simply said:
“Bo, there’s a research institute in Toronto that’s developed a new drug. It helps lower the sex threshold. Do you need some?
“You know, he’s just a kid. His stamina probably can’t keep up with yours.
“The proper path is reasonable treatment.”
Bo Chengyan replied calmly:
“I’m already on regular medication.
“No need to worry.”
In truth, those drugs merely suppressed his libido—they didn’t lower the threshold or offer a true cure.
To put it bluntly:
Qi Jing would find the intensity overwhelming.
But for Bo Chengyan, it was still far from sufficient.
The young man on video frowned. Lin Se had originally been tasked only with the other’s psychological issues.
Managing the emotional side was enough: public charity, donations… establishing solid employee welfare programs.
It boiled down to basic human care.
Bo Chengyan handled it admirably.
But cracks appeared now and then.
A small firm tied to the Qin Family driven out of Capital City through cutthroat competition; leveraging connections and lawyers to imprison parents searching for their missing children; or handling those ordinary folk who harbored twisted affections—personally, in the shadows.
He kept crossing lines.
Lin Se felt that this went against the initial spirit of “humanistic care.” His emotional ups and downs were deeply tied to Qi Jing.
A person’s moral compass was almost inextricably linked to them personally.
And that was far from ideal.
If his partner faced something unfair, he would respond with an even greater injustice.
The wielding of privilege was etched into the very bones of the Bo Family.
Yet it inevitably bred indifference and a lack of basic human warmth.
“But I still suggest you take it seriously,” Lin Se continued. “After all… how should I put this? The forbidden fruit of Adam and Eve should taste sweet, not burdensome.”
“You might try getting close to your partner in short, regular bursts. Remember, you only need fifty percent pleasure for it to work. Do it frequently, and it’ll help regulate you as well.”
With that, the video call ended.
~~~
Qi Jing clutched the medicine bottle and headed straight to the pharmacy. He asked the pharmacist what it was.
“Ah? That’s a psychiatric medication,” the pharmacist replied.
“Is this for someone in your family? First time noticing? I’d recommend seeing a specialist at a major hospital.”
The use of any drug depended on its intended function, after all.
Even Viagra was often prescribed for heart conditions.
Qi Jing, of course, was oblivious to that fact. He instinctively assumed Bo Chengyan was suffering from the most common form of depression.
It had to be something like that…
The teenager couldn’t quite parse the nuances.
But he knew mental illnesses were serious trouble.
Did that mean the person in question just… wasn’t happy anymore?
Happiness was crucial, though—the fundamental drive that kept life going.
Qi Jing arrived at the flower shop in low spirits, his heart weighed down by the realization. The doctor really had been there last time to treat an illness.
Jiang Xiuyuan spotted him and waved him over, utterly puzzled. “What’s with the long face?”
“Is it really that bad?”
The young man figured the whole issue was straightforward enough. Bedding disharmony? A little TLC would sort it right out.
Qi Jing shuffled over and asked listlessly, “Why do people suddenly stop feeling happy?”
“How do you make someone happy again?”
It was a profoundly philosophical question.
Delivered in a rather mystical tone, too.
Jiang Xiuyuan just crossed his arms. “Happiness? Come here, come here. I’ll hook you up with some.”
The young man led him into a room.
Qi Jing trailed after him and found himself surrounded by a dazzling array of “good stuff.”
