Jiang Zhuoye and Bo Yun returned together to their bridal bedroom.
It was the largest room in the manor. A few roses decorated the space, and the walls were covered in pale gold wallpaper patterned with birds and flowers—peonies, herbaceous peonies, and plum blossoms woven together. To match the wedding theme, touches of red roses had still been placed around the room, blazing like fire.
Naturally, there was only one bed.
Sheer curtains draped down softly. The bed was plush and inviting, the snow-white covers perfectly smooth, and pink petals had been arranged into a heart on top.
If a real pair of lovers were staying here tonight, it would probably be a pleasant evening.
But standing here, Jiang Zhuoye felt restless, irritated, and inexplicably repelled.
Bo Yun was already changing clothes. His custom-made watch had been tossed aside carelessly.
When Jiang Zhuoye turned around, he saw that Bo Yun was wearing only a white dress shirt now, his black suit jacket long since discarded onto the sofa.
He was undoing his shirt buttons with one hand. There was a faint weariness between his brows—the day had clearly left him irritated as well.
Too many guests. As the host, he’d had to maintain composure and propriety all day, keeping his guard up nonstop.
By the time the shirt was open, revealing firm, well-defined muscles underneath, Jiang Zhuoye couldn’t help speaking up.
“You’re really so unconcerned about appearances? Maybe you haven’t yet noticed, there’s still someone else standing here?”
Bo Yun paused and looked at him. “I thought, since we’re both men, there’s no need to be so concerned.”
He made no effort whatsoever to spare Jiang Zhuoye’s sensibilities. He pulled the white shirt off completely and tossed it aside.
His solid, pale, sculpture-like upper body was fully exposed.
Jiang Zhuoye couldn’t help making a mental comparison—and was immediately displeased to discover that, indeed, Bo Yun had more abs.
“You’d better get used to it,” Bo Yun said. “At least for the first year, we’re going to be living together a lot.”
With that, he walked straight into the bathroom.
“Tch. Showing off for who, exactly?” Jiang Zhuoye muttered disdainfully.
He stared toward the bathroom as the faint sound of running water drifted out.
Nearby sat the box Bo Yun’s grandfather had given them, containing that priceless strand of purple jade beads.
Everything in the room was intimate and suggestive—warm, tender, roses burning like love in full bloom.
And yet it was housing the two of them.
Two utterly incompatible enemies.
Absurd to the extreme.
….
Bo Yun didn’t take long before coming out. Jiang Zhuoye immediately went into the bathroom himself.
He took a bath, and the sandalwood essential oil was perfect for relaxation, making the day’s exhaustion melt away.
When he came out, he’d loosely wrapped himself in a silver-gray robe. His hair wasn’t dried, and the robe hung slack on his body, exposing a broad swath of his chest. When he walked, the lines of his thighs were visible too.
Bo Yun was reading in bed. He glanced at Jiang Zhuoye and immediately frowned.
Absolutely indecent—or so he thought.
Jiang Zhuoye, however, sensed nothing at all.
After a brief moment of inner struggle, he’d already figured things out. The marriage was done. There would be plenty of nights ahead where he and Bo Yun would be lying in the same bed. What was there to be precious about?
If Bo Yun felt uncomfortable, then it was a win.
So without hesitation, he flopped himself onto the bed. The soft mattress trembled from the impact.
The jolt was strong enough that Bo Yun shifted slightly too.
Frowning, Bo Yun looked over at him—but after just that one glance, he froze.
Jiang Zhuoye’s robe was a thin, silver-gray, almost sheer.
Because of his careless movement, it barely covered anything at all. When he lifted his arm, a small patch of skin at his lower back was exposed.
That was when Bo Yun noticed a reddish area there.
“Are you injured?” he asked, closing his book. One hand was already reaching toward the call button by the bed.
Jiang Zhuoye was completely baffled.
He was busy complaining in his group chat about how he’d ended up lying on Bo Yun’s bed—after washing himself clean, no less—and how messed up that felt.
His friends, scattered across different rooms, were laughing like maniacs.
He looked up at Bo Yun. “What?”
Bo Yun, uncharacteristically patient, said, “There’s a red patch on your lower back. It looks like an allergy or a scrape. Check if it’s serious—I can call a doctor.”
Jiang Zhuoye froze for three seconds, then understood. He shot Bo Yun an amused look.
“Are you nearsighted?” he drawled lazily, then lifted a corner of his robe himself.
There wasn’t much fabric to begin with. With that one motion, his pale, long-limbed body was almost fully exposed to Bo Yun’s view.
“What injury? That’s my tattoo. What kind of eyesight do you have?” Jiang Zhuoye said.
On his lower back was a red bow-and-arrow tattoo, shaped like the feathers of a phoenix reborn in fire. Because it had been covered by the robe, Bo Yun had only seen a blurry red patch.
Jiang Zhuoye lifted the fabric for only a few seconds—just long enough for Bo Yun to see clearly—then dropped it again.
“You’re surprisingly considerate,” he teased lightly.
Bo Yun realized his mistake and withdrew the hand that had almost pressed the call button.
“Wasting good intentions,” he shot back calmly, reopening his book.
The book was something he’d picked randomly from the shelf—a history of eighteenth-century Italian nobility. It wasn’t particularly interesting.
He was just killing time.
After all, there wasn’t really anything to do on this so-called “wedding night.”
Yet as he stared at the page again, he found himself inexplicably restless.
That glimpse of Jiang Zhuoye’s exposed body kept flashing before his eyes—snow-white skin, nearly perfect waist and hip lines, the red bow-and-arrow tattoo like fluttering feathers resting in the hollow of his back.
He was a normal person.
With normal aesthetic appreciation.
He had to admit that the French media tycoon’s flattery at the banquet hadn’t been entirely false.
That man had exaggeratedly congratulated him:
“You have a partner more radiant than the sun—so full of allure. If I were ten years younger, I might’ve fallen in love at first sight and challenged you to a duel.”
At the time, Bo Yun had only smiled, thinking, A brat like that counts as alluring?
But recalling that moment just now, he had to admit—
Jiang Zhuoye did, unknowingly, possess a certain hidden allure.
……
Jiang Zhuoye had no idea what was going through Bo Yun’s mind.
His group chat was still buzzing. Those heartless friends knew perfectly well that his wedding night wouldn’t be pleasant, yet they kept teasing him anyway—asking what it felt like sleeping with Bo Yun, whether the bridal chamber was exciting.
Jiang Zhuoye sent a whole row of eye-roll emojis and told them all to get lost.
Only Gu Qiangyun’s girlfriend was particularly enthusiastic. The girl’s name was Xie Ying. She was close with all of them and had known them for years, so she was in the group too.
She sent a flurry of pink bubble emojis, completely ignoring the fact that her boyfriend was right beside her, and asked Jiang Zhuoye.
“So how’s Bo Yun’s body? Handsome? How many abs does he have?”
Jiang Zhuoye couldn’t help glancing sideways.
Bo Yun was lying under the covers now, his lower body completely hidden, looking once again refined and composed.
But Jiang Zhuoye hadn’t forgotten how eye catching that body had been earlier.
Eight-pack. Not a single one missing.
He curled his lips and replied shamelessly, “Zero. No abs. Just a beer belly.”
“Tch—” Xie Ying didn’t believe him at all. “Do you think I’m blind? You can tell at a glance his body’s great. Honestly, don’t be jealous—you’re handsome too. The two of you standing together today nearly blinded me.”
She was clearly getting excited now, sending several photos she’d taken in rapid succession.
“Actually, I think you and Bo Yun are pretty well-matched. Really. Especially when you walked down the red carpet holding hands and recited your vows—my god. If I didn’t know your relationship, I would’ve shipped you so hard.”
Jiang Zhuoye raised his eyebrows high.
What nonsense was she talking about?
Since he was close with her, he didn’t bother being polite. “Yingying, listen to me, when you get back home, remember to have Qiangyun take you to an eye doctor. You need to check your vision.”
Gu Qiangyun chimed in: “Exactly sweetheart! You can ship fictional couples, just don’t push it too far. Don’t piss off our Zhuoye.”
Xie Ying refused to back down and sent a cheeky face in reply.
“Oh, stop it. You two may not have real feelings, but you look incredibly compatible. When you two went public a while ago, half the internet was shipping you already. I’m just going with public opinion.”
Jiang Zhuoye laughed helplessly and shook his head.
He bantered with them a bit longer, complaining about the wedding, then chatting about a football match from a few days ago. Before long, waves of exhaustion started washing over him.
He said goodnight in the group, put his phone aside, and rolled onto his back on the bed.
His eyelids drooped, fluttering a few times like fragile wings, barely holding on.
But despite that, he couldn’t quite fall asleep.
Bo Yun’s presence was simply too strong.
Even when Bo Yun did nothing at all—just silently turned pages beside him—the room still felt saturated with Bo Yun’s presence, his scent filling every corner.
This made him feel uneasy, as if a strange beast had intruded into his territory, and he became inexplicably irritable.
But Bo Yun was quietly reading beside him, the sound so soft, and the room’s dim lighting made it already quite peaceful.
For a moment, Jiang Zhuoye couldn’t even find a reason to get annoyed.
He started counting sheep instead, and when he reached the 172nd, he glanced at Bo Yun and asked, “You don’t grind your teeth or snore at night, do you?”
He was already very sleepy but forced himself to finish speaking, with a hint of threat: “I don’t have the best temper. If you wake me up, I might just kick you off the bed.”
Bo Yun paused mid-page. He had never expected anyone to ask such a question.
But he quickly replied, “No. If you don’t believe me, you can stay awake tonight to supervise.”
“I’m not bothering,” Jiang Zhuoye muttered, yawning. “As long as there’s none, it’s fine.”
Now he was truly tired. He usually slept very well. The dim light, the quiet room, and the faint sound of turning pages were actually soothing.
His eyelashes fluttered as he stared at the bed canopy. For some reason, he mumbled again, “Hard to imagine that one day I’d be sleeping on the same bed as you without us fighting.”
After saying that, he fell completely asleep.
Bo Yun, however, turned his head to glance at him.
Under the light, Jiang Zhuoye was fast asleep, his soft, fluffy black hair spread across the pillow. Lying in this classically styled bedroom, he looked like a little prince unaware of the world.
…
Jiang Zhuoye slept deeply.
In the middle of the night, rain began to fall outside, and the dampness seeped into his dreams.
He dreamed he had returned to high school, during the rainy season. Everything was damp; rain dripped against the window, green leaves so lush they seemed to bleed their color.
He was sitting by the window, writing a letter. The classroom was empty; he was the only one skipping class.
He was writing to a friend outside of school, someone he had been exchanging letters with for a long time.
In this age of ubiquitous phones, writing letters seemed laughable.
But he wrote earnestly.
He wrote the friend’s name—an English name—and asked how they were doing.
He wrote about the endless rain and how annoying the dampness was. “Is it like this in England too? Did the weather ever bother you at school?”
He wrote about the cafeteria food being terrible, joking that maybe the cafeteria staff were fighting again.
He wrote that he had placed tenth in the school exams, which was quite an achievement, and that he felt proud. His football team had also beaten the neighboring class, and he had to show off a little after class.
He wrote about many little things in his life, sharing them all, but also worrying whether it seemed childish to the recipient.
“But even if you think so, you can’t say anything,” he wrote arrogantly. “I just love to ramble.”
He knew his friend had a good temper, was gentle, and would tolerate everything about him.
But after writing that, he felt a vague emptiness. He felt there was something more he wanted to say but couldn’t remember.
The rain in the dream pattered endlessly, making him restless.
After thinking for a long time, a sudden spark of inspiration came. He quickly wrote it in the letter:
“Ryan, I’m getting married. Will you come to the ceremony?”
As he wrote the last word, the sound of a bell rang outside, clang clang clang, like school letting out or a church bell, celebrating the union of the couple.
The letter in his hand hadn’t yet been folded or sealed when it suddenly shattered into countless fragments, blown out the window.