4:00 PM passed, and Ming Zhifei still hadn’t returned. Yang Jianzhen dumped the burnt pork belly into the trash, tied the bag tight, and left it just inside the door. He didn’t dare open it—the debt collectors had come again yesterday while Ming Zhifei was out, pounding violently on the neighbor’s door. Perhaps they had noticed something was off; perhaps they would be back.
Never in his life had time crawled so slowly. His hands and feet grew cold. He knew, with a rare clarity, that he was panicking.
He rarely panicked. He usually felt that everything was within his grasp—if it wasn’t settled yet, it was just a matter of time. Being conned, beaten, or ending up in debt weren’t insurmountable abysses to him; they were just part of life, and tomorrow would surely be better.
But Ming Zhifei’s will was outside that calculation. It was the one part he couldn’t control, manipulate, or intervene in. If Ming Zhifei truly intended to die, who could stop him once he stepped out of this apartment?
In his agitation, Jianzhen didn’t set his crutch firmly. He saw the fall coming, predicted it even, but he took two steps forward anyway until he collapsed onto the floor.
It was then he heard the sound of a key sliding into the lock. His heart, which had been hovering in his throat, finally dropped back into its proper place.
Jianzhen lay on the floor. Ming Zhifei entered, shut the door quickly, and hurried to his side. Seeing Jianzhen’s eyes open and fixed on him, a look of profound relief washed over the older man’s face.
“So careless?” Ming Zhifei reached out to help him up, only to find Jianzhen went completely limp, pressing his entire weight against him.
“What’s wrong? Does it hurt that much?” Ming Zhifei lowered him gently back down to check his leg. “Where does it hurt?”
“I’m hungry,” Jianzhen mumbled, sprawling out on the floor.
“You didn’t eat lunch?” Ming Zhifei confirmed there was no secondary injury and slowly helped him up. During the process, as if he’d taken the wrong medicine, Jianzhen suddenly wrapped his arms tightly around Ming Zhifei’s waist, burying his head in the man’s shoulder. Even after they reached the sofa, he refused to let go.
“Didn’t eat,” Jianzhen repeated, his grip unyielding.
Being held this closely was a level of physical intimacy Ming Zhifei had almost never experienced. He wasn’t used to touch. Even through years of blind dates, dating, and marriage with Fan Wenya, their physical contact had been limited mostly to the motions of the bedroom—motions performed with a clumsy, duty-bound stiffness. He had sensed Fan Wenya’s resistance or perhaps her distaste for it, so eventually, he had stopped trying.
Jianzhen said he was hungry, but his grip was anything but weak. Beyond the discomfort, Ming Zhifei felt a wave of confusion. Did he fall that hard?
“Are you in a lot of pain?” Ming Zhifei wondered. Despite Jianzhen’s big talk and constant air of easy capability, he was still just a kid in his early twenties—the same age as the fresh graduates who had just joined his department. Maybe he’s just frustrated by his lack of mobility, Ming Zhifei mused, trying to rationalize the behavior.
“Yeah, it hurts a bit. And I’m starving.” Jianzhen didn’t loosen his hold. “Where did you go? Why are you back so late?”
“I went to the hearing. I told you yesterday.” Ming Zhifei desperately wanted Jianzhen to let go; being held like this was incredibly awkward. He couldn’t remember being hugged like this even by his parents as a child. “Why didn’t you eat? It’s past four.”
“I accidentally burnt the food, so there was nothing to eat. Two hours of braising pork, all for a pile of charcoal.” Jianzhen slowly relaxed his grip, though he didn’t fully pull away. He looked up with a smile. “So pathetic, right? Working that hard for nothing.”
“That is a shame.” Ming Zhifei thought for a moment. “Should I cook for you? Or do you want delivery?”
“Fei-ge, you cook for me. We have rice, but no dishes. Can you make fried eggs? I want tomato and eggs.” Jianzhen finally let go, beaming.
Just a kid after all… Ming Zhifei thought, seeing that bright smile. What was he like at twenty-six? That was the year he finished his eight-year medical program. Looking back, he felt he had been quite naive then. Despite Jianzhen entering society so early, Ming Zhifei didn’t believe he was as mature as he acted; human maturity follows certain laws of development.
As an only child raised under the shadow of “perfect others,” Ming Zhifei had never known a presence weaker than himself in his family. In his marriage, he viewed Fan Wenya as fragile, so he reflexively shouldered the weight of all major decisions. Though he was a man of few words, he believed that handing over his entire paycheck and bearing all financial burdens was the ultimate sign of loyalty and responsibility. But perhaps that was exactly why, in Fan Wenya’s eyes, he lost his utility the moment he could no longer carry that burden.
Despite having fallen into a “weak” position himself, Ming Zhifei’s “protector” instinct flared up. He felt that Yang Jianzhen was the smaller one, the one who needed help. He couldn’t quite put words to the psychological shift, but he realized that over the last few days, his first thought when Jianzhen made a request was simply: I should provide this.
Even with his injuries, Jianzhen had been trying to do all the housework; Ming Zhifei figured he wasn’t the type to depend on others for no reason. If he asked for something, it must be because he truly couldn’t manage.
Was that really the case?
As Jianzhen sat in the kitchen, smiling as he watched Ming Zhifei clumsily crack eggs and slice tomatoes, that very question flickered in Ming Zhifei’s mind.
“Fei-ge, beat the eggs evenly. Add a little salt and sugar to the mixture. We don’t have potato starch, so just skip that for today.”
“How much is ‘a little’?” Ming Zhifei hesitated, hovering over the salt jar.
“Half a spoonful from that tiny spoon.”
“Half for the sugar too?” Ming Zhifei had assumed Jianzhen was too weak with hunger to cook, but he seemed quite energetic now. Why wasn’t he doing it himself? It would be faster and tastier.
“Hmm… the sugar… let me think. Half is fine. I usually just go by feel; is it half a spoon?” Jianzhen put on a show of deep thought. Seeing Ming Zhifei standing there like a student waiting for a command, he couldn’t help but laugh.
“Maybe you should just add it?” Ming Zhifei had zero confidence.
Jianzhen stood up. Without his crutch, he leaned his entire left shoulder against Ming Zhifei’s right. “Fei-ge, let me lean on you. I need to get a ‘feel’ for the amount.”
As he leaned, Jianzhen looped his left arm around Ming Zhifei’s waist, surrendering his full weight to the older man.
Though he looked lean, Jianzhen was surprisingly heavy. Ming Zhifei nearly stumbled before finding his footing. Jianzhen then rested his head on Ming Zhifei’s shoulder, whispering into his ear, “Fei-ge, stand steady, or I’ll fall~”
Jianzhen’s hand covered Ming Zhifei’s, guiding the spoon into the sugar jar and scooping out a bit more than half a spoonful before sprinkling it into the eggs.
“Fei-ge, your waist is so slender.” Jianzhen casually kept his hands hooked on either side of Ming Zhifei’s waist, his large palms almost meeting across the front.
If I grabbed him here and then…
Before Jianzhen could descend further into his fantasies, Ming Zhifei unceremoniously pried his hands away, ushered him back to his chair, and resumed beating the eggs.
Zero reaction to the boundary-crossing. Is his waist not sensitive, or did the thought not even cross his mind? Jianzhen watched Ming Zhifei’s back. Such a beautiful waist, and he feels nothing. What a waste.
Yang Jianzhen knew most men were straight, but he believed that if he set his mind to it, even the straightest man would crumble. After all, back in the clubs, plenty of “straight” men had cried into their drinks over him, obsessed with his warmth and tenderness.
Even after starting his company, he’d received plenty of advances from men. Jianzhen never passed up a chance to maintain a “friendly” relationship for business leverage; he was a master of surface-level friendliness. But he always kept a strict line. He was picky, and he had no desire to force himself to eat “bad food.”
Now, he found himself desperately wanting to “eat,” but the target wasn’t just straight—he was apparently a man who didn’t understand the first thing about seduction.
“The eggs are beaten, the tomatoes are sliced. Now what?” Ming Zhifei asked, his gaze fixed resolutely on the cutting board rather than on Yang Jianzhen.
Determined to test his theory, Yang Jianzhen stood up again. But this time, Ming Zhifei took a swift step back. “You don’t need to come over. Just sit there and tell me the steps.”
Watching Ming Zhifei’s refusal to even turn around, a flash of realization hit Yang Jianzhen. He took a predatory step forward, intending to repeat his earlier tactic of leaning in, but Ming Zhifei was faster. He retreated another step, yet, seemingly afraid the younger man would stumble, he reached out and steadied Yang Jianzhen by the arm—while keeping the rest of his body at a significant distance.
“Maybe you should just do it yourself? I’ll be your assistant. I’m afraid it won’t taste good if I do it,” Ming Zhifei said, letting go only once he was sure Yang Jianzhen was balanced.
“But I really don’t have the strength. I’m so hungry,” Yang Jianzhen said, swaying slightly. “My head is spinning a bit.”
“I’ll make you some sugar water first. Just sit down.” Ming Zhifei turned immediately toward the cupboard for a glass.
Yang Jianzhen followed anyway, letting his full weight sink against Ming Zhifei’s back. He felt the older man’s spine go rigid. Ming Zhifei didn’t dare push him away, and Yang Jianzhen stifled a smirk. As he reached out to set Ming Zhifei’s glasses aside on the counter, he murmured, “Fei-ge, I’m really dizzy. I think it’s the hypoglycemia again.”
“Then I’ll help you to the bed to lie down for a while.”