Afternoon.
Sanxunju.
When Su Qi reached the door of private room 606, his gaze was still fixed on his phone. Out of habit, he reached out with his left hand to push the door open, only to find that he hadn’t even touched the door handle.
Looking up, he saw that the door to the private room was already open.
Unlike the usual dim lighting, the entire room was bright and well-lit. Even the curtains near Sanshui Lake had been fully drawn open, making the space clean, airy, and filled with a faint, lingering scent of disinfectant.
Su Qi’s mind went blank for a moment. Confused, he turned his head to glance once more at the room number on the side of the door.
“You’re not in the wrong place. Song Zhiyu is coming today,” a low chuckle sounded from beside him.
Su Qi turned and came face-to-face with Chi Juan, who had just walked over. Hearing this, a relieved smile spread across his face.
He patted Chi Juan on the shoulder. “No wonder I smelled disinfectant. You’ve gone to a lot of trouble.”
Following closely behind Chi Juan was an unfamiliar face, someone who looked quite young and seemed completely lost by their conversation.
Su Qi’s eyes swept over the newcomer, and he smiled warmly.
Chi Juan quickly introduced the two.
The new face was Meng Sinian, Chi Juan’s cousin. The Meng family had been developing their business in B Cheng, but compared to the leading families in A Cheng—the Chi, Su, Jiang, Song, and Xu families—their scale and influence were still far behind. Meng Sinian had just been admitted to Luosi Xueyuan this year after the college entrance exams and was now a freshman.
Chi Juan’s mother had asked him to look after his cousin more often, so when Jiang Wangye suggested getting the brothers together at Sanxunju, Chi Juan had invited Meng Sinian along.
“Song Zhiyu is the second son of the Song Group, Song Zhiqi’s younger brother. He has a slight case of mysophobia and can’t stand the smell of smoke, so every time he’s coming, this place gets cleaned in advance,” Chi Juan explained to Meng Sinian.
Sanxunju was a Chi family property, and Chi Juan had sent people over early to clean and disinfect the place.
After all, given Song Zhiyu’s temperament, if he caught even a whiff of smoke, he’d probably frown and leave on the spot.
This gathering was, after all, organized by Jiang Wangye. On the surface, it was just a casual get-together, but all the brothers knew he was actually using this opportunity to apologize to Song Zhiyu.
The post about their fight a week ago was still pinned to the school forum.
Not long after the three of them entered the private room and began chatting casually, the two main guests of the gathering arrived together.
Chi Juan’s gaze swept over Song Zhiyu’s face—cold and detached, no different from usual, but at least he wasn’t scowling. It seemed he was no longer angry.
“We were just waiting for you two. Finally, you’re here,” Su Qi said with a smile, nodding at Song Zhiyu.
Spotting Jiang Wangye, he walked over and threw a punch at his chest.
He teased, “I heard from your uncle that you locked yourself in the boxing ring for three months straight, fought dozens of matches, and won every single one. Let me see if your skills have improved.”
To his surprise, Jiang Wangye didn’t dodge or evade. Instead, he stood there smiling, waiting for the punch to land.
Su Qi tried to pull back, but due to momentum, even though he lessened the force, the punch still landed solidly.
The others were caught off guard and had no time to intervene. Their hearts leaped into their throats, worried that Su Qi’s punch might be too heavy and lead to another apology gathering.
But a moment later, a soft hiss escaped from Su Qi’s lips.
He clutched his reddened hand, shaking it several times, and gritted his teeth. “You rascal, no wonder you didn’t dodge. Your muscles are as hard as stone!”
Jiang Wangye shrugged with a helpless expression, almost as if he had "Who told you to go looking for trouble yourself?" written all over his face.
Fang Gao, who had entered last, couldn’t hold back a laugh, and once he started, everyone else in the private room joined in.
It was Chi Juan who finally asked a waiter to bring a damp towel for Su Qi to press against his face.
"Not to complain, but how long has it been since we last got together? If it weren’t for you two fighting, who knows when we’d have seen you again?" Su Qi teased from the pool table.
He and Chi Juan weren’t particularly busy, but ever since Jiang Wangye and Xu Qiao had their falling out, Jiang had shut himself away in the boxing gym, punishing himself relentlessly.
Song Zhiyu, who was already holed up in the lab day in and day out, was closest to Jiang Wangye among the group. Knowing Jiang wouldn’t show, he naturally stayed away too.
"My fault, I’ll take the penalty," Jiang Wangye said, picking up a nearby glass of wine and downing it in one go.
But after a few rounds of pool, he had Su Qi losing so badly he was practically left with nothing.
Furious, Su Qi threw down his cue and went off to join the newcomers, Meng Sinian and Fang Gao, for some rock climbing.
Jiang Wangye, grinning, picked up his glass of red wine and went to bother Chi Juan and Song Zhiyu on the other side.
The earlier school fight was long forgotten by Song Zhiyu, though he didn’t drink. He asked a waiter for a glass of juice instead, using it as a substitute for wine to settle their differences. But as they chatted, Song Zhiyu suddenly slumped over, collapsing onto the table.
Chi Juan and Jiang Wangye were startled—one hurriedly checked his breathing and tried to revive him, while the other ran to fetch a doctor from Sanxunju.
After a thorough check, they discovered the juice the waiter had brought contained a small amount of alcohol.
Song Zhiyu couldn’t tolerate alcohol at all—one sip and he was out.
"No wonder he never drinks when we’re out. I thought it was because he’d spent so much time at the temple, acting like a monk and sticking to some ascetic rules. Turns out he just can’t handle it!" Jiang Wangye couldn’t help but chuckle.
Chi Juan smiled, seeing Song Zhiyu sleeping soundly. Leaving him alone here wasn’t ideal, so he booked a room upstairs and, together with Jiang Wangye, carried him up.
Only after tossing him onto the bed did Jiang Wangye think to ask, "Has this room been disinfected?"
Chi Juan gave an OK sign—as reliable as ever.
The two then left, heading downstairs to find Su Qi and the others.
In the quiet room, the curtains were drawn tight, leaving it dimly lit. Only the steady sound of breathing came from the bed.
A few minutes later, the wardrobe door opened from the inside, and a woman in a pale pink dress stepped out of the empty cabinet.
Barefoot, her gaze swept over the man lying on the bed with his eyes closed, and without hesitation, she walked toward him.
Song Zhiyu arrived at the School of Biological Sciences as usual, changed into his lab coat in his personal restroom, set down his phone, and headed inside.
The lab was already sparsely populated on Saturdays, and since he was part of a confidential university project, he was the only one there at the moment.
He had just taken out some cultured cells to observe when he suddenly heard the door open.
Looking up, he saw a girl in a pale pink strapless dress standing at the entrance.
It was the girl he had accidentally bumped into the other day.
A sense of unease rose within him. As he stood up, he saw the woman storming toward him, her large, round almond-shaped eyes fixed intently on him.
Her tone was full of blame, "It's all your fault! I went to the massage parlor to get a massage, but they said this area isn't suitable for massage, and they refused to work on me. Wuwuwu, this whole area is red and really hurts—it's all your fault!"
Song Zhiyu's gaze followed her words to her chest, where a large patch of red indeed marred the snowy white skin. The redness even spread up to her collarbone, tinging her slender, delicate neck with a faint pink hue.
"What should we do then?" he asked awkwardly, his eyes lifting to her reddened outer eye corners and flushed nose. He frowned slightly.
The woman sobbed intermittently, like a proud Persian cat that had fallen into water—small and vulnerable yet still haughty. Her tone was fierce, but to his ears, it sounded soft and sticky, like candy that could cling to teeth.
"You hurt me, so you have to take responsibility!" the little Persian cat declared fiercely, lifting her chin.
"If the massage parlor won't give me a massage, then you have to do it. If you don't do it well, I'll post about you online and report you to the teacher!"
The little Persian cat brandished her not-so-sharp claws, grabbing his collar as she stood on tiptoe, glaring fiercely into his eyes. It seemed as if she were threatening to punch him hard if he refused.
She was very close to him, and he caught the sweet, sugary scent on her again, making him swallow involuntarily.
Something felt off in his mind, but he couldn't pinpoint what it was. He heard himself say to her, "Alright, I'll take responsibility. I'll give you a massage."
Song Zhiyu was a man of action. Once he said something, he would follow through. He immediately began wondering whether he should take her back to the lounge and search on his phone for how to give a massage.
But in the blink of an eye, he saw the fierce little Persian cat already lying down on the laboratory table.
The new cells and observation materials he had placed there earlier were all gone. On the cold, white table lay a soft, pliant woman.
Her eyes were red as she looked at him. Seeing him hesitate, she grew both aggrieved and angry. "Are you backing out again? Do you not want to give me a massage anymore?"
Her voice was slightly hoarse and still carried a sob, drilling straight into his ears and his heart, making his whole body tingle and go numb.
The sense of strangeness grew stronger in his mind. While his brain was busy wondering when the table had been cleared and where the new cells and observation materials had gone, his body had already moved to the table.
He deftly removed his white gloves, revealing a pair of hands with distinct knuckles—larger than the woman's face on the table, neither soft nor fair. In fact, due to years of holding pens, the pads of his fingers bore faint calluses.
"I'm not backing out. I'll give you a massage," he heard himself say.
The fierce little Persian cat obediently lay flat, a hint of smugness on her face, easily pacified by his words.
Song Zhiyu's gaze fell on the little Persian cat's face, tracing downward from her fair skin. Her flesh-pink neck was slender and long, seemingly small enough to be encircled by one hand. Her delicate, prominent collarbones cast a faint shadow, and below that, hidden beneath her pink strapless dress, was an even redder plum blossom.
Near the edge of the dress, a faint red mark was barely visible, resembling a small fingerprint—likely left by a girl's hand.
In that moment, many thoughts flashed through his mind.
Earlier, she had said the massage parlor refused to take her as a client. Could it have been her maid who massaged her? Or perhaps a close female friend or girlfriend?
Her skin really was delicate—even a massage could leave marks.
But he was a man, much stronger than a woman. If he gave her a massage, wouldn't the marks be even more obvious?
If someone who liked her saw those marks, wouldn't it be hard to explain?
His face burned fiercely, blood rushing downward, his whole body feeling as if it had been soaked in hot water, especially one particular area that was unbearably restless.
Wave after wave of heat washed over him, sweeping him away. His mind grew hazy, countless thoughts flashing by, yet he couldn’t grasp a single one.
For a moment, he suddenly realized he shouldn’t do this. He shouldn’t have agreed to give her a massage, and he especially shouldn’t have agreed to do it in the lab right now.
The place was wrong, the timing was wrong, and the person was wrong.
Yet his hand still reached out, soft as a cloud. With just a light touch, that spot turned red.
The little Persian cat whimpered, tears welling up in her eyes. She glared at him fiercely yet pitifully, as if accusing him, yet also like she was acting spoiled—everywhere red, everywhere soft.
Slowly, as his movements grew gentler, she stopped whimpering, turning instead to soft, faint murmurs that drifted lightly around his ears, making him feel even hotter.
Suddenly, a voice all too familiar flashed through Song Zhiyu’s muddled mind: "You know I like Xu Qiao, yet you still dare to make a move on her!"
He remembered now—this delicate, soft, yet sharp-clawed little Persian cat under his hands was the childhood sweetheart of his good friend, the one who had lost his mind and soul to women.
A spoiled, domineering, and ill-tempered young lady.
Everything was a mess, completely chaotic.
What on earth was he doing?
If Jiang Wangye, that brainless fool who was utterly bewitched by his childhood sweetheart, found out he was massaging her—and in such an unspeakable spot—he’d probably be furious enough to cut ties with him.
Song Zhiyu’s hand froze.
His large, veined hand hung motionless in mid-air, as if someone had suddenly pressed pause. His body burned fiercely, his entire face flushed red, his hands red, and the skin beneath his touch also red.
He stared blankly at his hand, suddenly unsure of where he was, what he was doing, or what he should do next. His mind was a vast, empty expanse.
Suddenly, a soft hum echoed in the lab—sweet, gentle, with a faintly rising tone at the end, tugging warmly at the heart.
Followed by a frustrated question: "Why did you stop?"