Chapter 9

Fei Bolin gently pressed Wen Fu down, fingertips buried in his hair, kneading with deliberate casualness.

He freed his other hand to take the key from Zhang Chao, who, reading the room, stepped back out through the iron gate.

With the space finally clear, Wen Fu was about to speak when Fei Bolin asked, "Have you eaten?"

Wen Fu had to swallow his words first. He nodded, still in that small, quick voice, flat as a robot: "Had beans stir-fried with pork, brown rice, shredded potatoes, and Shanghai greens — didn't finish the green peppers."

After listening to the full report, Fei Bolin cut in again before Wen Fu could speak: "Milk and fruit?"

Wen Fu answered like he was turning in homework: "Drank a carton of Jule Milk."

No mention of fruit — naturally, he hadn't eaten any.

Today's side dish Fei Bolin had packed for him was dragon fruit. Wen Fu liked things crisp and sweet; dragon fruit wasn't really his thing.

When there was nothing to eat, he wasn't picky about anything. Once he was full, he'd just push aside what he didn't want.

To accommodate Wen Fu's tastes without tipping him off, Fei Bolin would slip something Wen Fu didn't like but that didn't really matter into every meal — like the green peppers in today's stir-fry, or the dragon fruit after.

When Wen Fu tried to speak a third time, Fei Bolin got there first again: "Dai-jie said you were sick a few days ago. Feeling better?"

This time Wen Fu didn't answer.

He stared at Fei Bolin for a moment, slowly registering that the other man was deliberately cutting him off.

He couldn't figure out why just yet, so he lowered his head and went silent.

Sure enough, when he saw Wen Fu had gone quiet, Fei Bolin seemed to relax a little — but his nerves were still taut, scanning for paparazzi: "I've got a meeting later, gotta head out. Let the driver take you home first, okay?"

He didn't give Wen Fu room to refuse. Just paused, still uneasy, and called out: "Zhang Chao."

As he called, Fei Bolin took his hand off Wen Fu's head.

Truth was, he wanted to leave it there longer. But the longer they touched, the higher the chance of being photographed.

Zhang Chao came at the call. Fei Bolin gestured for him to take Wen Fu out: "Have the driver head to Yunhe Song. Follow him home, then come find me."

Fei Bolin knew Wen Fu was the most obedient person alive. Even confused, he'd still walk out with Zhang Chao.

But just as they were nearly at the door, Wen Fu turned back without warning.

"I want gravy noodles tomorrow," Wen Fu said slowly. "Will you make them for me?"

Fei Bolin froze.

So Wen Fu had known from the start that every meal he ate was made by Fei Bolin.

He didn't speak, and Wen Fu just kept looking at him.

Until Fei Bolin gave a small nod of assent, Wen Fu dropped his gaze and stepped outside.

Ten minutes later, Fei Bolin was in another car heading back to the company, about to meet an uninvited guest who'd shown up out of nowhere.

Five minutes before seeing Wen Fu, he'd gotten a call from his secretary — Xu Wei was here again.

So he'd already planned to finish up with the warehouse manager and head straight back.

The return trip took longer than the one there. He closed his eyes, leaned back against the seat, and rolled his thumb over his fingertips, on and off.

Wen Fu's hair warmth still lingered there.

Fei Bolin kept replaying the feeling of his hand on Wen Fu's head, but his mind kept slipping into images that had no business being there:

His hand sliding from Wen Fu's head to behind his ear — the ear was thin, backlit you could see the faint veins and the tiny fuzz, the lobe had a little flesh to it, pinch it and it flushed red. Then he'd grip Wen Fu's shoulder and pull him into his arms. Wen Fu's frame was small, bones fine, the curve of his shoulder like it had grown to fit Fei Bolin's palm exactly, just right to hold. Then he'd wrap him tight with a grip like a man dying, no one knew better than him what was under that windbreaker — a body so slender and lithe, red where it should be red, white where it should be white, clean and smooth as silk. He'd press Wen Fu into his bones, hold him, kiss him — forehead to eyes, eyes to lips, every inch of him, not polite, not gentle, just enough force to make it sting, just enough to have Wen Fu crying out 'Bolin-gege' in a small voice again and again, just enough that tears gathered at the corners of his eyes without falling, and then he'd—

Fei Bolin let out a long breath.

All fantasy.

He knew better than anyone — that look in Wen Fu's eyes, the way he kept closing the distance, it was all because Wen Fu only saw him as a brother back from a long absence.

He was the one with the dirty mind.

If his heart was already unclean, his hands couldn't be too.

Those unbearable thoughts hadn't even finished fading from his mind when the company came into view.

The driver got out to open his door. Fei Bolin didn't move. He sat there, steadying himself for a long moment before opening his eyes — his gaze dark and heavy.

Once out of the car, he handed the eyewear bag to his secretary waiting outside the building: "Put it on my desk. Nobody touches it."

Then, brisk and clean, he headed for the elevator: "Where is he?"

The secretary took the bag and followed: "Twenty-third floor, reception room."

Fei Bolin went up to the twenty-third floor. The moment he stepped into the reception room, he saw the two bodyguards standing behind Xu Wei — arranged by the secretary to keep Xu Wei from doing anything rash if he got worked up.

"Back again." Fei Bolin pulled out a chair and sat across from Xu Wei, hands clasped in front of him on the armrests, utterly composed. "Couldn't even last one day after you heard I was back?"

Before Fei Bolin returned from abroad, Xu Wei used to go bother Xie Yining and Su Haoran. Those two had less patience than Fei Bolin — at first they'd handle it, but once they realized Xu Wei was shameless, they'd just beat him up, toss him in a car, and have the driver send him away.

Xu Wei finally had the man in front of him. He couldn't be bothered with the sarcasm. He stood up from his chair before he could stop himself. The bodyguards behind him stepped forward immediately. He forced himself to hold back the urge to walk over, and stammered: "I... your uncle and them, they really can't go on like this."

He was actually about the same age as Fei Bolin — twenty-seven, twenty-eight — and not bad-looking, but he always came across as worn beyond his years. The moment he saw Fei Bolin, he'd put on that pitiful act even harder — back slightly bowed, face a mask of misery, as if Fei Bolin were the reason these poor relations of his were living so miserably.

Xu Wei rambled on: "Six years now. Three, four people crammed into that tiny house, all of them kept alive by your auntie running a noodle shop. Every day before dawn she has to go to the market to buy vegetables, can't even afford a three-wheeled cart to haul them, a whole basket of greens bowing her back. The house is damp too — every time it rains, her legs hurt or her wrists hurt, she's cooked so many noodles she's got tendonitis and still won't rest. These past few days, winter's setting in, the sofa at home's cold as an iron plate, can't sleep on it. Your auntie tosses and turns all night, aches everywhere, won't even buy herself an electric blanket. Bolin, if we had any other choice, we really wouldn't have come to you."

Fei Bolin listened quietly, then looked down and touched his cufflink: "When she's working that hard, what are you doing? What is your father doing?"

"I..." Xu Wei was suddenly speechless.

While complaining, he kept saying "your uncle," "your auntie" to Fei Bolin, never once mentioning those were his own parents — as if Fei Bolin were the one who should be responsible for the people he was talking about.

Xu Wei naturally couldn't say it out loud — when his mom was up at five in the morning heading to the market, he was still dead asleep in the only thing in the house that could be called a bedroom; when his mom was boiling noodles in the shop until her head spun, he was at an internet cafe losing himself in games.

He kept quiet about his own situation and instead defended his father: "You know, your uncle, he's in a tough spot."

"Tough spot?" Fei Bolin cut him off, eyes snapping up. "Tough spot, or can't let go of the vice president act?"

Xu Wei hadn't expected him to be that direct. The words knocked him flat — he didn't know how to argue back.

Fei Bolin pushed his chair back and stood, heading for the door: "If he thinks boiling noodles at a shop is beneath his vice president dignity, then he can keep on dreaming at home."

"Bolin... Bolin..." Xu Wei saw him leaving, scrambled after him, but had barely taken two steps before the bodyguards grabbed him. He could only shout helplessly, "Fei Bolin! He's your uncle!"

Better he hadn't said it. The moment he did, the room dropped to freezing.

Fei Bolin stopped. His eyes went cold.

He turned and stared at Xu Wei, something almost sinister creeping into his expression.

Uncle?

How shameless does a person have to be to keep saying that word to his face?

Xu Wei saw he'd stopped, took it for pity, and went all in — dropped to his knees with a thud, tears coming on cue, mixing with snot: "He's your uncle, Bolin..."

Fei Bolin gave him what he wanted. Step by step, he walked over, bent slightly, reached out — then realized this was the hand that had just touched Wen Fu's hair. Reluctantly, he slipped it back into his trouser pocket and used the other hand to grab Xu Wei by the back of the head, forcing him to look up: "My uncle..."

Fei Bolin smiled, unreadable: "Is he dying?"

Xu Wei froze, the sudden question making him forget to cry for a moment: "...No."

Fei Bolin asked again: "Terminal illness?"

Xu Wei shook his head, bewildered: "No."

"Is he about to end up on the street with nothing to eat?"

"N-no..."

Fei Bolin let him go, pulled a handkerchief from his jacket, and wiped his hand: "Xu Wei, did you forget? When I knelt in front of the company gates just like you, begging them to save a life — what did he say? What did he do?"

It wasn't a question. After stating it flatly, Fei Bolin tossed the handkerchief on the table: "I haven't made you go pick through rotten leaves at the market. That's already mercy."

Before he could turn around, Xu Wei's face suddenly changed. Seeing it wasn't working, he figured he'd burn it all down — too lazy to keep up the act now, he snarled and struggled under the bodyguards' grip: "You're just bitter we didn't give you money back then! So what if your mother died? She died of illness! We didn't kill her! And speaking of killing — you dare say old man Fei dying overseas under mysterious circumstances had nothing to do with you?! You're the one—"

Fei Bolin slashed a look at him.

Xu Wei met that look like a bucket of cold water to the head. He sobered up instantly, cold sweat breaking across his back.

He replayed what he'd looked like a second ago — truly insane, suicidal — and now his lips trembled, but he didn't have the guts. The word "murderer" just wouldn't come out.

But Fei Bolin's gaze was already ice-cold.

He turned to face Xu Wei fully, slowly lifted his foot onto Xu Wei's shoulder, and pressed down with deliberate, unhurried weight.

Truth was, he hadn't put any real force into it. But Xu Wei didn't dare resist — his spine went soft, no courage left to fight back, just folding under Fei Bolin's movement.

Until Xu Wei was pressed to the floor, the foot slid from his shoulder to his chest, then the toe of the polished shoe tipped his chin up.

Fei Bolin looked down at him, voice perfectly even — and somehow that made it more terrifying: "It's broad daylight. You can eat whatever you want, but you can't just say whatever you want."

Xu Wei's face was turned to the side, his view nothing but a mess of chair legs. Fei Bolin's clear, cold voice came down from above: "Say it out loud, and you'll have to answer for it."