The white suit wrapped snugly around Ning Zhuo’s waist, accentuating a lean, taut waistline.
The vivid red wine seeped slowly through the fabric’s seams, soaking into his shirt and trickling along the tucked-in hem, winding its way into his crisp suit pants.
Shan Feibai’s Adam’s apple bobbed rapidly.
Ning Zhuo, simmering with inner fire and having dragged Shan Feibai for a long stretch, was slightly feverish, his black curls damp with sweat, a few strands clinging wetly to his temples.
Ning Zhuo’s body never played by reason, perpetually in a state of frail yet resilient.
Living with him so long, Shan Feibai often saw Ning Zhuo inexplicably feverish in the middle of the night, for reasons as varied as they were unpredictable.
Even a slight drop in temperature from one day to the next could trigger his body to stage a protest.
Over time, even Ning Zhuo himself struggled to tell if he was running a fever.
Only when symptoms were blatant and unbearable would he reluctantly lie down to rest.
That was how Ning Zhuo recklessly spent his life.
In his heart, Shan Feibai screamed his name, pleading, wanting to say: “Leave some of yourself for me. You promised to save your life for me.”
But no matter how much he cared, Shan Feibai never let it show.
He knelt, unhurried and deliberate, sucking a drop of blood-red wine from Ning Zhuo’s fingertip just before it fell.
The moment his finger was enveloped, Ning Zhuo realized how ice-cold his hand was.
The sensation of Shan Feibai’s hot lips and tongue wrapping around it was strange.
He twitched his finger but didn’t pull away.
…It was rather warm.
Shan Feibai licked leisurely, neither ravenous nor greedy, moving slowly, almost languidly, as if Ning Zhuo were some sweet, amusing candy worth savoring with utmost care.
But his hands, loosely resting on the carpet, trembled uncontrollably with excitement.
Shan Feibai turned this act, shameful in Ning Zhuo’s eyes, into something brazenly shameless.
His licking was skillful, never flashing his tongue, yet Ning Zhuo could distinctly feel the ambiguous, wet heat seeping through the fabric.
…As if he genuinely meant to clean him thoroughly.
Ning Zhuo had planned to watch coldly, curious to see how low this “bomber,” who could shift clouds and summon rain outside, would stoop.
But gradually, Ning Zhuo lost control.
Especially when Shan Feibai’s tongue lightly grazed near his navel, a strange, tingling itch nearly made him jump.
He gripped the chair’s armrests to force himself to stay still.
But Shan Feibai was too sharp, too perceptive.
That warm, lingering tongue began to frequent the spot just below Ning Zhuo’s navel.
In the haze of breath-by-breath enchantment, Ning Zhuo finally couldn’t take it.
After letting slip a low, moaning syllable, he grabbed Shan Feibai’s hair, stopping his mischief and forcing him to look up.
They locked eyes.
Shan Feibai’s lips, stained with wine like rouge, made him look even more like a striking, fair-skinned youth.
Ning Zhuo: “You…”
But Shan Feibai cut him off, voice trembling: “Ning-ge.”
In that moment, Ning Zhuo saw Shan Feibai’s kneeling figure shrink infinitely… like seeing Xiao Bai from years ago.
The obedient, adoring, wholly dependent Xiao Bai.
The anger that had plagued Ning Zhuo the entire way vanished strangely.
His grip on Shan Feibai’s hair loosened slightly, and he decided to “have a talk.”
Ning Zhuo rarely opened his heart, always doing things his way. His version of “talking” was characteristically blunt:
“Why drag Boss Fu into this? …Don’t tell me you didn’t. In all of Silver Hammer City, fewer than ten people can pull off stealth that clean. And he’s probably the only one still alive.”
Shan Feibai steadied his emotions, licked his wine-red lips, and answered, “To keep you from rushing in with the bomb. It was the best way I could think of, with the least damage.”
“Besides him, who else from ‘Haina’ was involved?”
“No one.” Shan Feibai studied Ning Zhuo’s expression, then lowered his voice, confessing honestly, “…And Xiao Tang.”
His face fell, like a puppy caught misbehaving.
Ning Zhuo wasn’t fooled by appearances.
No matter how convincingly Shan Feibai played the pitiful puppy, to Ning Zhuo, he was a young, fierce, cunning wolf, requiring immense effort to handle.
But after staying up for dozens of hours under mental strain, enduring the cold wind until nearly dawn, and now being thoroughly “handled” by Shan Feibai, Ning Zhuo was exhausted.
Half-closing his eyes, the air from his nose grew hotter: “…Once I finish my business, I’ll die. Don’t drag others down with me.”
Shan Feibai stared at him: “Ning-ge, you promised to die by my hand.”
Ning Zhuo froze, racking his brain, and dredged up the memory from a corner of his mind.
…It was the oath Shan Feibai, as “Xiao Bai,” had made with him on the cliff’s edge.
The playful oath—Ning Zhuo hadn’t expected Shan Feibai to still remember it.
Not only did Shan Feibai remember, but he seemed to hold it as an indelible truth: “You can’t just die. You’re mine.”
The childish words made Ning Zhuo laugh.
He could almost see the young Xiao Bai, so fixated on his height, peeking out and rampaging within this little wild wolf.
The red wine, warm and intoxicating, seemed to seep through Ning Zhuo’s skin, spreading into his limbs and bones.
Ning Zhuo realized he was likely feverish again.
This time, it wasn’t mild—probably bad enough to keep him bedridden for a day or two.
But for once, he didn’t resent his frail constitution.
In his haze, he felt a trace of safety and grounding.
Even if he passed out, someone would always be by his side.
So, his mind was relatively at ease. Hearing Shan Feibai’s foolish words, he even smiled faintly, repeating, “…I’m yours? You’re the one I bought.”
Shan Feibai, still kneeling on one knee, spoke clearly: “You’re mine. And I’m yours. Back then, I didn’t want to leave because I didn’t want to go home. Now, I’m with you because wherever you are feels like home.”
His fervor was harder to fend off than the tidal wave of desire from earlier.
Ning Zhuo rested a hand on his forehead, feeling like he was in an absurd dream.
In this dream, Shan Feibai was saying that wherever Ning Zhuo was, that was home.
How laughable. Ning Zhuo, of all people, was homeless.
Not wanting to dwell on this, he asked, “What does that have to do with dragging ‘Haina’ into this?”
By now, Ning Zhuo’s voice sounded hazy, as if coming from underwater.
Shan Feibai draped his arm across Ning Zhuo’s thighs, resting his head there, gazing up at him with adoration.
Having been his rival for years, Shan Feibai knew best: Ning Zhuo’s boundless energy and tirelessness were propped up by sheer willpower.
Once that fire fizzled out, he’d dissolve into a wisp of a ghost.
Shan Feibai wouldn’t allow it.
He said, “If you want to die, I can’t stop you. So I pulled ‘Haina’ in to go with you.”
With a gentle, almost naive tone, he added, “We’re on the same boat. If we die, we die together.”
Ning Zhuo thought, Damn, even in a dream, he’s spouting nonsense.
His fingers curled around Shan Feibai’s throat, not squeezing, just playfully pinching his Adam’s apple: “…Mad dog, what about your ‘Panqiao’?”
Shan Feibai replied, “The day they followed me, they knew I was a mad dog.”
Ning Zhuo: “You weren’t like this as a kid.”
Shan Feibai slipped into a coquettish tone: “It had a latent period.”
Ning Zhuo: “So that’s why you bit me?”
Shan Feibai: “Because I like Ning-ge.”
Ning Zhuo: “Didn’t you just say it was because you didn’t want to go home?”
Shan Feibai: “At first, yeah. By the time I bit you, it wasn’t.”
Ning Zhuo: “And later, stabbing me—what was that about?”
“To keep you alive, to make you see me, and because I like Ning-ge…” Shan Feibai paused, then admitted shyly, “…I also like Ning-ge when he’s bleeding.”
This confession sounded like childish babble to Ning Zhuo.
His response was simple: he didn’t believe it.
Shan Feibai’s “like” stirred something in him, but it wasn’t something Ning Zhuo thought he deserved.
Besides, he never knew which of Shan Feibai’s words were true and which were lies.
After all, from the day they met, Shan Feibai had been lying.
Shan Feibai couldn’t guess Ning Zhuo’s thoughts.
He’d vaguely sensed his own feelings since the moment he held Ning Zhuo hostage in the warehouse, driving a blood-soaked dagger into his shoulder.
But he never let those feelings restrain him or dwelled on them, simply acting on his heart’s desires.
To oppose Ning Zhuo, he gave it his all.
To be good to Ning Zhuo, he gave it his all.
When Ning Zhuo asked his intentions, he spilled everything.
Shan Feibai thought confessing wouldn’t matter.
But after pouring out his heart, his pulse didn’t lighten—it raced even more erratically.
This man, who never felt guilty, clenched his burning palms, awaiting Ning Zhuo’s response.
Ning Zhuo paused for a few seconds, then lifted his wine-scented hand, grabbed Shan Feibai’s “wolf tail,” and yanked it firmly, summing up his confession in two words:
“…Liar.”
Shan Feibai’s racing heart screeched to a halt.
Disappointed, he lowered his head, burying his forehead into Ning Zhuo’s thighs, sulkily nuzzling.
But within a minute, he bounced back, looking up to see Ning Zhuo, half-conscious from fever, head drooping as if exhausted. Emboldened, he leaned in and lightly pecked his lips.
Ning Zhuo’s mind was foggy, lost in strange, endless dreams.
In one, someone kissed the old scar on his ring finger, ticklish and hot, making him flex his fingers to dodge the overwhelming warmth.
In another, someone whispered repeatedly, “Ge, I really like you.”
As if regretting not saying “like” sooner, they were determined to make up for lost time.
Annoyed, Ning Zhuo clamped a hand over their mouth.
Soon, his palm was covered in soft, fleeting kisses.
The person murmured, “Ning-ge, you’re not afraid of death, so why are you afraid of me loving you?”
