Chapter 02#

In the car besides Secretary Xu and the driver, Zhou Yan was also present. Perhaps the alcohol had gone to his head and he was feeling warm—he had taken off his suit jacket and draped it over the armrest, undone the buttons of his shirt down to the third one, and was resting with his head slightly tilted against the half-lowered car window, eyes closed.

The moment Song Zhiyan saw him, he sobered up immediately. He climbed awkwardly into the back seat, instinctively trying to move quietly—but because he didn’t push hard enough, the car door didn’t close properly. He had to push it open again and slam it shut.

This time it closed properly. The sound jolted Zhou Yan’s eyes open from his resting state, though he didn’t look at Song Zhiyan. He merely gave a faint “mm” when Secretary Xu asked whether they were heading back to the Zhou family residence, and remained in his original posture without moving.

Song Zhiyan sat in awkward silence for a while, his head bowed low. His fingertips pinching the hem of his shirt tightened, loosened, tightened again. He had finally calmed down when he felt the wind blowing through the open car window beside him—it was a bit chilly, making his nose itch. He wanted to sneeze.

Wasn’t Zhou Yan cold?

He stole a glance at the other man’s open collar and the muscle lines pressing against the shirt fabric—though he was much broader than Song Zhiyan, the clothes looked rather thin. How could they block the wind?

“What are you looking at?” Zhou Yan’s voice was low and deep.

“…” Song Zhiyan hadn’t expected him to suddenly speak, and his heart hammered in fright. “Outside—the wind out there is too strong. You’ve just been drinking, and it’s best not to keep letting it blow on your head—”

Before he could finish, he turned away, covered his mouth, and let out a thunderous sneeze.

“…” Zhou Yan rolled up the window and tossed the suit jacket from beside him to Song Zhiyan. “Put it on.”

Song Zhiyan didn’t dare refuse. Rustling and shuffling, he shook out the jacket and wrapped it around himself, then quietly murmured a thank you.

Zhou Yan didn’t pay him any more attention.

By the time they arrived at the Zhou family residence, it was already past ten in the evening. Zhou Yan instructed the driver to take Secretary Xu home, then pushed the door and stepped out.

Song Zhiyan hurried to follow behind Zhou Yan. The suit jacket that had slipped off his shoulders, he gathered up and cradled in his arms. He could even pick up the faint pine fragrance that had been sprayed onto the fabric—the alcohol had faded by now. It was subtle, deep, and not overpowering. Quite distinctive.

Upon entering, the housekeeper, Uncle Li, respectfully greeted Zhou Yan as “Young Master” and called Song Zhiyan “Mr. Song.” Zhou Yun, who had arrived earlier, had already fallen asleep in her room on the first floor. Zhou Yan nodded and went upstairs to his room. Song Zhiyan took two quick steps to catch up, intending to return the jacket, but was stopped by Uncle Li. The housekeeper took the suit jacket from his hands, handed it to a servant to hang up, then picked up the luggage that had been delivered before the wedding and led Song Zhiyan upstairs to see the prepared guest rooms, letting him choose one to stay in.

The rooms lined up along the right side of the hallway, all the same size and orientation. Song Zhiyan glanced at the master bedroom on the left with its tightly shut door, then pulled his suitcase into the guest room further in, across from the one directly opposite. He said he’d take this one.

Uncle Li smiled and said alright, followed him into the room, gave Song Zhiyan a key and a slip of paper with the house phone number written on it, and told him things he needed to know about living here.

“The Young Miss lives on the first floor. She returns to her room at ten at night; her wake-up time varies during the day. Don’t go disturbing her if her door isn’t open. The Young Master’s room is on the second floor—the one you just saw. He generally stays here three or four days a week; the rest of the time he stays at the company or his downtown apartment. Don’t go disturbing him either if his door isn’t open. If you have any needs or questions, you can find me anytime.”

Song Zhiyan nodded, put away the key, and saved the number into his phone. He waited until Uncle Li had left before squatting on the floor to open his suitcase, putting the few pieces of clothing and some daily necessities into their proper places.

He was almost done when Uncle Li came up once more, asking if he was hungry. Auntie Zhang had prepared congee, steamed buns, and side dishes—if he was hungry, he could go downstairs to eat, or it could be brought up to his room.

Song Zhiyan was already unaccustomed to being waited on like this, and certainly didn’t want to trouble anyone further. He said no need, tidied up briefly, and followed Uncle Li back downstairs.

It wasn’t until he reached the dining room that he realized Zhou Yan was also there—hair half-damp, wearing a loose gray bathrobe, evidently having already showered.

Zhou Yan ignored Song Zhiyan as he walked in. He ate a steamed bun while handling emails on a tablet, sipping congee from time to time. Song Zhiyan gingerly sat down across from him. Zhou Yan remained as coldly composed as ever, showing no expression of disgust or impatience.

But some people simply have an overwhelming presence. Even just sitting in front of you doing nothing, they can project an invisible sense of pressure.

Zhou Yan was that kind of person.

At least to Song Zhiyan, he was.

He tried hard to steady himself, but couldn’t prevent the bun between his chopsticks from slipping—unsteady in his grip—and dropping into the bowl full of congee with a stupid, ridiculous sound.

“…” Zhou Yan finally looked up. “What are you doing?”

“S-sorry,” Song Zhiyan apologized in a small voice, grimacing as he picked the bun back up with his chopsticks and took a bite of the soggy dough skin.

“Are you afraid of me?” Zhou Yan asked.

Song Zhiyan didn’t dare look at him, nor could he tell the truth, so he shook his head vaguely.

Zhou Yan didn’t press further, seeming not to care much about Song Zhiyan’s answer—it was just a passing remark.

The table fell back into silence.

Zhou Yan ate quickly. He finished a bowl of congee and two steamed buns while simultaneously clearing several days of backed-up work. Before standing up, he heard the person across from him—who had only just slowly finished half a bun—say “Thank you,” and felt a twinge of something stuck in his chest.

“I didn’t eat much for dinner either. It wasn’t specifically made for you,” Zhou Yan said. “Eight years older doesn’t mean I’m a generation above you. Don’t use ‘you’ with the honorific from now on. Just call me Zhou Yan.”

This was the longest sentence Zhou Yan had spoken to him since they first met. Song Zhiyan was still frozen on “eight years older,” dazed, when Zhou Yan dropped one more line—“Or just call me ‘brother’ like Zhou Yun does”—and left.

Why eight years older?

Song Zhiyan kept turning this question over in his head while showering.

He had started elementary school at six, skipped two grades along the way, and had just turned twenty this year, currently in his fourth year of university. Zhou Yan was in the same cohort as Qin Shu, who had just graduated from his third year of graduate school not long ago. Even if Zhou Yan had started elementary school a year later, the gap shouldn’t be three years. He didn’t look like the type to have been held back—where did the extra two years come from?

Song Zhiyan thought about it for a long time without figuring it out, so he gave up thinking about it. After showering, he went back to his room and lay down, hugging the blanket as he tried to coax himself to sleep while thinking about what to call Zhou Yan.

Actually, he’d rather call him Director Zhou or Mr. Zhou—or even Senior Zhou if nothing else worked. But with his current status… if he got the wrong title at some event one day, wouldn’t that cause even more trouble? So calling him “brother” was probably the most appropriate.

Brother Zhou? That sounded weird.

And “Yan-ge” sounded like he was calling himself. Also weird.

Song Zhiyan rubbed his eyes and finally decided to keep it simple—just “brother.” After all, the man was eight years older. Calling someone directly by their name wasn’t respectful enough, and he couldn’t bring himself to say Zhou Yan’s name to his face anyway.

It was just… rather intimidating.

He wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was because Zhou Yan was too tall, much more muscular, with cold eyes—and whenever they were together, Song Zhiyan always felt like the next second he’d be pinned down and bitten on the neck.

Song Zhiyan shivered, burrowed under the blanket with half his face covered, and fell asleep. Whether it was from overthinking before bed or from the pressure on his chest making it hard to breathe, he ended up having an mortifying nightmare the entire night.

When he jolted awake and felt the sticky sensation in his crotch, he thought he had wet himself in fear. But when he changed his underwear and saw that viscous white substance, he realized it was a nocturnal emission.

Song Zhiyan was stunned.

During puberty his health had been poor and he’d never experienced this. In three years with Qin Shu, he’d never experienced this either—and yet it had happened now, triggered by nothing more than a trace of residual alcohol and a few unfounded fantasies.

…How could this happen?

Song Zhiyan held up his damp underwear, mortified enough to want to disappear on the spot.

Am—I a pervert?

Little Song is not a pervert. Little Zhou is. (?)