At nine o’clock that evening, Pei Jingchen was still working while Su Qingci sat curled up on the sofa, watching him without blinking.
After enduring this stare for too long, Pei Jingchen finally couldn’t take it anymore and turned his head.
Their eyes met, and Su Qingci hesitated, words on the tip of his tongue.
Then he watched as Pei Jingchen slid off his gold-rimmed anti-blue-light glasses, loosened his tie, and rose to walk toward him.
Perhaps it was the way his gaze stretched like melted cheese, combined with his hesitant expression, that led Pei Jingchen to a beautiful misunderstanding.
When Su Qingci felt Pei Jingchen’s lips press against his, he knew the man was dutifully fulfilling his role as the young master’s lover.
Pei Jingchen possessed countless virtues, shining like stars that had dazzled Su Qingci for a full decade.
His looks outshone celebrities, his physique rivaled models, his character was noble, his mind sharp, his demeanor humble—and most undeniably, what made Su Qingci utterly addicted: his skill in bed.
Their personalities clashed like needles and straw, yet their bodies, honed by years of practice, fit together with ironic precision.
Pei Jingchen knew Su Qingci’s sensitive spots, and Su Qingci knew how to please him—how to tease the man’s most primal urges with a half-reluctant, half-welcoming act.
Even more ironic.
Their union required primal urge, not the uncontrollable flow born of deep affection.
For Pei Jingchen, each time was routine.
Su Qingci could only accept his emotionless thrusts—nothing more, nothing less.
The word “making love” at least contained the character for “love.” What were they like?
Like two animals mating.
Driven by instinctual desire to perform these acts—was it pleasurable? Yes, it was. But after the pleasure faded, it left an emptiness that nothing could fill.
Su Qingci turned his head away as Pei Jingchen’s lips brushed his earlobe.
This wasn’t the first time he’d refused.
The young master had a peculiar temperament, his moods shifting like the weather. Sometimes when he was in a foul mood, he’d “forbid touching.”
But you mustn’t take it seriously.
Otherwise, you’d have no peace for the next fortnight, constantly on edge for the young master’s unpredictable, ever-changing forms of revenge.
Pei Jingchen pulled back slightly, his broad palm still encircling Su Qingci’s slender waist. “What?”
Pei Jingchen stood against the light, half his face obscured while the other half was outlined by warm lamplight, creating a hazy yet striking beauty. The transition between highlights and shadows was flawless, requiring no unnecessary embellishment—a masterpiece in its own right.
Su Qingci’s heart fluttered, especially when met by Pei Jingchen’s eyes, naturally brimming with emotion. It felt as if the world’s clamor faded into silence, leaving only the two of them in the entire universe.
Su Qingci loved everything about Pei Jingchen. Setting aside the subjective notion that beauty is in the eye of the beholder, Pei Jingchen’s handsomeness was an objective fact.
His features were perfectly proportioned, embodying the golden ratio.
What is beauty? Those overly refined celebrities, looking like mannequins, might be called pretty at best—but they cannot be called beautiful.
Beauty lies in harmony, in balanced proportions, in the grace of rhythm. Pei Jingchen possessed it all.
Su Qingci felt the air grow thin, his breathing labored. Only later did he realize his heart was racing—the culprit being Pei Jingchen standing far too close.
“Let’s skip tonight,” Su Qingci said.
His needs in this regard were infrequent, and when he occasionally lacked interest, Pei Jingchen accepted it without question: “Sleep then.”
Su Qingci replied, “I need to go to the studio. You should get some rest.”
Pei Jingchen emitted a very soft, barely audible “Mm.”
This 200-square-meter duplex was purchased by Pei Jingchen. The lower level housed the reception room, kitchen, bedroom, and study. Upstairs featured a gym, with the remaining space entirely dedicated to the studio.
Su Qingci was a painter.
At twelve, he received guidance from a renowned master. By fifteen, he showed promise. At seventeen, he gained fame in the art world.
His youthful fame brought him boundless glory.
His work Twilight, created at sixteen, sold for a staggering two million at auction. It now hangs in the living room of a French aristocratic family. Whenever friends or relatives visit, they point to the painting and boast: “Look, this is the masterpiece that earned him the title ‘China’s Monet’.”
His studio was cluttered yet orderly. Though canvases, frames, and vibrant paints were scattered everywhere, the space remained clean and tidy, everything arranged with purpose.
Yet the most eye-catching feature wasn’t the paintings—any one of which could spark fierce bidding wars among collectors—but the dozens of unassuming potted plants lining the windowsill.
They were filled with pale purple lavender.
Su Qingci adored lavender because Pei Jingchen had once said he possessed the essence of lavender, perfectly suited to it.
Su Qingci watered them first, then stared blankly at the vibrant plants for a while before brewing a pot of coffee. He sipped it slowly, savoring the unique pine-scented oil aroma that permeated the studio.
The night stretched on. Su Qingci picked up his brush and dipped it heavily in paint.
He had at least some fame, some talent—he wasn’t utterly worthless.
Li Bai said, “Heaven created me with purpose.” Even he, the “bastard who should just die already” in his own mother’s words, had managed to shine brightly in his own field, benefiting the art world.
He was still somewhat useful…
Admired in life, mourned in death—transforming from genius to tragic talent, then receiving a grand funeral. His friends would share the news for three days, expressing profound sorrow.
The saddest would be the collectors who cherished his works; the most excited, undoubtedly, the dealers who profited from them.
The moment he drew his last breath, his paintings instantly skyrocketed fiftyfold in value.
Does his death, which fills their pockets to the brim, count as benefiting the world?
Su Qingci thought, bitterly ironic.
Thick brushstrokes dragged across the canvas, leaving a hideous scar.
After half a month of work, the unfinished piece was ultimately ruined. Su Qingci, frustrated, tore the canvas off and stuffed it into the trash bin.
Outside, snow swirled thickly through the window. Though the room was warm enough, he felt a chill run through his body. Stepping out of the studio and approaching the bedroom door, he wished so much that upon opening it, he’d find Pei Jingchen leaning against the headboard, flipping through a book, a warm bedside lamp left on, waiting for him to return and sleep together.
But Su Qingci knew it was impossible.
Pei Jingchen worked exhausting hours, and Su Qingci wanted him to rest early—he wasn’t without compassion.
Besides, waiting stubbornly for someone to return and sleep together was something only couples deeply in love did.
Su Qingci tiptoed back upstairs, brewed another pot of coffee, and sat alone on the stool until dawn.
When he descended the stairs, Pei Jingchen—who never lingered in bed—was already bustling about in the kitchen.
Watching his silhouette at the stove, Su Qingci felt all his nighttime fatigue and bad mood instantly melt away. For her, the most ordinary kind of happiness was simple: closing his eyes at night to see Pei Jingchen’s face, and opening them in the morning to see his face again.
Su Qingci sat down beside him. “Morning.”
The well-mannered CEO replied with a simple “Morning.”
Pei Jingchen’s father was a pastry chef, and growing up surrounded by baking, he’d mastered the art himself.
Su Qingci had a sweet tooth and adored these buttery treats.
When Pei Jingchen opened the oven, the room filled with the buttery aroma of baked goods. Breakfast was croissants—some with chocolate filling, others plain.
It was obvious Pei Jingchen hadn’t baked them himself. Who had time that early? They were all pre-made.
But Su Qingci didn’t mind. Because they were “baked” by Pei Jingchen—even if it only meant reheating. He’d even become pathetic enough to consider anything served by Pei Jingchen a precious “gesture of care”—not just junk food, but even arsenic, he’d swallow without hesitation.
Pei Jingchen reached for the coffee jar, but Su Qingci said, “Water is fine for me.”
Pei Jingchen paused, slightly taken aback. After three years of living together, he knew Su Qingci loved coffee, especially in the morning—it was his unshakable ritual.
Su Qingci thought to himself that he’d downed two whole pots last night and simply couldn’t bring himself to drink more. But he offered no explanation, instead harboring a little scheme as he waited for Pei Jingchen to ask.
This was one of Su Qingci’s usual tactics—guiding the conversation.
To encourage more interaction with Pei Jingchen, he’d drop hints and leave questions hanging. Back and forth, and before long, they’d be chatting away. Moreover, Pei Jingchen’s “follow-up questions” directly proved his concern, making Su Qingci feel valued and “loved.”
So sometimes he’d sigh deliberately, hoping Pei Jingchen would ask if he was tired or feeling down.
Sometimes he’d even fake a cough, hoping Pei Jingchen would ask if he had a cold or wasn’t feeling well.
It worked at first, but Pei Jingchen wasn’t stupid. After a few tries, he saw through Su Qingci’s tricks. Now, resorting to the same old tactics only made Su Qingci look foolish.
After dinner, Su Qingci washed the dishes while Pei Jingchen, dressed in a British-style suit, walked to the entrance and said, “I won’t be back for dinner tonight.”
Su Qingci hurriedly asked, “Business dinner?”
Pei Jingchen replied, “A friend’s birthday.”
Su Qingci immediately pressed, “Whose?”
Pei Jingchen turned to look at him. His gaze wasn’t stern—it held his usual calm—yet Su Qingci inexplicably felt cornered.
He admitted to having intense possessiveness, but rejected any notion of controlling madness.
“I was just asking,” Su Qingci lowered his eyelids, feigning indifference. “What time will you be back?”
Pei Jingchen finished putting on his shoes. “Before ten.”
Unnoticed, Su Qingci had already walked him to the door. He took his briefcase from the coat rack and handed it to him. “Come back early. I need to talk to you about something.”
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