Chapter 26: Zhou Yili Felt He Was Both Aloof and Wronged

Dusk settled in the distance.

Zhou Yili drove back to the Zhou family home. Ever since coming of age, whether unintentionally or by design, he rarely returned to the villa where he’d spent his childhood.

Zhou Hengyang didn’t seem to mind.

After all, once father and son had become adults, their time together amounted to nothing but arguments or outright fights.

“The purple sweet potato porridge needs to cook a bit longer,” Aunt Zhang said with a smile. “Mr. Shen prefers it to be soft and sticky.”

Zhou Yili glanced at the glutinous, sweet porridge.

“Troublesome,” he muttered, striding upstairs on long legs. “I’m going up to fetch something.”

Aunt Zhang watched his tall, flamboyant figure, unable to suppress a laugh.

Such a sharp-tongued, prideful young master.

Zhou Yili pushed open the door to the music room. The decor remained just as it always had. The white piano rested before the floor-to-ceiling windows, beyond which a magnificent silk tree swayed, its pink blossoms spreading a limitless spring beneath the light.

He leaned against the doorframe, feeling a flicker of nostalgia.

He saw that person again, seated by the window, slender and upright, long lashes lowered and aglow, exposing a stretch of pale neck, crystalline piano notes flowing from his fingertips.

A click—the music abruptly ceased.

He turned his head with quiet indifference. “?”

The youth, a piece of mint candy between his teeth, seemed to meet his gaze through the lens and froze for several seconds.

He tilted his head, raising an eyebrow, a dazzlingly bold smile on his lips.

“Shall I take a picture, Mr. Shen?”

“My rates aren’t high.”

Shen Jixing met his childish antics with calm disregard. “No money, no photo.”

Zhou Yili laughed, walking over to him. “Just how broke are you?”

“Then for free? Should I pay you?”

The boy leaned forward, handing over the camera, radiating a vibrant, heated energy, his breath cool with mint.

His lips nearly grazed the pale curve of Zhou Yili’s ear as he laughed languidly.

“With looks like yours, can’t I just take a few shots?”

“…”

What kind of compliment was that?

“Please, Mr. Shen?”

“Come on, brother~”

Shen Jixing suddenly looked up at him.

Men who know how to wheedle and act cute are always the most fortunate; Zhou Yili had no defense against this sweet-talking, coaxing little lion.

…

Zhou Yili straightened lazily, closing the music room door.

Some people were simply born to be in front of the camera; it was a waste for Shen Jixing’s face not to grace the silver screen.

But no one else could capture the emotions buried deep within his soul.

No one but him.

Those photographs still lay tossed carelessly in the drawer of his bedroom.

As Zhou Yili headed downstairs, he heard the sharp shatter of a plate—Aunt Zhang had broken one. The sound seemed to strike some chord in him and he quickened his pace.

“Are you hurt?”

“No, no,” Aunt Zhang murmured as she cleaned up, “May broken things bring peace, may broken things bring peace.”

Zhou Yili helped her tidy up.

He was completely unaware that the screen of the phone in his trouser pocket had lit up with a soft glow.

[S]: Is there a first aid kit in your room? I’d like to use it.

…

Shen Jixing waited a while but received no reply.

Blood welled from the cut on his fingertip, each drop striking the floor by his feet.

He needed to take care of it, he thought.

There was no first aid kit in the living room; he’d already checked. In the end, it was Zhou Yili who had brought out some painkillers from his room. Glancing at the unanswered message on his phone, Shen Jixing decided to search upstairs.

His injured finger made searching awkward.

Zhou Yili’s room was spacious and bright, filled with all kinds of rare instruments. He searched all the shelves but found nothing.

At last, his gaze landed on the nightstand drawer.

It was the only place he hadn’t checked.

The tissue around his wound was already soaked through. As he reached for the drawer, a cold, harsh voice sounded behind him—

“Who told you to come into my room?”

He barely had time to react before Zhou Yili grabbed his wrist and pulled him around.

He carried the chill of the night on him, his sharp, wild eyes regarding Shen Jixing coldly, as though his territory had been invaded, his demeanor merciless.

“Who said you could come in while I was gone?”

“Do you really take this place for your own home?”

Heat clouded Zhou Yili’s mind, and his fingers tightened involuntarily, gripping that elegant pale wrist with force.

A small sound.

Something wet dropped onto the floor.

Zhou Yili’s gaze drifted down, and a drop of vivid red blood met his eyes.

…

“Sorry,” Shen Jixing said calmly, pulling his hand back. The tissue wrapped around his finger was soaked, sticking to his skin in a sorry state.

He curled his fingers, hiding the mess.

“You didn’t reply, so I made my own decision.”

His lips moved slightly as he apologized, his voice steady.

“Sorry, it was my fault.”

Shen Jixing remained quiet, brushing past him and leaving the room with light, unhurried steps.

The door closed softly behind him.

Zhou Yili stood where he was, eyes fixed on the sharp, bright stain of blood on the floor, his lashes quivering faintly.

After a long while, he slowly raised his hand and opened the drawer—

Inside was an entire drawer full of photographs.

All of the same person.

Sitting quietly at the piano, offering him a gentle, helpless smile, eyes closed, sleeping with spring air for a pillow… the secret shots he’d taken, pressing a kiss to his cheek, capturing him in moments of joy.

They were arranged neatly, kept with great care.

There was no first aid kit, only a solitary companion.

A bottle of painkillers.

…

When Zhou Yili returned downstairs, Shen Jixing had already disposed of the bloodied tissue and was sitting on the sofa wrapping his finger with a fresh one.

He heard movement but his expression didn’t change.

Zhou Yili fetched the medical supplies from the takeout bag, then knelt before him, glancing at Shen Jixing’s bandaged hand.

For some reason, his clumsy attempts made Zhou Yili want to laugh.

He paused in mid-air, then took his hand and placed it on his knee, his fingers lifting the edge of the tissue. “Shall I take it off?”

Shen Jixing said nothing.

Zhou Yili knew he was upset—being ignored was only natural.

“Mm,” Zhou Yili answered just as he began to unwrap the tissue, at last hearing a cool, indifferent sound from Shen Jixing.

He lowered his eyes, carefully peeling off the tissue so no fibers stuck to the wound, then dabbed it with an iodine-soaked swab.

“Does it hurt?” he asked offhandedly.

“No.”

Zhou Yili blew lightly on it, then, with a subtle pause, wrapped the finger in gauze.

He drawled lazily, “What were you cutting that you ended up like this?”

This time, Shen Jixing didn’t answer.

Probably too embarrassed to admit it.

“My house doesn’t have a first aid kit. Not ordering takeout is one thing, but you don’t even order medicine?” He looked up at Shen Jixing.

Shen Jixing gazed down at him with a faintly glassy sheen in his eyes, as if those depths were tinged with water, soft and dewy. Yet, if one looked closer, it was only a slab of cold ice.

Zhou Yili thought he looked both aloof and aggrieved.

After all, it was because he’d wanted to eat, and ended up cutting his hand; then his message went unanswered, he couldn’t find the first aid kit, and finally got scolded for no reason.

“I’m not easy to talk to.”

Shen Jixing turned his gaze aside, lowered his eyes, and stood, voice cool as he walked towards the dining table.

“I’m just a guest under someone else’s roof.”