23: Your heart is moving.

When Zhou Langxing walked closer to Qin Yan, he caught a whiff of that fresh floral-fruity scent that comes after a shower—wrapped in damp heat, it rushed toward him, reckless and heady.

Qin Yan had only just finished bathing. Droplets of water still clung to his warm skin, not yet fully dried.

Zhou Langxing’s gaze flicked up—he caught sight of a droplet sliding slowly from Qin Yan’s ear, tracing the curve of his neck and down to his collarbone. His ears flushed red, and he quickly forced his eyes away, gaze dropping to the floor to avoid looking at him any longer.

Zhou Shurong had seen that hungry, wolfish look in his eyes clear as day.

He’d known for a long time that Langxing harbored impure thoughts.

Back when he was alive, Zhou Langxing only dared to feel, but never dared to act. Now that Zhou Shurong was dead, Zhou Langxing had started to let loose.

Zhou Shurong gave a mocking laugh. “Coward.”

As for Zhou Langxing’s little thoughts, Zhou Shurong didn’t have much temper left to spare. They’d been competing since they were kids—waiting until after his death to make a move? That was already considered mercy, out of brotherly affection.

What he couldn’t accept was that he had been eliminated.

Defeated by the boundary between life and death.

Zhou Shurong studied Zhou Langxing’s face, watching him struggle to suppress his emotions, and spoke slowly and deliberately: “If you’d beaten me fair and square, I’d have no complaints. But you didn’t even dare to get on the field and now you want to swoop in and pick up the leftovers? Too easy for you. Zhou Langxing—I look down on you.”

He reached out and pressed a hand to Zhou Langxing’s shoulder, narrowing his eyes, his voice gentle: “I have a feeling—you’re not going to have a peaceful night.”

That pale hand pressed down, passing right through flesh, as though Zhou Shurong could clutch at the thick bones underneath. It felt different, but cold—tracing through, strand by strand, with a torturous chill. Zhou Langxing shivered and turned his head toward Zhou Shurong.

Zhou Shurong gave him a small smile.

Zhou Langxing didn’t sense anything unusual. He looked away and rubbed his shoulder, puzzled by the discomfort.

Qin Yan had already placed the food containers on the dining table and was waving him over to eat.

Not eating on the little tea table this time?

Zhou Langxing glanced that way instinctively. On the tea table, a fat incense stick sat crookedly in the incense burner.

As he walked over, he glanced back—the incense smoke was curling in a strange way.

It looked like…

Like someone was standing nearby, taking a deep inhale.

A quiet unease crept into Zhou Langxing’s mind. He walked forward while glancing back, fully absorbed in what he saw, until—

Thud.

His knee slammed right into the corner of the chair, making him suck in a sharp breath.

Qin Yan was in the middle of plating food, using proper white dishes—it couldn’t be too casual with a guest around. It needed a little sense of occasion.

Hearing the sound, he panicked. He quickly put down the plate and rushed over.

“Which leg? Does it hurt? Should we go to the hospital?”

His face and eyes were full of genuine concern. He was truly worried the just-healed leg had been injured again.

Zhou Langxing didn’t say a word.

Qin Yan grew both anxious and upset. He crouched down to look, then tilted his head up and asked, “Which leg is it, huh?”

The way he tilted his face up looked so obedient.

Zhou Langxing rubbed his thumb against his fingertip, barely holding himself back. He really wanted to pinch that face.

Men’s facial structures were usually firm—not at all soft. Only chubby cheeks were pinchable. Qin Yan wasn’t chubby, but for some reason, Zhou Langxing just knew that face had to be soft and bouncy—like milk-flavored pudding.

Zhou Langxing discreetly licked his teeth. Damn. Now not only were his fingers itching to touch, but even his teeth felt itchy.

Just pinching wasn’t enough anymore. He wanted more. He wanted to bite, to sink his fangs in and feel that texture.

Sigh, Zhou Langxing, you’re dreaming way too big.

He cursed himself silently—you can’t even crawl yet, and you want to run?

In the living room, the trail of smoke from the incense returned to normal.

Zhou Shurong gave up on his childish attempts to spook his brother and walked over slowly.

His expression was blank, and his gaze eerily calm as it drifted between the two of them.

He snapped his fingers in front of Zhou Langxing’s face.

Of course, Zhou Langxing couldn’t hear it. Seeing him still standing there dazed, Zhou Shurong frowned and said coldly, “What are you thinking about?”

“Langxing, what are you thinking about?” Qin Yan was still unsettled, eyes full of concern as he looked at him. “Does it still hurt?”

Zhou Langxing blinked. He was tempted to play it up and gain some sympathy—but then he saw Qin Yan’s worried face and couldn’t bear it.

“…It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

Qin Yan looked at him. At some point, his eyes had filled with watery light.

Zhou Langxing lowered his voice. “Really… Okay, maybe it hurt just a little.”

“It was the leg that just got the cast off?”

“…Yeah.”

After speaking, he regretted it—especially when he saw the sorrowful light in Qin Yan’s eyes. If all the world’s positive emotions could be transferred to another, he wished he could pour every bit of how he felt upon seeing Qin Yan straight into those eyes.

He should’ve smiled.

Just like the first time they met—eyes curved into crescents, sunlight gently resting on him, his whole body glowing.

“You shouldn’t have…”

Qin Yan pressed his lips together. He wanted to say Zhou Langxing shouldn’t have come right now—but he was already here, and saying more would change nothing. The words would only come out sounding like blame.

Zhou Shurong stared coldly for a long time. Suddenly, he leaned forward and stared into Qin Yan’s amber-colored eyes.

In Qin Yan’s gaze, he saw Zhou Langxing’s reflection.

The reflection was smiling.

Mouth wide open—laughing.

Zhou Shurong felt the world spinning, as if he were about to be sucked into that gaping mouth, chewed, and devoured completely.

Bang—

A white plate, not placed securely on the table, suddenly fell and shattered across the floor.

Qin Yan jumped like a startled rabbit, bolting in a panic—and slammed the top of his head into Zhou Langxing’s chin. Both of them winced, their faces scrunching from the pain.

Qin Yan held his head with both hands, one eye shut, the other squinting in pain.

Zhou Langxing clutched his chin—he’d bitten his tongue, and the sharp pain brought tears to the corners of his eyes.

A moment later, the pain eased.

They looked at each other—and suddenly burst out laughing.

“Sorry, sorry,” Qin Yan said, a little embarrassed. “I didn’t set the plate down right.”

“I should be the one apologizing. I bumped into the chair and made you worry.”

Qin Yan held up both hands in surrender. “Let’s call it even. No more apologies. If we keep going back and forth, the food’s going to get cold.”

Zhou Langxing had no objection. He nodded in agreement.

“I’ll get another plate. Once I’ve plated the food, we can eat.”

“Then I’ll clean up the shards. You stay out of it—I don’t want you repeating history!”

“Alright, alright. The broom’s over there.” Qin Yan pointed. “Oh—there’s Coke and orange juice. Which do you want?”

“Is it cold?”

“Of course!”

“Coke. Definitely ice-cold Coke!”

Qin Yan made an “OK” gesture, pushed the remaining plates inward on the table, then turned and headed to the kitchen.

Zhou Langxing finished sweeping up the broken porcelain, then crouched down and scrubbed the floor back and forth with a rag—meticulously, determined to leave no trace behind.

He was so focused, his expression even carried a touch of gentleness. His long, dense eyelashes drooped, casting small shadows across the bridge of his high nose.

Qin Yan stepped out and looked at him seriously.

Zhou Shurong stood beside him, a cold glint flashing across his glasses.

He leaned close to Qin Yan’s ear like a venomous snake, his voice hoarse and slow:

“Is your heart moving?”