LA ⋆ Chapter 14: The Palm Burns Hot

Four people sat together, each glancing at the other, and the square matcha jasmine cake in the middle seemed somehow out of place. Tony wanted nothing more than to grab that cake and run, leaving them to sort things out on their own.

When it actually came time to sit down and say something, Sheng Yao found he wasn’t suited to speaking at all. His hands kept clenching and unclenching on his knees.

How was he supposed to say it? Your partner was kissing my boss. If he said that, he’d probably be the first one getting hit. And Tony was still here—the fewer people who knew about this kind of thing, the better.

Sheng Yao had never been in a relationship, but from years of observing human behavior from the sidelines, he knew one thing: the “well-meaning friend” who got involved in a couple’s business always ended up the clown. Whether the couple broke up or made up, the “well-meaning friend” was always the clown.

“Oh man, just remembered I’ve got a bug to fix. I’m heading back, okay?”

The six-inch cake had been cut into four pieces. Tony shrugged, grabbed one slice, and then his legs became a whirlwind as he made his escape.

Shuitan raised an eyebrow. “Mantou, what were you about to say?”

“Huh?” Chen Siyu pinched his lower lip and let out a snort of laughter. “His name is Mantou?”

Shuitan: “Flower name, flower name.”

Sheng Yao’s brows drew together, his hands clasped and pressed beneath his nose. “Look, sir, maybe you should explain first. You know what I’m talking about.”

Shuitan looked completely lost.

Chen Siyu had fox-like eyes and wolf-tail hair dyed with gold streaks at the tips—he looked flashy and showy altogether. When he smiled, it always seemed like he was holding back something mischievous. By comparison, Shuitan seemed much more straightforward: no makeup, a loose short-sleeved T-shirt, her sleeve cuffs showing the smooth, defined muscle of someone who lifted weights. The kind of woman who could probably punch her boyfriend flying.

“My explanation is this: you misunderstood. Your boss and I are childhood friends. We were fighting that day—you just happened to walk in, and when you cut out the beginning and end, it’s easy to get the wrong idea.”

When Chen Siyu said “your boss and I are childhood friends,” Shuitan visibly froze once, twice, three times. Her mouth slowly opened into a big O, and then she blinked slowly a few times.

Chen Siyu turned back and gave her a confirming nod.

Sheng Yao’s eyes gradually came into focus. He looked up as if remembering something and asked Shuitan, “You know my boss too?”

Shuitan nodded quickly, then asked quietly, “Did you confess to him?”

Sheng Yao: “…”

He was the clown after all.

The dramatic August passed just like that. That day’s conversation came to nothing—it had all been a huge misunderstanding. The thing he remembered most vividly was that matcha jasmine cake, which seemed to have a layer of ice cream in the middle. Very refreshing.

Sheng Yao was already satisfied. He still had his job. Cheng Ai hadn’t asked him again why he’d sent that message. Sheng Yi had started school smoothly. Everything seemed to be back on track.

Sheng Yao often felt that life was like being pulled forward by a fishing line baited with “just wait for this or that.” As a kid, he’d thought if he just waited for Dad to come home, everything would be fine. Dad never came home, but he grew up anyway. In school, he’d thought if he just got into college, everything would be fine. He got in and found the future was still uncertain, still had to work frantically just to survive, still thought if he just got a job, everything would be fine.

Really, he didn’t know what “fine” even meant, or how to measure it.

Now, suddenly, Sheng Yao felt like this moment—this life right now—was fine.

Sheng Yao and Cheng Ai’s interactions returned to how they’d been before: all business. Except Sheng Yao noticed that sometimes, when Cheng Ai looked at him, there was a hint of melancholy in his eyes.

What? What did Cheng Ai have to be melancholy about? Better to just believe he was going crazy.

“Sheng Yao, which one do you think looks better?” Cheng Ai held up a blue tie and a red tie, asking Sheng Yao.

Sheng Yao looked left and right. “The red one, I think. It’s brighter.”

“Want pizza? Sheng Yao, do you prefer sweet or savory?” Cheng Ai had his legs crossed up on the desk, tilting his head as he held up his phone to ask Sheng Yao.

“Either works.” And it really did.

“Forget it, let’s just order both.”

“Sheng Yao, I remember you studied philosophy. What exactly does ‘the world is my representation’ mean?”

Sheng Yao was caught off guard by the sudden question, and answered slowly, “It means the world you perceive is actually a reflection of your inner self. You understand the world through your senses, experience, and cognition.”

“Oh… I see.”

“Sheng Yao, are you happy working here?”

“Happy. The boss and coworkers are all pretty normal.”

“Tell me the truth.”

“The truth is… I can’t say I’m happy or unhappy. People have to work, right?”

“I hope you’re happy here.”

Conversations like these, scattered and increasingly casual, kept piling up. They gave the illusion that the distance between them was shrinking.

Sheng Yao found it strange that he was having these kinds of conversations with his boss.

Once life settles into a rhythm, time flies. Repetitive days seem to get compressed by memory. Before he knew it, December had arrived. The year-end season was always hectic.

The company had a major project still being negotiated. Sheng Yao was so busy his feet barely touched the ground, constantly going out to business dinners with Cheng Ai. Business is all about harmony—stepping into new territory, even Cheng Ai couldn’t just refuse outright.

Sheng Yao went out to another dinner with Cheng Ai.

It had been a while since he’d seen a situation this “formal.” The whole room was packed with big shots.

Sheng Yao intercepted quite a bit of the alcohol, but they all wanted Cheng Ai to drink. The more he blocked, the more Cheng Ai drank. By the time they left, Cheng Ai was on the edge of losing consciousness.

Sheng Yao was doing slightly better. After getting in the car, he gave the driver Cheng Ai’s home address and they drove off. He opened the window for air. December’s wind was harsh, stinging his face, but it cleared his head a bit. The person beside him shrank back. Seeing this, Sheng Yao closed the window again.

The temperature in the car rose, making him drowsy.

Suddenly, Sheng Yao felt a weight on his leg. He looked down. Cheng Ai had slumped against him.

“President Cheng?” Sheng Yao called out.

“Don’t make noise,” Cheng Ai covered his head, “I’m dizzy.”

Sheng Yao hesitated for a moment, then abandoned the idea of pushing his boss back. He leaned back, letting his strength go.

Without thinking, his hand moved to stroke Cheng Ai’s head, like petting a large dog. Cheng Ai seemed to enjoy it, rubbing contentedly against his thigh. The warm breath seemed to pass through the fabric of his pants, its heat reaching his leg.

The warm, tingling sensation made Sheng Yao stiffen. It was like an electric current shot up from his thigh, and he felt the back of his neck go numb, his jaw aching.

Sheng Yao wanted to push Cheng Ai away, yet at the same time he was drawn to maintaining this feeling.

In the end, he only trembled carefully as he wrapped his arms around Cheng Ai’s head, his fingers sliding into his hair.

This time the breath fell into his palm—not warm, but burning hot.