LA ⋆ Chapter 15: The President Comes Home

Cheng Ai’s home was in the eastern district, a residential complex that Sheng Yao could never afford even if he worked eighteen lifetimes.

Getting him to the front door had already taken Herculean effort. Cheng Ai was nearly six feet tall, with a broader frame than Sheng Yao, and when his entire weight pressed down on Sheng Yao’s shoulders, Sheng Yao felt like he was about to collapse.

The door was an electronic lock. Sheng Yao reached for Cheng Ai’s hand to unlock it.

A drunk person is limp and uncontrollable. Sheng Yao struggled to grip Cheng Ai’s other hand. Cheng Ai’s hand was broad and strong, with prominent knuckles, and when Sheng Yao held it in his palm, the protruding joints at the base of his fingers dug in slightly, making the shape of this person distinctly tangible.

Beep beep beep. The door opened.

Unexpectedly, Cheng Ai’s home was very warm.

Sheng Yao had expected Cheng Ai’s place to be either lavishly ornate or subtly luxurious, or at worst, minimalist Scandinavian style.

Instead, right at the entrance was a fluffy green carpet with puffy, childish characters on it: Welcome Home, President! Beyond the entryway, the entire space was done in walnut-wood tones, with walls and corners lined with enormous plush toys, as if he’d stumbled into a fairy-tale cottage.

The doors to several rooms were open. Sheng Yao supported Cheng Ai to the master bedroom, laid him out on the bed, removed his shoes and jacket… that should be enough, right? He could shower himself once he sobered up in the morning.

Sheng Yao planted his hands on his hips and surveyed the room, then looked at the man lying rigidly on the bed. Cheng Ai’s face and neck were flushed a deep red.

After a moment’s thought, Sheng Yao removed Cheng Ai’s tie and undid the first three buttons of his shirt. His fingertips inadvertently brushed against the other man’s collarbone, and perhaps because his fingers were too cold in winter, it was as if he’d touched a hot stove.

Before the rising and falling of the chest, Sheng Yao froze for a moment.

Cheng Ai’s neck finally relaxed, his breathing becoming deeper and more labored, his Adam’s apple rolling slowly. Like a taut string plucked on an instrument, he produced a few halting notes: “Thirsty… I’m thirsty.”

Sheng Yao, crouching by the bed, sighed. He adjusted the bedside lamp to a warm yellow glow, then got up to go to the kitchen to find water for Cheng Ai.

Idol dramas really do ruin people. The sick CEO’s refrigerator is always empty, but Cheng Ai’s was stuffed with fruits and vegetables, all kinds of beverages. This kid really knows how to live.

In the end, Sheng Yao cut a lemon, boiled water, and mixed Cheng Ai a cup of lemon honey water. He really does know how to live—he even had disposable straws on hand.

Not knowing how drunk Cheng Ai was, Sheng Yao placed the water on the nightstand, then pulled his arm to prop him up, half-leaning against the bed, and held the cup in one hand while pinching the straw in the other, staying like that until he’d finished the entire glass.

Sigh. A work slave. Pure work slave. Never mind, I’ll let it slide for the sake of the money.

The boss was just a twenty-eight-year-old kid, only three years older than himself.

Sheng Yao washed the cup and prepared to say goodbye and leave.

“President Cheng, please rest well. I’ll head out now.”

“Don’t go.” Cheng Ai’s hand grasped blindly and caught Sheng Yao’s.

Sheng Yao wasn’t paying attention and tumbled onto the edge of the bed, leaning forward as he asked patiently: “President Cheng, is there anything else?”

“Stay with me.” Two words came out in a muffled, drunken voice.

Sheng Yao fell silent for a moment, glancing toward the door, considering whether to fetch Tigger or Winnie the Pooh to keep him company.

“Sheng Yao, stay and keep me company.”

Sheng Yao. Stay and keep me company.

He hadn’t misheard. After those words, Sheng Yao was pulled by a tremendous force and tumbled down, then wrapped in an embrace—one large enough, warm enough, and confining enough to hold him.

Warm, damp breath wound around the back of his neck like a serpent’s tongue. Fear, helplessness, absurdity, and a strange hunger born from nowhere converged into an invisible snake, like the one that had tempted Adam and Eve to eat the apple.

Sheng Yao struggled for a moment, trying to push himself up.

The arms around his chest tightened more forcefully, pulling him back into the embrace.

“I’ll turn off the light,” Sheng Yao said softly.

There was no response from behind. He couldn’t tell if he was truly drunk or just pretending.

By this point, Sheng Yao was actually extremely exhausted. The alcohol made his head spin, and the hour was approaching his usual bedtime, so drowsiness came in waves, relentless and overwhelming.

Before consciousness slipped away, Sheng Yao dimly figured out where that strange hunger came from.

He had almost never embraced anyone.

So this was what it felt like to be held so securely and firmly in someone’s arms.

When Cheng Ai woke, he first noticed that his hand was numb, the prickling sensation of blood returning almost drowning out the pounding in his head.

Three seconds later, he realized something was wrong. There was someone in the bed!?

The scent memory of sunlight and laundry detergent still lingered, though diluted by the smell of alcohol. Memories from last night flooded back like a tide: being forced to drink, getting in the car, collapsing, arriving home, and that cup of lemon water. Cheng Ai’s drunkenness wasn’t a complete blackout—he retained a thread of consciousness but couldn’t fully control his body.

He seemed to have asked Sheng Yao to stay.

There was no water cup on the nightstand. Was it a dream?

Cheng Ai carefully extracted his numb left arm.

It wasn’t a dream.

Sheng Yao was curled on his side, like a fetus in the womb, as if by making himself small enough, he could avoid being hurt.

Cheng Ai propped himself up and leaned over Sheng Yao.

When his eyes were closed, Sheng Yao’s lashes appeared exceptionally thick, like black feathers frozen in a snowy field.

Sheng Yao had a kind of dullness about him—half of it was an act, half was natural. His work ability was actually quite excellent, but he never fully displayed it. In front of others, he always moved half a beat slower, his eyes vacant and hazy. That half-beat was his disguise—when others made grand promises, he’d clap along, but once he turned away, he saw through every empty word. Cheng Ai had discovered this about him long ago.

So now, when those eyes were closed, this face actually appeared sharper and more shrewd, the gaunt jawline even carrying a hint of coldness.

Cheng Ai slowly leaned closer to Sheng Yao’s profile, stopping at a very, very small distance.

Close eyes, open eyes.

Sigh. Cheng Ai suddenly sat up.