“Seth!”

Fang Chen shouted his name in a panic. He should have pushed the man away and jumped down, but for some reason—maybe just instinct—he instead clung tightly to Seth.

Seth deliberately paused.

The barn was very quiet. Even the rapid beat of Fang Chen’s nervous heart was easy to hear.

Pressed close together, Seth’s hands (calloused from boxing) were gripping Fang Chen’s thigh, the roughness tickling his skin.

If he could, Seth honestly wanted to pry Fang Chen’s legs apart and see—why was the flesh there so soft? Held in his palm, it felt like delicate jelly.

Seth thought, if he really were some kind of crazy killer, there’s no way he’d have let Fang Chen go from their very first meeting.

He wouldn’t kill him, but he would chain him up—not in that abandoned factory or this barn, but in his own private estate.

He’d carpet every inch of the room with goose-down, never let Fang Chen wear shoes, let him drag heavy golden chains as he tried in vain to run away, always to be caught, trembling and crying, in Seth’s arms.

He’d take Fang Chen outside the villa too, plant him a whole field of roses, build him a butterfly fountain.

But, at the same time, he’d build the estate’s walls impossibly high—never let Fang Chen escape.

By the time his thoughts got this far, Seth’s eyes were dark, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

“Don’t move. It’s dark in here,” the man said in a low voice.

He no longer paused. Carrying Fang Chen, he walked outside the barn.

So he was just teasing me…

Fang Chen sulked. It wasn’t until Seth had carried him a ways that he finally protested, kicking his legs, “Why are you carrying me…”

Just carrying him anywhere, anytime.

So what if he was short!

Didn’t he have any dignity?!

Seth ignored him, single-armed until they were back in the courtyard before setting Fang Chen down.

The youth, cheeks puffed with annoyance, glared up at him. “Stop randomly picking me up all the time.”

“Hugging is a very intimate thing where I’m from,” Seth replied casually. “Oh? What about when you touched me earlier? Where you’re from, is that considered casual?”

Fang Chen’s face went bright red!
Damn it! How did Seth NOT forget!

He stomped off, head lowered, “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

Seth reined in his laughter, walked alongside him, and changed the subject. “Can’t sleep?”

“Says who,” Fang Chen retorted. “If I close my eyes, I’ll fall right asleep.”

“They’re starting a bonfire. I was just coming to get you—so…” Seth stretched out the last word, “are you still going to sleep?”

Fang Chen stopped abruptly and turned his head, “Bonfire?”

A teasing smile rose in Seth’s gray-blue eyes as he looked leisurely at Fang Chen.

“It’s dangerous to play with fire on a ranch,” Fang Chen said seriously. “Let me go protect you guys.”

Truthfully, what could he do—but in a real emergency, he’d just get picked up and carried away again.

But Seth nodded accommodatingly, “Thank you.”

By the time they arrived, the bonfire was already lit.

Joey spotted them from afar, waving, “Hey, little lamb!”

Why call him that…
So what should he call him? The “Kiss Guy?”

Still, Fang Chen obediently waved back, “Hi Joey!”

“Your tolerance is so weak!” Joey laughed. “Just one can of beer!”

Fang Chen, mortified, bowed his head.

He regretted it too.

“You have such a good tolerance?” Seth said coolly, “Then next time we drink, don’t make excuses to run off to the bathroom.”

Joey, “…”
He’d almost forgotten—Seth was watching Fang Chen like a hawk.

He shrugged, “Alright, alright, let’s not talk about that.”

Fang Chen watched the two of them and couldn’t help but laugh, only for Seth to look over, catching his smile, then give the barest curl of a smirk in response.

“What are you smiling at?” Seth asked.

Fang Chen immediately stopped, shooting him a glare.

“And now why are you glaring at me?” Seth asked again.

This guy…! Did he have to ask about everything?

Fang Chen grumbled, “In our country, people are reserved. Most things are left unsaid.”

Seth frowned. “Why?”

“…”

Fang Chen’s face hardened, “And there you go, asking again!”

Seth hesitated, then ceded, “Alright, I won’t ask. Will you teach me, then?”

“Teach you what?”

“Manners, how to socialize, express emotion…all that,” Seth explained. “And language too.”

Fang Chen only caught the last part. Eyes wide, “You want to learn Chinese? Why?”

“I’ll be traveling for competitions more. I’ll need it sooner or later,” Seth said, finding a solid excuse.

Fang Chen hesitated, “Forget it. You’re rich; you could find a great tutor.”

Seth looked him in the eye, “But I think it’d be best if you taught me.”

Fang Chen froze, his breath catching.

“Hey! You two!” shouted Joey. “You going to stand there talking all night? Come play!”

The breath that had stuck resumed flowing again.

Fang Chen turned and ran to Joey, “I’m coming!”

Seth remained where he was, eyes narrowing.

He remembered when he first started boxing: spending every day in the gym, eager to fight, always wanting to get in the ring. But the coach told him not to rush—only after his basics were solid would he have a one-punch knockout.

Just like a wolf hiding in the dark, waiting until the odds were sure before making a move.

By the time Seth joined them, Fang Chen had already merged with the others, dancing around the bonfire with Joey and the group.

They were singing English songs; Fang Chen didn’t know the words, so he hummed along, bouncing clumsily—like a lost lamb in a pack of wolves.

When the song reached its climax, everyone held up beers—except Fang Chen, who raised his orange juice. He didn’t dare touch beer again.

Seth stepped over and naturally took his place beside Fang Chen, watching him bounce, black hair flying, eyes glittering in the firelight.

He didn’t continue the last topic, only asked, “Do you get dizzy after drinking?”

Just by looking at Fang Chen hopping, it was clear he didn’t, but Seth still asked.

“Nope!”

Fang Chen almost said his old tolerance was better but swallowed it, just raising his juice, “But I’ll never drink again.”

Seth smiled.

Fang Chen watched a few seconds, then said, “When we met, I thought you were scary, but now I see you actually have a good temper—and you smile a lot.”

Seth said nothing, not confirming or denying.
Fang Chen was the first to call him good-tempered, the first to say he smiled a lot.

Usually, with others, even the corners of Seth’s mouth rarely lifted.

Nighttime, bonfire, singing, dancing—
Easy conditions for excitement.

Fang Chen sang out of tune, danced clumsily—but no one found it ridiculous.

On the contrary, to Seth it was like watching a fluffy white lamb hop around his heart.

He could almost eat him up.

It was past midnight when the party ended.

Seth saw Fang Chen back to his cabin. “Are you alright sleeping alone tonight?”

Fang Chen bristled, “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Aren’t you a little bit of a coward?”

“I’m not!” Fang Chen shot back, “It’s just that you all keep telling scary stories!”

“It wasn’t me.”

Seth paused, then said, “If you get scared, call me.”

“I said I’m not!”

Fang Chen huffed, stormed inside, leaving only a thin white arm to wave him off, very perfunctory.

Seth smirked, watching the door close.

Inside, Fang Chen showered, kept the lights on, and lay on the bed with his quilt.

Having napped so much that day, he wasn’t even tired, scrolling through the day’s photos.

He picked a few that didn’t show his face and posted them to Twitter. Not two seconds later, he got a reply.

Saoirse: [Are you drunk?]

Were you drunk?!
Why bring that up!
Chin in hand, Fang Chen snorted—then noticed this username looked familiar, maybe from a previous comment.

He tapped into the user’s profile.

Ten minutes ago, Saoirse had posted a photo—just an upper body, showing part of a chin, wearing a gray shirt that looked a little tight (or maybe just pulled tight by muscle).

Even through the fabric, you could make out those chest muscles.

Why were foreigners all built like that?

Fang Chen politely gave it a like, then exited the page. He’d started using this app on Jamin’s suggestion, mainly to practice conversation, but now it had just become his social feed.

Next door, Seth frowned at his phone.

He rarely used social media and had only found this one after glancing at Fang Chen’s phone once.

Was it his photo quality?
Why hadn’t Fang Chen replied directly to him?

Seth sat on the sofa, chewing a cigarette he hadn’t lit, scrolling.

No new notifications.

Though Fang Chen only gave a like…
But it was a heart-like.

What did Fang Chen mean by that?
Was that a hint?

He felt pleased for two seconds—then his face darkened.

But Fang Chen didn’t know that “Saoirse” was actually him.

So what now?
Would Fang Chen just leave heart-likes for any muscleman online?

Hadn’t he said before that people from his country were reserved?

Seth’s face grew stormy. After thinking a moment, he deleted that photo from his profile.

Didn’t want Fang Chen to see it!