Professor Xu: “I actually know a Chinese medicine practitioner who has tailored therapies for easing emotional distress. Colleagues who feel depressed or under heavy pressure often ask him for prescriptions.”

Zhou Sicheng: “Please give me his contact information.”

Seeing that Xiang Zhen’s symptoms were unusual, Professor Xu offered a disclaimer in advance: “This practitioner I know mainly treats menopausal women. If it turns out to be ineffective, Mr. Zhou, please don’t make things difficult for him.”

Zhou Sicheng forced a bitter smile: “Make things difficult?”

If he dared to make things difficult for anyone, Xiang Zhen would vomit right in front of him.

The moment Xiang Zhen ran into the bathroom, his symptoms cleared up completely, as if he had just put on a show out of nowhere to scare him.

Looking at his reflection in the mirror, Zhou Sicheng reached out and messy-ruined his blonde hair into a bird’s nest. But because his hair was too silky smooth, it slowly returned to its original tidy shape after a moment.

Why? Hadn’t he listened attentively in class? Professor Xu’s lecture made a lot of sense, so why did he still feel like vomiting whenever he saw a capitalist?

His mind felt as though it had been split in two: one half corrupted by the capitalist, while the other held the line, indestructible.

Before becoming Zhou Sicheng’s spouse, he was first and foremost a proletarian fairy.

First come, first served.

He and Zhou Sicheng were truly finished.

He turned his head to look out the window. It had started to rain; after a wave of searing heat, the sun went to rest. In late June, the rainy plum season began to blanket Haishi.

It was somewhat uncomfortable for humans, but the plants were growing wildly.

He wanted to go outside; he longed for the vast sky and open earth.

Perhaps if he and his husband separated for a while, everything would be fine. When longing comes rushing back, any obstacle will crumble into dust.

Xiang Zhen took out his phone and sent Zhou Sicheng a message.

[Xiang Zhen: Hubby, I want to move out. Please take care of the sunflower for me.]

The sunflower he grew—his blood-related sunflower—was all entrusted to Zhou Sicheng.

Since the sunflower was here, he would definitely come back.

[Zhou Sicheng: No way. I’ve already canceled the lease on the rented apartment.]

[Xiang Zhen: I can just squeeze in with Manning.]

[Zhou Sicheng: Wife, please give me one more chance, okay? I hired a Chinese medicine practitioner, and he’ll be here this afternoon.]

Xiang Zhen’s heart softened. Fine.

In the afternoon, the old practitioner arrived, bringing shiny silver acupuncture needles.

Xiang Zhen had just extended his fair white wrist, but got so frightened that he quickly pulled it back and hid it behind his back, like a child getting a vaccine shot at the hospital.

The old practitioner tried to put on a gentle and pleasant expression like Professor Xu, but born with a fierce look, the effect wasn’t strong: “Give me your right hand.”

Xiang Zhen looked around; only the housekeeper and Ye Yun were present, as Zhou Sicheng didn’t dare show his face.

Then he could only be a little braver on his own.

Xiang Zhen reached out his hand: “I don’t want acupuncture.”

He quickly added: “I don’t want to drink traditional Chinese medicine either.”

Traditional Chinese medicine was the culmination of treatments for human intractable diseases. He was a sunflower; it wouldn’t help him at all, only make him suffer for nothing.

The old practitioner placed his fingers on the pulse, his expression gradually growing profound: The pulse was so remarkably healthy that he didn’t know where to start asking. Whenever he met young people normally, he would at least ask first if they often stayed up late.

“When did you start feeling like vomiting?”

“When I see my husband.”

The old practitioner: “What about other times? For instance, when eating? Or right when waking up in the morning?”

Xiang Zhen shook his head, doing his best to prove that his body was normal: “None of those. Whenever I don’t see my husband, I’m perfectly fine.”

Housekeeper: “I can testify to this; Madam isn’t making things up.”

When he wasn’t looking at Young Master Zhou, Madam was completely like a cheerful little sunshine. But once he saw Young Master Zhou, he turned into a sickly little lamb.

“How strange.” The old practitioner had only ever seen pregnant women suddenly become sensitive to a certain thing, either extremely loving it or extremely loathing it.

Such an unscientific association was not something the old practitioner would voice aloud.

“Could we ask Mr. Zhou to step in? I want to see if acupuncture can suppress the vomiting reaction.”

His family had an ancestral acupuncture technique that worked well against morning sickness; it might not be the exact right treatment, but it was worth a try.

The old practitioner casually uttered words that made Xiang Zhen’s face turn pale.

He stared wide-eyed at the door panel; he knew Zhou Sicheng must be standing behind it and had heard the practitioner’s words.

“No…”

Xiang Zhen shook his head in fear, terrified of Zhou Sicheng coming in, terrified of the silver needles landing on his body—the sharp needle tips felt just like falling lightning bolts. For some reason, during this period, he had a strong desire to protect himself and didn’t want to suffer any external physical injury.

The old practitioner began washing and disinfecting his hands, taking out silver needles from the needle box, and having the housekeeper disinfect them once more.

The doorknob was turned, and Zhou Sicheng walked in.

Xiang Zhen immediately closed his eyes.

Zhou Sicheng coaxed gently: “Zhenzhen, open your eyes.”

“Hubby, I’m not sick.” Xiang Zhen fluttered his eyelashes open with a slight tremor. The moment he saw Zhou Sicheng, his breathing instantly turned ragged.

“Zhenzhen isn’t sick.” Zhou Sicheng rubbed his head and signaled the old practitioner to insert the needles.

Xiang Zhen hid his hands firmly behind his back.

Zhou Sicheng: “Ye Yun, hold his hands.”

Ye Yun had no choice but to pull out Xiang Zhen’s wrists: “Don’t be afraid, it doesn’t hurt. We’ve dealt with worse bruises and sprains before.”

The old practitioner inserted a needle into Xiang Zhen’s Neiguan acupoint.

Xiang Zhen didn’t dare struggle with all his strength, because the people holding him were all people who loved him. He could only look pitifully at Zhou Sicheng, hoping Zhou Sicheng would save him like a god descending from heaven.

The more he thought this way—a god—the more violent the reaction in his stomach became.

Perhaps having a premonition, he hadn’t eaten anything at noon. Right now, he was merely dry-heaving violently, tears streaming all over his face.

Through a thick layer of tears, he locked eyes with Zhou Sicheng. It had been a long time since he looked at his husband like this, with Zhou looking even more defeated than him.

The pain between the two seemed separated by the Milky Way; neither could comfort the other.

It was Ye Yun’s first time seeing Xiang Zhen vomit like this. The strength in his hands loosened again and again, but Xiang Zhen couldn’t feel his leniency at all. He just stared unblinkingly at President Zhou, as if only President Zhou could save him.

The old practitioner: “Zusanli acupoint.”

Xiang Zhen couldn’t actually feel much pain from the needles; it was entirely the discomfort forced out by various psychological resistances. He stubbornly stared at his husband, silently locked in a tug-of-war with Zhou Sicheng.

Stared at by his wife’s eyes filled with fear and pleading, Zhou Sicheng’s sanity was teetering on the edge, his guilt long since bursting through the dam.

The old practitioner: “Zhongwan acupoint.”

When he noticed that even Xiang Zhen’s soft blonde hair—his absolute favorite—was trembling from fright, Zhou Sicheng felt an overwhelming sense of doom.

“Forget it.” Zhou Sicheng reached out and covered Xiang Zhen’s eyes.

Hearing this, the old practitioner immediately withdrew the needles. Judging by Mrs. Zhou’s reaction, he clearly wasn’t cooperating; without cooperation, there would be no effect.

Xiang Zhen’s chest heaved up and down. After a long while, he opened his eyes, only to find Zhou Sicheng was already gone.

He fell onto the bed in the bedroom, feeling deeply saddened.

Acupuncture didn’t hurt at all. He had taken advantage of Zhou Sicheng’s soft heart; he hadn’t cooperated with the solution his husband tried so hard to arrange. He was so bad.

The adult world was far too complicated. When people reached a certain age, they would miss their childhood.

Xiang Zhen missed the simple, worry-free days in the hazelnut forest.

Zhou Sicheng silently walked the old practitioner out.

Sensing President Zhou’s heavy atmosphere, the old practitioner sighed inwardly. When a young man of high power and status felt helpless, he was still intimidating without even showing anger.

Zhou Sicheng: “Since you’re already here, write him a prescription to soothe fright and anxiety.”

Xiang Zhen had been terrified today.

“That works too.”

The old practitioner pondered for a moment and wrote a prescription used for easing morning sickness during pregnancy. Pregnant women could take it, and it would do no harm to a normal person either: “President Zhou, you had better hire a psychologist for counseling instead.”

“Alright.” Zhou Sicheng let out a self-deprecating laugh. So what if he was a capitalist? Even with all his wealth, when it came to treating his wife’s illness, he was still passed around from one department to another like a shuttlecock.

In the evening, the housekeeper brewed a bowl of traditional Chinese medicine for Xiang Zhen. It looked pitch-black, though it wasn’t actually that bitter.

Through the feed sent back by Little Sunflower Bag, Zhou Sicheng watched as Xiang Zhen poured it decisively into the toilet without tasting a single drop.

His hands clenched into fists, the raised knuckles pressing forcefully against the solid wood desk until the sensation of pain transmitted to his central nervous system, bringing back his composure.

Zhou Sicheng took down his childhood Planting Diary from the bookshelf. Lightening his footsteps, he walked to the front of the bedroom, crouched down, and placed it outside the door.

Little Sunflower Bag came out to pick it up and handed it over to Xiang Zhen.

Xiang Zhen didn’t drink the medicine; instead, he drank a bottle of plum juice Little Sunflower Bag had stolen for him. It was dark, sour, and extremely delicious.

“Master, Master, quickly take a look at this book!”

Xiang Zhen sat up, legs crossed, and flipped it open.

Opening the title page…

He saw a line of vigorous and powerful characters written in gold ink:

“Zhoufu was passed down to me by my father; protecting Zhoufu is my responsibility. This planting diary was passed down to me by my mother. Just like you, I am merely a boy who grew into a young man while growing sunflowers.”

“A person holds multiple identities within social relationships. Could you treat me as just an ordinary fellow sunflower enthusiast?”

“If not, we can step back to the past. The BYD is already fully charged, and I’ll be waiting for you in the car.”

Tears streamed down Xiang Zhen’s face.

He turned to the next page and saw even more childish handwriting, neatly recording entries like “Today the sunflower sprouted,” “Today the sunflower grew two leaves”…

Zheng Ai had printed out photos of the young Zhou Sicheng with sunflowers and turned them into sticker collages.

Xiang Zhen saw the teenage Zhou Sicheng.

He didn’t have the swift, decisive, stern, and cold air of the adult Zhou Sicheng; he was just a carefree child who excelled in both character and academics.

Just like… just like how the sunflower was in the hazelnut forest.

Xiang Zhen suddenly understood that what couldn’t be returned to was the past. He couldn’t return to the hazelnut forest, and Zhou Sicheng couldn’t turn back into that little kid from the past either, because… his big husband was still handsomer, and going back to the past meant losing that.

Xiang Zhen closed the book, hugged the planting diary, quickly jumped off the bed, unlocked the door, and went to find the BYD.

As if predicting that he would come out, Zhou Sicheng had arranged people at every turn to guide him, helping him escape this palace-like villa that felt so foreign to him.

Until he caught sight of that familiar white BYD, Xiang Zhen stopped in his tracks.

Beep, beep.

The BYD’s taillights flashed twice.

Xiang Zhen suddenly hesitated, the image of Zhou Sicheng playing the piano under the daylight floating into his mind.

He couldn’t forget it.

In that instant, he realized everything was in vain.

Seeing Zhou Sicheng inside the BYD, he would still feel like vomiting, because he simply couldn’t forget.

Zhou Sicheng was born to hold control over everything. He belonged living here.

Xiang Zhen took two steps back, lacking the courage to step forward.

Lowering his head, he sent Zhou Sicheng a message.

[Xiang Zhen: Hubby, it’s no use.]

[Zhou Sicheng: Why not give it a try?]

The high beams of the BYD turned on, illuminating the space ahead into a dazzling white, like a bright, wide road.

Zhou Sicheng opened the car door and stepped out with a long leg.

Xiang Zhen looked at him. Was Zhou Sicheng planning to give up a lifetime of affluent living conditions for his sake?

This was far more profound than spending lavish sums in a fit of passion.

Zhou Sicheng wanted his wife over his empire.

Xiang Zhen’s blood surged with excitement; he wanted so badly to kiss his husband, to feel skin against skin, and to make love with his husband—even right here in the car.

Zhou Sicheng leaned his whole body out of the car, the high beams shining behind him like the radiant glow of the sun: “Wife, let’s go home.”

Xiang Zhen gripped his pant legs tightly, his fingernails digging into his flesh.

Yet, his body violently screamed at him to stay away, or else it would make him suffer.

Because his mind was filled entirely with thoughts of making love with his husband, the punishment this time was especially severe.

Afraid that Zhou Sicheng would feel sad seeing him like this, Xiang Zhen turned and ran back in a hurry, even stumbling slightly—a rare sight for him.

Zhou Sicheng stood alone in the wind until all the lights went out.

Even this wouldn’t work?

Did he have any other options left?

He did.

After a long silence, Zhou Sicheng retrieved his phone from the car and dialed a number.

…

Fan Hao’s most dreaded phone call of the past few days had finally arrived.

Zhou Sicheng: “Pick up my wife tomorrow and bring him back to work at the bank.”

Fan Hao: “Did you two make up?”

Silence reigned on the other end.

Zhou Sicheng: “You know what you need to say to him.”

Fan Hao: “…” Zhou Sicheng, you’ve truly fallen hard.