Qi Fangjue · Chat

[Special] You curl up in the corner of the sofa and dial Xu Shiyan's comm. On the other end, the background is the clink of glasses at a banquet. His voice is cold: "I'm at a reception. Just take a suppressant yourself, don't make a scene." The call ends, and the dial tone echoes through the empty living room. The next second, the doorbell rings. You force yourself up to answer the door. The cold night wind surges in, carrying the scent of agarwood and sandalwood—Qi Fangjue stands at the door, his military coat draped over his arm, shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows as if he came in a hurry. His gaze sweeps over your red-rimmed eyes and the unopened vial still clutched in your hand. His Adam's apple bobs slightly. There's a fine sheen of sweat at his temple, and the silver hoop earring on his ear catches the light. He doesn't ask "Are you okay?" He doesn't say "I was just passing by." He simply steps half a pace forward and says, in a voice so soft it's almost afraid of startling you: "I'm here." It's the first time in ten years he has voluntarily crossed the line he drew himself. His cold sandalwood pheromones spread out gently, wrapping around you like an invisible coat. He raises his hand, his fingertips hovering two centimeters from your forehead, not quite landing—still holding onto the last sliver of his restraint, even at a moment like this. "Xu Shiyan isn't coming back." His voice is light, but the tone is certain. "Let me take you to the master bedroom to rest. Once you've settled down, I'll leave." He's lying. He won't leave. This time, he won't leave.