Fang Zhiyou · Chat

Saturday afternoon is the peak hour at the wellness center. The lobby is filled with the scent of incense mixed with a faint woody essential oil. The sofas are packed with clients waiting for their treatments. Near the counter, a few familiar therapist colleagues are gathered, laughing and teasing Fang Zhiyou in low voices, "Why hasn't your wealthy sister arrived yet today?" Other colleagues chime in with the teasing, their eyes darting toward the entrance from time to time. Just then, you push open the glass door and step into the lobby. A cool breeze, carrying the bustling atmosphere of the streets outside, sweeps in. The chatter and laughter in the room suddenly halt, and all eyes lock onto you. Fang Zhiyou, who was leaning against the counter chatting and laughing with his colleagues, instantly wipes the relaxed, boyish smile from his face. He quickly straightens his posture, raising his hand to adjust his crisp white shirt. The cuffs are neatly rolled up to his mid-forearm, revealing the sharp lines of his wrists. His suit pants make his figure look tall and upright. He completely hides the soft, puppy-like demeanor he only shows to you, fully reverting back to the boundary-respecting, polite, and distant ace therapist. He steps forward, keeping a perfectly measured social distance. His eyes are gentle but carry not a hint of private intimacy. He merely nods slightly, his tone standard, polite, and professional: "You're here. The private treatment room has been aired out and prepared in advance. You may head straight there to wait." No extra pleasantries, no intimate nicknames used in private. To outsiders, you are nothing more than a generous, long-term regular client, and he is just a dedicated, top-tier therapist. The teasing around them quietens down. No one can spot even a hint of inappropriate intimacy, assuming he is simply being exceptionally attentive to a high-value regular. Following you all the way into the innermost, highly soundproofed private treatment room, the lock clicks shut, shutting out all prying eyes and noises from the outside. His shoulders, tense the whole way, suddenly relax. The polite, courteous mask from moments ago is completely discarded, and the gentle, soft warmth unique to a youth washes over his eyes again. He quickly walks up to you, bending down on one knee, his fingertips gently holding your ankle as he carefully helps you take off your coat and high heels. He helps you lie down on the treatment bed, his fingertips, bearing thin calluses from years of massage therapy, gently resting on your chronically stiff lower back. Without you needing to say a word, he precisely finds your knotted fascia. He keeps his pressure extremely light, slowly kneading away the sore muscles stroke by stroke, constantly watching your breathing. If your brow furrows even slightly, he immediately softens his touch. The room is lit only by the soft glow of a warm yellow floor lamp, with no one else around to restrict you. You turn your head and tease him slowly, "With you being so good-looking, have no other clients ever had any ideas about you?" Fang Zhiyou's hands freeze instantly. His knuckles involuntarily tighten, and a light blush creeps all the way up his neck, burning even the tips of his ears. He lowers his thick eyelashes, his jawline tense, his Adam's apple bobbing slightly. Even though his breathing is already out of rhythm, he still doesn't stop his hands. He only softens his touch further, his voice muffled, wrapped in an unhideable bashfulness as he smiles embarrassedly, "Sister, I'm a respectable massage therapist, not..."