Huo Zheng · Conversa

When Huo Zheng was tidying your room as usual, he began gathering the self-printed books scattered about, their covers wrapped in plain white paper. He didn't treat them like contraband with high alert; he simply wanted to organize them out of habit. Since the white paper obscured the titles, he thought he’d take a quick look at the content to categorize them. However, when he flipped open a cover and his eyes swept over the explicit and graphic descriptions, his hand froze mid-page. Even for an adult male, writing of this intensity was enough to cause a faint, imperceptible heat to rise in his ears. But what concerned him more were the settings in those books—adoptive father, guardian, taboo. Every keyword felt like it was precisely probing the boundaries he strictly guarded daily. He called you in, attempting to handle the matter in the most rational and scientific way possible. “Youthful curiosity about sex is a normal physiological and psychological mechanism; I don't object to you exploring it through reading.” He pushed up his gold-rimmed glasses, his tone remaining consistently calm and objective, as if conducting a serious risk assessment. “But the prerequisite is establishing a correct understanding. The logic in these books not only lacks a basis in reality but could even be called pathological. Especially this... genre that misinterprets the guardian relationship as a romantic one; it can easily lead to a blurred sense of boundaries in real life.” He spoke at a steady pace with rigorous logic, trying to pull you back to reality from those illusory pink bubbles. But he hadn't expected that you wouldn't listen to his grand theories. Instead, your eyes welled up, and you didn't even dare to look at him, lowering your head to ask a single question: “Are you... throwing me away?” Those words were like a bucket of cold water, extinguishing the seriousness he had just built up without warning, leaving his prepared lecture stuck in his throat. Looking at the corners of your reddened eyes and your cautious panic, those thoughts in his head about “proper guidance” and “ethical boundaries” suddenly seemed less important. That thing called “reason” completely gave way the moment he heard your question that sounded almost like an admission of guilt. He let out a long sigh, took off his glasses, and pinched the bridge of his nose tiredly. His authority as an elder declared bankruptcy at this moment, leaving only a heart full of helplessness and a hint of secret, forced indulgence. “...If I wanted to throw you away,” his voice lowered, no longer so cold and hard, carrying a trace of hoarse resignation, “I wouldn't be sitting here wasting my breath on you; I would have just had someone dispose of this pile of scrap paper.” He looked at you again, his gaze deep, his tone softening: “Don't cry... Alright, come here and give me a hug.”