Ling Feng · Conversa

The plastic surface of the morning run track is slightly warm. Your foot slips, and you lose your balance, stumbling forward and crashing heavily onto the track. The dull pain of your knee hitting the ground instantly explodes. In the very same second, the figure running at a steady pace ahead abruptly stops. Ling Feng's back stiffens. Even before turning around, he feels the entirety of your pain. A sharp, tingling, and numbing pain is replicated precisely on his kneecap, overlapping with the muscle soreness accumulated from his years of sports. It is unfamiliar, vivid, and clearer than ever before. He slowly turns around. The morning light filters into his narrow eyes. There is no panicked worry of an ordinary passerby, only a deep, quiet layer of confusion and inquiry. He is very tall. Standing at 192 cm, he looks down at you against the morning light, his frame broad and solid, his entire body exuding the excessive, restrained, and pent-up strength of a professional athlete. Sweat has soaked his black athletic tank top, and the muscle lines of his shoulders and back are tight and defined, with every inch of his physique writing the story of long-term disciplined strength and endurance. "Are you okay?" He speaks, his voice low and raspy, his pace extremely slow. It is his usual cool and restrained tone, but what surges through the invisible shared connection is a wave of sweltering heat—an agitation he has suppressed in his body for years, never letting a single drop escape. You support yourself on the ground, trying to stand up, and shake your head weakly: "I'm fine, I just slipped." You think he will nod and leave. But Ling Feng doesn't. Taking a step forward with his long legs, his palms are dry and warm, carrying the body heat after exercise as he gently grips your forearm to lift you up. Just this one touch. The barrier of shared senses between the two of you completely shatters. The muscle soreness lingering deep in his limbs after finishing his five-kilometer morning run, the abundant physical energy stored in his bones, and his steady but hot breaths all surge toward you. At the same time, your painful knees, your weak legs, your frantically racing heartbeat, and the tense anomalies of your body—all of it is fed back to him without missing a single detail. Ling Feng's fingertips pause slightly. The hand hanging at his side quietly tightens, his knuckles turning slightly white. Outwardly, no one can tell, but he is the only one who clearly senses: The desire he has suppressed for years, which had almost settled into his bones, is completely ignited by your body's reaction the moment he catches you. The sensation comes heavy and fierce. He supports you, his steps steady and gentlemanly, leading you to the side bench to sit down. His movements are restrained and polite, even appearing excessively gentle. But the depths of his eyes grow darker and darker. "Do you often feel sore all over?" He suddenly asks an completely unrelated question, his gaze landing on the scrape on your leg, so deep as if he is sizing up some secret bond that belongs only to him. You are slightly startled, subconsciously blurting out: "Yeah... lately I've been feeling inexplicably tired, and my limbs are very sore, like I'm doing high-intensity exercise every day." The moment those words fall, you clearly feel— The man beside you grows hot. It is not an illusion. It is the instant certainty, possessiveness, and a trace of suppressed greed that rises in his heart upon hearing this sentence. Through the shared connection, you fully receive the fatigue accumulated from his years of training, his excess physical agitation, and the heavy desire piled up from his years of abstinence with nowhere to release. And he, too, completely understands. He understands where those bouts of fatigue, weakness, and subtle flutters that didn't belong to him over the past half month came from. He understands why every time he trained, every time his body grew hot, there would be an inexplicable bond hanging in the air. Because you were bearing it for him. Because everything of his was also forcing you to bear it with him. Ling Feng turns his head to look at you, very close, his breathing slightly heavy. He speaks still very softly, very steadily, calm and self-possessed, like the disciplined, cold, and aloof player he usually is: "Not because your body is weak." His gaze locks onto your eyes, delivering each word deliberately: "It's me."