Yu Huaiting took the opportunity to tilt his head, his warm, soft lips pressing gently against the back of Fu Songcheng’s hand.
A hand-kiss.
Fu Songcheng’s fingers shrank imperceptibly, but he didn’t pull his hand back.
The warmth that lingered on the back of his hand for just an instant was like a faint yet undeniable electric current, sending an odd shiver through him.
In this moment, for the first time in Death Party, Fu Songcheng truly felt himself returned to his identity as a “superior” in the real world.
Watching the defiance on Yu Huaiting’s face now written over with restraint and docility, an indescribable pleasure surged from deep within Fu Songcheng.
Yu Huaiting’s docility had thoroughly pleased him.
Fu Songcheng lowered his eyes, his gaze falling on the top of Yu Huaiting’s head. He didn’t want to probe into Yu Huaiting, nor did he want to dissect himself.
He simply liked this moment—whether he liked the thrill of “Yu Huaiting submitting to him,” or whether it was simply because of Yu Huaiting himself, he didn’t want to distinguish.
He wasn’t like Yu Huaiting, who had to get to the bottom of everything.
Since this current state made Fu Songcheng comfortable, he decided to let it be for now, leaving everything to time, waiting for time to give the final answer.
He smiled faintly, the coldness at the corners of his eyes and brows completely melting away. He lifted his chin proudly and tapped his fingers lightly twice on Yu Huaiting’s shoulder, signaling him to rise.
“Get up.”
If at this moment one were to open Fu Songcheng’s item, the “Book of the Self,” one would find that on the originally blank pages, densely packed and surging, the three characters “Yu Huaiting” had surfaced.
Yu Huaiting rose, borrowing the strength of Fu Songcheng’s hand.
He actually hadn’t fully understood the deeper meaning contained in Fu Songcheng’s smile, but he could sense that Fu Songcheng’s mood was very good right now.
He continued cleaning up the mess.
After the sweeping was done, he replaced the glass window with a new one. Yu Huaiting clapped his hands, yet didn’t move his feet toward the door—instead he stood in place, his gaze looking at Fu Songcheng with a hopeful, hesitant air.
He wanted to stay but didn’t dare say it outright, so he could only probe with this sticky gaze.
Fu Songcheng found being looked at like this somewhat amusing. He walked to the table, picked up the cake box Yu Huaiting had bought earlier, turned his head, and called out to Yu Huaiting, “The cake you bought—let’s eat it together.”
Yu Huaiting strode to the sofa, impatient yet forcing himself to appear calm, immediately reaching to tear open the cake box’s packaging.
“I’ll open it, I’ll cut it.”
As Yu Huaiting opened it, he didn’t forget to look up at Fu Songcheng. “This is really good—it’s salty.”
Fu Songcheng sat down on the single sofa on the other side, legs crossed. “Is that so? Let me try the flavor you like.”
Fu Songcheng looked at the slice of cheesecake Yu Huaiting carefully handed over, took it, and picked up the small fork to scoop a small bite into his mouth.
Sweet and salty, just right—not cloying.
The dense texture of the cheese and the mellow richness of the milk melted on his tongue, carrying a hint of saltiness, reminding Fu Songcheng of the bakery downstairs from his home long ago.
They also liked making this flavor of cake.
“Very tasty. Thank you.”
Fu Songcheng swallowed the cake and gave his assessment.
Yu Huaiting scooped a big chunk into his own mouth too, enjoying the rare ease and happiness. “Then I’ll buy it for you every day.”
Fu Songcheng raised an eyebrow. “Trying to fatten me to death?”
“Then I’d die too, same as you. But I like this way of dying.” Yu Huaiting ate his cake, his thoughts wandering.
In instances, what was most easily connected wasn’t hope for the future, but possible death. Yet Yu Huaiting tasted a bit of sweetness in it.
“Let’s neither of us die,” Fu Songcheng lowered his eyes and continued eating his cake. “Let’s live on together.”
Hearing this, Yu Huaiting leaned back against the sofa again, an irrepressible smile at the corner of his mouth, though his pace of eating the cake actually slowed down.
How he wished time could stop right here forever.
The room’s soft light fell on the two of them, occasionally punctuated by the light clink of forks against paper plates.
A soft swish, like a cat’s claws kneading the heart.
…
Yet the scene cut elsewhere.
Outside the system barrier, in the monitoring room, the air pressure was terrifyingly low.
Quan Heng stood before the massive holographic screen, his face green.
On the screen was exactly the scene of Fu Songcheng and Yu Huaiting sharing that piece of cake.
No sound came through, but just watching Yu Huaiting’s shameless manner and Fu Songcheng’s proud posture was enough to make Quan Heng burn with fury.
When he’d watched these two fight and give each other the cold shoulder last night, he couldn’t deny he’d enjoyed it. He’d felt this was how Yu Huaiting should be—aggressive, unmanageable, like a lone wolf no one could easily tame.
But in just one day, these two had, right under his nose, been lovey-dovey eight hundred times and fought eight hundred times—their emotions like a roller coaster, plunging sharply then rocketing into the clouds.
It left Quan Heng sitting outside the screen scratching his ears and cheeks in agitation.
He didn’t understand. He completely couldn’t understand!
The free-spirited, wildly unrestrained, imperious Yu Huaiting—how had he turned into this in front of Fu Songcheng?!
An absolute money-losing proposition!
This was also the first time in the half year Quan Heng had been observing Yu Huaiting that he’d seen Yu Huaiting wear an expression called “lost” and “at a loss.”
Yu Huaiting was extremely good-looking.
This was an acknowledged fact throughout all of Death Party.
Though his temper was violent and his methods extreme, in the audience-organized “Beauty Vote” event earlier, with just that face and his wild, untamable air, he’d forced his way into the top five.
And just now, the instant Yu Huaiting knelt on one knee before Fu Songcheng and looked up at him, his eyes seemed shrouded in an unmelting thin mist, his usually blade-sharp gaze flickering with bewilderment.
That animated image had already been captured by high-tier VIP viewers.
No need to check the data—Quan Heng only had to glance at the constantly flashing light screen beside him to know that this image was being frantically shared by viewers.
The comment section was probably already exploding.
In just half an hour, this screenshot would be surging onto the star network’s trending hot search list.
Watching Yu Huaiting lower himself to the dust to please someone else, Quan Heng not only found it absurd—his heart felt like countless jars of vinegar had been overturned, filled entirely with jealousy toward Fu Songcheng.
“How’s the progress on their identity branch now?” Quan Heng spoke through gritted teeth.
The female assistant standing at his rear flank immediately pulled her gaze away from the harmonious cake-eating scene on the screen and rapidly checked her tablet.
She didn’t need Quan Heng to name names—she knew who “they” referred to.
After all, she’d accompanied her boss through a full day of the melodramatic “fight—make up—fight again—keep making up” saga.
Her slender fingertip swiftly swept across the various data metrics on the screen, pulling up the exclusive identity system monitoring panel.
“President Quan,” the assistant’s voice sounded professional, “their previous ‘Bitter Couple’ progress is now at 34%, though there were major fluctuations in between.”
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