They waited in the pavilion for quite a while before the rain finally began to let up. Not daring to wait any longer—worried that the mountain paths would become even more treacherous after dark—they hurriedly made their way down.
After a stumbling, arduous journey, they finally made it back to the homestay just before nightfall.
“Thank goodness you two made it back safe!” The homestay owner stood at the entrance, and upon spotting two figures emerging through the drizzling rain, he finally let out a sigh of relief. “The rain was coming down so hard earlier—I remembered you two said you were going to the rear mountain, and it scared me half to death!”
Both Sheng Lin and Xia Yiyang had their pants and shoes completely soaked, but luckily their jackets were waterproof, so they weren’t completely drenched.
Sheng Lin noticed the owner holding a flashlight. He looked down the corridor into the courtyard, where everything was pitch black.
Sheng Lin understood: “Power outage?”
“Yeah, the flash flood knocked out the electricity,” the owner said with a worried frown. “No telling when it’ll be fixed.”
Sheng Lin: “Can we still take a shower?”
“The water heaters won’t work—only cold showers available.”
Cold showers? They’d already been soaked in the rain for so long—taking a cold shower would surely make them sick.
But there was no choice. The power outage from the flash flood was beyond anyone’s control, and there was no point getting worked up about it.
Xia Yiyang was already exhausted. His whole body felt cold, and all he wanted was to get into a warm room and rest: “Boss, stop chatting—let’s just go back to the room and sleep.”
He’d said this to Sheng Lin, but to the homestay owner standing nearby, it took on a completely different meaning.
The owner crossed his arms over his chest, his eyes wide with shock, striking a resolute, unbending pose: “This is a respectable homestay! I’m here for conversation, not… that!”
Xia Yiyang: “…”
Oh right—he’d forgotten this was Rongcheng.
He quickly explained it was all a misunderstanding. Whether the owner believed him or not was anyone’s guess—but the poor young master’s flawless reputation had taken a hit.
Back in the room, Sheng Lin deliberately brought it up: “Didn’t I tell you not to call me ‘boss’? See? That’s what made the owner misunderstand.”
Xia Yiyang protested: “If you’d just agreed right away, there wouldn’t have been any misunderstanding!”
“Now you’re blaming me again.” Sheng Lin raised an eyebrow. “I’m five years older than you—by age alone, you should be calling me ‘brother.’”
“…” Xia Yiyang looked at the man’s face, opened his mouth, but that simple word got stuck in his throat, making his heart pound wildly.
Come to think of it, Xia Yiyang had never had any older brothers—neither paternal nor maternal cousins. He did have two younger cousins, but the age gap was significant, and they never really hung out together—they barely saw each other outside of holidays. So in Xia Yiyang’s world, the word “brother” felt quite foreign.
Sheng Lin had taken care of him for so long that he’d long surpassed the role of “boss.” Calling him “brother” would be no loss to Xia Yiyang, but he just couldn’t bring himself to say it.
He chose to avoid the issue altogether, burying himself in organizing his backpack.
His sports bag had also gotten wet from the rain, but luckily it was waterproof, so the contents hadn’t been soaked through. Inside were three things: a power bank (the most crucial item during a blackout!), a few pieces of candy and two sausages (gifts from the little girl they’d helped), and… an individually wrapped fortune cookie.
Ever since Qin Zaozao had given it to him, the young master had carried it everywhere, quietly waiting for the right moment to open it. In fact, while they were in the pavilion, Xia Yiyang had been tempted to crack it open and ask when the rain would stop—but he’d held back.
He’d save it for next time—when he couldn’t decide between spicy hotpot or braised beef for dinner, then he’d let the cookie give him an answer.
While Xia Yiyang was tidying up, Sheng Lin stepped out for a bit. When he returned, he was carrying two thermoses.
“Even though the power’s out, the gas is still on,” the man explained. “I asked the owner to boil us some hot water. You can wipe yourself down first—don’t catch a cold.”
His thoughtfulness always exceeded Xia Yiyang’s imagination.
The young master quickly said: “Thanks, boss!”
Sheng Lin raised an eyebrow: “Which boss?”
The young master stammered for a while, then fell silent again.
Xia Yiyang went first to wash up, and Sheng Lin brought the hot water into the bathroom for him. Unfortunately, the bathroom had no window—the only frosted glass was on the door. With the power out, he had to turn on a flashlight just to see his surroundings.
The boy was still wearing Sheng Lin’s T-shirt. He sat on a small stool in front of the bathtub, with a basin of warm water mixed to the right temperature. Carefully, he took off the T-shirt—he should have tossed it straight into the laundry basket, but for some reason, he brought it up to his nose and sniffed it instead.
He buried almost his entire face in the soft fabric, filling his nostrils with a familiar scent.
It was his own smell.
—What a shame. Sheng Lin’s scent was already gone.
Along with the disappointment came a sudden rush of rationality. When Xia Yiyang realized what a foolish thing he was doing, a wave of intense embarrassment crashed over him.
As if electrocuted, he flung the shirt away. He stared at the T-shirt lying on the bathtub like a cat bristling at a harmless cucumber.
But after half a minute, the boy’s face still flushed, he walked back over, picked up the T-shirt, folded it neatly, and placed it on a high spot where it wouldn’t get wet.
…Don’t ask why.
Please, just don’t ask him.
In the bathroom, the sound of splashing water went on for a while before stopping.
This was the first time Xia Yiyang had ever used warm water to wipe himself down, and he couldn’t quite gauge how much water to use—he’d turned the whole bathroom into something resembling a water-splashing festival. One thermos clearly wasn’t enough; he still felt sticky and not properly clean—a shower would have been so much better.
He had no choice but to call for help: “Boss? Boss?”
“Who are you calling?” The man’s voice came from outside the door.
Whoever answers, that’s who.
Xia Yiyang went on: “I don’t have enough water—can you pass me another thermos?”
After a moment, there was a knock on the bathroom door.
Xia Yiyang grabbed a towel to cover his lower half, padded over to the door, turned sideways, cracked it open just a sliver, and stuck his hand out.
The position was a bit awkward, but he stubbornly kept it that way.
Through the crack, Sheng Lin could see the bathroom floor covered in puddles. Patches of water dotted the ground like miniature lakes, catching the flashlight’s beam and reflecting blinding white light—like shattered, swaying moonlight.
Amidst that swaying moonlight, a slender, fair hand waved in the air.
“Water? Water?” its owner called.
Like a spirit.
Sheng Lin felt his throat go dry. He handed over the second thermos. The hand’s owner took it but couldn’t pull it away—Sheng Lin’s hand was covering the back of it, holding firmly.
The man asked: “I carried two thermoses of hot water up here for you, and you used them all. What do you have to say?”
“Uh… thanks, boss?”
“How many times have I told you—still calling me ‘boss’?”
“…”
The boy fell silent again.
He’d always been like this—spoiled and stubborn, wearing his displeasure plainly on his face. When he didn’t like something, he’d clam up, not saying a word, just glaring with those clear, black-and-white eyes, cursing internally.
Sheng Lin couldn’t see his face now, but he could imagine Xia Yiyang pouting behind the door.
They remained in this standoff—him holding the thermos, the boy holding his hand—neither willing to let go first.
The warmth that had barely gathered in the bathroom was nearly gone, seeping out through the door crack. Sheng Lin watched the tiny goosebumps rising on the young master’s arm from the cold and finally relented.
Forget it, he thought. It didn’t matter. Being his boss for life was fine too.
So Sheng Lin let go and stepped back to a safe distance, watching the thermos wobble and disappear through the crack.
He smiled wryly to himself and turned to leave, when suddenly a soft voice came from the crack:
“…Thanks, Brother Lin.”
Then, as if his eyebrows were on fire, the owner of the voice slammed the bathroom door shut, leaving only the damp, sticky moisture lingering in the air.
That “Brother Lin” was too fast, too soft—it clung to Sheng Lin’s heart, light yet weighty, carried on the steam. For a moment, he even thought he’d misheard.
But Sheng Lin knew he hadn’t.
Because after a little while, another voice came from behind the door: “…Brother Lin, go get me another thermos of hot water!”
“…Brother Lin, I’m so hungry—can you go ask if there’s anything to eat?”
“Brother Lin, after my shower I want instant noodles! The sour soup beef flavor! And a braised egg to go with it!”
“Brother Lin, I forgot to grab my pajamas—hang them on the door for me!”
“Brother Lin, my shoes are soaked through—can you put them out to dry for me?”
Sheng Lin: “…………”
Brother Lin, Brother Lin, Brother Lin, Brother Lin—each one louder than the last, each one crisper, each one more brazen than the one before.
What could he do? The young master was born to be waited on.
Where was that shyness from just moments ago? That flutter in his heart? That coy hesitation, that almost-but-not-quite retreat?
It had only been a few minutes, and yet commanding his “Brother Lin” had become second nature.
Outside the door, Sheng Lin felt a headache coming on—like he’d taken in a chirping baby bird that never stopped making noise.
“It’s all ready for you. Hurry up and come out,” Sheng Lin knocked and urged him. “Xia Yiyiyi.”
“…” One hit, direct hit—the bathroom fell silent again.
After a long while, Xia Yiyang emerged, shuffling and dawdling in his pajamas, carrying Sheng Lin’s T-shirt in his arms. In the dim room, the boy’s face was alarmingly red, the tips of his ears practically burning.
Was the water for wiping down too hot?
Probably not.
The young master stammered: “Brother… uh, Brother Lin, what—what did you just call me?”
So Sheng Lin repeated it, a smile in his voice: “Yiyi—Xia Yiyiyi.”
Xia Yiyang heard it clearly this time. He looked up in a panic, his eyes filled with shattered embarrassment: “How do you know—wait, why are you calling me that?”
“Why can’t I?” Sheng Lin deliberately countered. “You call me ‘brother,’ and I call you ‘Yiyi’—isn’t that only natural?”
Where was that natural?
Everything was natural. Nothing was natural.
Yiyi was Xia Yiyang’s childhood nickname. Only family had ever called him that—not even his classmates or friends, who either called him “Xiao Yang” or “Yiyang.” This was the first time in his life someone outside his family had called him by that name. And it was also the first time in his life he’d called someone else “brother.”
Xia Yiyang felt dizzy, his hands trembling so much he could barely hold the light T-shirt. He wanted to go ask that fortune cookie again—was the pounding in his chest really just his heart?
Weak-kneed, he walked over to the bed to sit down. Outside the floor-to-ceiling window, a light rain continued to fall, as damp and restless as the young master’s thoughts.
Next, it was Sheng Lin’s turn to go into the bathroom to wash up.
Xia Yiyang’s heart, which had just barely calmed down, began to stir again—how had he not noticed earlier when he was showering that the frosted glass on the door showed silhouettes?
The translucent frosted glass blurred the figure, but that very blur made it easier for the imagination to run wild.
The flashlight’s beam clearly outlined the man’s tall, powerful frame. Sheng Lin grabbed the hem of his shirt with both hands, pulled it up in one smooth motion, and removed it completely—his back muscles spreading out like a perfect sculpture.
Then he bent down to unbuckle his belt. A soft click of the buckle, the belt slowly pulled out, and his jeans hung loosely at his waist.
He grasped the waistband with both hands. Coming off with the jeans was—
Xia Yiyang instinctively covered his eyes—but couldn’t resist peeking through a gap between his fingers.
Wait—what did he just see?
The young master was stunned, wondering if he was hallucinating.
Was it just the lighting? Was it perspective? Had Sheng Lin secretly stuffed a flashlight down his pants?
—How could two men be so different?
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