Chapter 8

Le Cheng had worked overtime until three in the morning and was supposed to be resting at home today when he got a call. He’d bought the medicated oil from a friend at a traditional Chinese medicine institute; halfway there, Zhou Lang called again, redirecting him to Doctor Qin at the Third Hospital.

By the time he reached the second-floor office at Ning University’s Art College and opened the door, the scene was… awkward.

Zhou Lang stood by the window, arms crossed, while Professor Ji—whom he’d met a few times—sat on a stool, lashes lowered, brows knotted.

Zhou Lang nodded at him. “Put it down and go.”

Le Cheng: “Yes.”

Why did the atmosphere feel so strange? His boss… why did she look exactly like some villain out of a period drama, abducting innocent women and oppressing the helpless?

The door banged shut from outside.

Ji Xiunian sat rigid, unmoving. Zhou Lang picked up the bottle. “Lie down?”

“Really, there’s no need. I can do it myself.”

“Can you reach it?”

“Then let Fang Xun help me.”

“I know the technique.”

Ji Xiunian pushed herself up from the desk—but her lumbar injury flared, pain sharp; a few steps and she sank back down.

Zhou Lang’s hand clamped her shoulder, her eyes boring into hers. “Ji Xiunian. What did the doctors say before? Do you actually want to be paralyzed from the waist down?”

In that moment Zhou Lang remembered accompanying Ji Xiunian to the hospital long ago, the doctor’s warning: a severe lumbar injury could lead to paralysis—it had to be carefully tended.

And what had she done instead? Why did she cherish herself so little?

Ji Xiunian’s voice was calm. “It doesn’t matter. Paralysis would be my own affair.”

Zhou Lang laughed in exasperation. “Well, I don’t consent. Besides, everything there is to see, I’ve seen. What are you being so coy for?”

“I’m not. Please stay out of my business.”

“Fine if you won’t cooperate—then nobody leaves today. You don’t know this, but watching you this flustered is rather entertaining.”

So that was why Zhou Lang was so insistent—because watching her embarrassed and cornered was fun.

Ji Xiunian turned her head away, anger rising in her own chest now, her expression deliberately composed. “Fine. Apply it, then.”

There was a folding bed in the office; the pillow and air-conditioning quilt were her usual nap things. She lay down on her stomach, pulling up the fabric at her back while carefully smoothing down the cloth in front.

But that one stretch of jade-white, slender waist—Zhou Lang, caught off guard, took a single glance and looked aside, steadying her breath.

She exhaled slowly.

The King of Chu loved slender waists—and, evidently, not without reason.

Why did she… seem to have developed this taste too?

Ji Xiunian lay face down on the pillow, her back to her, naturally unable to see—only to hear the sound of the glass bottle being uncapped, resistance churning in her heart… and, somehow, nervousness rising.

She regretted it.

But those hands came down anyway.

The fingertips were cool; the palms, warm. The moment skin met skin, something at the fingertips seemed to jump, ever so lightly.

“Hss…”

Ji Xiunian couldn’t help the sharp intake of breath.

Zhou Lang’s hands stilled. “Does it hurt?”

What the doctor had said on the phone—she’d asked repeatedly, made sure she heard it, memorized it.

How could this be… The doctor never said it would hurt this much.

A bead of sweat rolled down Ji Xiunian’s brow. “It’s nothing. Keep going.”

Zhou Lang frowned, saying nothing, but her movements grew gentler still—downright painstaking.

Yet the sweat on Ji Xiunian’s brow only multiplied, and her anxiety mounted.

In the end, she was merely nudging the medicated oil along with her fingertips, not a grain more force.

It was so light it almost tickled… As the wave of pain receded, Ji Xiunian felt her senses return. It was like a light rain falling on her back, drop by drop… that soft, melting drizzle the old poem called rich as cream.

“O-okay. That’s enough.”

Her breathing had gone uneven too.

Zhou Lang saw the knot between her brows ease, the sweat stop, and let out a breath. “Not done yet. I asked your doctor—he said after applying it, it’s best to massage gently. If it hurts… then you…”

Ji Xiunian said nothing.

From the moment she’d agreed, conflicted, she had lost all initiative.

Now she was fish on a chopping board, left wholly to another’s knife.

Zhou Lang’s technique was actually clumsy—but she used no force at all, feather-light.

Yet these hands… had held hers, had caressed her lips, had… entered her, again and again. Their mere touch was enough to summon every imagining, to wake every hunger.

Ji Xiunian bit her lip.

Dared not make another sound.

The pale-brown oil spread across the snow-white line of her back, like a layer of frosted sugar.

Zhou Lang’s gaze stuck fast too.

The September air still carried summer’s heat; now it thickened into amber honey, ambiguous and blurred.

Until Ji Xiunian spoke, her voice strained and restrained. “…Zhou Lang. Go out.”

Zhou Lang said nothing. Her hands stopped.

“Go out.” Ji Xiunian buried her face in the snow-white pillow, tucking her reddened ear-tips carefully into her hair. “Go out… please?”

Exactly like when they were in love—when Zhou Lang pushed her too far, she would always beg like this, red-faced: please?

In moments like these, Zhou Lang had never once been able to refuse her.

Zhou Lang withdrew her gaze.

She rose and walked out in silence.

Fresh out of Ning University, Zhou Lang was stopped at a red light when her phone rang from home. “Dad? What is it?”

“Your brother, that little brat, got into trouble at school again! I was up a mountain camping with Old Li and the others today when your mother called. His homeroom teacher phoned the house—your mother’s home crying her eyes out.”

“Got it. I’ll go to the school first. Call Mom again yourself—tell her to stop sobbing. Too many tears harm the health.”

The rascal’s name was Zhou Xiang, first year of high school this year, a habitual slacker who teased cats and provoked dogs, never quiet at school, hauled over the coals by teachers every few days.

Evening rush hour was jammed solid. Zhou Lang’s mood had swung wildly today; she was listless and in no hurry, cruising slowly to the gates of Mingchuan No. 1 High School.

She waited outside the school and promptly caught her troublemaking brother, seizing his collar. “Where do you think you’re running?”

Zhou Xiang grinned the moment he saw her. “My dearest sister, my ancestor—what wind blew you here?”

Zhou Lang gave a cold laugh. “Speak properly.”

Zhou Xiang kept grinning. “Whatever your orders, I’m listening.”

Zhou Lang’s face went stern. “Zhou Xiang!”

“Present!”

The youth snapped to attention. “Sis, if you’re going to lecture me, at least wait till we’re home. My classmate’s right over there! Have some mercy, I’m begging you!”

Zhou Lang rolled up her shirt sleeves at her leisure. “Which classmate? The one you pull all-nighters with at the arcade, or the one you drink and brawl with at KTV?”

“Neither, neither—hold on…” Zhou Xiang turned and spotted Ji Anyang coming out, grabbing him at once. “Ji Anyang, help me out! Say something nice about me to my sister!”

The seized youth slapped his hand away, frowning in distaste. “Let go.”

Zhou Xiang wouldn’t release him, and within a few steps they stood before Zhou Lang. “Sis—my deskmate. Academic Representative. Ji Anyang.”

Called out, Ji Anyang gave a helpless, polite smile. “Hello. I’m Ji Anyang.”

A world apart from Zhou Xiang’s boisterous boyish energy, he was composed and reserved, silver-framed glasses on his nose, thin-lidded eyes bright behind them—refined and strikingly handsome.

Zhou Lang froze for a beat.

The surname Ji… What a coincidence.