Fu Xiling’s kiss started off gentle, just the first touch—teasingly soft, totally on purpose, messing with Shi Zhi’s breathing.

Once it got going, though, it turned aggressive, dripping with heat.

That chair he’d pulled over was kinda like a single-seater rocking sofa.

Shi Zhi was wrapped up in his arms, practically plastered against him, swaying unsteadily with the chair’s rhythm, propping herself up with an elbow on his abs.

At first, she was a little out of it.

Even with the curtains shut tight and the room dim, it was still broad daylight—no booze, stone-cold sober…

Shi Zhi hesitated.

But her body? Loved it—thrilled by it. That tingling pleasure spread fast, smashing through her reason.

She leaned back, pulling away.

Then stood up, straddled his lap, grabbed his face, and went harder than he did—straight into a deep kiss.

Noses brushing, breaths tangling.

Every time they kissed, it felt like a fight.

Neither backing down.

Shi Zhi’s competitive streak was insane. She rarely chatted with people around her, didn’t toss out opinions much.

But if she was dead sure she’d win at something, she’d leave no room for anyone else. Even kissing was like, “You nip me once? Cool, I’m biting back.”

So by the end, it got wild—almost suffocating.

Fu Xiling called it quits, leaning back in the chair. “Stop biting.”

He was grinning, asking why she always went for the bite.

Their breathing was shaky. Shi Zhi stared at him—there was a smudge of blood on his lip.

The air smelled of ointment. Once she caught her breath, she said, “The stuff on your back rubbed off on the chair.”

“No biggie. The fabric’s special. Last time a buddy sat there eating spicy sticks, spilled oil wiped right off.”

Shi Zhi figured Fu Xiling had a good sense of boundaries—pretty gentlemanly about this stuff.

Kissing was just kissing.

Unless she made a move for more, no matter how intense it got, he wouldn’t push her further.

She liked that.

She slid off his lap, mood lifted, and just said, “Alright, I’m heading out.”

Her wrist got snagged.

Fu Xiling stood too, tugging her to the kitchen, showing her a dark gray enamel pot and some matching insulated containers on the counter.

“Too much stuff—I can’t finish it alone.”

He gave her wrist a light squeeze, hinting she’d have to eat anyway, so why not stay and help him out.

Shi Zhi didn’t answer straight. “Put your shirt back on.”

Fu Xiling caught her drift, laughing for a solid minute. “You’ve got some nerve—use me and ditch me, huh?”

He’d just been in the hospital, so the food sent over was all light stuff.

Shi Zhi loved spicy—steamed perch, shrimp with bamboo shoots, okra with minced meat custard? Not her thing.

Even the chicken was steamed with chestnuts.

But the five-finger peach yam pork rib soup in the enamel pot? Surprisingly tasty.

She suddenly remembered him saying “a friend sat there eating spicy sticks” and frowned. “Who made this soup?”

Fu Xiling scooped some yam and ribs into her bowl. “Ms. Zheng Qingman.”

A girl?

Shi Zhi dropped her spoon, arms crossed, unimpressed. “Fu Xiling.”

This was too much.

Sure, Fu Xiling could have all kinds of girls around—he didn’t exactly scream “goody-two-shoes” with his vibe.

But feeding her something another girl painstakingly made? That was low in her book.

“Eat up, princess. Zheng Qingman’s my mom. Want me to show you her ID pic?”

Don’t rich folks hire cooks?

Her face must’ve given her away, because Fu Xiling dove into it.

Said his mom was from the south, a soup-making genius, super skilled.

Didn’t cook much anymore, though—last time was when his dad tweaked his back playing golf.

If he hadn’t gotten sick, they wouldn’t be tasting Ms. Zheng Qingman’s work.

“Today’s decent—pork rib soup. Earlier at home, she kept stewing gastrodia pig brain. I was done.”

Neither brought up the crazy kissing or labeled it.

Instead, they slid into work talk.

Fu Xiling asked, “When you asked if I helped with your job stuff, what’d you mean?”

Shi Zhi told him about meeting Fu Qian.

Kept it vague—no full name, just said she met a “Fu Zong” who gave her extra attention, even offered a job skipping the final round.

Fu Xiling seemed clueless about it. “Which company did you hit up? Ran into my relative?”

“Not your ‘Fu.’”

He dropped his lashes, thought for two seconds, then named the company. “Was it Fu Qian?”

“Yup.”

Shi Zhi was still on the fence, showing him a few email offers. “If it were you, which looks better?”

Each company had pros and cons. Shi Zhi’d done her homework, had a rough ranking in mind.

She asked Fu Xiling mostly because of Fu Qian.

That option wasn’t in her plans—her hesitation was all about Fu Qian.

He was sharp, caught her drift.

Skipped the others, just talked Fu Qian. “Fu Qian’s the GM for Xingrong Group’s Zhongbei region. Met her at a few events—super impressive.”

At a place like Xingrong Group, landing a regional manager gig meant you were top-tier.

Fu Qian outplayed her rivals in her thirties, climbed to exec level, now juggling two regions—Zhongbei and North.

“If you network more later, you’ll hear gossip about her. Stuff like her promotions were shady, or she’s single and childless ‘cause she’s got someone backing her. Don’t buy it.”

He seemed cool with the bland food—handled it better than spicy lobster or crab.

Set his chopsticks down, wiped his mouth with a tissue, and grazed the spot Shi Zhi bit, wincing with a soft “hiss.”

Shi Zhi wasn’t falling for it.

Guy who took a concussion without a peep, acting fragile over a nicked lip?

She tapped the table twice. “Why’d you think I’d hear that gossip?”

“‘Cause you’ll probably pick Fu Qian.”

She was leaning that way.

The company she’d passed the final for had studied her resume, liked her interview—felt like real validation.

Fu Qian was different.

If Fu Xiling hadn’t pulled strings, her reasons for picking Shi Zhi were a mystery.

Unknowns meant higher risk.

But the upside? Working straight under a regional GM was a bigger career jump, more exposure…

Worth the gamble?

“You and Fu Qian vibe personality-wise. Could be worth a shot.”

“My trial-and-error cost is high. What’s your take—why’d Fu Qian pick me?”

Did those fake resume lines—“patient,” “great team player”—hook a hardcore boss like her?

No way…

“Shi Zhi, you believe some people click at first sight?”

She was blunt, said whatever popped up. “Used to.”

Fu Xiling gave her a deadpan look, paused—probably guessed who she’d “believed in.”

He didn’t steer it toward Shen Jia, though, just shared more about Fu Qian.

Gave her high marks, then tossed the napkin in the trash by his feet. “Also, your shirt’s dirty. Wanna change?”

Shi Zhi had on a short-sleeve tee, dark.

Must’ve picked up ointment from their kiss—chest splotches looked like toothpaste or gum.

She didn’t borrow his stuff, just peeled off the tee. In jeans and a sports bra, she hit the sink, dabbed hand soap on the fabric, and scrubbed lightly.

Fu Xiling zoned out, silent for two whole minutes.

Once she got the stains out, he asked, “Planning to head out tonight?”

“When the shirt’s dry.”

He laughed. “You here to check on a patient or take advantage of one?”

She’d come to see how he was holding up.

He’d gotten hurt tagging along to the bar, blocking that chair for her—basic human decency meant she couldn’t not care.

Who’d have thought it’d turn into this?

Her bad.

Showed up empty-handed, ate his fruit and food, picked his brain on jobs, and made out with him for ages.

Definitely took advantage of Fu Xiling a bit.

She never bowed or softened for anyone, deflecting hard. “What patient? You’re clearly fine.”

“True.”

He loaded the dishwasher. “Stay here tonight. I’ll drop you off tomorrow—gotta hit B University anyway.”

Warm water rinsed the suds off her shirt. She squinted. “Why’re you always at our school?”

“Friend’s doing grad school there, losing it. Drops pounds monthly. I swing by to feed him—worried he’ll starve.”

At “friend,” Shi Zhi glanced up, catching his reflection in the mirror.

A mix of curiosity and teasing—like, “Oh, another girl friend, huh?”

It was the weekend, no classes, so she wasn’t rushing back.

A free ride beat buses and subways—she didn’t push to leave. Skipped the hairdryer, grabbed a hanger, and hung the shirt on his balcony.

Fu Xiling asked, “Need a shirt to borrow?”

With his “friends” sounding plentiful, Shi Zhi felt zero guilt.

Figured it could be like before—kiss when she felt like it, no strings.

She spread her arms, showing off her figure, smirking. “What, can’t handle me like this?”

He chuckled. “I can’t. But I’m snapping a girlfriend pic for the fam—you sure about that look?”

“Fine, I’ll wear something.”

She headed for the closet.

Passing his pile of gifted flowers, she slowed, giving them a second look.

Nice stuff—not like the cheap roadside bouquets from school startups. Fancy packaging.

The roses stacked in the back? She didn’t care—glanced and moved on.

Hunting for loungewear, Fu Xiling leaned on the doorframe, chatting. “You got a thing against roses?”

“Kinda.”

“Spill?”

Not a huge deal.

Growing up, tons of guys chased her. A few of the annoying ones happened to send red roses.

People form patterns, right?

Creeps she hated kept tying “red roses” to their creepy moves. Over time, she just couldn’t vibe with them.

College made it worse.

A senior pulled a big confession—ninety-nine red roses, megaphone blaring her name downstairs, spouting cheesy lines.

Thought he was hot stuff, got buddies to hype him up, howling like cavemen till the dorm auntie chased them off.

Freshman year, Shi Zhi already stood out—people noticed but didn’t bug her much.

The “ninety-nine roses megaphone” stunt spread somehow, and bam—she was “famous.”

More guys from school, even outside, clocked her. Some saw her as a challenge, chasing harder.

The more they did, the more she hated it.

Thinking back still pissed her off.

She grabbed his pajamas from the rack—just the top, slipping it on without unbuttoning, head popping through with a scowl. “Wasted his looks.”

“Wasted what?”

Shi Zhi judged the rose-sending senior. “Behavior aside, he wasn’t bad-looking—just acted like his brain got slammed in a door.”

Calling a guy “not bad-looking” meant he passed her visual test.

As she stepped out, Fu Xiling reached over, tugging the pajama top down where it’d bunched up on her back.

His bent index finger grazed her spine’s dip, slow and deliberate. “Not bad-looking, huh? What’s that like?”