"Ah…my head hurts…like someone hammered it."
I murmured while holding my temples, my thoughts fuzzy. What really happened last night? I can't remember clearly, except…yes, I was in my personal library, and Ye Chan came in to talk. The same topic again, maybe. But then…how did I end up lying here? The memory slipped away like smoke.
Tch, I shouldn't force my head to think when it's pounding like this.
I scratched at my hair, long strands tangling around my fingers. With a groan, I reached blindly toward the bedside table, searching for my smartwatch. When I finally grabbed it and looked—
"7:40?!"
My eyes widened. My meeting is at 8:00, and it takes at least thirty minutes to reach the office with all that cursed traffic. I'm the CEO, the main one, and I rarely even show up there. If on the few days I do go, I still arrive late—what kind of joke would that be?!
I sat up so quickly my head spun, one hand still buried in my hair, torn between scratching and despair.
"Oh my God, I'm late! Ye Chan?! Where are you? Why didn't you wake me? Don't you remember I have an important meeting today? I may be clumsy, but you're supposed to be the strict one. At least wake me up!"
Half-asleep, half-panicked, I stumbled out of bed, nearly crashing into the wall before saving my poor nose at the last second. God, I really am more childish than my own son. Still, I know one thing for sure—Ye Chan can never find a better father than me, even if he sold off my heart or kidney. Haha.
We're like plus and minus, he and I—perfect balance. Without him, I'm lost. Without me, he's incomplete. We're the best pair of father and son, I know it.
I rushed to the basin, splashing water on my face, brushing my beautiful teeth, and quickly combing through my iconic long hair. People often compare me to those historical figures because of it, and honestly, I don't mind. Ye Chan and I are famous for our rare looks, after all.
It's not my fault—we were made this way. Without our hair, we'd look like furless cats, so of course, we let it grow long. He followed me, as a son should, and I can't deny he looks stunning with my style. Girls must be falling left and right for him, though he never spares them a glance. No wonder Le Lan calls him Wangji.
Still, I was sure my rule-keeping boy had already left me behind and gone to the office. But when I peeked into his room, there he was…still asleep.
I froze in amazement. Was he sick? Or too angry with Le Lan to go? He wasn't even sleeping like usual—so straight and stiff he could pass for a corpse in a coffin. No, today he slept like me—messy, alive, mouth parted, sprawled on his back, his head tilted toward where I stood.
Strange. Too strange. A chill of unease crawled into me. Was my beloved son hiding something from me? A secret in his heart…or some hidden pain in his body?
"Ye, my boy? Why are you still asleep? It's late. Don't you plan on going to the office today?"
I asked softly, brushing his hair from his face. It was still damp—he must've taken his usual cold shower, a habit he'd learned from me. He swore it helped him sleep better, though I sometimes skipped it. Yet he dies it like drinking water regularly .
I gave his shoulder a light shake. No response. He lay still as stone. My heart seized. No, no, not dead…he can't be…he's fine, right?
Panic swelled in my chest. I shook him harder.
He gasped and stirred, his sharp brown eyes half-lidded, puffy with sleep. Relief poured out of me in one long breath.
"What's wrong, my boy? Deciding to be a normal human today?"
I asked, lifting him gently to sit and holding him close against me. Half to soothe him, half to calm the fear in my own heart.
He only hummed, already drifting back to sleep against my neck. I had seen him weak only twice ; when his mother left us and by allergy . My strict, disciplined son—always sharper than me, always colder—now soft, fragile, leaning on me like when he was small. Who taught him to be so unyielding anyway?
I sighed, stroking his back. Weird or not, at least he's acting human today…not a robot.
"Ye Chan," I whispered, my voice low, "how can I know what's wrong if you don't tell me? I'm not some cultivator from a novel, able to see through your heart with one glance."
My face pressed into his long hair, breathing in the familiar lavender scent. He still loved that fragrance…just like his mother.
He didn't answer, only turned aside to sneeze softly, the sound delicate but worrying. My heart clenched tighter. His face was flushed—eyes, nose, lips—all tinged red.
I knew at once. The allergy...again . The one he'd had since childhood. It always worsened when he was stressed.
I cupped his face, urging him gently. "Hey…look at me. Let me read your eyes, your face…let me understand."
He met my gaze, eyes heavy and pained.
I didn't speak again. Instead, I pulled open the drawer, took out the syringe, and steadied him by the waist. The needle pierced his chest, and he hissed, face tightening with pain. No matter how many times, that sting never grew old.
"There," I murmured, laying him back down. "Don't go to the office. I'll cancel the meeting. I'm the CEO, aren't I?"
I stroked his hair as his eyes fluttered shut. He grasped my hand, pressing it against his fevered forehead like it could cool him. He sighed, and nodded faintly.
My poor boy. Born with a soft heart, but forced to look hard. Broken once by his mother, then hardened by the struggles with me. Burdened with illness, bound by discipline. Who knows how many more secrets lie hidden in his heart and body?
I only pray none of them will take him away from me.