Hua's POV:
When I opened my eyes, I didn't recognize the room.
Big bed. Soft sheets. The faint smell of men's perfume.
Wait…
This wasn't my room.
I sat up, blinking around. Everything looked… minimal. Neat. Too neat. Like someone lived here, but not really lived here. White walls, grey furniture, no photo frames, no mess, no soul.
Then I heard it — the sound of running water.
A shower.
The bathroom door was inside the room. A private bathroom?!
Damn, how rich is this man?
I stood, quietly, eyes roaming everywhere, pretending not to be snooping while very much snooping. There had to be something personal — a photo, a book, maybe a secret drawer? Nothing. The man really was a robot.
The water stopped.
Crap.
I jumped back into the bed and shut my eyes, pretending to sleep like a bad actress in a cheap drama.
Footsteps.
The sound of a towel rubbing against skin.
He was close — too close.
I peeked through my lashes.
And immediately regretted it.
He was half-naked. Hair still wet, water dripping down his chest, a white towel hanging low on his hips. My heart skipped a beat. My brain short-circuited.
God, why is he so hot?
I squeezed my eyes shut for real this time, pretending again, but my breath betrayed me. He leaned in — I could feel the bed dip under his weight, drops of water falling on my cheek.
Then suddenly—
"Gotcha."
He tickled me.
I screamed and burst out laughing, flailing. "Stop! That's not funny!"
"Oh really?" His voice was smug, but the smile tugging at his lips was warm.
Embarrassed, I grabbed his wrists and tickled him back, revenge-style. He laughed — actually laughed — and in the mess of it all, he lost balance and fell right on top of me.
We froze.
His hands were on either side of my head. Our faces inches apart.
The air between us got weird.
Intense.
My chest was rising too fast.
He blinked, startled by his own reaction, then pushed himself up, clearing his throat.
"Sorry."
"R-right…" I mumbled, avoiding his eyes. "I should… probably go home."
I stood, brushing off imaginary dust, but before I could take two steps—
"Actually…" he said.
"Actually what?"
"Your mom said she wouldn't let you back in."
"What?!"
"She told me she'd lock the door. So…" He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. "You can have my room. I'll sleep on the couch."
"You met my mom?!"
"I tried to drop you off, but she insisted I bring you here."
I covered my face with my hands. "God, she's unbelievable…"
Then my stomach growled. Loud.
Again.
He chuckled. "You're something else."
I glared weakly. "Don't laugh!"
"I'll cook something. Stay here."
"In that towel?" The words slipped out before my brain could stop them. My eyes widened. "I mean— you can't cook without clothes! You might burn your… um, abs— I mean skin!"
He arched a brow, amused. "I'll take your advice."
When he came back dressed in a soft grey jogger and a simple white T-shirt, I almost choked.
Why did casual look so good on him?
I followed him to the kitchen, pretending I was just thirsty.
"Make yourself at home," he said easily, pointing at the fridge.
Inside: water, sparkling water, and more water. Of course.
I sighed. "Robots don't drink juice, huh?"
"What?"
"Nothing."
He opened the cupboards, pulling out ingredients. "I'll make pasta."
His tone had this fake TV-chef enthusiasm that made me giggle.
He looked up, caught me laughing, and I panicked.
"Oh—I just… love pasta!"
He smiled. Dimples. Dimples! I was doomed.
Then something on the side caught my attention — a sleek marble shelf lined with tall bottles. Alcohol. Expensive-looking ones.
I grinned.
"Mind if I…?"
He hesitated. "You and alcohol…"
"I won't drink that much! I'll make us cocktails!"
He froze again. Then sighed. "Sure."
Victory.
Within minutes, I had created six different drinks like some kind of chaotic bartender. We toasted before tasting. The first sip hit like heaven — and like trouble.
Soon, his cheeks were red. I felt light. Giddy.
"Let's play a game!" I announced, waving a spoon like a microphone.
He laughed — really laughed. "What kind of game?"
"Truth or drink!"
He nodded, intrigued. "You start."
I leaned forward dramatically. "What's your biggest shame?"
"Being drunk while making pasta," he said without hesitation.
I burst out laughing. "Good answer."
"Your turn," he said, smiling lazily. "What did you like about my brother? His money?"
Ouch. Low blow.
But I kept my cool.
"I didn't even know he was rich until I got hired," I said, laughing awkwardly. His face, though, turned serious — surprised.
"Wait. He never told you who he was?"
"Hey—no follow-up questions! My turn!"
He smirked, playing along.
"Would you rather sleep with your ex or your secretary?" I asked, grinning wickedly.
He blinked, then drank.
Yes!
"Okay, your turn!" I shoved the spoon toward his lips.
He frowned, dizzy. "I… don't know…"
"Then it's my turn again!"
I leaned closer. "What's your type?"
His eyes met mine.
And for the first time, he didn't hesitate.
"You."
My brain froze. "Wh-what?"
"You're my type," he said quietly.
I laughed, nervous and flustered. "You're lying! Drink!" I reached to give him the glass, but he moved at the same time — and the glass slipped.
We both grabbed for it, missed, and it shattered on the floor.
"Damn!"
We both crouched, trying to clean it, but before I could move, he scooped me up — literally lifted me off the ground.
"Hey—what are you doing?!"
"There's glass everywhere."
His voice was gentle but firm, like he wasn't giving me a choice. His arms were warm, his breath close to my ear.
He carried me out of the kitchen, stepping into the hallway.
I was too drunk to protest, too close to breathe properly.
Then I noticed it — a trail of red.
"Yichen…" I whispered. "You're bleeding."
He froze, glanced down at his foot — a thin line of blood running along his ankle.
"It's nothing," he muttered.
"Nothing?! You stepped on glass, it must hurt!"
I squirmed in his arms, but he wouldn't let me down. Our faces were so close I could see the water in his lashes, the faint pink on his cheeks.
"Stop moving," he said softly. "You'll fall."
"Put me down," I insisted, voice shaky but stubborn. "I'm fixing that cut before it gets infected."
He sighed, finally setting me on the edge of the couch. "You're stubborn."
"And you're bleeding," I shot back, heading for the bathroom to look for a first-aid kit.
When I came back with antiseptic and cotton pads, he was sitting obediently, one foot propped up. I knelt in front of him, concentrating like it was surgery.
"This might sting," I warned.
"It's fine."
The moment the disinfectant touched his skin, he hissed. "Damn—okay, maybe I'm fine now. You can stop..."
I couldn't help giggling. "Told you."
"Do you usually bully injured people?"
"Only stubborn ones," I said, dabbing carefully. His skin was warm under my fingers. "Hold still."
He did—too still. The silence turned heavy, intimate. His gaze followed my every movement.
When I reached for the band-aid, a strand of hair slipped over my face. Before I could tuck it back, his hand moved.
Gently, he brushed it behind my ear.
My breath caught.
The touch was soft, hesitant—almost reverent.
When I looked up, his eyes were already on me.Close. Focused. Unreadable.
Neither of us spoke. The air buzzed like static. My pulse hammered in my ears.
"Done," I whispered finally, sticking the last bandage on his ankle.
He smiled faintly. "Doctor Hua."
"Don't make fun of me," I muttered, standing too fast.
He leaned back, still watching me. "You're blushing."
"I am not!"
"You are."
I grabbed the empty bottle from the table, desperate for an excuse to look anywhere but at him. "I—I'll go to sleep first, okay?"
"But the food?" he asked.
"I'm fine! I'll eat tomorrow. It's getting late anyway."
I forced a smile, backing toward his bedroom.
He looked like he wanted to say something, but only nodded. "Goodnight, Hua."
"Goodnight," I whispered, and darted away before my heart could give me away.
In the quiet hallway, I pressed a hand to my burning face.
What just happened?
A few drinks, a little blood, and suddenly my pulse was rewriting the definition of danger.
I slipped into his room, shut the door, and leaned against it, breathing hard.
The faint scent of him lingered in the air—clean, crisp, maddening. I buried my face in the pillow just to hide from myself.
Somewhere in the living room, I heard him laugh softly, like he already knew I wasn't sleeping.
And that terrified me more than anything.