MW CH29

Chapter 29: Your Drinking Habits Are Truly Awful

Inspecting each platinum feather’s shape—careful, missing no detail—I only spared a sliver of focus for Bai Qifeng on the headset once all hundred-plus feathers met my standards.

“What’d you just say? Repeat it.” I straightened, signaled the craftsman—OK, next step.

My casual tone irked him. “Can’t you respect your father a bit?”

Rolled my eyes inward. “Didn’t I pick up?”

“Took ten calls!” Bai Qifeng accused. “If I hadn’t texted it’s about Manman, you’d skip the eleventh too.”

This old fool—less shame with age, blurting truth like that.

“So what’s up with Manman? Can you skip the rest?”

Choked by me, helpless—he just breathed deep, over and over.

“I owe you all!” Then, finally, the point.

Sun Manman told her parents she’s hiking Shannan with friends this summer—climbing Canglan Snow Mountain. Her mom flipped—too remote, unsafe; snow mountain? Doubly so.

Bottom line: No way.

The girl—spoiled, yes, but always sweet, obedient—her folks figured opposition would settle it. Nope. Grown now, she’s got her own mind—called it her lifelong wish, going regardless.

Steadfast—threats, bribes, tears, pleas—nothing swayed her. Bai Qifeng, out of moves, came to me.

Eight years apart, half-siblings—she’s close to me. Back when he pushed me toward bureaucracy over “fancy” jewelry design, she messaged me—teeny, twelve or thirteen—saying I could chase anything, she’d back me forever. Now, facing my old fight, how could I side with him?

“She’s twenty, not two—can’t you respect her choice?”

Lately, this hits raw—my own baggage seeping in, unbearable.

“How long will you cage her? Forever? She’s human, not your pet bird. Wrong guy—I won’t talk her down.”

Outside the factory—overcast, wind sneaking through every gap—I hunched, pulled up my parka hood, hands in pockets, fast to the lot.

“Which parent doesn’t think of their kid? We’ve got reasons—would we harm her? You make it sound like we’re choking her freedom. Lushan, Taishan—who’d stop her?” Bai Qifeng’s temper flared, set on arguing right and wrong.

Meant to spare him some face—he dove in, so don’t blame me for biting back.

“Which parents don’t care? Mine.” Stopped at the car, sneered. “Need a reminder how I grew up?”

Silence—then, weak: “We… never shorted you materially.” Lame excuse—call fizzled. “Forget it—pretend I didn’t ask.” Hung up.

Hood off, in the car—earbuds back in their case. Time’s close—set nav for Haicheng Uni, then hesitated. Worried for Manman, I sent her a voice message.

“Bai Qifeng just called—said you’re hiking Shannan, climbing Canglan Snow Mountain this summer? I’ve got friends there—when’re you going? I’ll join.”

Phone buzzed—not her.

[No need to pick me up—I’ll get to the restaurant myself.]

Mochuan’s text—brows pinched. What? So mad he won’t even ride with me—scared my shameless filth’s contagious?

[Fine.]

Tossed the phone—switched nav, started the car, left the lot.

Traffic crawled—near the restaurant, almost time. Parked, rushed in, multitasking—listened to Manman’s reply.

“Scared me—thought you’d talk me out of it! Planned for summer, but my friends found hikers heading there—working folks, no breaks—so we’re shifting to May Day.” Her sweet voice cooed. “Bro, you’ve hiked abroad tons—join us? Mom and Dad’ll chill.”

Exactly my thought—held back earlier, fearing pushiness. Her invite? Perfect.

“Cool—May Day, I’m in.”

Replied, spotted Yan Chuwen inside—sped over.

His pick—a niche private diner. Big stage at the entrance—zither strumming, fake rocks, water, lotus props, dry ice mist—pure ethereal vibes.

“Mochuan not here?” Sat across Yan Chuwen.

He looked up, waved his phone. “Just checked—he’s on the subway, almost here.”

Should’ve let me grab him—subway hassle…

Jacket off, hung on the chair—greeted him, hit the restroom. Back—Mochuan’s there.

Yesterday’s fury, disgust—gone. He eyed me—same as ever. So poised, I itched to stir him—pick the sore spot, crack that calm.

“Zhao Chenyuan said you took me home last night?” Sipped water, casual. “No drunk antics, right?”

Mochuan unpacked disposable cutlery, head down. “No.”

Did I bite too hard? No stud today—left earlobe faintly red, like frostbite if you didn’t know.

“Really? Good. My drinking habits suck—lose it when smashed.” He dodged—I pressed.

Maybe last night flashed—chopsticks gripped, fingertips whitened briefly.

“Then drink less.” He set them gently on the saucer.

Scoffa. “You can’t drink, so you don’t—I can, why not? If I die tomorrow, this is my last meal—no booze then, regret’s on me.”

Yan Chuwen, buried in ordering, piped up. “Want some wine?”

We both turned.

Clueless, he scrolled. “Their plum wine’s solid—Bai Yin, you in? Wait—you drove?”

Last night hit hard—not blackout, but today’s off. Normal gig, I’d pass—but after mouthing off to Mochuan, backing off now? Lame.

“Yeah—proxy driver’s fine.” Glanced at Mochuan. “Yesterday, Zhao Chenyuan’s treat—I drank, he got a proxy, Mochuan took me upstairs.”

Yan Chuwen nodded—no curiosity why Mochuan was at Shen Jing’s bash.

“Let’s get a pot—I’ll join. Mochuan, you?”

Mochuan tapped his teacup. “Water’s good.”

Order in, Yan Chuwen adjusted his glasses, jumped in.

“Your ear—what’s up? Frostbite?” He’d clocked Mochuan’s red lobe too. “Not used to Haicheng weather?”

“No…” Mochuan rubbed it—voice dropped. “Bit by a blind ‘bug.’”

Yan Chuwen gaped. “Bugs now? Haicheng Uni dorms that bad? Get some cream—could be toxic.”

Me: “…”

Blind bug? Noted that jab.

One plum wine pot down—Yan Chuwen’s toast, face red as a monkey’s ass. Ordered another—soloed it.

End of the meal—same as last night—slumped on the table, out.

Yan Chuwen nudged me—no dice. To Mochuan: “Bai Yin… drunk, looks like.”

Mochuan paused—I sprawled, guessing he’s cursing my weak, reckless ass inside.

Then—a long sigh, clear. “Call a proxy—I’ll take him back.”

Eerie repeat of last night—except no directing the driver. At my complex, Mochuan guided him right to my building.

Elevator—I draped over him, blurry-eyed, staggering. He unlocked with my fingerprint—inside, dark—I dropped the act, yanked his fumbling hand from the switch, pinned him to the opposite wall.

Kissed his earlobe soft—sparing its state—lips slid down, new turf—bit his Adam’s apple hard.

Round-neck black sweater today—neck, throat bare. Wanted this all dinner—bite that fragile spot, make him arch like a wounded swan, beg mercy…

“Mmph…” He groaned low—head tipped back, skull on the wall.

“Bai Yin!” Voice shook—pissed.

Ignored him. Drunk—how could I hear?

Teeth grazed that jutting bone—not too hard—one hand on his shoulder, the other slipped under his sweater.

Hand cold—his heat stark—he jolted at the touch.

“Bai Yin…” He grabbed my hand, twisted away from my lips. “Let go…”

Not too far—let him hold, palm flat on his stomach, lips and nose nuzzling his neck.

Post-Pengge, thought I’d let go—him the Pinjia, me the designer, no more ties.

Wrong—couldn’t drop it. One look, and the filthiest thoughts clawed up.

Why not? Why hold back?

This life—I’ve never restrained this long!

Corridor light leaked in—breath hot, ragged—I pulled back, eyes on his lips—move in—he yanked my hand, flipped me, slammed me to the wall.

Heat pressed behind. “Your drinking habits are truly awful—and your manners worse.”

Tone dark—free hand on my neck, squeezed warningly—choked a second, then eased—grabbed my jaw, forced my head up.

“…Too awful.” Fingers slid into my mouth—voice low, tracing the teeth that bit him.

Shivered—hand braced the wall—fear crept in.

He’s not… mad enough to yank my teeth, is he?