YMW CH 61

Acting Coy

“What are you so happy about? Who said you could be happy?”

Cen Wu’s face was expressionless. Under the covers, he aimed a ruthless kick at Xie Guilan—one that could’ve crippled him—but Xie Guilan caught his ankle in a firm grip.

In the pitch-black night, Xie Guilan’s scorching breath grew heavier, his palm searing hot as his thumb traced slow circles over Cen Wu’s ankle bone.

Restrained yet intense.

Cen Wu struggled for a moment before suddenly remembering something, his face flushing crimson. He shoved Xie Guilan away with force, yanking his leg back and putting a full meter of distance between them.

This was too much. He was genuinely afraid Xie Guilan would grab his foot and make him step on him—because Xie Guilan was absolutely the type to do something like that.

“Scared of something?” Xie Guilan’s arms were now empty.

Catching a glimpse of Cen Wu’s burning-red earlobes, realization dawned on him, and his lips curled into a wicked smirk. Yet his tone was deceptively innocent. “Gege, do you really think I’m that kind of person?”

Cen Wu: “…”

Cen Wu: “Aren’t you?”

Xie Guilan stayed silent for a long moment, so long that Cen Wu thought he’d fallen asleep. Inch by inch, he wriggled back under the covers, tugging them over Xie Guilan as well.

Then, out of nowhere, Xie Guilan let out a low chuckle, his voice teasing and shameless. “Yeah, I am.”

Cen Wu: “…”

Damn it. He should’ve just taken Xie Guilan down with him.

But knowing Xie Guilan, he’d probably like that. Cen Wu could already imagine that infuriatingly suggestive tone of his: “Gege, you really want us to die together? How romantic.”

Cen Wu’s ears burned so hot they might as well have been dripping blood. How could one person possibly have skin this thick?

He yanked the blanket over Xie Guilan’s face like he was trying to smother him, growling, “Go—go to sleep!”

Xie Guilan didn’t resist, just kept laughing under the covers before suddenly rolling over and pulling Cen Wu into his arms. At first, he buried his face in Cen Wu’s neck, then shifted lower, nuzzling against his chest.

Xie Guilan was nearly a head taller, so curling up like this had to be uncomfortable—but he stayed like that anyway, arms locked tight.

Cen Wu hugged him back. He couldn’t wrap himself around Xie Guilan the same way—their sizes were too mismatched—but this was enough to chase away the cold of the night.

And the loneliness of all those long, empty years.

Xie Guilan’s hand settled at his waist, his head dipping down to nuzzle against him—soft, affectionate, without a trace of desire. The warmth of it made Cen Wu’s face burn. Unbearable. Who knew Xie Guilan could be so clingy? Damn him.

This time, Cen Wu refused to humor him, and only then did Xie Guilan finally settle down. When Cen Wu’s breathing evened out in sleep, Xie Guilan propped himself up, gathered him into his arms, and whispered, “Good night.”

Cen Wu slept deeply, undisturbed even as he was pulled closer, curling instinctively into Xie Guilan’s embrace.

Huai Jing’s temperature plummeted overnight. The next morning, Cen Wu woke up half-frozen—except for where Xie Guilan’s scorching body heat enveloped him, the blankets wrapped snugly around them both. Only his face was left exposed to the chill.

Xie Guilan had been awake for a while, staying still to keep him warm. Once Cen Wu stirred, he bundled him tighter in the blankets before fetching his clothes—including one of his own sweaters.

“I—I can wear my own,” Cen Wu protested. “What will you wear?”

“I have another one,” Xie Guilan said.

Cen Wu knew better. Xie Guilan barely owned any winter clothes—his so-called family had made a habit of throwing them out every year, hoping he’d freeze. Eventually, Xie Guilan stopped bothering to replace them, just enduring the cold.

When Cen Wu kept refusing, Xie Guilan’s lips curved. “Does shaoye want me to dress you instead?”

Cen Wu stiffened, then snatched the sweater from Xie Guilan’s hands, scrambling into it before yanking on his pants, his face flaming. “Who—who asked you to interfere?!”

Only once Cen Wu was fully dressed did Xie Guilan finally change.

The sweater hung loose on Cen Wu’s slender frame, the deep gray fabric making his skin look even paler. The sleeves swallowed his hands whole, only the cold-white tips of his fingers peeking out as he clenched the cuffs.

Outside, the tenement building came alive—children heading to school, adults grumbling on their way to work.

Xie Guilan turned back and saw Cen Wu swimming in the oversized sweater. Reaching out, he rolled up the sleeves for him, his gaze darkening. Seeing Cen Wu in his clothes fed something greedy inside him.

Like marking him as his. (Not so different from a dog claiming territory, really.)

Cen Wu, completely oblivious, had already thrown on his school jacket and grabbed his backpack, ready to head out. The classroom would have heating—surely warmer than Xie Guilan’s freezing apartment.

Xie Guilan, meanwhile, was wearing only a thin sweater. No matter how resilient a teenager’s body was, that was just begging for a cold.

Xie Guilan packed his textbooks and followed him out.

As Xie Guilan locked the door, Cen Wu stole another glance at his desk—specifically the drawer secured with twelve screws. Inside, Xie Guilan kept chemicals.

Chemistry was Xie Guilan’s best subject. Maybe it was some innate attraction, but he had a disturbing fascination with substances that could kill.

In the original novel, Xie Mingcheng had died horribly—poisoned by Xie Guilan, his organs liquefied until his body dissolved into a pool of blood. Then Xie Guilan had poured several bottles of reagents over his face, burning it beyond recognition, like a butterfly torn apart in a storm.

The Cen family couldn’t stop him. Some paths, once taken, had no return.

This time, Cen Wu swore, I won’t let him go down that road.

By the time they reached school, a dozen or so classmates were already in the classroom. Cen Wu had grabbed breakfast with Xie Guilan at the gate and was just about to take a bite when Zhang Yuanzhou’s jaw dropped, his eyes locked onto him like a laser.

The intensity of the stare nearly triggered Cen Wu’s social anxiety. He froze, food halfway to his mouth, then slowly lowered his head.

“Holy sh*t,” Zhang Yuanzhou finally blurted, waggling his eyebrows. “Second Young Master, why are you wearing Xie-ge’s sweater?”

Cen Wu: ?

He was baffled. It was just a gray sweater—how could anyone tell it was Xie Guilan’s?

Little did he know, this was only the beginning of his social execution. Nearly every classmate who passed him did a double take. Even the ones just arriving gaped openly.

Lu Wang, slinging his backpack over his shoulder, took one look at him and nearly choked. “Why are you wearing Xie Guilan’s sweater?!”

Had his bro just kicked open the closet door?! After all his efforts to keep it sealed?! What was the point of his suffering?!

He Yao, who’d been playing basketball with some guys from another class, walked in and immediately short-circuited, glaring daggers at Xie Guilan.

This shameless bast*rd. How had he moved so fast?

This was the first time he’d seen Cen Wu arrive with Xie Guilan in the morning. They had to have slept together.

Even a few girls sneaked glances at them as they passed. Cen Wu’s head sank lower.

As if that wasn’t enough, Meng Liangping—their homeroom teacher—strolled in, took one look, and let out an amused “Oh?” before circling around to inspect him. “Young Master, is that Xie Guilan’s sweater you’re wearing?”

Cen Wu: “…”

Since when was Xie Guilan this famous?

Xie Guilan was cold and aloof, ignoring everyone, but his looks and grades made him impossible to ignore. He cycled through the same few sweaters and jackets every winter, washing them until they faded. They were memorably plain.

With his sharp, downturned peach-blossom eyes, pale complexion, and towering height, even a cheap sweater looked like designer wear on him.

So yeah, people noticed what he wore—they just didn’t care before.

But on Cen Wu? The sweater was obviously too big, sleeves swallowing his hands. The classroom heating was cranked up, so he’d taken off his jacket to eat—and suddenly, everyone’s attention zeroed in.

Cen Wu opened his mouth, then closed it, ears burning. He shot Xie Guilan a desperate look.

Not that Xie Guilan was any help, but surely even he wouldn’t dare act up in front of the whole class.

“…” Xie Guilan lifted his cold, languid gaze, voice deliberately indifferent. “The Young Master and I are close. Brothers share clothes—it’s normal.”

Cen Wu felt something was off, but it was a plausible excuse. The classmates seemed half-convinced. Just as he relaxed, Xie Guilan continued.

“Since we’re brothers,” he added, lips curling into that infuriating smirk, “sharing pants is normal too. Sharing a bed is also—”

Cen Wu: “…”

Cen Wu: !!!

His ears exploded with heat. He stomped on Xie Guilan’s foot under the desk, willing him to shut up.

Meng Liangping looked baffled. His eyes were scales—after twenty years of teaching, he’d sniffed out countless puppy loves. If not for that baby, he’d have suspected something between these two.

But with the baby in the picture…

He nodded approvingly. “Exactly! This is how classmates should help each other.”

Xie Guilan, having just endured a near-bone-crushing stomp, took a moment before adding, “Teacher is right.”

The surrounding students looked dead inside. *Can the flirting couple please get out of Class 2-3?*

Cen Wu: “…”

When do tickets to leave this planet go on sale?

The morning self-study bell rang, scattering the crowd. Cen Wu fled to his seat.

Their Chinese teacher, Zhang Biao—a shriveled old man with hawk-like eyes—patrolled the room, merciless against any mischief.

Cen Wu rubbed his burning cheeks, only for Zhang Biao’s gaze to snap toward him. He dropped his hands instantly, forced to endure the rest of class with a face redder than a tomato.

After class, he overheard Zhang Biao complaining to Meng Liangping: “Lao Meng, the heating’s too strong! Look at the poor kid—his face is crimson. How’s he supposed to focus?”

Cen Wu: “…”

That’s it. I’m killing Xie Guilan.

Refusing to speak to him further (stupid protagonist, ruining my peace), Cen Wu pulled out the notebook Xie Guilan had prepared for him and started reviewing, working through the formulas step by step.

His Chinese and English were already strong, so Xie Guilan had focused on STEM—condensing key equations and problem types, each with detailed reasoning.

Cen Wu had always brute-forced formulas into his memory, but Xie Guilan’s notes were meticulously detailed. By following the logical steps, the concepts stuck without rote memorization. Each page paired theory with progressively challenging problems—basic exercises, advanced applications, then competition-level questions.

No fluff. Just concise summaries of his past exam mistakes, ruthlessly targeting his weak points.

By the end of morning self-study, he’d only covered three pages, yet his mind felt sharper—no more chaotic cramming.

November, Start of Winter—Midterms Ended

The moment Cen Wu stepped out of the exam hall, icy wind slapped his face. He shivered violently. Huai Jing’s winters were brutal; even in early November, many were already bundled in thick coats.

Something warm suddenly pressed against his cheek. Startled, he blinked—a奶茶 cup.

“For you.” Xie Guilan held his backpack in one hand, offering the drink with the other. His fingers, usually pale, were red from the cold. He’d clearly left the exam early to wait.

Cen Wu took the lychee milk tea, sipping as they walked home.

Since winter began, Song Lingwei’s health had worsened. Xie Guilan dropped Cen Wu off and headed straight to the hospital.

She’d just finished vomiting, her face flushed from retching, breaths labored as she leaned against the bed. A nurse patted her back.

“You can’t keep throwing up like this,” the nurse fretted. “Xiao Xie, maybe ask the doctor again—”

“Sister Li,” Song Lingwei interrupted, smoothing her hair. “Give us a moment.”

Once alone, she handed Xie Guilan a lab report, her voice trembling with joy. “Xiao Lan… I’m pregnant.”

Xie Guilan froze. Then his expression darkened. Two months along. His fingers crumpled the paper. “Abort it.”

---

The Trap

Song Lingwei shouldn’t have been able to conceive. She’d been bedridden for years, guarded by Xie Mingcheng’s men—Xie Guilan couldn’t even visit unless summoned.

Now he understood why Xie Mingcheng had come.

Disgusting.

That man was a rat, burrowing into her body, tainting Xie Guilan’s very blood.

“Listen to me,” Song Lingwei said gently, reaching for him.

He stepped back.

Her frail body couldn’t survive childbirth—congenital heart disease, lung failure, clotting disorders. She’d barely carried Cen Wu to term.

She knew. This pregnancy wouldn’t last.

But it was useful.

“Xie Mingcheng is tired of Zhou Li,” she whispered. Divorce would cost him millions. But if Zhou Li died…

With this baby, she could sway him. They had history—childhood sweethearts. She’d even paid his college tuition.

Xie Mingcheng couldn’t dirty his hands now, not with the underground casino’s scrutiny. But Xie Guilan?

A perfect scapegoat.

“Haven’t you suffered enough?” Her eyes glistened. “You’re smart—find a way. Zhou Li and Xie Shangjing have to die. Then we’ll finally belong in the Xie family!”

When he didn’t respond, her voice turned venomous. “They deserve it.”

Xie Guilan had covered his tracks perfectly ten years ago—his only “mistake” was warning an old man to stay home. A calculated risk.

She knew.

So why not now?

Xie Guilan’s gaze was Arctic. “You think it’s that simple?”

Zhou Li’s death would point straight to Xie Mingcheng—then to her. And Xie Mingcheng would sacrifice them both to save himself.