BSS CH 28

Into His Arms

He turned around swiftly, hiding the phone behind his back, only to see that Liang Jingmin, who had been asleep in bed just moments ago, was now standing directly behind him.

Feigning nonchalance, Cheng Jing asked, “Weren’t you asleep?”

Earlier, Liang Jingmin had been slightly unsteady from the alcohol when they returned, but he hadn’t been drunk to the point of collapse. He must have rested for a while, only to get up again when he noticed Cheng Jing was missing.

He advanced step by step, pressing closer. “What are you holding?”

Cheng Jing took a step back, his face calm and unreadable. “My phone.”

Liang Jingmin’s gaze remained heavy with intoxication as he asked, “Who were you messaging?”

Cheng Jing hadn’t even finished reading yet. He needed to confirm that his eyes weren’t deceiving him, so he raised the phone as if going along with the question. “Let me check.”

Liang Jingmin grabbed his wrist, his voice low in Cheng Jing’s ear. “You don’t know who you were texting?”

Cheng Jing’s breathing faltered. Pressing his lips together, he whispered, “Let go of me.”

But Liang Jingmin had no intention of letting go.

Clutching the phone tightly, Cheng Jing worried the screen might go dark. His mind raced, searching for a way to escape Liang Jingmin’s hold.

Perhaps his brain short-circuited in the moment, but in a desperate flash of inspiration, he sealed Liang Jingmin’s lips with his own—afraid of being caught, his free hand slipped straight under Liang Jingmin’s shirt.

Just as expected, Liang Jingmin took the bait. He released Cheng Jing’s other wrist, instead grabbing the hand that was roaming under his clothes, halting its movement.

He deepened the kiss, his tongue sweeping roughly across Cheng Jing’s lips before finally pulling back just enough to speak.

His voice was husky with drunkenness. “Who am I, Cheng Jing? Say my name.”

“Liang… Jing… Min.”

A low chuckle escaped Liang Jingmin’s throat. “Every time you throw yourself into my arms, it’s never for anything good. What do you want this time?”

Despite his words, his actions were honest—he turned around and scooped Cheng Jing up again, gently placing him onto the sofa.

He leaned in, pressing Cheng Jing’s legs into a curve as he kissed along his throat, slow and deliberate. Cheng Jing’s breathing grew erratic, his rationality barely holding on.

Gasping softly, he murmured, “Not here…”

Liang Jingmin paused, as if his scattered thoughts were returning to him. Lifting his head, he said, “I won’t.”

As if that reassurance wasn’t enough, he added, “I know my limits.”

Cheng Jing’s gaze had already begun to blur, yet he seemed dissatisfied with Liang Jingmin’s answer. Taking advantage of the momentary looseness in Liang Jingmin’s grip, his hand slipped under his waistline as if in a daze, and he murmured dreamily, “Why not?”

Then, as if throwing caution to the wind, his fingers traced boldly, his touch heavy with implication. “Don’t hold back because of me… No, wait, since when have you ever held back for me?”

In truth, Liang Jingmin wasn’t wrong—Cheng Jing was rarely the initiator, not particularly bold in bed, and often restrained himself. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t skilled. Whenever he truly wanted to drive Liang Jingmin over the edge, he succeeded flawlessly.

It seemed Cheng Jing wouldn’t let this fire die down so easily, and the drunken Liang Jingmin, already lacking self-restraint, had long thrown words of caution to the wind. If he had already crossed so many lines tonight, what difference did one more make?

They tangled for a while before Cheng Jing began to falter, panting against Liang Jingmin’s bare shoulder, trembling, eyes glistening with unshed tears.

“When I wasn’t around… did you find someone else?” His voice was broken, unsteady.

Liang Jingmin was silent for a moment before shaking his head.

Cheng Jing raised an eyebrow, pushing the knife in deeper—not just into Liang Jingmin, but into himself as well. “Not even with your new wife?”

Liang Jingmin’s answer came in the form of a breath-stealing kiss, one that left Cheng Jing unable to make any sound except for ragged gasps.

It had been too long since they had last been together, and both of them were more sensitive than usual. Cheng Jing had worried that the alcohol would make Liang Jingmin reckless, that he’d lose control and end up hurting him—but that fear turned out to be unnecessary. The moment Liang Jingmin’s fingers brushed the ugly scar on Cheng Jing’s abdomen, he sobered slightly. It was like an invisible brake, reminding him that no matter how wild he got, he still feared pushing Cheng Jing’s body past its limits.

Cheng Jing’s skin was far too pale—just the lightest touch left behind deep red marks. When Liang Jingmin finally let go of his waist, it was like a tree of coral-red bruises had bloomed there.

Deep into the night, Cheng Jing finally waited until Liang Jingmin fell asleep.

Summoning what little strength he had left, he propped himself up from Liang Jingmin’s side, body aching all over. If not for the sheer force of curiosity driving him, he could have fallen asleep the moment he closed his eyes.

But Cheng Jing had always had strong willpower. He reached under the pillow, retrieving the phone he had hurriedly hidden earlier. The screen had long since gone dark. Repeating the same trick, he unlocked it again and reopened WeChat.

The pinned chat at the top of the list felt like a knife stabbing into his chest—not a sharp, piercing pain, but a dull, numbing ache that spread like poison.

Liang Jingmin’s phone system used traditional Chinese characters. Cheng Jing quickly tapped into the “More Info” section of the profile, and there it was—his own name, “Cheng Jing,” saved in the contacts. But the source of the friend request? “Added through account search.”

The date of the addition: June, Year Y.

He opened the chat history, but it was nothing but a blank line—the other party had set their feed to be visible only in conversations.

Cheng Jing’s heart pounded so violently it felt like his fragile body wouldn’t be able to withstand it.

Like a row of dominoes collapsing, realization after realization pulled at the frayed edges of his nerves, leading him to an inevitable breakdown. A wave of numbness spread through him, and suddenly, he couldn’t hear his own breathing. The world around him seemed to darken, sink, and fade away.

June. That was the summer Liang Jingmin had disappeared.

Had he ever had this contact before? Why did he have no memory of it at all?

Their high school had forbidden cell phones, and during graduation, he had indeed added many people on WeChat in bulk. But of all those people, Liang Jingmin was the one person he could never have forgotten.

Yet, Liang Jingmin’s profile picture and ID were completely unfamiliar. There wasn’t even the faintest trace of recognition in Cheng Jing’s mind. He had been away from his old account for too long—the phone number linked to it had long been discarded. There seemed to be no way to verify his suspicions.

He lowered his gaze to Liang Jingmin’s sleeping face, whispering in a breath so faint it barely carried in the silence, “Why?”

The drunken confession from earlier had stirred something in Cheng Jing, something that had been buried for years—something he had never dared to wake. He had been heartbroken too many times, so much so that he no longer wanted to give himself even the smallest sliver of hope.

Because the greater the hope, the greater the disappointment. That was the survival instinct Cheng Jing had learned over the years.

He tried to steady his breathing, forcing himself to relive the most painful memories he could recall—self-inflicted wounds to dull the ache in his chest.

He still remembered their reunion four years ago.

His heart sank.

Back then, he had been a negotiator representing his company in a major deal with the Liang Corporation. He had just established himself in the industry, and this was a deal they were determined to secure.

Yet, after several rounds of unsuccessful negotiations, tensions had risen, and voices had been raised. The Liang Corporation had been particularly dissatisfied with the proposed safeguards. Before their third pricing discussion, Cheng Jing and his colleagues had pulled multiple all-nighters, preparing for what would undoubtedly be a tough battle. Liang Jingmin’s sudden appearance couldn’t have been worse timing.

Because the moment he saw him, Cheng Jing lost all focus.

He had known that the CEO of the Liang Corporation was young, brilliant, and powerful—but he hadn’t realized that that Liang, was his Liang.

It was a reunion after years of separation, yet it felt like someone had been watching and waiting in the shadows all along. Cheng Jing’s heart pounded like a war drum, his hands trembled, and he fumbled his words from the very beginning. Half an hour into negotiations, he had no choice but to call for a break.

It had been a long time since he had last lost control over his own emotions.

Standing in the break room, he pressed his hand to the boiling hot kettle, letting the scalding pain burn through him in an attempt to regain composure. But Liang Jingmin’s gaze haunted him—it was a look of complete unfamiliarity and cold detachment.

Did he truly not remember at all?

Cheng Jing told himself not to fall apart. But the brutal truth was undeniable.

Liang Jingmin didn’t remember him.

Let alone love him.

That youthful infatuation, so vivid in his own mind, had been nothing more than a joke stretched across the years.

And then he made another fatal mistake.

His hand trembled as he refilled his tea, and the next second, the scalding liquid spilled all over Liang Jingmin’s pristine suit.

Even as he hurried to apologize, he knew—no one would believe it wasn’t on purpose.

For the first time, Cheng Jing, who had always been eloquent in negotiations, found himself at a complete loss for words.

What happened afterward was a blur, like a dream he couldn’t fully recall. He only remembered Liang Jingmin taking off his suit jacket on the spot, but everything else—what was said, how the meeting continued—had faded into a distant haze.

Looking back now, Cheng Jing realized that the negotiations had gone unusually smoothly after that. The two sides quickly reached an agreement, forming a friendly partnership. That meeting had also marked the beginning of his deeper involvement with Liang Jingmin.

He still remembered how, before everyone had dispersed, he had taken the initiative to approach Liang Jingmin. Sincerely, he apologized for spilling the tea and, after some hesitation, carefully phrased his next request in the most polite and composed tone he could muster:

“Could I add you on WeChat? That way, I can compensate you for the damages and also keep in touch regarding our collaboration.”

He had long since forgotten what he was thinking at the time. Was he unwilling to let go? Or had the words simply slipped out?

The moment he spoke, regret washed over him. Given their unfamiliarity and the disparity in their statuses, the request felt abrupt, inappropriate, and lacking in boundaries.

What had Liang Jingmin said back then?

He had barely looked up from his phone, his response indifferent and perfunctory: “I don’t use WeChat.”

It had seemed natural at the time—after all, it wasn’t unusual for high-ranking executives to keep their personal WeChat private. Cheng Jing had been too caught up in his own self-reproach to think much of it. But now, looking back, he saw the flaw in that statement.

Was it really necessary?

Liang Jingmin surely had more than one WeChat account. With his status, was there any real reason to lie about something so trivial?

Cheng Jing tried to recall details he had overlooked before, but he came up empty. Liang Jingmin’s composure ran deeper than he had ever imagined. If he didn’t want to leave a trace, he wouldn’t.

Feeling that he had seen enough, Cheng Jing shut the phone and gently placed it back beside Liang Jingmin. As he moved, his skin brushed against Liang Jingmin’s bare body, leaving behind a faint warmth from the contact.

His muscles were well-defined, though it was clear he had lost weight. These past months apart had not been easy for him either.

Cheng Jing sighed, reproaching himself for losing control tonight.

Liang Jingmin had been drunk, but he hadn’t. So why had he allowed things to spiral into chaos?

If he had given in to the alcohol, let himself be led by impulse, then perhaps it would have been easier—just a reckless night, forgotten by morning. Liang Jingmin had always been the type to act without restraint. But when he woke up, would he even remember the words he had said tonight?

Cheng Jing didn’t know whether to feel grateful or sorrowful.

Grateful that the alcohol had peeled back layers, allowing him to glimpse something real. Grateful for the chance to finally see Liang Jingmin’s true feelings. But sorrowful, because this night would become a lingering memory—one that would never stop haunting him.

No matter what happened, he would never be able to forget Liang Jingmin again.

Cheng Jing closed his eyes, sinking into quiet despair.

When had he fallen so deep?

The room was in disarray, but he had no strength to clean up. Instead, he walked to the window, bare-skinned, letting the cool air wash over him.

A book he had been reading before leaving earlier was still on the table, its pages fluttering in the breeze from the slightly open window.

Lowering his gaze, Cheng Jing saw the words on the page:

“Of course I love you. The fact that you didn’t feel it—that was my fault.”