Chapter 9 Has He Forgiven Me?

Song Jingmo, carrying the smell of alcohol and a nasal tone in his questioning, hit Lu Er in the chest like a deep-water bomb, exploding in his heart.

Why?

Countless nights, he’d written out entire screens like little essays, only to cowardly delete everything.

He was afraid.

Afraid that if he sent them, all he’d see would be cold red exclamation marks.

Afraid even more that Song Jingmo would scold him, saying, “Stop disgusting me.”

Just imagining it was enough to make him suffocate.

But now, the person he thought hated him to the bone was actually unfairly complaining about why he hadn’t contacted him.

What kind of thing was this?

Had he drunk too much, his rationality offline, rambling nonsense?

A sudden wave of inexplicable grievance and anger rose to Lu Er’s head.

In all those long six years, hadn’t Song Jingmo never reached out even once?

Back when they used to have fights, Song Jingmo was always the first to lower his head and make up.

So why this time… didn’t he bother to soothe him?

“I…”

Lu Er, full of things to say, barely got a word out before seeing Song Jingmo leaning on the sofa, breathing slow and even.

“!!!”

Lu Er felt his chest tighten, staring at Song Jingmo’s defenseless sleeping face, wishing he could just shake him awake.

But in the end, he sighed in resignation.

He bent down, trying to lift Song Jingmo and get him onto the bed.

The first floor had the living room and kitchen. The second floor had guest rooms where Bai Zhi and Jiang Qingyan occasionally stayed, and one room was the territory of that brat Leng Keyan.

The third floor was his master bedroom and a long-unused guest room. That guest room was always closed and unventilated—probably smelled of mildew by now.

Song Jingmo was severely obsessive-compulsive; if he woke up and found himself lying in a dusty room, he probably wouldn’t be happy.

Their relationship was already tense—there couldn’t be any accidents.

Lu Er gritted his teeth, summoned every ounce of strength, and half-dragged, half-carried Song Jingmo to the third floor.

Song Jingmo looked slim, but he wasn’t light at all.

Lu Er was sweating buckets, mentally yelling: Was this person born on a scale?

Finally getting him onto the bedroom sofa, Lu Er collapsed like a dead dog.

Worried Song Jingmo would mind if the bed smelled, he rummaged through the closet and pulled out a brand-new set of bedding, replacing it with tremendous effort.

After all that, he placed Song Jingmo in the center of the bed, thoughtfully adjusted a comfortable position, and tucked the covers in.

Exhausted, Lu Er flopped onto the carpet by the bed, staring at Song Jingmo’s peaceful sleeping face in a daze.

Moonlight streamed through the curtains, outlining Song Jingmo’s perfect profile. His handsome features seemed sculpted with precision, every line flowing.

A sleeping person had set aside all their coldness and aloofness.

Kinda… nice to look at.

Yeah, just a little bit.

Lu Er wouldn’t admit it, but if his mom had sent an ugly person to take care of him, he would have thrown a fit long ago.

His heart unknowingly began to race again.

He cautiously leaned a little closer, whispering in an extremely low voice to the sleeping man: “I went looking for you.”

“I didn’t know where you went, and I didn’t dare ask—abroad is too big.”

The only response was Song Jingmo’s shallow breathing, faintly scented with alcohol.

Lu Er let out a self-deprecating laugh, then got up and rushed to the bathroom for a quick shower, changing into clean pajamas.

Back in the bedroom, he glanced at the luxurious bed and wrestled with himself for three seconds, but in the end, tragically walked over to the sofa.

He didn’t want to argue with Song Jingmo again. To avoid misunderstandings, he’d have to suffer sleeping on the sofa tonight.

The sofa was spacious, but it wasn’t a proper place to sleep. With someone else in the room, Lu Er tossed and turned, unable to fall asleep.

His mind jumped between Song Jingmo’s questions and that night six years ago.

He finally drifted off when the sky began to lighten at dawn.

The next morning, Song Jingmo was woken by his biological clock and a lingering headache.

Opening his eyes, he found himself staring at a luxurious, unfamiliar ceiling and enormous floor-to-ceiling windows.

Memory gaps lasted a few seconds before he suddenly sat up and looked around.

Minimalist modern style—it was definitely not his own black-white-gray, cold bedroom.

His gaze fell on the sofa by the window. Lu Er was curled up on it, covered only with a thin blanket, sleeping soundly.

Fragments of last night came back to him.

It was Lu Er who had brought him home. He seemed to have asked something, and then fallen asleep.

Song Jingmo’s heart raced. Hangover discomfort and embarrassment hit him all at once.

The bed was huge—enough for three or four people to lie comfortably—but Lu Er had chosen the sofa.

Still resisting that night six years ago? Even sleeping on the same bed was unacceptable?

Song Jingmo felt a sinking, indescribable bitterness spread inside.

At that moment, Lu Er’s eyelashes twitched. Half-awake, he slowly opened his eyes.

Their eyes met.

Seeing Song Jingmo sitting on the bed, Lu Er instantly snapped awake. Like a startled rabbit, he nearly tumbled off the sofa.

“Is your head still hurting?” he blurted, rapid-fire, trying to mask his panic with concern.

Song Jingmo’s bitterness softened slightly. He looked away. “I’m okay. Sorry for troubling you last night.”

“No trouble at all, it was nothing.”

Lu Er wracked his brain for conversation topics. “What do you want to eat? I’ll ask Bai Zhi to send breakfast.”

Song Jingmo looked down at his rumpled white shirt with a touch of distaste.

Lu Er knew this was his cleanliness obsession acting up, so he hesitated before asking: “Do you want to shower first? I have unworn clothes—new, clean ones.”

Song Jingmo paused for a few seconds, checking the time. There was no way he could go back, shower, and make it to the hospital on time.

He glanced at the soft, comfortable pajamas Lu Er was wearing. Something stirred in a corner of his heart.

“Okay.”

Song Jingmo’s voice was a bit hoarse. “Thanks for the trouble.”

Lu Er felt an inexplicable relief and quickly got up to the wardrobe to find clothes.

Song Jingmo using his bathroom and wearing his clothes—rounding up… does this count as forgiving him?

Sitting on the bed, Song Jingmo watched Lu Er’s busy back, his eyes flickering slightly.