Chapter 43

Chapter 43

He wanted to shake him off, to forget him. The more intensely this desire burned, the more unattainable it seemed. Ji Qingyu huddled in a backstage corner, his head throbbing fiercely as Fu Han’s gaze swept in his direction.

He sank to his knees, taking a moment to regain his composure, then finally struggled to his feet. Before Fu Han could approach, he slipped away through the narrow backstage exit.

Halfway down the road, his strength gave out, forcing him to stop. His gland burned like fire. As he stood, a thought suddenly struck him—he pulled out his phone, logged into an old account, and sure enough, Fu Han’s messages had never stopped, once again piling up to “99+.”

Gasping for breath, he felt a suffocating tightness in his throat, almost unbearable. Like an ostrich, he had buried his head, avoiding the outside world, and now found himself utterly vulnerable.

His fingers trembled as he tapped open the chat window, scrolling up from where he had last deleted messages. Fu Han’s texts streamed in, one after another, their timestamps growing increasingly close.

“Where are you?”

“Are you safe?”

“Were you threatened when you were eighteen too?”

“Did I not do enough, which is why you told me nothing?”

“…I spoke with Ji Ran. He was arrested, but he told me everything before they took him. I’m sorry…”

“I’m sorry. I’ll never do those things again. I was just afraid you’d leave.”

“Was there never anyone else? Was it always just me—from beginning to end?”

Ji Qingyu felt utterly bewildered. On one hand, his mind reeled, unable to comprehend why Fu Han was suddenly speaking so kindly. At the same time, his body was on the verge of collapse—his gland was scorching hot, and his eyelids felt heavy as lead.

He bought painkillers at a pharmacy near his home and hastily swallowed them with a bottle of mineral water. His plan was to pack his bags and flee before Fu Han could find him.

But as he stumbled back home, picking up the still-damp clothes scattered in the yard, he barely managed to gather a few items before collapsing onto the bed, his consciousness fading. He had no idea what was wrong with him.

It wasn’t until late at night, when a knock sounded at the door, that Ji Qingyu stirred from his stupor. A faint, pleasant scent of green plum wafted in from beyond the yard.

The fragrance brought a subtle sense of relief. He touched his forehead, realizing he was running a fever. Though he couldn’t understand what was happening, his current state was far from normal.

Just his luck—pursued and now falling ill. He had no idea what the person outside intended. Perhaps today, Ji Qingyu would meet his end right here in this yard.

The knocks were unnervingly soft, eerie in the hush of night. Ji Qingyu grasped a nearby handle for support, rising cautiously and peering warily at the door.

But no one slammed it open. No one burst in. The silence itself felt unsettlingly abnormal.

Fu Han—the alpha—stood outside the yard, knocking gently on the door. His voice was carefully restrained, tender: “Don’t worry. If you don’t agree, I won’t come in.”

Ji Qingyu—the omega—stood on the other side, gripping the handle tightly, holding his breath. His body pressed against the door; he shifted slightly, his feet scuffing the gravel beneath him.

Fu Han’s sudden gentleness unsettled him. He had expected bodyguards to drag him back immediately.

When Ji Qingyu remained silent, Fu Han spoke again—repeating promises, offering assurances.

“Fu Han, I—I have nothing left to say to you. Just go,” Ji Qingyu interrupted, his ears weary of the endless talk. He felt Fu Han was saying too much.

“Let me in, please.”

“No.” Ji Qingyu’s voice was alarmingly hoarse. His head throbbed; nerve pain radiated from his gland, spreading through his very bones. Had a third person been present, they would have noticed the rain-scented pheromones around Ji Qingyu had nearly saturated the entire yard.

Unaware of the intensity of his own pheromones, he forced himself to respond, his voice trembling: “Just leave. You’re not welcome here.”

His gland still ached—but he feared overusing painkillers might harm the baby, so he endured. Still, faint, barely audible whimpers escaped him—soft, like a small animal’s breath. Ji Qingyu clapped a hand over his mouth.

“I just want to see you—to make sure you’re okay—and then I’ll leave.” The alpha’s voice came clearly through the door.

What else could possibly happen to him? Ji Qingyu thought bitterly, wrestling with his thoughts. After a long hesitation, he cracked the door open just a sliver. Most of the light from outside was blocked by Fu Han’s tall frame. Fu Han’s hand instantly gripped the doorframe—startling Ji Qingyu, who slammed the door shut. It struck Fu Han’s hand with a dull thud; he grunted in pain.

“Are—you okay?” Ji Qingyu wrenched the door wide open. He’d used considerable force. Fu Han’s hand remained braced against the frame, and Ji Qingyu panicked. “Why did you grab the door? You said you wouldn’t come in!”

Fu Han stood motionless. The back of his hand was already badly bruised—a shocking, purplish swelling. Yet his gaze stayed locked on Ji Qingyu, as if he felt no pain at all.

“I’m sorry about your hand—you should go to the hospital.” Ji Qingyu hardened his heart, gritting his teeth, determined not to let Fu Han inside.

Fu Han seemed not to hear. His eyes held Ji Qingyu’s, unwavering. Ji Qingyu grew uneasy under that intense stare. Unsure how to react, he asked, “What—what exactly do you know now?”

“Everything,” Fu Han replied. “It’s my fault. I just wanted to see you—to talk face-to-face. If being with me is unbearable, I won’t disturb you again. I just thought—maybe I could help. You and the baby need money and care.”

Fu Han resembled a defanged guard dog. Ji Qingyu saw exhaustion etched deep in his eyes, heard the softness in his voice: “Can you give me one more chance?”

The green plum pheromones around Fu Han fluctuated unevenly. To his own surprise, Ji Qingyu felt his legs weaken slightly—a reaction he’d never experienced before.

“This is my child. Don’t think about doing anything to them.” Ji Qingyu stepped back, uncertain, distrustful of Fu Han’s intentions.

Fu Han took two steps forward and pulled Ji Qingyu tightly into his arms. “I won’t do anything. I’ll never do anything again.”

The green plum pheromones enveloped the nape of Ji Qingyu’s neck, finally easing his discomfort. He had to admit—even if he could resist his instincts, the child within him craved the comfort of its father’s pheromones.

“How have you been all these years?” Fu Han’s voice was muffled with emotion. Ji Qingyu felt the alpha trembling, his breath and tears both dampening Ji Qingyu’s neck. Truthfully, Ji Qingyu no longer found the pain unbearable—he’d learned to bear it calmly. Only occasionally did it surge, threatening to overwhelm him.

But it didn’t matter—he’d always endured alone.

Ji Qingyu struggled weakly in Fu Han’s tight embrace, patting his back feebly to signal he couldn’t breathe. “I—I didn’t invite you in,” he said, eyes reddening. “And I never said I forgive you.”

Fu Han then grew playful, reaching out to link pinkies with Ji Qingyu—a gesture of affection he hadn’t seen since their reunion.

“Don’t try that.” Ji Qingyu’s body went numb as long-buried memories surfaced. He thought of the eighteen-year-old Fu Han—and jerked back as if burned, slapping Fu Han’s hand away.

Fu Han hissed in pain. Ji Qingyu realized he’d struck the injured hand. Fu Han’s face twisted; a film of cold sweat broke out across his forehead.

“Go to the hospital. Don’t stay here. If you come again, I’ll move away.” After a brief pause, Ji Qingyu slammed the door shut. The iron door groaned loudly, knocking loose a few wildflowers from the eaves.

Breathing heavily, Ji Qingyu leaned against the door, standing still for a long while. The alpha knocked a few more times outside—then fell silent.

Ji Qingyu remained upright, unsure how much time had passed. The person outside refused to leave—scratching at the door, pacing back and forth—before finally walking away with heavy, slow footsteps. Only then did Ji Qingyu exhale, a quiet sigh of relief.

Strangely, the pain in his gland had subsided—likely soothed by Fu Han’s pheromones. Rubbing his neck, he felt lost. His phone vibrated twice. Glancing down, he saw a new text from Fu Han: “Please don’t move away, okay?”

A moment later, another arrived: “I won’t bother you often, alright?”

Ji Qingyu wondered if he was dreaming. He turned off his phone, returned to his room—and soon fell asleep.

The next morning, arriving at the theater, he found someone already there—earlier than even him. Seeing Ji Qingyu, the person started to approach, then stopped short, keeping his distance.

Ji Qingyu noticed the bandages wrapped around his right hand—like a mummy’s. He paused for two seconds—then forced himself to look away.

Only when everyone had gathered did Fu Han make his bombshell announcement.

“I’m sponsoring your play,” Fu Han said slowly.

“What kind of sponsorship is this? It’s such a low-budget play, you’re going to lose money. How much did you spend?” Ji Qingyu stood three meters away from Fu Han, holding the cup protectively, clearly still wary.

Yu Yue remained standing in front of Ji Qingyu: “Now that the money’s here, you should leave. Xiaoyu doesn’t want to see you at all. Why are you so persistent?”

“Really don’t want to see me?” Fu Han ignored Yu Yue, just staring at Ji Qingyu and asking softly.

“Really,” Ji Qingyu replied flatly, averting his gaze.

After a long moment without a response, Ji Qingyu lifted his head a little and saw Fu Han’s gaze was a little dejected, his lips pressed tightly together.

“If you don’t want to see me today, maybe you’ll want to see me tomorrow, or perhaps the day after.”

“You... you weren’t like this when you were eighteen.”

“When I was eighteen, you weren’t this cold to me either.” Fu Han’s words carried a hint of grievance. Ji Qingyu looked at the man’s bandaged hand, standing alone, not daring to come closer, afraid he might soften again. He quickly turned and walked away.