Chapter 62: Do I Need to Treat You Like an Ancestor for You Not to Get Hurt?

Chapter 62: Do I Have to Treat You Like an Ancestor to Keep You from Getting Hurt?

Silence.

He has to manage everything, even the injured CEO.

This wasn’t something he could control; danger doesn’t come with a warning, so how was he supposed to dodge it?

Song Jiang’s injured hand was completely enclosed by Fu Zhichen’s large, rough, calloused hand.

He didn’t look at Fu Zhichen. His mind wandered; for some reason he remembered romance novels he’d heard girls talk about back in school.

Usually, when the male lead holds the female lead’s hand, he’d say something like, “Your hands are so small.”

And then what comes next…

Noticing the steward’s silence, Fu Zhichen’s face tensed, and he tightened his grip on Song Jiang’s hand, raising his voice.

“Steward Song, have you lost your sense of touch?”

“...”

Hmm, Song Jiang genuinely believed that with the boss’s sharp tongue, finding a partner would be truly difficult unless the person was blind.

There was no way he’d lost his sense of touch.

He was hurt, and as his boss, Fu Zhichen didn’t even care.

All he did was scold him in every possible way.

No justice, money is hard to earn, shit is hard to eat—us working stiffs’ lives don’t mean a thing, huh?

A piercing pain shot through his palm.

And Fu Zhichen showed no sign of letting go.

“It hurts.” Song Jiang frowned, trying to pull his hand back. “President Fu, please let go.”

Fu Zhichen’s emotions swept through the office like an invisible storm.

Song Jiang couldn’t break free, but Fu Zhichen’s grip loosened a little.

Fu Zhichen said coldly, “Steward Song, I thought you didn’t know what pain was.”

Song Jiang didn’t understand why Fu Zhichen looked so angry.

Obviously, it wasn’t him who was hurting.

The large hand holding the back of his hand grew warmer, making Song Jiang uncomfortable, and he tried to pull away again.

His fingers unconsciously curled toward his palm, but Fu Zhichen’s strength ultimately surpassed his.

Accidentally tugging at the wound on his palm, Song Jiang let out a pained hiss.

Fu Zhichen’s brow furrowed, and they quickly let go.

Song Jiang’s face was full of pain. He wanted to check his palm but was afraid of fainting, so he clenched his hand and shot Fu Zhichen a fierce glare, wishing he could punch the man who didn’t know how to treat someone gently.

Seeing this, Fu Zhichen pressed his lips together, said nothing, and bent down to pull out a small medical kit from the bottom drawer of his desk.

His voice gave nothing away: “Here. Patch yourself up.”

He wasn’t some pampered young master; a small wound like this would heal in a few days.

Besides, he was squeamish about blood—there was no way he’d do it himself.

Song Jiang shook his head, refusing, and turned to leave.

Maybe staying away from the boss would help his wound heal faster.

But as soon as he took a step, his injured hand was grabbed again.

This time, it was his wrist.

Song Jiang had to stop in his tracks.

He muttered to himself, why was the boss pulling him again?

Without turning around, Song Jiang shook the hand still in Fu Zhichen’s grasp and said weakly, “President Fu, if there’s nothing else, I’ll head out.”

The moment he finished, Fu Zhichen suddenly yanked him, letting out a “tch,” pulling him into his arms while grumbling, “Steward Song, you’re so damn stupid.”

The moment he lost his balance, Song Jiang didn’t have time to react.

His hand instinctively grabbed the edge of the desk, barely steadying himself—otherwise, he would have ended up sitting on Fu Zhichen’s lap.

But the position they were in now was only slightly better than sitting on his lap.

Song Jiang was half-bent over, one hand held by Fu Zhichen, the other braced on the desk behind Fu Zhichen’s elbow.

They stared at each other.

Fu Zhichen’s body was almost entirely covered by Song Jiang.

Song Jiang’s throat bobbed. *Damn, this looks like he’s about to hold the boss at gunpoint.*

Song Jiang was half a head taller than Fu Zhichen, so he had to look down slightly to see him.

Yet Fu Zhichen, in the lower position, still completely overpowered Song Jiang in presence.

They froze for a few seconds, and Song Jiang felt something was very off, so he couldn’t help but speak.

“Fu…”

“President Fu.”

Fu Zhichen could even see the steward’s fluttering long lashes, and beneath them, his misty eyes staring back at him like a frightened kitten.

“Steward Song, you can’t even manage something as simple as making coffee. Do I have to treat you like an ancestor to keep you from getting hurt?”

Fu Zhichen’s words successfully eased the tension in Song Jiang’s heart.

Awesome, being the boss’s ancestor sounds amazing.

He’d just directly ask the boss for money—a hundred million, something like that.

Then just peace out.

Back in the real world, he would no longer have to endure the tyrant's oppression.

Fu Zhichen didn't bother to check if Song Jiang had answered, opening the medical kit with one hand.

His index finger and thumb pinched the fingertip of Song Jiang's injured hand, a complete shift from his domineering attitude moments ago.

This gesture almost made Song Jiang think Fu Zhichen was holding some rare treasure.

The all-powerful, successful man had actually bowed his head before him.

He couldn't see Fu Zhichen's face, nor could he see Fu Zhichen's movements as he cleaned the wound on his palm, but he somehow felt that Fu Zhichen was very gentle at that moment.

The cotton swab swept up and down in his palm, very light, as light as a passing breeze.

Song Jiang didn't feel any pain.

The undisturbed office was so quiet that only their faint breathing was audible.

After a long while, he stared blankly at the crown of Fu Zhichen's jet-black head.

He suddenly felt that if Fu Zhichen weren't so sharp-tongued, he might be a really good person.

*

٩(◦`꒳´◦)۶ Lucky for those still awake; those who went to bed can read it tomorrow. I've finished writing, la la la la la, treating myself to a bottle of Yakult.

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