Hormones That Can't Be Hidden - Chapter 10

Everyone turned toward the sound.

At some point, the heavy, curtain-like deep blue bathhouse drape had been pulled aside. Two men dressed in impeccably tailored, high-quality black slim-fit suits stood on either side of the entrance like two suddenly descended iron towers. They remained silent, standing like sentinels.

They were tall and robust, their frames filling out their suits with sharp lines. Their expressions were cold, and their eyes, sharp as hawks, scanned the room with professional alertness and deterrence. In an instant, their presence suppressed most of the chaotic energy within the bathhouse.

Walking unhurriedly through the invisible, high-pressure “human corridor” formed by these two men was a man dressed in a light gray cashmere leisure suit. His clothing seemed casual, but the soft texture and fluid lines spoke of an exorbitant price tag. It created a glaring, almost piercing contrast with the noisy, turbid environment of the bathhouse and its rising clouds of cheap steam.

It was Fang Mingxuan.

The playful, lazy smile he had worn last time in the VIP lounge was gone. In its place was a stillness that bordered on frigid. When his gaze swept over the cold gleam of the folding knife on the floor, a sharp light flickered through that coldness.

Immediately after, his gaze locked onto Dong Junhao like a precision probe. Dong’s muscles were wound tight as iron, looking like a fierce beast ready to strike at any moment. Deep within Fang’s eyes, a faint trace of something resembling admiration quietly surfaced, forming a subtle contrast to his icy exterior.

“I’ve only just walked in, and I already hear someone wants to play with knives and guns?” Fang Mingxuan spoke. His tone was as steady as a calm sea, stating a fact that seemed to have nothing to do with him, yet it strangely pierced through the clamor of the bathhouse.

“I might have a bit of a problem with meddling in other people’s business, so I went ahead and dialed 110. Based on the police response time for this district… it shouldn’t take more than a few minutes.”

He paused. His gaze, like a cold surgical blade, slowly swept over the thugs whose faces were rapidly draining of color their drunkenness replaced by terror. The corner of his mouth twitched upward ever so slightly. It wasn’t a smile, but rather a mocking confirmation of his control over the situation.

“Threatening with a weapon, brawling in a public place while intoxicated, insulting the elderly… with several charges combined, I wonder if that’s enough time for you to reflect properly inside? Oh, right,” he seemed to suddenly remember something and tilted his head slightly, gesturing toward the two black-clad men at the door who stood like powerful background props. “These two friends of mine have good eyes and even better memories; they’ll make excellent witnesses. Also, a phone has been recording everything from the moment the curtain was lifted.”

His words were clear, calm, and logically sound. There were no emotional threats, yet every word was like a precisely aimed icicle, stabbing into the hearts of the thugs hearts that had been soaked in alcohol and then suddenly chilled.

They stared wide-eyed at Fang Mingxuan’s attire, which was so out of place with his surroundings, and at his cold face that seemed born to look down upon the masses. Then, they stole glances at the two “friends” at the door, who were clearly well-trained and not to be trifled with. Finally, they thought of the approaching, scalp-numbing sound of sirens… the lingering alcohol turned into cold sweat, pouring from every pore.

The leader, a man with dyed yellow hair, could no longer hold his knife. With a crisp clatter, it fell onto the wet floor tiles and rolled twice. His face was as white as paper, and his lips trembled, but he couldn’t squeeze out a single coherent syllable. The others looked equally ashen, their legs beginning to shake.

“Get out,” Fang Mingxuan uttered softly. He didn’t even raise his voice, yet the words carried an unquestionable command.

As if hearing a divine pardon, the thugs didn’t dare hesitate for a second. They didn’t even stop to pick up the knife or care that they were still wet; they scrambled and crawled, bumping into stunned customers as they bolted toward the locker room in a pathetic state. Moments later, they grabbed their clothes and ran out, leaving behind a mess and the fading stench of cheap liquor.

A conflict that had nearly drawn blood was neutralized just like that dismissed with a few words in a manner akin to a “dimensional strike.”

A strange silence fell over the bathhouse, broken only by the sound of running water and the heavy breathing of a few customers. Old Yang snapped out of it, hurried forward to offer his thanks, and then rushed to clean up the area.

Dong Junhao also slowly unclenched his fists. He looked down at the solitary weapon on the floor, then turned a complex gaze toward the man who seemed to carry his own invisible barrier, isolating himself from all the chaos. While his heart felt a sense of relief, it was also flooded with an inexplicable sense of unease and agitation.

Fang Mingxuan acted as if he had handled a trivial matter. His expression had already returned to its previous laziness as he paced leisurely toward Dong Junhao. He had to look up slightly to meet Dong’s eyes, but when he did, there was no sense of inferiority; instead, it carried an air of scrutiny and inquiry.

The untraceable shallow arc returned to the corner of his mouth. He suddenly leaned forward, closing the distance, and whispered in a voice only the two of them could hear—a voice laced with unhidden playfulness:

“Master Dong, it seems every time I show up, I catch you being ‘reckless’? This time… how do you plan on thanking me?”

Warm breath mixed with the crisp scent of aftershave brushed against the curve of Dong Junhao’s ear. Dong’s Adam’s apple bobbed. Flustered by the man’s imposing aura and blunt question, his dark face flushed. After a long pause, he squeezed out a dry sentence: “Tha… thank you for helping me out. How about… later I treat you, and these two friends, to a meal?”

This was likely the most decent way to show gratitude he could think of.

“Haha…” Fang Mingxuan let out a low laugh. The sound vibrated in his chest with a pleasant, magnetic quality. “A meal?”

He shook his head, his gaze sweeping over Dong Junhao’s tense shoulder lines and arms. “Let’s forget about that for today. I came here tonight specifically to find you to ‘relax.’ Giving me a good scrub later will be the best reward!”

Dong Junhao’s heart skipped a beat. The word “relax” immediately reminded him of that absurd and awkward bathtub scrub in the VIP room last time. His muscles stiffened even further. His eyes instinctively betrayed a sense of wariness and difficulty.

Fang Mingxuan seemed to see right through him. He added in a relaxed tone, as if soothing a wary large dog: “Don’t be nervous. We aren’t doing anything fancy today. I just want to experience the legendary ‘public bathhouse’ and your ‘well-known’ scrubbing skills.” He emphasized the terms “public bathhouse” and “well-known” with a hint of teasing. “Right here, on this table you’re most familiar with.”

With that, he gave a casual wave. One of the bodyguards at the door immediately turned and left, returning a moment later with a simple but high-quality dark gray waterproof bag.

Fang Mingxuan took it and opened it. Inside was a complete set of personal items: soft Egyptian cotton towels, a luxury brand’s signature travel-sized bath and skincare set, a pair of leather slippers that looked incredibly comfortable… there was even a neatly folded dark velvet bathrobe similar in style to the clothes he was wearing. For someone who said they came to experience a “public bathhouse,” this display screamed “meticulousness” and “germaphobia” in every detail.

He took off his casual shoes, put on his own slippers, and removed his outer layers, revealing a slim-fit dark T-shirt and shorts underneath. Walking to the edge of the large bath, he glanced at the slightly turbid warm water with a few floating bubbles. He frowned almost imperceptibly, a flash of disdain crossing his eyes, and decisively abandoned the idea of soaking.

“I’ll just take a rinse then,” he murmured to himself, walking toward the public shower area.

There were several showerheads lined up. Fang Mingxuan chose the one at the very end and began to strip off his underclothes. His movements were calm and composed, showing no embarrassment about being exposed in a public place as if this were a perfectly normal routine.

When the last piece of clothing fell away and his body was fully exposed under the dim, somewhat pale lights of the bathhouse, the breathing of the nearby customers who were still watching the excitement seemed to stop for a moment.

It was a beauty entirely different from Dong Junhao’s a beauty like a meticulously carved piece of art. His skin was a moist, cold white, like fine mutton-fat jade that had stayed out of the sun for years, appearing to glow softly in the steam. His frame was well-proportioned and slender, with wide shoulders and a narrow waist a standard inverted triangle physique.

His muscle lines were not bulging or exaggerated, but perfectly balanced and sculpted over his bones. His chest was full without being obtrusive, his abdominal muscles were clearly defined yet fluid, and his V-line disappeared sharply into his waist. Water droplets rolled down his smooth, firm skin, sliding over the hollow of his collarbone and through the grooves of his flat stomach; every transition exuded a balance of strength and aesthetic.

He pushed his wet black hair back with one hand, revealing a full, smooth forehead and an excessively handsome face. Amidst the swirling steam, he closed his eyes and tilted his head back into the stream of water. His Adam’s apple bobbed, and his profile looked like it had been drawn with a fine brush.

“My goodness…” A middle-aged bather not far away stared blankly, whispering to his companion, “That body, that face… could he be some kind of movie star?”

“If I looked like that, I’d want to walk around shirtless every day!” his companion remarked, half-joking and half-amazed.

“This bath was worth it today; we even got a visual feast for free…” The whispers came faintly through the sound of pattering water.

The tips of Dong Junhao’s ears turned red. That strange irritation and悸动 (fluttering) surged up again. He didn’t dare look anymore, forcing himself to pour all his attention into the scrubbing table in front of him. He grabbed the disinfectant and began spraying and wiping with a force that felt almost like a vent, rinsing it with fresh water over and over again.

He worked until the surface was as bright as a mirror, nearly reflecting the swaying lights overhead. It was as if by doing this, he could wash away that overwhelming image behind him, along with his own chaotic heartbeat.

After an unknown amount of time, the sound of water stopped. A faint, watery set of footsteps approached.

Dong Junhao took a deep breath and turned around.

Fang Mingxuan had already put on that dark velvet bathrobe. The belt was loosely tied, the collar slightly open, and his wet hair hung over his forehead, dripping at the tips. He walked barefoot in his slippers to the scrubbing table. Water droplets slid from the hollow of his collarbone and disappeared into the depths of the robe. He carried the elegant, light scent of his body wash, forming a sharp contrast to the turbid air of the bathhouse.

He looked at the scrubbing table, which Dong Junhao had wiped until it was spotless, then looked up at the tense, “ready for battle” Dong Junhao. A very faint smile flickered in his eyes.

“Now,” he spoke, his voice dampened by the steam and sounding slightly low and husky, “What should I do, Master Dong?”