Hormones That Can't Be Hidden - Chapter 16

“Meal cooked over a flame? I’d love that!” Fang Mingxuan’s eyes suddenly lit up, as if the simple phrase had unexpectedly illuminated a corner of his deep memory. The joy didn’t seem feigned.

“When I insisted on building this farmhouse and had a master craftsman set up this traditional stove, it was because I wanted to hold onto the memories of being at my grandmother’s house in the countryside as a child the crackling wood, the clatter of the iron pot, and that solid, smoky atmosphere in the food that nothing else can replace.”

He spoke with a hint of regret, but when he looked at Dong Junhao, his eyes were full of sincere expectation.

“It’s a pity I’m clumsy. I tried twice and ended up covered in ash, and then I found the cleanup too much trouble, so I’ve left it idle. If you can use it, that would be perfect!”

No sooner said than done. Dong Junhao seemed to instantly switch into “home-court” mode. Picking up the heavy basket of ingredients, he turned and strode back into the red-brick farmhouse now smelling of earth and wood with a steady, certain step.

He checked the stove with practiced ease. Although it had been connected to gas for convenience, the brick-built firebox and the heavy iron pot darkened by the smoke of many fires still retained their original skeletal strength.

He nimbly rolled up his sleeves, revealing his well-defined, bronze forearms, and began prepping the ingredients. Washing, slicing, preparing… his movements were without flair, carrying the broad, rustic boldness of the countryside, yet they possessed a fluid and precise rhythm. Every knife stroke landed with exactly the right force.

When the stove ignited with a soft whoosh and the orange flames began to lick the blackened bottom of the pot, Dong Junhao’s entire aura transformed. He leaned forward slightly, like a cheetah ready to strike, staring with total concentration at the subtle changes in the oil temperature. His bronze face and neck, outlined by the flickering firelight, were coated in a warm, life-filled glow.

The tight muscles of his back flexed and stretched clearly with the large movements of prepping and stir-frying. Sweat quickly seeped from his brow and temples, gathering into beads along his sharp jawline before dropping onto the coarse cotton of his shirt, leaving behind small, dark damp patches.

At this moment, he was not the silent, somewhat clumsy scrubber from the bathhouse, nor was he the awkward visitor in a luxury villa who didn’t know where to put his hands. He was the absolute master of this small hearth dancing with the fire, conversing with the ingredients, immersed in the oldest and most direct form of creation. That focus, that sense of stability woven from sweat and strength, radiated a nearly primal, reassuring masculine charm.

Fang Mingxuan did not disturb him. He simply acted as a silent assistant, washing the sides and handing over necessary bowls. His gaze, however, seemed tied by an invisible thread to the rugged, powerful figure outlined by the fire. A smile played on his lips, but deep in his eyes surged a more complex mix of emotions appreciation, inquiry, and a nearly satiated contentment at seeing something precious in its proper place.

Seeing more sweat gathering on Dong Junhao’s forehead, Fang thoughtfully handed him a tissue before heading to the villa’s refrigerator to fetch chilled sparkling water. He twisted off the cap and placed it within easy reach on the edge of the stove. Watching the dancing flames, he glanced unconsciously at the neatly stacked woodpile and shook his head with a small laugh. But the momentary flash of wanting to participate more deeply in this primal labor was unmistakably real.

One after another, the steaming dishes were finished: Glossy and fragrant Home-style Braised Eggplant coated in thick sauce; A colorful Tomato and Egg Stir-fry with perfectly balanced sweet and sour juices; Pungent Twice-Cooked Pork, the pork belly slices fried into beautiful “lamp-wick” curls; And a large bowl of Seaweed and Egg Drop Soup, shimmering with oil and dotted with emerald green scallions.

The rustic aroma aggressively claimed the farmhouse, mixing with the lingering warmth of the stove to create the most comforting scent of domestic life. By unspoken agreement, they didn’t move these “earthy” dishes to the cold, exquisite villa dining room. Instead, they sat around the heavy, wide wooden tool table in the farmhouse. Coarse porcelain bowls and bamboo chopsticks complemented the meal perfectly, making the experience more satisfying.

Fang Mingxuan took a mouthful of the Twice-Cooked Pork. After a few chews, his eyes narrowed suddenly. It was as if he had completely abandoned all pretense; he lowered his head and began to eat heartily, sweat soon appearing on his brow.

“Delicious!” he praised, his voice muffled yet loud. He scooped a large spoonful of the thick tomato and egg sauce over his rice. “This skill… is incredible! No matter how refined the restaurants outside are, they can’t produce this ‘breath of the wok’ this solid, honest fragrance! This is exactly the taste my grandmother used to make with her big wood-fired pot!”

He ate with abandon, and his words flowed more freely. The look he gave Dong Junhao was bright and filled with pure, unmasked admiration. Seeing him enjoy the food, Dong Junhao felt a sense of comfort in his own heart. A flush of embarrassment from the affirmation appeared on his dark face.

“I’m glad you like it,” he said in a low voice.

“Right, with food this good, how can we not have wine to liven things up?” Fang Mingxuan seemed to suddenly remember an important protocol. He set down his chopsticks and left quickly. A moment later, he returned with two crystal wine glasses and two bottles of red wine with antique-looking labels.

“I have a Bordeaux here a friend gave me; supposedly it’s quite good. Since we’re happy today, want a taste?”

Dong Junhao waved his hands quickly, embarrassed. “No, Mr. Fang… I… I really can’t drink. I don’t know the first thing about red wine; let’s not waste something so good.”

“So you can drink the white stuff then?” Fang Mingxuan arched a brow, making a move to stand up again.

“No, no… Baijiu is even worse. I’m down after one cup.” Dong Junhao hurried to stop him. Seeing the man’s persistence, he hesitated for a moment and compromised. “Then… just pour a tiny bit of red wine. I’ll just have a taste.”

“Not used to drinking it neat? Watch me.” Fang Mingxuan’s interest was piqued. Like a magician, he pulled ice, fresh lemons, and sparkling water from the fridge. His fingers were long, his movements practiced and elegant as he blended the wine, ice, and sparkling water with a squeeze of fresh lemon, shaking the mixture lightly in the glass.

Soon, a bright-colored, finely bubbling “modified” red wine spritzer was placed before Dong Junhao. “Try this; it’s much more refreshing. Mixing drinks is one of the few hobbies I have that I can actually pull off.”

Dong Junhao took a skeptical sip. The cool, sweet-and-sour taste instantly coated his taste buds, skillfully balancing the tannins of the wine. The fruitiness and the alcohol merged perfectly; it was indeed smooth and easy to drink. His eyes lit up slightly, and he nodded, taking a larger, more confident gulp.

Fang Mingxuan smiled and began naturally encouraging him to drink while steering the conversation in a relaxed direction. He asked about the four seasons in Dong Junhao’s hometown, his experiences coming to the city, whether he was used to it, and if he missed home… His tone was gentle, carrying a perfect amount of concern, like talk between friends.

As the alcohol slowly took effect, Dong Junhao’s tight mental defenses began to loosen, and his words began to flow. He talked about the icicles hanging from the eaves in winter back home and the endless golden waves of wheat in the summer. He spoke of the scorching sun on construction sites and the heavy rebar, but also of the rough yet sincere camaraderie between his fellow workers.

And, of course, he mentioned the gazes and physical contact at the bathhouse that left him confused and uneasy. Finally, warmed by the wine, the question that had been circling in his heart for so long floated to the surface.

Dong Junhao raised his eyes, looking directly at Fang Mingxuan with unmasked bewilderment. “Mr. Fang, I… I’ve been wondering. We’re clearly from two different worlds. No matter how you look at it, we have no connection. Why… why are you so… focused on me?”

Fang Mingxuan gently swirled the remaining liquid in his glass. His gaze drifted to the heavy twilight outside the window, and his habitual smile faded a bit, appearing more real.

“Two worlds?” He shook his head, his voice steady. “If you count back far enough, whose roots aren’t in the soil? When I was little, my parents’ careers were just starting; they were so busy they were never around. For two years, I was left in the countryside with my grandparents.”

“Back then, I’d climb trees with a bunch of partners to steal bird eggs, jump in the river to catch fish and shrimp, and follow my grandfather into the fields. Although my skin peeled from the sun, those were the wildest, most uninhibited days in my memory.”

He paused, a trace of almost imperceptible fatigue entering his voice. “Later, when I returned to the so-called ‘right track,’ there were always people around me it was very lively. But I knew that behind those smiling faces were calculations, weightings, and price tags.”

“It’s exhausting, and my heart feels empty. Finding someone who can take off all their masks, someone I don’t have to calculate every word with, someone I can just be with… it’s too hard.”

His gaze turned back, landing on Dong Junhao’s face, becoming focused and deep. “But you’re different. From the first time I saw you in the bathhouse, I thought… you were special. You have a spirit that many people today have long since lost that most authentic, unadorned masculinity and stability. You remind me of a neighbor back home, an uncle who never said much and just worked, but who would silently come out to clean up the mess when we kids got into trouble.”

“An honest man with a straight heart, earning his living through his own strength, who says what he means. Being with you,” he smiled, and there was a sense of relaxation in it, “I don’t have to guess or be on guard. Instead, my heart feels steady, like my feet are on solid ground. Being able to eat a home-cooked meal like this, have a little wine, and just talk… for me, it’s a very… extravagant and precious thing.”

Dong Junhao listened. The alcohol made his thinking slow and direct, but he understood the isolation and longing hidden beneath the man’s polished exterior. He grinned with a drunken honesty, his voice booming.

“If you ask me, Mr. Fang, you… your life is just too good! You have money and time, nothing to worry about, so instead… instead you start dwelling on these things!”

“You should try living like us running around for a living every day, so busy your feet don’t touch the ground. I guarantee you won’t have time for random thoughts!”

Fang Mingxuan was moved to loud laughter by this blunt and “coarse” diagnosis. The gloom between his brows vanished instantly.

“Haha! You’ve got a point! Maybe it really is a case of ‘comfort leading to… well, overthinking!’ One of these days I should follow you to the bathhouse and learn how to scrub backs experience the fulfillment of manual labor!”

“Haha, then with your pampered skin, you’ll have to practice your hand strength first!” Dong Junhao also laughed heartily.

As the wine flowed, the talk became denser and the defenses thinner. Two bottles of red wine were emptied without them realizing it. The lingering aftereffects of the wine were long-lasting and gradually began to show. Dong Junhao felt his head getting heavier, as if filled with lead. Things in his vision began to sway and double. A flush covered his face, and even his neck turned pink. His tongue began to fail him.

“I… I can’t… Mr. Fang, really… really have to go… Tomorrow, tomorrow I’m still on shift…”

He tried to stand up by leaning on the heavy table, but his body swayed uncontrollably. Fang Mingxuan had also drunk quite a bit, his cheeks flushed, but his eyes were still relatively clear. He stood up immediately and came to Dong Junhao’s side, bracing one of the man’s arms an arm as heavy as an iron pillar.

Send him back? Driving in this state was absolutely out of the question.

Furthermore… he never intended to let the man leave in the first place.