Hormones That Can't Be Hidden - Chapter 19

Dong Junhao had Fang Mingxuan stop the car two blocks away from “Bihai Yuntian.”

“Just here. I’ll walk the rest of the way myself.”

His voice was dry, like it had been rubbed by gravel. He kept his eyes fixed on the familiar streetscape outside slowly being awakened by the steam of breakfast stalls and the footsteps of pedestrians never turning back.

Fang Mingxuan’s fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on the steering wheel. He turned his head, his gaze landing on Dong Junhao’s rugged yet currently cold side profile. After two seconds of silence, he finally spoke: “Alright.”

The sound felt stagnant in the enclosed car.

After a pause, as if feeling he should say something, Fang tried to lighten his tone, though it couldn’t hide a deliberate sense of explanation as if brushing away non-existent dust. “Listen… Liu Wei isn’t actually a bad person. He’s just been spoiled by his family since he was a kid. He has a sharp temper and doesn’t hold back his words, but he doesn’t mean any harm. Don’t take what he said to heart.”

Dong Junhao squeezed a muffled “Mm” from his throat, short and heavy more like a curt period to end the conversation.

Whatever romantic debts are between you two, what do they have to do with me? What right do you have to drag me into such a humiliating scene?

Troubled, he quickly pushed the car door open. The cool morning air, mixed with the rising clamor of the city, rushed in, dispersing the lingering scent of Fang Mingxuan’s expensive fragrance and the remnants of last night’s wine. Without a second glance at the man in the driver’s seat, he stepped out and turned his back on the still-conspicuous sports car. Almost fleeing, he dove into the thickening crowd.

He didn’t want to appear at his workplace in such a flashy manner. Moreover, he needed this walk this physical distance and the city’s noise to act as a buffer. He needed to digest that sudden “confrontation” that had struck his heart and face like a heavy club, and Liu Wei’s venomous, ice-sharp hatred.

As soon as he reached the entrance of “Bihai Yuntian,” several coworkers finishing the night shift or starting the morning shift craned their necks to see if Dong Junhao had been dropped off again by the legendary “private” luxury car. Seeing him return on foot with a grim expression, they exchanged looks a mix of disappointment at missing the drama and a secret sense of balance that things had “returned to normal.”

“Junhao, you’re back? Didn’t come home last night, eh?” A talkative coworker approached, winking and nudging him suggestively with an elbow. “The luxury car didn’t drop you off this time?”

“Just had a meal and drank a bit too much, nothing special,” Dong Junhao answered dully, not slowing his pace.

“Ooh, keeping secrets! Tell us, I heard rich people like that play real wild? Is it really all wine pools and meat forests…”

Another coworker leaned in, eyes flickering with naked curiosity and a complicated mix of envy and sour contempt. Dong Junhao felt a buzzing in his ears, as irritated as if countless flies were circling him. He muttered “I don’t know” and quickened his steps, wanting only to escape the prying eyes and noisy questions.

The boss, Xu Jun, was like a cat scenting blood. During the shift change, he precisely cornered Dong at the locker room entrance. He hooked his arm around Dong’s neck, dragging him into a corner for junk storage. The smell of tobacco and overnight halitosis puffed into Dong’s face as he whispered into his ear: “Junhao, tell me the truth. How was your time with Mr. Fang yesterday? Was the ‘interaction’… deep?”

He intentionally dragged out the word “deep,” biting it with a sickeningly suggestive hint.

Dong Junhao felt a rush of shame and rage go straight to his head, his face burning. He forcefully brushed off Xu Jun’s oily, fat palm, his voice hard: “We just had a normal meal. Nothing happened. Boss Xu, I need to change and get to work.”

With that, he dove into the locker room a stagnant space smelling of stale sweat, mold, and cheap detergent. Slamming the locker door and leaning against the cold metal, he finally caught his breath.

Only he knew that after that brief, deceptive “pastoral journey” and the humiliating confrontation of the morning, the tiny bud of expectation something he might have called “making a friend” had been doused by cold water and turned to ash.

In its place was a stagnant, suffocating feeling, as if he were suspended in mid-air, bound by invisible threads. Liu Wei’s appearance had acted as a cold, sharp mirror, devoid of soft lighting or filters. It had exposed the deep, real chasm between him and Fang Mingxuan in a naked, bloody way. It made him feel he had nowhere to hide and made his prior “relaxation” and “closeness” look utterly foolish.

Freshness?

A plaything?

These words were like red-hot irons, searing into his heart with the sizzle of humiliation and sharp pain, leaving behind agonizing scars. What was he to Fang Mingxuan? A pastime to kill time? A whim for “wild game”? Or… just as Liu Wei said, was he even too crude and cheap to be a proper playmate?

Over the next few days, Fang Mingxuan didn’t show up. No calls, no messages, and no flashy sports car parked downstairs. The gears of Dong Junhao’s life seemed to click back into their original track with a heavy inertia: day after day facing bloated or thin, dark or pale male bodies on the scrubbing table, repeating the mechanical process of rinsing, soaking, scrubbing, and rinsing again. He had to continue enduring gazes that were either overtly greedy or subtly probing, and the occasional, loathsome “groping hands” that he couldn’t always avoid…

Only, a corner of his heart felt as though it had been hollowed out, leaving a drafty, empty, and cold space. Occasionally, while scrubbing a guest’s back and listening to the monotonous spray of water against the acrylic table, his vision would blur with the steam. His eyes would involuntarily lose focus, drifting toward the entrance of the bath area as if expecting something. Then, as if pricked by an invisible needle, he would hurriedly and pathetically pull his gaze back, doubling his focus on the sweat-slicked skin beneath his hands.

Just as he was beginning to use exhaustion and numb labor to forcibly bury that absurd “countryside day” and the morning’s confrontation trying to treat it as if it never happened a person he never wanted to see again, someone he wanted no connection with, actively came looking for him.

That afternoon, there were few guests in the bath area; it was the laziest time of day. The air was saturated with moisture and a light scent of chlorine, quiet enough to hear the TV static from the distant lounge. Dong Junhao was bent over, using a stiff brush to violently scrub at some hardened soap scum on the table, as if trying to thoroughly purge some impurity or frustration clinging to the surface and his heart.

Just then, a somewhat familiar voice intentionally drawn out with unmasked arrogance and a bone-chilling, hypocritical intimacy slithered into his ear like a cold snake:

“Oh, keeping busy? Master… Dong?”

Dong Junhao’s muscles snapped tight like a pulled bowstring. His scrubbing stopped mid-air. A chill raced up his spine to the back of his neck. He stood up slowly, very slowly every joint seemed to make a grinding sound and turned around.

Liu Wei was standing less than three steps behind him. He was loosely wrapped in a high-quality, blindingly white bathrobe embroidered with subtle patterns the specific robe for the VIP section. His face wore a carefully crafted expression: three parts interest, three parts high-handed mockery, and four parts superficial, sickeningly fake friendliness. He looked like he was wearing a polished mask.

He looked much better than he had that morning at the villa gate no longer pale or enraged. His hair was meticulously groomed, his face radiant. Yet, the heavy gloom in his eyes and the soul-deep fatigue and emptiness in his bones remained clearly visible, like a festering wound beneath fine silk.

Dong Junhao instinctively rubbed his soapy hands hard against a half-damp towel behind him, as if trying to wipe off something filthy. He desperately didn’t want Liu Wei to see the indignity of his work, and even less did he want any intersection with this man.

“Hello, Mr. Liu,” Dong Junhao spoke. His voice was unexpectedly calm, even dry, devoid of any emotion like a pre-set script.

“Good memory.” Liu Wei walked forward a few steps, his gaze unceremonious evaluating Dong like a piece of curious cargo or a rare, powerful beast in a zoo. His eyes acted like a tangible searchlight, scanning Dong from head to toe.

He looked at the broad shoulders wrapped in the light blue work shirt, which still outlined an incredible silhouette; the thick chest rising and falling with his breath; and the bare bronze forearms muscles hard as iron, veins slightly bulging, filled with a sense of impending power. Even more uncomfortable for Dong was that Liu Wei’s gaze lingered with ill-intent and evaluation on the front and back of his work shorts, which were wet from splashing water and clung to his legs. The gaze seemed to want to pierce the coarse fabric to measure the size and shape beneath.

This naked, offensive scrutiny made Dong Junhao’s skin crawl with discomfort, nearly reaching a breaking point.

“I heard your scrubbing skills are ‘not bad.’ Strong, with a bit of… ‘character’.” Liu Wei’s lips curled deeper, his tone light and mocking as if critiquing a specialized service, emphasizing those keywords. “I happened to be ‘passing by’ today and my bones were feeling a bit stiff. I thought I just had to come and experience it to see for myself what kind of ‘unique’ skill you have that managed to… steal the soul of our Young Master Fang.”

Dong Junhao wanted to find an excuse to refuse, to tell him to find another master. But before he could open his mouth, Liu Wei had already paced forward half a step, closing the distance to a dangerous, almost intimate degree. Liu Wei tilted his head back, his gaze provocative and playful, looking straight into the anger hidden deep in Dong’s eyes. His tone was light, yet carried an unquestionable pressure: “What is it, Master Dong? Not welcoming me? Or is it…”

He trailed off, his gaze meaningfully sweeping over the occasional curious looks from others. “…is it that Master Dong only wants to ‘serve’ specific guests?”

“If that’s the case, I might have to have a long talk with your Boss Xu file a complaint about your bathhouse practicing discrimination and picking favorites?”

His words were like soft yet tough steel wire, precisely looping around Dong Junhao’s neck and tightening instantly, blocking any exit for refusal or escape. He dangled the threats of “affecting business,” “causing trouble for the boss,” and “becoming the subject of gossip” right over his head.

Dong Junhao’s jawline was as tight as a bowstring about to snap. His jaw muscles bulged from his clenched teeth. He naturally didn’t want to cause trouble for the bathhouse or affect its reputation and his coworkers’ livelihoods even less did he want to get into a pointless verbal argument with someone as skilled in word games as Liu Wei in front of everyone. That would only make him more pathetic.

After a few seconds of suffocating silence, Dong Junhao very slowly and stiffly turned sideways. Toward an empty scrubbing table nearby, he made a brief, almost non-existent gesture of “Please.”

The entire time, his gaze was lowered, staring at the wet reflections on the floor as if there were something worth studying there. A huff of a laugh the laugh of a victor, mixed with triumph and contempt escaped Liu Wei. Without another word, he elegantly even performatively unfastened his robe, let it fall, and relaxed onto the polished table.

That fair, long, and clearly pampered body looked exceptionally out of place against the somewhat old backdrop of the bath area. Several regulars soaking in the nearby hot springs had already been secretly watching. Seeing this, they exchanged knowing looks and whispered:

“Hey, another one… has the feng shui of our pool changed lately? We keep getting ‘premium stock’ that usually wouldn’t be caught dead in a public bath like this.”

“Tsk, this one looks expensive too, on par with the one who brought the bodyguards last time. Just feels… mm, hard to say, a bit effeminate.”

“Who cares? Just enjoy the view! Look at that frame, that skin… boy, it’s just different from us rough bastards.”

“Shh, keep it down. Don’t you see Master Dong’s face is black? Careful he doesn’t scrub you next!”

A subtle, “watching-a-play” atmosphere filled the room. Liu Wei wasn’t settled; he lay there, his gaze following Dong Junhao’s movements in preparing the tools and testing the water temperature like a clinging spiderweb. Suddenly, he spoke his tone no longer sharp, but light and critiquing, like someone judging a piece of art:

“Tsk,” he clicked his tongue, his gaze lingering on the lines of Dong Junhao’s back muscles that tensed as he worked. “Fang Mingxuan’s eye has always been decent… your physique, your vibe, it really is… very masculine, quite the asset.”

His voice wasn’t loud, but it was clear enough: “Entirely different from the carbon-copy ‘flower boys’ in the circle who are built on protein powder and beauty injections. No wonder you caught his attention made him want to change flavors and taste the strength of some ‘wild game’.”

He held the words “wild game” on his tongue, speaking them with a heavy, double meaning. Dong Junhao acted as if he were deaf. He picked up the large water ladle, scooped up warm water of the right temperature, and tilted his wrist steadily. Splash he poured it evenly over Liu Wei’s back. The water flowed down the smooth, white skin and into the drainage grooves.

Liu Wei didn’t seem to care about the silence. He sighed to himself, his tone suddenly shifting to a manufactured regret and a hypocritical “sincerity”:

“Sigh… speaking of which, that morning at the villa gate… I had really waited all night and was frustrated. Plus, seeing… well, seeing you in the car, the blood went to my head. My words were a bit harsh; I didn’t think. Master Dong, don’t take it to heart.”

He turned his head, casting his gaze toward Dong Junhao. His eyes tried hard to sparkle with seemingly genuine apology and sympathy: “I was just… sigh, so angry at Fang Mingxuan!”

“You probably don’t know, but he and I… we used to be quite close. I was fooled by his sweet talk and the illusion of his care. I really thought I was special that I was the one who could reach his heart.”

His voice dropped, carrying a performative sense of injury. “And the result? Once the freshness wore off, he started playing the disappearing act, the cold violence. Not answering calls, not replying to messages using every method to force you until you couldn’t take it and had to break up yourself…”

“He’s so practiced in the routine it makes your heart turn cold. He leaves people bruised and battered, having to swallow the bitter fruit and act as if nothing happened.”

He looked back at Dong Junhao, the “sympathy” in his eyes nearly overflowing: “My words that day, though harsh and impulsive… but Master Dong, honestly, it wasn’t all malice.”

“I’m ‘sharp-tongued but kind-hearted.’ I really couldn’t bear to see an honest, solid man like you get played like a toy by a veteran player and playboy like him. Only to end up like me—scarred, leaving the stage in gloom, and being mocked behind your back for ‘not knowing your place’ or ‘delusional thinking’.”

Dong Junhao remained silent, as if Liu Wei were talking to the air. On the surface, he appeared focused on his “scrubbing” work, undisturbed. Only he knew that by immersing himself in this mechanical, mindless labor, could he temporarily block out the man’s uncomfortable praise and the poisonous barbs of truth and lies that threatened to stir his soul.

However, the pain that truly wounds is not the superficial mockery, the fake apology, or the staged “sympathy.”

Just as Dong Junhao was using all his strength to maintain his surface of calm and numbness nearly convincing himself this was just a boring, vengeful game of a rich boy and that he only had to endure Liu Wei’s words shifted. Like a venom-dipped, razor-sharp dagger hidden in the shadows, it was once again aimed precisely and slowly at the softest, most defenseless corner of his heart.

This time, his voice dropped even lower, returning to a relaxed and peaceful tone as if chatting with a close friend, even carrying a hint of heart-to-heart huskiness. Yet every word was like a precisely calculated poison needle, stabbing deep into Dong Junhao’s mental defenses into the confusion he hadn’t cleared, the faint expectations, and the deep-seated insecurity and fear.