Yue's pov
Saturday Nigh T
After her breakfast on Saturday morning, Yue retreated. She spent the afternoon in the library. She assumed Fu had forgotten she was there.
At 11:00 PM, she emerged out of the Library to get water. She was wearing a silk slip, another "gift" from his mother, that felt like nothing against her skin. She didn't turn on the lights. She didn't think she needed to.
She ran into him in the narrow hallway leading to the kitchen. Had he just been standing there?
Fu was leaning against the wall, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. He hadn't changed for bed; he was still in his dress slacks, his white shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest.
Yue froze. The hallway was too thin. To pass him, she would have to brush against him.
"I... I didn't think you were still up," she whispered.
Fu didn't move. He just watched her, his gaze dark and unreadable in the shadows. He took a slow sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving hers. The silence stretched until the air felt thick enough to choke on.
"The house is yours, Yue," he said, his voice a low, gravelly vibration. "You don't have to hide away"
He stepped aside, but as she passed, the silk of her robe brushed against his arm. She felt the heat of him through the fabric, a jolt of electricity that made her breath hitch. She didn't look back, but she felt his gaze on her spine until she closed the kitchen door.
Sunday
Fu was in the living room, working on a laptop. Yue, having nothing else to do, decided to organize the bookshelves. She had forgotten what she was wearing, a short, oversized jersey tee that acted as a dress, leaving her long, pale legs entirely exposed.
She climbed the rolling library ladder to reach the top shelf. The hem of the shirt rode up. Her long black hair spilled over her shoulder as she reached higher, her back arching, the fabric clinging to the curve of her waist.
The sound of typing stopped.
Yue looked down. Fu was staring at her. His laptop was forgotten on his knees, his hands gripped the edge of the sofa cushions so hard his knuckles were white.
"Yue," he said, his voice strained, like he was speaking through gritted teeth.
"Yes?" she asked, looking down at him with wide, innocent eyes.
"Get down from there."
"I'm almost finished—"
"Now."
She climbed down, confused by the sudden sharpness in his tone. When she reached the floor, he was already standing, heading for the terrace.
"Is something wrong?" she called out.
He didn't answer. He just stepped into the cool Sunday air and stayed there for an hour, his back to the glass, staring at the horizon.