Obsessive Young Master Wei: My Beloved Loses Control Every Night

Today's "Moonlight" reminded him of a piece of background music from a movie.

It's also a piano, and it has that same cool, serene quality, like the texture of moonlight shining on water.

It was raining on the screen at that time, and the male protagonist was standing under a street lamp on a street corner, waiting for someone who would never come.

Bian Zhizhi suddenly spoke up: "What do you think this passage resembles?"

Wei Zixian did not open his eyes, but he could feel her gaze on his face.

He paused for a few seconds, then said:

"...like water."

"water?"

"Hmm." He paused, searching his vocabulary, "Like a lake at night. There's no wind, the moon shines on it, it's very calm, but there are undercurrents beneath."

He regretted it as soon as he said it.

That's too artsy, too pretentious, not like something he would say.

But Bian Zhizhi neither smiled nor offered any comment.

She simply hummed in agreement, then said, "I saw it. It was a beautiful sight."

Then came a long silence.

Only the music was flowing.

He said it was like water.

She said I saw it.

There was no judgment, no analysis, no "this shows how your subconscious is like this or that".

It was just a simple confirmation: I heard it, I understood it, and I saw what you saw.

This confirmation made him feel safer than any professional affirmation.

It's like falling into the deep sea and suddenly hitting a flat reef.

Although the surrounding area was still an endless sea, there was now a place to stand.

The music switched to Joe Hisaishi's song.

The melody is warmer, carrying the scent of summer sunshine and grass.

Wei Zixian kept his eyes closed, but his body unconsciously relaxed.

He leaned back on the sofa, his head tilted slightly back, revealing the line of his Adam's apple.

He let that heat linger there.

Like a mark.

After lunch, there is free time.

Wei Zixian usually goes back to his bedroom for a short rest, but today he stayed in the garden for an extra half hour.

The autumn sun was just right, not too strong, and felt warmly enveloping me.

The osmanthus flowers in the garden are nearing the end of their bloom, and their fragrance has become faint, lingering in the air almost imperceptibly.

He walked slowly along the gravel path and stopped when he reached the pavilion.

This was the first time Bian Zhizhi had suggested having afternoon tea in the garden after the family dinner.

As he stood there, looking at the white tablecloth spread out on the stone table, his first thought was: escape.

That's too revealing.

The pavilion was open and transparent on all sides. Although the garden had high walls, and the entire mountain belonged to the Wei family, and it was impossible for outsiders to be there, he still felt exposed.

It's like being stripped naked and thrown into the wilderness, surrounded by eyes from all sides.

But he didn't run away.

Because he saw that Bian Zhizhi had already sat down on the stone bench.

She poured two cups of black tea, pushed one of them in front of him, then picked up her own cup, blew on it to cool it, and took a small sip.

She looked up at him, her eyes squinting in the sunlight.

"Young master, the black tea is from Ceylon, with bergamot added, it smells very good," she said.

That casual tone of his voice disarmed him completely.

He walked over, sat down, picked up his teacup, and took a sip.

The aroma of tea, mixed with the refreshing scent of bergamot, spreads throughout the mouth.

It's a bit astringent, but the aftertaste is very long-lasting.

"How is it?" she asked.

"...Okay," he said.

They sat there for an hour.

He didn't say much, just drank tea, looked at the last few roses in the garden, and watched the clouds drift slowly across the sky.

Occasionally, a bird would land on the eaves of the pavilion, chirp twice, and then flutter its wings and fly away.

That one hour was the first time Wei Zixian hadn't felt anxious in a completely open space since moving into the house.

Now, he stands in the pavilion, his fingers tracing the surface of the stone table.

There are a few fallen leaves on the table; they were blown here by the wind last night.

He picked up a maple leaf; it was completely dry, and the veins were clearly visible in the sunlight.

He held the leaf stalk and gently turned it, watching it change color in the light.

He heard footsteps.

He didn't turn around, but the fingers gripping the leaf stem tightened slightly.

"Young Master," her voice came from behind, tinged with laughter, "you're here."

Wei Zixian turned around.

She stood three steps away, holding a folder in her hand; she must have just finished her work and came to find him.

The off-white knitted cardigan was open, revealing the light blue dress she wore that morning underneath.

For a fleeting moment, Wei Zixian felt as if she had stepped out of the light.

It's unreal, but heartwarming.

"It's time to go back inside," she said. "I have reading time this afternoon."

Wei Zixian nodded and loosened his fingers.

The maple leaf drifted down, swirled in the air, and landed on the gravel path.

He walked over and stood beside her.

The distance was just right, not too far, not too close, enough to catch a faint scent of fresh grass and citrus emanating from her.

"Let's go," he said.

The two walked back side by side.

Wei Zixian looked at the two shadows on the ground, elongated by the sunlight.

He suddenly wished the road were longer.

Longer.

Let him walk beside her like this, without saying a word, just walking.

But the road soon came to an end.

The back door of the main building was open, and Butler Li stood inside. When he saw them, he nodded slightly.

"Ms. Bian, you have a phone call. It's from Director Zhang of the healing center."

Bian Zhizhi paused for a moment, then resumed her normal pace: "Okay, I'll be right there."

She turned to Wei Zixian and said gently, "Young Master, would you like to go back to the activity room first? I'll come right away after I take this call."

Wei Zixian looked at her and nodded.

After Bian Zhizhi left, Wei Zixian's aura suddenly turned cold.

Work again.

Always working.

She is his therapist; it's her job.

All her patience, all her gentleness, and all her "seeing" of him were part of her job.

He watched her walk quickly toward the phone in the living room, her figure disappearing around the corner of the hallway, before turning around and slowly walking up the stairs.

With each step, I could feel that the steps beneath my feet were much cooler than when I arrived.

Fortunately, Bian Zhizhi returned to the activity room not long after. Her expression was normal, and her tone didn't change much, so Wei Zixian was temporarily relieved.

Bian Zhizhi stared at those few lines of text, pressing her fingertips even harder on her temples.

She was thinking of Wei Zixian.

I recall the fear that gripped his pupils when he first saw clay.

She recalled the blush that quickly spread from the base of her ears when he first touched her fingers.

She imagined him in the movie theater, his hand tightly gripping hers in the darkness.

Attachment.

This term is commonly found in professional literature.

Secure attachment, anxious attachment, avoidant attachment...

However, Wei Zixian does not belong to any of these categories.

Or rather, he is a mixture of all of these.

He longed to get close, yet feared getting close.

He needed confirmation, yet refused to confirm.

And she was that piece of ice.

She had to be strong enough for him to dare to come up to her.

We must also be sensitive enough to prevent him from falling into the ice cave the moment he jumps away.

Bian Zhizhi's thoughts drifted away.

She recalled what her supervisor had said when she first became a therapist.

"Our job is to build a bridge over the abyss. The bridge must be sturdy enough for people to dare to cross. But remember, you can't cross for them; you can only build the bridge."

She didn't understand at the time.

Now she seems to understand, yet she also seems to understand even less.

What if the person who builds the bridge started walking on it themselves?

What if the people who build the bridge also start to rely on the weight given by the people on the bridge to confirm its existence?

This thought made her heart tighten.

She released her hand from her chin, rubbed her temples, and tried to dispel these inappropriate thoughts.

But the moment the fingertip leaves the skin, a faint fingerprint is left on the pressed spot.