Obsessive Young Master Wei: My Beloved Loses Control Every Night

Unbeknownst to her, a pair of eyes had been watching her from the sofa opposite for a long time.

Wei Zixian didn't read a single word of the book in his arms.

His gaze had been fixed on Bian Zhizhi for the past ten minutes.

To be precise, it fell on her profile as she rested her chin on her hand in deep thought.

She tilted her head, her left elbow resting on the armrest, her palm supporting her left cheek. Her brows were slightly furrowed, her eyes seeming to devour each word. Her lips were pursed, her lower lip gently bitten by her upper teeth, revealing a deeper red hue.

As Wei Zixian looked at her, he suddenly recalled the feeling of touching Bian Zhizhi's lips for the first time.

Wei Zixian's gaze lingered for too long.

It went on for so long that he himself realized that this had gone beyond the scope of "observation".

But he couldn't take his eyes off it.

It was as if something invisible was holding his gaze captive.

He suddenly remembered that when he was a child, about seven or eight years old, there was a very old record player in his father's study.

My father liked to play vinyl records on weekend afternoons, mostly classical music.

Once, he sneaked into the study and saw his father sitting in a high-backed armchair with his eyes closed, his fingers tapping lightly on the armrests.

The sunlight was like that back then, seeping in through the gaps in the blinds of the study.

His father had an expression he had never seen before.

Little Wei Zixian hid behind the door and watched for a long time.

He dared not go in, afraid of breaking the tranquility.

But he remembered that scene.

That was one of his few beautiful memories.

Now, looking at Bian Zhizhi, he felt a similar emotion welling up inside him.

She sat in the light.

She was thinking.

Wei Zixian made a move that even he himself couldn't immediately understand.

He rested his left elbow on the armrest of the sofa.

The movements were somewhat stiff and unnatural.

The angle of the arm and the position of the elbow both show deliberate intent.

He tried to rest his left cheek against his outstretched palm.

He also tilted his head slightly.

The angle and the side branches are almost exactly the same.

This posture is unfamiliar.

He had never had the habit of resting his chin on his hand in deep thought since he was a child.

He habitually sits upright with his back straight, shoulders relaxed, and hands on his knees or armrests.

My father once said: Your demeanor reveals your character.

A person's posture when sitting, standing, and walking reveals their upbringing and temperament.

Therefore, Wei Zixian was trained to be "standard" from a young age.

But now, he has broken that "standard".

He imitated Bian Zhizhi, tilting his head, resting his chin on his hand, and touching his temple with his fingertips.

This posture intrigued him.

It seems like they secretly did something that wasn't allowed when the adults weren't looking.

He maintained this posture, his gaze returning to the open illustration.

However, the pictures in the encyclopedia have all become blurry backgrounds.

His attention was entirely focused on the sensations in his body.

The warmth of my cheek against your palm.

The slight pressure of fingertips against the temples.

When you tilt your head, the neck muscles feel stretched and sore.

And... from this angle, you can see her out of the corner of your eye.

She was still reading.

It seemed like a page had been turned; fingers gripped the edge of the page, and flipped it over.

She reached out her right hand, picked up the cup of cold tea on the round table next to her, brought it to her lips, and took a small sip.

Wei Zixian saw her Adam's apple bob slightly, and he suddenly felt thirsty.

It wasn't a physical thirst, but rather that his gaze had lingered on Bian Zhizhi for too long, and he wanted to imitate all her movements. This was a thirst he had imagined, merely to provide a plausible excuse for his behavior.

He remained motionless, still resting his chin on his hand.

But his ears were straining to pick up every sound in the room that was related to her.

Wei Zixian closed his eyes.

He recalled a scene from a movie where the male and female protagonists embraced at a train station in the rain.

Rain soaked their hair and clothes, and water droplets streamed down the heroine's cheeks.

The male protagonist cupped her face and wiped the raindrops from the corners of her eyes with his thumb.

It could also be tears.

He lowered his head and kissed her.

The screening room was very quiet at that time.

Bian Zhizhi, who was standing next to him, paused for a moment.

At that moment, he suddenly had a strong urge to touch her.

The moment the thought popped into his head, he abruptly pulled it back.

I shouldn't think about it.

I can't think about it.

He refocused his attention on the present moment, on this warm, sunny afternoon.

He maintained the posture of resting his chin on his hand, his cheek against his palm, and his fingertips against his temple.

This position began to feel comfortable for him.

It seems that while imitating her, I also briefly stole that state of mind from her.

He stopped trying to look at the illustrations, simply maintaining the posture, closing his eyes, and letting his senses immerse themselves in the present moment.

When Bian Zhizhi snapped out of her reverie, her eyes were still a little sore.

She stared at that line in the journal.

"The attachment relationship between therapist and patient can be a bridge to healing, but it can also become a new prison."

My mind felt like it was a jumbled mess.

She subconsciously raised her hand to rub her sore eyes, and when she looked up, she saw Wei Zixian on the sofa opposite her.

Time seemed to have been paused at that moment.

Everything froze.

Only her heartbeat suddenly pounded in her chest, then began to accelerate uncontrollably.

That posture, that angle, that detail of fingertips touching the temple.

He was imitating her.

He was deliberately imitating her.

Bian Zhizhi's mind went blank for a moment.

She opened her eyes wide and stared at the scene, as if it were the first time she had truly "seen" Wei Zixian.

Before this, he was "Young Master Wei," her "patient," a soul that required her careful guidance and patient treatment.

She had never seen him like this before.

Bian Zhizhi felt that Wei Zixian was relaxed at this moment.

She looked at him, countless technical terms flashing through her mind.

Mirroring behavior, social learning, unconscious imitation, convergence in attachment relationships...

But at this moment, all the technical terms seem pale in comparison.

They couldn't explain the complex emotions she felt, emotions that almost brought tears to her eyes.

That's a kind of...

To be seen.

No, it wasn't her who was seen.

Instead, she saw her own reflection in him.

I can see the influence she has had, bit by bit, over the past three months.

He saw her tentacles, which she had cautiously extended, being caught and absorbed by him in this way, and then reappearing in a completely new way.

Bian Zhizhi's throat tightened a little.

She forced herself to look away, lower her head, and pretend to continue reading.

But the words jumped and blurred before her eyes, turning into a black spot.

Her hands were trembling slightly, and she had to hide them under the journal, clench them into fists, and dig her nails into her palms to maintain a semblance of calm through the pain.

We can't let him find out.

She couldn't let him know how much of an impact this little imitation had on her.

But she couldn't help but glance at him out of the corner of her eye.

She saw him remain in that position for about half a minute before he slowly opened his eyes.

His eyes were somewhat vacant, as if he had just woken up from a dream, his gaze unfocused and fixed on a point in the void.

He blinked, his gaze gradually focusing on the illustrated guide on his lap.

But he did not change his posture immediately.

He still rested his chin on his hand, tilted his head, and pressed his fingertips against his temple.

It seems that this posture has become a part of him, his most comfortable state at this moment.