His physiological preference

She touched his pectoral muscles.

Yang Zhiyan's brain completely shut down at that moment.

Her face was still buried in his chest, the tip of her nose pressed against the small patch of skin below his collarbone. Her palms were still pressed against his pectoral muscles, her fingers still curled up.

Her knees were still on his thighs, her kneecaps digging into the muscles of his thighs, the firmness of which was completely different from the softness she had imagined.

She should get up.

She knew she should get up.

But her body wouldn't obey her. It wasn't that she didn't want to move, it was that she couldn't.

It felt like I was frozen in place; every muscle was stiff, every nerve was screaming, but I just couldn't control my limbs.

A voice came from above, deep and a little hoarse.

Are you alright?

Qin Yuzheng's voice. It was right above her head, so close that she could feel the vibration of his chest as he spoke.

The vibration traveled up through her hand pressed against his chest, spreading down his arm to his shoulder, neck, face, and ears, making everything feel hot.

She sprang away abruptly.

Qin Yuzheng knelt on the ground, one hand supporting himself on the ground, the other hand hanging in mid-air. It was his hand that he instinctively wanted to support her, but she had already bounced away and he didn't have time to pull it back.

His shirt was soaked, from the collar all the way down to his chest. The light blue fabric turned dark blue after being soaked through, clinging to his skin and outlining the contours of his pectoral muscles and the shallow indentation below his collarbone.

His hair was a little messy, with a few strands hanging over his forehead. His eyes were larger than usual, probably because he hadn't fully recovered from the sudden accident.

"Did you fall?" he asked.

His voice was still a little hoarse, but his tone was steady, as if he was using a calm tone to help her out of her panic.

Yang Zhiyan shook her head.

The movement was quick and exaggerated, her hair whipping across her face, obscuring half of it. She peered at him through the gaps in her hair, her lips moving as if she wanted to say something.

"I'm so sorry..." Her voice shrilled, like a radio tuned out, then quickly subsided. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to. I didn't see the toolbox on the floor, I..."

She couldn't continue.

She had just thrown herself into his arms and touched his pectoral muscles. She touched them. She even pressed on them. No, not pressed, but supported them. Yes, supported them. Supported them with her palm. The kind of support where her whole palm was pressed against them.

Her face turned from pink to red, so red it looked like it was on fire.

"I...I'll go...that..." She pointed in the direction of the kitchen, then in the direction of the bedroom, and finally in the direction of the door, but none of the directions were correct.

Seeing her flustered state, Qin Yuzheng held back his laughter. He was afraid that laughing would make her even more embarrassed, so he forcefully suppressed it.

"Don't move," he said, standing up and picking up the screws and tools scattered on the ground and putting them back into the toolbox.

He closed the toolbox lid, fastened the latches, and placed it next to the shoe cabinet. Then he walked up to her, bent down, and extended his hand to her.

"Get up, the ground is cold."

Yang Zhiyan looked at the hand. It was slender, with distinct knuckles, and thin calluses on the fingertips. She had touched this hand several times, and each time it felt like being burned.

She placed her hand in his palm.

He grasped her hand and gently pulled her up from the ground. The force was just right, not too strong, not too weak, enough for her to stand up without pulling her head overboard and causing her to bump into himself.

But when she stood up, she was still very close to him.

She was so close that the tip of her nose almost touched his chin. So close that she could see the texture of his shirt clinging to his skin after it was soaked through.

"Your clothes are wet," she said, pointing to his shirt, her finger trembling slightly in the air. "I'm sorry."

Qin Yuzheng glanced down at his shirt. It was soaked, from the collar to his chest, and the water stain was slowly spreading.

His skin was faintly visible through the soaked fabric, and a small puddle of water shimmered in the hollow below his collarbone.

"It's alright," he said. "I'll go back and change."

He went to the door, changed his shoes, opened the door, and turned back: "It's nothing, just an accident. I'm glad you didn't fall."

The door closed.

Yang Zhiyan stood in the living room, looking at the closed door, slowly squatted down, and covered her face with her hands.

The warmth of his pectoral muscles still lingered in my palm. The firmness and elasticity of his muscles, through the skin of my hand, were imprinted there like a brand.

She removed her hands from her face, turned them over to look at her palms, and found nothing there, but she felt a fire burning there, making her entire hand red.

She recalled the moment she had thrown herself into his arms. The instant his body reacted beneath her palm.

The temperature of his chest beneath her face was hot, burning. His breathing above her head was rapid, but he quickly suppressed it.

Oh my goodness.

Does he think she's a lecherous woman?

You wouldn't think she deliberately fell down, deliberately threw herself into his arms, or deliberately touched his chest muscles, would you?

Yang Zhiyan buried her face in her knees and let out a muffled sound, similar to a wail.

I just want to find a block of tofu and smash my head against it to die.

After half an hour.

Yang Zhiyan sat on the sofa, hugging a cushion, resting her chin on it, and staring blankly at the bag of potato chips on the coffee table.

Qin Yuzheng bought the potato chips. He left them in the living room and forgot to take them back when he was tidying up the tools. Next to the potato chips was a box of sandwich cookies and a bag of beef jerky—lots of snacks, I kind of want to eat some.

Yang Zhiyan has never had snacks in her life. She says she's going to raise herself all over again. She'll go buy snacks tomorrow, hmph.

Let's send Qin Yuzheng's things back for him.

But she didn't want to see him again; it was too awkward.

Yang Zhiyan hesitated for a moment, but still decided to return it to him. What if someone else forgot it, and she felt awkward coming to pick it up? After all, he was the landlord's grandson. She couldn't afford to offend him.

Yang Zhiyan sat on the sofa for five minutes, hugging a cushion, torn between her inner and outer struggles.

Five minutes later, she stood up, picked up the bag of potato chips, biscuits, and beef jerky, walked to the door, and opened it.

The motion-activated lights in the corridor turned on.

She walked to the door across the street, took a deep breath, and rang the doorbell.

ding dong -- ding dong --

There was no sound from inside the door.

She waited a few seconds, then pressed it again.

Ding-dong-

The door opened.

Yang Zhiyan was stunned.

Qin Yuzheng stood at the door, his hair wet, water droplets dripping from the ends, running down his forehead, past his brow bone, over the bridge of his nose, and finally hanging precariously on the tip of his chin. He was shirtless.

He was only wearing a bath towel.

The bath towel was white, wrapped around her waist, and tucked in at the side, revealing the starting point of her V-line.

Water droplets still clung to the crevices of his shoulders, chest, and abdominal muscles, resembling morning dew on leaves under the corridor lights.

His pectoral muscles.

The two pectoral muscles she just touched.

Now it was completely exposed to her, clearer, more concrete, and more impactful than what she had seen through the wet shirt.

The chest muscles were well-defined and full. A little water clung to the hollow below her collarbone, glistening in the light. Then, she glanced down from the chest and saw the abs. Yang Zhiyan's brain went blank again.