Mo Fei sat cross-legged on the floor of his bedroom, eyes solemnly closed before the small makeshift offering.
He was experiencing a crisis.
Possibly the greatest crisis of his second life.
He opened one eye and inspected the offerings before him.
Fruits. Incense. Two expensive pastries and, because Mo Fei believed sincerity should have a reasonable financial limit, the cheapest bottle of wine he could find in his apartment.
He clasped his hands together. "Oh great gods who graciously offered me this second chance at life…"
Silence.
Mo Fei squeezed his eyes shut. "I am extremely grateful. Truly. Waking up rich, handsome and famous was very generous of you."
Still nothing.
"But I have a question." His eyes opened. "Why men?"
Silence.
"Why?"
The incense continued burning.
Mo Fei pointed accusingly at the ceiling. "I spent my entire previous life liking women. Beautiful women. Gorgeous women. Women with long legs and soft—" He stopped himself. "This is a respectful conversation. Never mind."
His hands came together again.
"I'm simply asking for clarification. Even a small sign would be appreciated."
The curtains shifted. Mo Fei gasped and whipped around, realised it was the air conditioner and his face fell.
"Seriously?"
Five minutes passed.
Nothing.
Ten minutes.
Still nothing.
Mo Fei stared at the offering. The offering stared back at him
Eventually, he reached forward and took one of the pastries.
"Ptuooy. Some god you are." He bit into it and collapsed backwards onto the carpet.
His life was over.
Why, of all the things that could have happened after being given a second chance, did this have to happen?
He had been avoiding Zhang Yichen like the plague.
At events, Chen Yu's restaurant.
Even in his own bloody apartment building.
All because of one kiss.
One completely innocent, medically necessary CPR kiss.
Yes.
That was what it was. CPR.
Except…
Mo Fei's brows slowly drew together.
Was it?
He sat up.
There had been no chest compressions. No unconscious person.
No actual CPR, now that he thought about it.
"That bastard." Mo Fei slowly folded forward until his forehead touched the carpet.
What am I thinking?
This was ridiculous. He liked women. Only women.
Think of beautiful women, Mo Fei.
He squeezed his eyes shut. "Yes. Yes. Hot, sexy models."
Excellent.
"Long legs."
Ouuu. Wonderful.
"Soft chests."
Mm, Perfect.
"Not hard like Yichen's."
Silence.
Mo Fei's eyes snapped open.
Wait. Yichen's chest wasn't that hard, right? He had fallen against it before. It was actually pretty soft—
Mo Fei shot upright.
"Oh, damn you, Mo Fei!"
He scrambled to his feet, nearly kicking over his own divine offering in the process. His reflection stared back at him from the mirror as he marched towards the bed.
"I'm sleeping this off."
Because obviously, sexuality crises worked exactly like hangovers.
Sleep long enough and perhaps heterosexuality would return by morning.
💜~~~~~
Zhang Yichen was having a crisis of his own.
Although, unlike Mo Fei, he had not yet resorted to bribing the gods with pastries.
He sat alone in his living room, a glass of whisky in hand, expression dark.
That little demon had been avoiding him. Not subtly, either. Mo Fei had apparently decided Zhang Yichen was a contagious disease.
Every time Yichen approached, he disappeared. Every time Yichen entered a room, Mo Fei suddenly remembered somewhere else he desperately needed to be.
Earlier that week, Yichen had watched him spot him across a lobby, turn around and walk directly back outside.
The audacity.
Yichen poured himself another drink. "How dare he?"
After everything Yichen had done for him.
He had sacrificed his lips. His hands, time, money and peace and apparently several years of his life expectancy.
Surely he deserved something. An explanation, at least.
I deserve an answer from that catastrophic cat.
He took a drink.
Mo Fei. Mo Fei. Mo Fei.
Just remembering the name irritated him.
"I swear to God, he drives me crazy with his shamelessness." Yichen leaned back and stared at the ceiling.
What did he even like about him?
Nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
Mo Fei had no redeeming qualities. He talked too much. Acted rowdy. Had no manners. No dignity.
No sense of self-preservation. Utterly shameless. Wild and troublesome.
A walking public disturbance in designer clothing.
Yichen clicked his tongue.
What a pity.
Such a handsome face, wasted on that demon civet cat.
"Zhang Yichen, Zhang Yichen…" He rubbed his forehead. "You've really fallen off."
An S-tier actor at the peak of his career.
International endorsements. Award-winning films. Millions upon millions of fans. And this was who he was settling for?
Mo Fei?
The same man who had nearly electrocuted himself because he "knew a few tricks"?
The man who ate desserts large enough to feed families?
The man who had recently decided a BMW was his biological child?
Yichen took another drink. "…Ah, what does it matter?"
He was bullshitting himself at this point.
Mo Fei might be shameless, but Yichen had never actually wanted him to stop.
Mo Fei might be loud, but his noise had never truly bothered him.
Mo Fei might have no dignity left—
Yichen considered this one carefully.
Fine. That was objectively true. But Yichen had enough dignity for both of them.
His posture straightened.
Yes.
That worked.
Mo Fei was reckless. Yichen was responsible.
Mo Fei was loud. Yichen was quiet.
Mo Fei had no dignity. Yichen had an excess supply.
Mo Fei caused problems.
Yichen— He paused.
Yichen usually helped him cause them.
Irrelevant.
A slow, shameless smile tugged at his mouth.
Yes.
Good thinking, Yichen.
He raised his glass towards absolutely no one. "I'll make up for what he doesn't have."
Problem solved.
It didn't matter. As long as he liked Mo Fei, that was enough.
Yichen took a satisfied sip.
There was, however, one minor issue.
Mo Fei was currently fleeing from him like a wanted criminal avoiding the police.
Yichen stared thoughtfully into his whisky.
How exactly did one make a civet cat fall for them?
Several seconds passed.
Then Zhang Yichen—internationally acclaimed actor, luxury ambassador and supposedly intelligent adult—reached for his phone.
He opened Google.
His fingers hovered over the keyboard before typing:
How to make someone like you
Yichen frowned.
Too broad.
Delete.
How to pursue someone who keeps avoiding you
He considered it. Deleted that too.
Finally—
How to make a civet cat like you
Search.
Yichen stared at the results.
How to Earn the Trust of a Shy Civet
His brows lifted.
Oh.
He opened it.
Avoid sudden movements.
Yichen considered this.
Reasonable.
Offer food.
His expression became serious.
Mo Fei liked desserts. Very much.
Allow the animal to approach you at its own pace.
Yichen frowned.
That sounded inefficient.
Do not attempt to grab or restrain it.
Yichen stared at the screen. He thought about carrying Mo Fei over his arms. Twice now. "…Too late." He scrolled.
Create a safe and comfortable environment.
Could be Possible.
Use treats to establish positive associations.
Very possible.
Yichen sat forward.
Now they were getting somewhere.
Five minutes later, Zhang Yichen had somehow gone from questioning every decision that had brought him to this point in life to reading an article about civet-cat behavioural management with the concentration he usually reserved for film scripts.
He opened his notes.
Mo Fei:
1. Desserts.
2. No sudden movements.
3. Give him space.
4. More desserts.
5. Make him feel safe.
6. Do not grab him.
Yichen stared at number six. Then deleted it.
He typed:
6. Grab only when necessary.
Much better.
Yichen leaned back, satisfied.
Across Nyx apartment building, Mo Fei was currently buried beneath his blankets, praying to wake up exclusively attracted to women again.
Neither man knew what he was doing.
Unfortunately, both were extremely committed.