You Said This Was a Legitimate Massage, Dr. Shen, Where Are Your Hands?

Because he was broke, Lin Yubai rented a shabby two-bedroom apartment.

His roommate, Shen Que, was a young Chinese medicine doctor who ran a tuina clinic downstairs. He wore a white coat with the top button always fastened, and even put on medical gloves to hand over a food delivery.

Lin Yubai thought he had a cleanliness obsession.

Then one stormy night, Lin Yubai’s “skin hunger syndrome” flared up, leaving him gasping in pain on the living-room sofa.

The bedroom door opened.

The man who was usually as cold as ice came out without his gloves, grabbed Lin Yubai’s wrist, and pressed his thumb hard against the acupoint between his thumb and index finger.

“Why are you shaking?” Shen Que’s voice sounded terrifyingly hoarse in the dark. “Take off your clothes. I’ll massage you.”

What Lin Yubai didn’t know was that this man, who felt sick if anyone so much as touched his clothes, was addicted to him alone.