【Are you sure Shen Li even remembers you?】
【When Shen Li was dating me, you were still off somewhere playing in the mud.】
Qian Xingzhi fired off those two messages. Moments later, he saw Su Xilan fire back a rapid reply—a string of little rabbit emojis cursing up a storm with “fuck grass.”
Then, at the top of the chat window, the endless 【The other person is typing…】 appeared, no telling what novella the guy was hammering out this time.
What a nutjob.
Maybe it was like repels like, or maybe it was that daytime reminder—”But he’s not your wife anymore”—but a flicker of real impatience finally crossed the depths of Qian Xingzhi’s brooding gaze. His long fingers tapped the screen like playing piano keys, swift and decisive. One tap to block, then his long legs kicked out, foot slamming the accelerator. The beat-up car he’d rented for fifty bucks roared to life.
The engine let out a long, groaning “Zuuu~~,” and the next second, the junker was kicking up dust on the empty country road, tearing off in a sharp U-turn—nothing like the twenty-kilometer crawl it’d managed when carrying Shen Li back earlier.
Just then, his phone buzzed insistently. It was his assistant and the program head, no doubt hounding him again: Was Shen Li with him? It was late—time to send Shen Li back.
Making a huge fuss over nothing.
Just like a high school dean hauling kids out of the grove for a scolding.
Annoying.
Qian Xingzhi’s own thoughts drew a smirk from him.
Back in the day, after evening study hall, he’d always coax Shen Li out to meet him.
Shen Li, that picture-perfect good student, usually took a whole semester of pleading before grudgingly agreeing once. Forget sneaking into the grove—going to the bathroom together meant separate stalls.
His notes back were even worse: either “mm,” “1,” or at most three words like “Got it.” If he got really pissed, it’d just be “Scram.”
If those words came out of his real mouth instead of a text, though, they’d sound so much sweeter.
Text messages left Qian Xingzhi to imagine Shen Li’s pale face and cool voice, his rigid posture as he stared at the blackboard or straight ahead.
It was pretty captivating, even so.
Those stray locks at his temples and along his sideburns seemed pulled by some invisible force, drawing Qian Xingzhi to want to grab that beautiful face, wrench it around, and force those cool, serene eyes to meet his own in startled confusion.
Seven years divorced.
Seven years since they’d laid eyes on each other.
Qian Xingzhi propped one hand on the window frame. Somehow, he’d slowed back down to twenty kilometers an hour for the last stretch.
On that long summer night, moonlight filtered through the windows, dappling the empty passenger seat in patches of shadow and glow.
Qian Xingzhi shot an irritated glance at the vacant spot. With a flick of his wrist, he chucked the phone from his right hand onto the neighboring seat.
Too hard.
The phone clattered into the seat crevice.
Qian Xingzhi ignored it, letting the wedged device buzz away on its own. He nudged the accelerator and headed for the staff’s temporary dorms.
–
“Mr. Qian, you dropping in out of nowhere like this—I don’t have a room for you! Didn’t we coordinate earlier? You’re supposed to connect with your ex tonight, right? Didn’t they tell you?”
The program head eyed Qian Xingzhi’s mud-splattered ride up and down. A depreciated secondhand rustbucket that might not even fetch ten grand felt wildly mismatched with a Great Film Emperor’s stature.
Yet the man, pushing two meters tall in his low-key sunglasses, tugged his mask halfway down to reveal a sharp nose, sleek jawline, and bones structured like a masterpiece. No mistaking it.
It was Qian Xingzhi.
So when Xiao Chen had reported earlier that Shen Li was stepping away briefly for urgent personal business—was it with this guy? But at this hour, could Qian Xingzhi make it back to the program’s quarters in time for the connect?
While the head was still reeling, Qian Xingzhi spoke up.
“No need for anything fancy. A warehouse works fine. You don’t even have that?”
The head looked pained. He thought it over, hesitating. “We do have some uncleaned spots—might have rats, no hot water… No, no, we can’t put you through that. If you really need to crash, how about I get some staff to bunk together and give up their room?”
Qian Xingzhi’s mouth twisted downward.
The head had worded it artfully enough—leaving the jerk option squarely on Qian Xingzhi’s plate, all depending on his character.
Qian Xingzhi had seen plenty of arrogant peers throw their weight around, but he wasn’t that kind of guy. He couldn’t bring himself to shove others aside, nor did he care for the head’s timid flattery and probing. His refusal came sharp and firm.
“No thanks. The rat-infested one will do.”
The head bobbed his head obsequiously, chuckling awkwardly. “Aw, why put yourself through that? And aren’t you connecting with Teacher Shen tonight? If you stay here, how’s that gonna work?”
Qian Xingzhi glanced at his phone. The connect time was fast approaching. He narrowed his eyes at the head.
“Forget your gear. I’ll use my phone. No need for your recording either—I’ll handle it.”
The head looked deeply troubled. They’d already planned to use the program’s equipment…
But Qian Xingzhi showed zero room for negotiation, so the head swallowed hard and agreed.
He said he’d check with head director Li first. Qian Xingzhi waved him off.
This variety show was practically his brainchild, but he wasn’t a pro producer. He’d picked a capable right-hand man.
After weighing options, it was Li Zhiming.
Li Zhiming was a sharp-as-nails businessman, producer of countless S-grade shows and pioneer of the live variety format.
By his resume, a guy who’d burned bridges with the old network to go solo and still crushed it had real chops.
Still, you never really knew a man. Qian Xingzhi didn’t fully trust Li’s morals. For security, with this surprise segment, better keep control. Connecting via his own phone ensured nothing got secretly recorded—keeping private talk truly private.
The head stepped away for a call, cupping the receiver as he murmured. Then he returned and handed over the phone. “Mr. Qian, Director Li.”
Qian Xingzhi pulled up his mask, face impassive as he put the imperious front back on and took the call.
“Yeah? What’s up, Director Li?”
The voice on the other end boomed thick and hearty, erupting in guffaws like a brass bell.
“Xingzhi, come on… We’ve known each other so long—don’t you trust your bro’s character?”
Qian Xingzhi didn’t call the bluff outright. He let out what sounded like a cold huff. “You spring this segment out of nowhere, milking me and Shen Li for drama, without running it by me first?”
“Whoa, whoa, you don’t get it. We had a cop show up outta the blue—one of our guests is a crime suspect. No evidence yet for arrest, so they want a segment banning his phone to cut off any gang contacts. I’m baffled too—the guy’s right here. Where’s he gonna run? But the cop says better not spook him early. Hence the Hail Mary.”
Qian Xingzhi shot back, “Banning his phone—how’s that tied to me connecting? I figured anything off-protocol needed my heads-up first.”
“Heh,” Director Li chuckled slyly. “Xingzhi, you’re all riled up. Who’m I doing this for? Just fanning the flames for you, buddy. Tsk, don’t say I never helped you out.”
Qian Xingzhi’s lips quirked the tiniest bit. No direct yes or no on the connect. Just:
“We’ll use our own phones. After recording, I’ll send whatever can air. Can’t promise thirty minutes’ worth, and that 88-yuan paywall for viewers? Needs renegotiating.”
With Qian Xingzhi laying it out like that, the other side could only chuckle along.
Both sharp cookies.
No need to spell everything out.
Plus, Qian Xingzhi was an investor with real sway.
Director Li laughed once more and caved. “Fine, fine. How could I say no? Just make sure you record it—post-production dubbing’s a pain.”
“Got it.”
Qian Xingzhi got what he wanted—no further demands.
The head showed him to a room. The instant the door shut behind him, Qian Xingzhi’s long legs propelled him onto the rickety bed. He ditched the sunglasses and mask, speed-scrolling the internet like an emperor vetting memorials.
A few replies to key contacts later, he swung back to his Weibo backend and flipped his 【View this user’s following list】 to public.
–
【Holy shit, I was just browsing Qian Xingzhi’s Weibo—what’d I find?! [Screenshot.jpg]】
【WTF!? He followed Shen Li that early too?? Your pic’s photoshopped, right?】
【Photoshop my ass—go check yourselves.】
【OMG, he beat Su Xilan to it… Account fresh outta the gate and first follow’s him???】
【Aaaah I’m alive again! Knew my baby CP wouldn’t die that easy!】
【Shen Li’s gotta have history with both. Which ex? Jury’s out.】
【Shen Li’s locked as the real wifey. Now, who’s the ex?】
【Leaning Qian Xingzhi—they’re closer in age. Broccoli’s only 22. Flash marriage flash divorce wouldn’t line up that quick.】
【Either way… Both rushing to unlock their following lists? Top-tier behavior.】
【Hahaha, what if they’re both chasing the same guy?!】
【Stop brainstorming—Qin Lian shippers are already shattered…】
Shen Li paused mid-brush, toothbrush hovering as he read those comments. He Baidu’d “Su Xilan” to confirm it matched “Lian Xiaoqi.”
He hadn’t checked messages in Qian Xingzhi’s car. Now, with the gift-giving window closed and zero gifts to his name—no more forced schmoozing—he’d finally unwound, showered early.
Phone back in hand, he multitasked: brushing teeth while scrolling program buzz—including that clip of Lian Xiaoqi’s afternoon monologue.
Because Lian Xiaoqi’s account was just too outlandish, Shen Li ended up with a mouth full of toothpaste foam, staring blankly at his phone for a couple of seconds.
After confirming that he hadn’t lost his memory, hadn’t transmigrated, had a clean background, and truly hadn’t done anyone wrong, he expressionlessly dragged the progress bar back over and over, watching the video two or three more times.
Even after scraping his gums raw and bloody with the disposable toothbrush, he still couldn’t make heads or tails of it.
What was the point of this?
Some kind of scripted drama?
Shen Li licked his bleeding gums, the metallic tang filling his mouth. His thoughts really were a bit jumbled now: could those dozens of messages popping up on Qian Xingzhi’s phone be related?
As a former detective, Shen Li racked his brain for ages but couldn’t figure out the guy’s motives. In the end, he simply rewatched the video once more—this time paying extra attention to Lian Xiaoqi.
He had to admit, the kid looked more grown-up now than he had in that movie from a few years back.
They said fame brought out the best in people, and it wasn’t wrong. The young man on screen had a charisma and glow that outshone even his film appearance—brighter, more striking.
Shen Li had been deeply impressed by Qian Xingzhi’s co-star when he’d watched that movie. Maybe it was because the plot of Shen Chuang was so well-written, the film so seamlessly directed, and the emotions so nuanced that even someone like Shen Li, who rarely watched movies, had gotten completely immersed.
But this time, with Lian Xiaoqi showing up, Shen Li really hadn’t paid attention. He’d seen the promo materials and the official Weibo shoutouts tagging the guests, but he’d long since forgotten Lian Xiaoqi’s real name. He hadn’t even realized at first that the guy was one of the observers in the observation room.
So, had that whole afternoon performance been scripted for him?
But why script something like that? Everything he’d said had been straight out of Qian Xingzhi’s playbook. So what was Qian Xingzhi supposed to say next?
…Whatever.
Let him say what he wanted.
Script or no script, it didn’t affect Shen Li’s three million.
Yawning, Shen Li wiped off the cut fruit slices with his damp hands and set his phone screen back to the home page.
He cleaned his face next, sloppily smeared on some Dabao, and settled back onto his little bed.
First, he replied to the message from his old professor at the academy. Then he checked with Lin Jie on the progress of the 0225 Case. Finally, he sent Geng Qiuqiu a goodnight. With that done, he opened the chat list—now free of unread messages—and stared blankly at the contact photo.
Waiting for Qian Xingzhi to call.
Xiao Chen had just told him they’d still be using their personal phones to connect today.
She hadn’t clarified exactly how the connection would work or what they’d discuss, but at least there’d be no fixed lines to recite.
Shen Li waited around idly, lounging against the soft headboard cushion.
The warm yellow lamplight draped over him like a thin veil, softening the edges of his face and making everything seem gentle.
Time itself felt slower, more tender around him.
This feeling of waiting for Qian Xingzhi’s call was oddly strange… yet familiar.
It suddenly reminded Shen Li of those nights before every day off. He’d finish washing up and showering, sit on the bed scrolling through Party education videos, waiting for Qian Xingzhi to finish his own routine.
At first, it was fine. When they were younger and full of energy, a few kisses would lead straight to bed.
Later on, though, it really was just like this… waiting for Qian Xingzhi’s call.
One part awkwardness out of ten. One percent impatience out of a hundred. A thousandth part tension.
The remaining 88.9 percent? Pure going-through-the-motions obligation.
Thinking back on it now was almost funny.
He’d tried to fake enthusiasm back then, but he could never quite pull off acting like he enjoyed it. It probably bruised someone’s ego a bit.
But what could he do?
Work left him exhausted during the day. Besides, being on the bottom wasn’t exactly comfortable—hell, it had never really felt good. Even when they were young and did it more often, willingly as he was, it was more psychological than physical.
Funny thing was, those moments in bed were the only times Shen Li would suddenly realize how much he actually loved Qian Xingzhi.
Why else would he put up with the discomfort if not for love?
Drowsing off with these thoughts, Shen Li waited a full fifteen minutes. It was nearly 23:50 now, but still no call from Qian Xingzhi.
Following his work mantra—if the mountain won’t come to Muhammad, go to the mountain—Shen Li decided to take the initiative and call to see what was up.
The phone rang for almost half a minute. No answer.
Shen Li frowned coldly and tried the WeChat call instead.
This time, it was instantly hung up.
He wanted to send a question mark but held back.
He typed for a good half minute before finally sending a bland, perfunctory three characters—better than a question mark, at least:
【Busy?】
Still no reply.
Shen Li took a deep breath, genuinely annoyed now. He switched off the lamp, killed his phone screen, and lay down facing away from it, still fully clothed.
However—
Three minutes later, when the WeChat notification chimed, he still turned back around and picked up the phone, face impassive.
There, in the notification bar, sat a lone message:
【(Copper coin): [Image]】
All too familiar with Qian Xingzhi’s emoji spam habit, Shen Li clicked it without a second thought, his expression icy.
And there was…
A photo of glistening abs.
Captioned with some text and a dopey dog sticker:
【Not ignoring you on purpose. Do Not Disturb was on while I was taking pics.】
【[puppy stands up to show off its belly].gif】
Shen Li paused, then clicked [View Original] without changing expression.
A moment later, he typed:
【Average】
