The summer midnight buzzed with countless cicadas, their chorus filtering through the leaves and skimming over the pond.
Shen Li’s footsteps were light as he left the cabin.
The moment he passed through the fence gate, he switched on his phone’s flashlight and followed the directions on the system map.
Out in the middle of nowhere like this—the filming location was just too remote—even calling for a food delivery to bring medicine would cost at least ninety yuan. Taking something from the cabin’s medicine cabinet was far more practical.
But Shen Li had barely taken two steps before regret started to creep in.
If Qian Xingzhi really wanted medicine, couldn’t he have gone without it for an entire afternoon and evening?
And if he was genuinely sick and wanted treatment, why was he already hooked up to an IV? Calling in the dead of night with that hoarse, pitiful voice did smack of faking it for sympathy.
Unfortunately.
Shen Li had no solid proof.
And so, under the deep night sky, his silhouette stretched long in the moonlight.
After about ten minutes of walking, he finally stood beneath the building at the address Qian Xingzhi had given.
Shen Li looked up at the three rooms on the second floor that still had lights on, then at the stars overhead. He lingered there for half a minute before heading up to the second story.
He quickly spotted the room number on the first door and made his way toward the lit one in the far corner.
Qian Xingzhi’s room should be the one at the very end: 219.
This low building had once been employee dorms, old and rundown. Where the wall plaster had peeled away, bare gray concrete showed through.
The hallway lights flickered dimly, old-fashioned bulbs hanging on the walls and casting a feeble yellow glow. The stair railings were spotted with rust, as if lamenting the relentless passage of time.
Shen Li remembered clearly: the first place he and Qian Xingzhi had rented together had been just like this.
Small and shabby, with awful soundproofing. Back then, no matter what the two of them did in the room, Shen Li had always worried the neighbors might overhear.
But that time…
It had been happy.
In fact, it could rank as the number one happiest period of his life.
Even though it had been brief—just a little over two months.
Later, they had both started university. Shen Li’s school required dorm living, so he could only sneak out once every two weeks.
Gradually, Qian Xingzhi had to move back into his own dorm too. The rental saw so little use, and cleaning it was a hassle—not worth it when a hotel room was more convenient.
In the end, they had only kept the place for half a year before letting it go.
“Zzzzt, zzzzt, zzzzt—”
With just a few steps left to go, Qian Xingzhi’s voice call came through on VX.
He had probably grown impatient with the lack of replies. There was also a chilly message in the chat:
【?】
Shen Li paused and raised his hand to hang up.
Right then, he heard a faint click from one of the doors he had just passed.
The door cracked open, hung there in the eerie silence for two or three seconds, then slammed shut with a bang.
The noise was sharp.
Shen Li’s brows furrowed.
His sharp instincts kicked in, forcing him to turn around. He retraced a few steps and stopped in front of that door—208—staring coldly at the dark peephole for a good ten seconds.
He confirmed the door didn’t budge an inch. No one had any intention of coming out.
Shen Li thought it over and figured the most likely explanation was that someone inside—a crew member, probably—was getting ready for bed and locking up.
So he turned back and headed to Qian Xingzhi’s room at the far end.
His phone buzzed insistently in his hand, radiating impatience.
Shen Li had no choice.
He answered the call.
Before Qian Xingzhi could even say “hello,” Shen Li pressed the phone to his ear and murmured softly:
“Open the door.”
There was a beat of silence on the other end, the air thickening like frozen sauce.
The second hand seemed to stutter to a halt. Suddenly, the door to room 219 creaked open, yanked from inside.
The door swung on its hinges from the momentum but was caught just before it hit the wall.
White incandescent light spilled out like a warm tide, washing over Shen Li’s coolly handsome face.
His lean, elongated figure cast a shadow across the opposite door.
“You…”
Shen Li didn’t finish.
A large hand seized his wrist and yanked him inside.
“Aren’t you the delivery guy?”
Qian Xingzhi’s palm was scorching hot—feverish, for sure.
No acting there.
Shen Li pulled his wrist free from Qian Xingzhi’s grip, frowning deeply as he looked at him. “Why is your hand so hot?”
He had barely asked when Qian Xingzhi’s burning palm grabbed Shen Li’s slender, cool one again and pressed it to his forehead—brushing aside the fluffy, slightly long hair to reveal smooth skin.
Qian Xingzhi’s breath carried the fresh mint scent of toothpaste as he quipped arrogantly: “My head’s even hotter. Feel it?”
It almost sounded like he was showing off.
Shen Li was baffled, but his palm was already pressed against the other’s forehead. His brows knitted even tighter.
“…Maybe you should go to the hospital?”
Qian Xingzhi was half a head taller than Shen Li, with a much broader build. Yet right now, he was being unusually compliant, head bowed as Shen Li’s cool, slender fingers lightly touched his forehead for a few seconds. Then Qian Xingzhi released him with careful precision, tilting his head and stepping back.
His hoarse voice dismissed it casually as he glanced at the medicine in Shen Li’s hand. “Nah, I’ll just take some meds. Hand them over—let’s see what you brought.”
Shen Li said nothing more and passed over the boxes.
One for wind-cold flu, one for wind-heat flu, and a pack of fever reducers.
Shen Li wasn’t sure about the dosages, but Qian Xingzhi always knew exactly what to take. He just wondered why the man was being so stubborn today.
“You walked here?”
“Yeah.”
“…How long?”
“Less than twenty minutes.”
“Leg hurting?”
“Nope.”
Qian Xingzhi pulled the bags from the sack and eyed Shen Li—who had been favoring one leg ever since entering the room. He let out a cold chuckle.
“Bullshit.”
Shen Li faltered at that, unsure what to say, but he forced it out anyway:
“Didn’t you want me to come?”
Qian Xingzhi seemed to chuckle, his hoarse voice adding:
“Then how about a kiss? Would you?”
Shen Li froze, staring at Qian Xingzhi.
Qian Xingzhi straightened up and backpedaled immediately: “Just kidding.”
Shen Li had nothing to say to that. He simply scanned the room in silence.
After a long moment, he cleared his throat, changing the subject as naturally as he could: “Why’s this place such a dump?”
Qian Xingzhi shrugged it off. “Yeah, last-minute find yesterday. Even if they offered to switch today, I passed. Voting ends tonight anyway—per the rules, I can move to the cabin tomorrow morning.”
Without waiting for Shen Li’s response, Qian Xingzhi popped a fever reducer and tore open a packet of electrolyte mix with deft, strong fingers.
No hot water in sight. He just tilted his head back and downed the powder straight from the bag.
Shen Li had been calm until then, but that inexplicable spark of anger flared up at the sight.
His usually even tone sharpened with volume: “Are you nuts? Who the hell eats medicine like that?”
Qian Xingzhi paid no mind, swallowing the whole packet before chasing it with a swig from his half-empty mineral water bottle.
“Me. Haven’t I always done it this way? You forget? Back in school, saved me washing a cup.”
Shen Li hadn’t forgotten.
But Qian Xingzhi’s method had once made him wonder if the man was begging to be yelled at.
Qian Xingzhi, however, wore it like a badge of honor. Seeing Shen Li go quiet, he blithely kept explaining, oblivious to the peril: “No hot water right now, anyway. Not about the cup.”
As soon as he finished, Shen Li closed his eyes.
He took a deep breath, feeling like even delivering the medicine had been pointless.
“Do whatever. Just take it and get some sleep.”
Shen Li clearly had no intention of sticking around. He shot Qian Xingzhi a cool glance, ready to leave.
He turned.
Then a violent, hacking cough erupted behind him—Qian Xingzhi’s distinctive send-off.
“Cough cough cough cough—!”
It was brutal.
Shen Li whipped around in shock.
Qian Xingzhi’s face was flushed beet red, his features contorted in agony. His sharp brows twisted like warped swords, a deep furrow etched between them.
His deep eyes narrowed, radiating unspoken misery.
As if enduring some unbearable torment.
“Cough cough cough—”
Shen Li: …
With no other choice, Shen Li hurried back to Qian Xingzhi’s side in three strides. The man was doubled over, hands clamped to his chest, knuckles whitening from the strain as he fought to suppress it.
No cracks in the facade.
He looked genuinely miserable.
Shen Li sighed inevitably and reached out to smooth Qian Xingzhi’s back.
“…Told you not to eat it like that.”
Qian Xingzhi straightened, cheeks still flushed, tone icy: “I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.”
His face was paper-white, forehead slick with fine sweat, the picture of frailty and helplessness. He never met Shen Li’s eyes once.
“…You sleep first. I’ll leave once you’re out.”
Shen Li hesitated a long time before managing that.
Right after he spoke, Qian Xingzhi suddenly gripped the edge of the table and stood straight. He didn’t spare Shen Li another glance, just gave a cold laugh and walked to the sofa, slumping onto it.
He sprawled out, claiming the old thing entirely. “Been insomnia lately. If you wait for me to sleep, it’ll be three a.m.”
Shen Li: …
So?
“Leave in the morning. You take the bed; I’ll take the sofa.”
Shen Li’s gaze darkened as he stared fixedly at Qian Xingzhi—who had already stretched out on the sofa and even closed his eyes.
Like interrogating a suspect.
…
Truth be told, Shen Li could have just walked out. Instead, his expression blank, he approached:
“Get on the bed. This sofa’s too short for you—I’ll take it.”
But Qian Xingzhi kept his eyes shut, dense lashes casting faint shadows beneath.
His thin lips were pressed together slightly, his breathing even and slow, as if he were utterly exhausted and had instantly fallen into a deep sleep.
…Was this insomnia?
Shen Li watched Qian Xingzhi in silence, coldly observing every micro-expression and subtle movement. Yet Qian Xingzhi showed no eye twitches at all—he truly seemed to be asleep, or at least, he slept without a single flaw.
A faint sneer crossed Shen Li’s face.
No wonder they should give the man a Best Actor award.
He was too lazy to drag him up and keep arguing.
—Shen Li wasn’t a fool. He was even better at deducing a person’s motives from their actions.
Whatever.
Shen Li walked over to the single bed, which was only four feet wide. He picked up the thin blanket and draped it haphazardly over Qian Xingzhi. He had no interest in checking whether the man was really asleep. Instead, he glanced at his own phone, which was still on a call, and Qian Xingzhi’s phone, whose screen was lit up and recording. He set them both on the table and wearily headed to the bed.
Too much had happened that day. For someone who had been going nonstop for over twenty hours, there was no need to count sheep—he could indeed drift into a foggy haze the moment his head hit the pillow…
So… had he wronged Qian Xingzhi?
Five minutes later.
A thin blanket was gently draped over Shen Li’s curled-up body.
Moonlight filtered through the half-drawn gauzy curtains, casting silver patches on the floorboards.
Shen Li’s skin gleamed exceptionally pale under the moonlight—
like a piece of cold jade, radiating a faint luster, breathtakingly pure and soul-stirring.
Qian Xingzhi’s gaze was dark and brooding as he stared fixedly at the sleeping Shen Li.
It wasn’t until much, much later that Qian Xingzhi, even without closing his eyes, could recall in vivid detail that night seventeen years ago, in a similar rented room—the first time with Shen Li.
Shen Li had cried so beautifully.
Even after more than six thousand sunrises and sunsets, Qian Xingzhi could still remember every detail of that moonlit night.
His fingertips, longing to touch, stretched out straight before withdrawing. In the end, they only gripped the curtain, causing the cheap fabric to sway slightly.
It cast swaying, soft shadows,
flickering until the moon set and the sun rose.
…
Shen Li slept soundly through the night, without dreams.
When he woke, it was already past nine-fifteen in the morning. It took him about half a minute to realize he’d just had the best sleep in three days—nearly eight straight hours, without waking once.
…Where was Qian Xingzhi?
Shen Li’s gaze swept around the room.
In the small, bare space, there was no sign of anyone. Only the table held an extra thermos bucket, a tea egg, and a few steamed buns.
Shen Li rubbed his aching temples and instinctively reached for his phone. The call with Qian Xingzhi, which had been connected all night, had ended at 7:06 that morning. The screen had locked automatically, and there were dozens of unread messages.
Ten from current colleagues;
Twenty from former colleagues;
Over thirty forwards from Geng Qiuqiu;
…
Two from Qian Xingzhi.
Shen Li’s fingertip hovered for two seconds before he tapped on Qian Xingzhi’s messages first:
【I’ll go handle the fans first】
【Breakfast is on the table for you; remember to eat when you wake up】
Shen Li froze for a good three seconds. He slowly dismissed Qian Xingzhi’s messages and stared at the ceiling for a while, but he still couldn’t shake the weird “morning after” feeling those two texts evoked.
In the end, it was the messages from his former colleagues that fully captured his attention—
Shen Li’s eyes sharpened. He quickly dealt with all the messages, wolfed down a few bites of the steamed buns, called Lin Jie, and rushed out the door.
He glanced again at room 208 from yesterday; the door was still tightly shut.
Shen Li didn’t dwell on it. By 9:30, he was back at the little house.
Before he even reached the fence, he spotted Qian Xingzhi’s female assistant tugging at two large suitcases belonging to Qian Xingzhi. She seemed to be trying to drag them up the steps into the house, but the cases were too bulky for one person to manage easily.
Shen Li quickened his pace and went over to help.
“Hello,” Shen Li greeted her. “Are these Qian Xingzhi’s?”
The assistant turned, her bright eyes and dazzling smile beaming professionally at Shen Li. “Hello, Mr. Shen. I’m Xu, Boss Qian’s assistant. He asked me to deliver his luggage.”
Shen Li eyed the two massive cases and thought, Qian Xingzhi sure knows how to push it—making a girl haul all this.
“Let me take them.”
Shen Li reached out to grab them, but Assistant Xu hurriedly pulled the cases back. “No need, Boss Qian already paid me extra.”
“It’s fine. I’ll handle it; he won’t dare short you.”
Shen Li lifted both cases effortlessly, one in each hand, and turned toward the steps—
—!
A camera came flying out of the house like a spinning soccer ball!
Followed by Jiang Nan’s furious cursing:
“Fuck your mothers! Die, all of you!”
