Chapter 40

Shen Li stared at the box of condoms with an expressionless face for a few seconds.

“Super Large Size.”

“Time-honored domestic brand, rigorously quality-controlled.”

“Multiple lubrication built-in.”

“Pack of 10.”

“Manufactured on: …”

Two months ago.

Though it wasn’t the brand Qian Xingzhi had always used in the past, the size described on the packaging was rare on the market—one that truly fit Qian Xingzhi’s measurements.

Shen Li was an adult. He’d consummated his relationship with Qian Xingzhi on the very first day of adulthood, followed by years of married life. Naturally, he wouldn’t blush or feel his heart race just from seeing Qian Xingzhi buy condoms.

Besides, after that early phase of their relationship when Qian Xingzhi had been eager to thrust inside him—enough to give Shen Li a fever one time—the man had developed the habit of carrying a box on him at all times. Shen Li had once been baffled at how Qian Xingzhi could “produce” a box anytime, anywhere, from any time or place.

But seven years had passed. Did he still need to carry them around?

That habit had certainly lasted a long time.

Or rather…

From a more objective, reasonable standpoint—one befitting an investigator—if Qian Xingzhi had really kept up this habit for seven full years, then the odds were high that he’d had partners or sexual partners during that time. After all, no one would carry around an unused consumable with an expiration date for seven years straight.

They’d been divorced for so long; Qian Xingzhi naturally had the freedom to sleep with whomever he chose. But if he had a regular sexual partner and was still rushing to get close to him…

That just didn’t fit.

After twenty years of knowing each other, Shen Li could at least say with certainty that Qian Xingzhi wasn’t the type.

All these deductions flashed through his mind in an instant—pure logical instinct, honed over years.

Shen Li’s gaze dropped coldly. In the space of a few more seconds, he reached a second, far more plausible conclusion.

If Qian Xingzhi hadn’t maintained this as a “habitual action” for seven years but had bought them recently on purpose, then what was he…

Planning to do?

Shen Li’s brows knit together fully. He drew a deep breath. From his vantage point, it was frankly incomprehensible.

This room was merely a temporary crash pad for Qian Xingzhi. The man probably wouldn’t spend more than two days here in total.

So why leave the condoms in the drawer here?

Or had Qian Xingzhi, as far back as last night, already known he would come deliver the medicine? Had he prepared ahead of time, planning to hook up with his ex right here…

With a snap.

Shen Li tossed the condoms back in coldly.

He withdrew the key and shut the drawer.

The metallic scrape of the drawer sliding home rang out especially clearly in the hushed room.

As he turned away, Shen Li’s gaze flicked across the drawer. The icy sharpness in his eyes cut like a blade through old memories, now edged with sparks of anger.

—If it was true, then Qian Xingzhi knew how to play the part, and he certainly had ideas of his own.

Shen Li spent about half a minute silently judging the box. His suspicions deepened; Qian Xingzhi’s behavior, before and after, struck him as even more peculiar.

Throughout this variety show, Qian Xingzhi had been far more proactive than Shen Li had anticipated.

It left Shen Li with the sudden, uneasy sense that he no longer understood the man at all.

…

Overthinking it was useless.

Shen Li rose to his feet, resolving first to deal with that bundle of grass.

He was on the verge of stepping out the door, his fingertips just brushing the cool metal of the knob, when the door flew open from the outside.

Qian Xingzhi’s tall, familiar figure collided squarely with him.

Silhouetted against the slanting sunlight from the hallway window, Qian Xingzhi’s shadow stretched long across the floor. His imposing build carried an undeniable air of pressure. He glanced down at Shen Li, then his eyes snapped to the bag in Shen Li’s hand, narrowing sharply.

Shen Li instinctively took half a step back, only for Qian Xingzhi to seize his wrist.

Qian Xingzhi’s palm burned unusually hot, his grip exceptionally firm.

Shen Li’s brows furrowed tighter, as if resenting this primal physical disadvantage. He fell silent, waiting for Qian Xingzhi to speak first. Qian Xingzhi’s expression had grown colder and more distant now, laced with a measured reserve. In a slightly hard-edged tone, he offered the first explanation.

“I didn’t bring my phone, so I couldn’t pay.”

Shen Li nodded expressionlessly.

As expected. Then, in Qian Xingzhi’s low, husky voice, the question came.

“And what’s that in your hand… the stuff you carried all the way back?”

He must have noticed the bulging backpack long ago. When he’d probed once and Shen Li claimed it was just an iPad, he hadn’t pressed further.

Yet now, even though the loosely tied black plastic bag clearly revealed the bundle of grass inside, Qian Xingzhi still had to ask him outright, “What’s this?”

What could it be?

He’d plainly seen it, yet he was positioning himself on the high ground of the deceived, firing a counter-question right back.

Shen Li drew a deep breath. His clear, cool gaze held no trace of guilt or remorse for any wrongdoing. Instead, it locked steadily onto Qian Xingzhi’s eyes, their stares meeting without a hint of calm.

“Which hand?” he asked flatly, lifting his other hand to return the key. “This one?”

Clink.

The metal key struck Qian Xingzhi just below the throat—not too hard, not too soft—before ringing out sharply as it hit the floor.

Shen Li’s voice followed. “I took it from the nightstand.”

Qian Xingzhi’s deep eyes contracted sharply. He followed the fallen key with his gaze, then glanced at the room’s sole drawer. His brows snapped together. Clearly…

He’d remembered the box of condoms too.

Shen Li watched Qian Xingzhi’s throat bob with a swallow. Then the man bent down to retrieve the keyring. His broad shoulders tensed as he reached over and took the bag from Shen Li’s hand as well.

Only after a long moment did he speak.

“…Give it to me. I’ll throw it out for you.”

A tacit understanding passed between them.

Shen Li said nothing more about the box of condoms. Qian Xingzhi made no further mention of the bundle of grass that shouldn’t have been there.

Their evidence was still too scant.

Qian Xingzhi had no idea whether Shen Li pulling that grass for him stemmed purely from humanitarian concern—or if he’d do the same for any sick colleague or ailing villager with a headache.

And Shen Li had even less clue how much affection Qian Xingzhi still held for him. If the man truly cared as much as he once had, why had seven long years stretched between them?

Shen Li waited for Qian Xingzhi to discard the package and return. He sat there, finishing the B task Qian Xingzhi hadn’t completed.

His mind was a chaotic mess, the inner conflict growing ever stronger.

It was only the fourth day, with a full six days of filming still ahead.

Even without watching the full variety show, Shen Li knew that romance reality shows typically crammed guests into one house. When the Program Group wanted to stir up some love talk, they’d arrange ambiguously intimate activities. Even divorced-couple editions leaned toward manufacturing emotional drama.

This show was different.

From the task segments to the filming style, it deviated sharply from what he’d expected.

The first three days’ shoots focused on production tasks by day—survival-oriented, with little romantic angle—and light evening activities like meals or movies that barely qualified as dates. Shen Li hadn’t found it too unbearable.

But on the fourth day, with Qian Xingzhi entering the cabin, the cameras had pulled back even more—no constant following shots, no close-ups. They’d even slipped away from under the lenses without oversight. The oddity gnawed at Shen Li all the more.

—This stretch felt like Qian Xingzhi had engineered it deliberately…

A special privilege time, just for the two of them.

Qian Xingzhi clearly wanted time with him badly. But if he truly cared that much, why hadn’t he sought him out all this time?

Shen Li had waited seven years without Qian Xingzhi ever glancing back.

After the divorce, Shen Li hadn’t been above trying to win Qian Xingzhi back.

In their first year apart, every time Shen Li reached out to ask how he was or if he was well in body and mind, Qian Xingzhi’s replies were either a curt “Doing great” or came three days late. Finally, after much hesitation, Shen Li messaged about having three days off next week and asked if he could visit the set. Qian Xingzhi’s icy response: “No need.”

Year two post-divorce, Qian Xingzhi accidentally included him in a group New Year’s greeting—a four- or five-line formal message. Shen Li called directly and got hung up on, followed by the resolute text: “Someone’s here with me. Inconvenient.”

Year three, Shen Li had gone to Qian Xingzhi’s studio. The office door was shut, and the receptionist—a young woman still green at lying—claimed the boss was out. But Shen Li pieced together the signs and concluded, both easily and painfully, that Qian Xingzhi was inside.

…

After that, Shen Li stopped seeking him out.

Busy as he was, Qian Xingzhi only ever sent a “Happy birthday” on Shen Li’s birthday.

Their relationship grew bizarre—like the most familiar of strangers, or enemies bound by blood feud.

Three years ago, Zhou Yulin returned from E Country and pursued him openly and boldly. Qian Xingzhi’s “Happy birthday” messages promptly vanished.

Over the years, Shen Li had seen tabloid posts claiming Qian Xingzhi was marrying some conglomerate heiress—three times in total.

He’d seen him collect awards onstage, thanking family and friends.

On rare days off, he’d passed by theaters and caught Qian Xingzhi’s movies.

The media and screens gradually became Shen Li’s sole window into Qian Xingzhi’s life.

So for years, Shen Li had assumed that after the divorce, Qian Xingzhi had firmly slotted him into the “ex” category, tagging him as an untouchable passerby. He’d drawn the very “boundaries” he’d once hated, rejecting any approach.

But these past few days… the convictions Shen Li had grudgingly accepted over seven years had shattered completely with each interaction.

Qian Xingzhi still liked him.

Very possibly…

He wanted to fuck him, right then and there.

Then why—why had that inexplicable seven-year gulf yawned between them?

No matter how Shen Li reasoned, he couldn’t make sense of it.

Not until he’d meticulously calculated the ledger figures did Qian Xingzhi finally return, hauling two big bags of food like a hunter from the wilds.

He kicked the door open with his leg and hooked it shut with his foot. Qian Xingzhi’s face was cold as he strode straight toward Shen Li on the sofa.

That incomparably handsome face bore deeply furrowed brows, as if Shen Li owed him a fortune. He dumped the bag stuffed full of food onto the empty cushion beside Shen Li, cleared his throat lightly, and spoke up.

“I went to the strawberry patch and asked around… You handled more than half of it for me?”

“Hm?” Shen Li kept his eyes on the ledger. He didn’t look up. “Mm. Just happened to be handy.”

“Then you’ve got quite the reach.”

“Mm,” Shen Li replied, a faint mocking smile crossing his face. “Yours isn’t short either.”

The words hung in the air.

Both men fell silent for a moment.

The room buzzed with the clear thump-thump of racing heartbeats, mercifully drowned out by the louder clamor of cicadas outside the window.

After a long while.

Qian Xingzhi gazed down at Shen Li, striking the perfect expression and tone—like the brooding male lead in an arthouse film. Sourly, as if he didn’t care one way or the other, he asked, “…You’re being so good to me because you feel sorry for me, right?”

Shen Li didn’t say yes. He didn’t say no. Instead, his calm gaze flicked back, landing in Qian Xingzhi’s bottomless eyes.

“What do you think?”

“I think you do.”

“Then I do.”

“—You’re just brushing me off?”

“Is that brushing you off?” Shen Li’s gaze remained steady. “It’s still better than someone who won’t even explain the reason for our divorce.”

Qian Xingzhi stared back at Shen Li, stunned. His eyes were deep, his expression hesitant, words caught on the tip of his tongue.

Shen Li had never wanted to push him.

The two of them had always been different.

“Forget it. If you don’t want to say, then don’t. Pretend I never asked.”

“—Mm.” Qian Xingzhi let out a faint laugh. “Whenever I’m with you, all I ever get is ‘forget it.'”

Shen Li paused, bewildered, and looked up.

There, on Qian Xingzhi’s frosty face, faint cracks seemed to appear—traces of blurred sorrow and indistinct worry. It was just like that sophomore year in high school, when Shen Li had turned down his confession for the tenth time.

“I never told you because I always knew…

“You’d never love me back with the same intensity—the same all-out effort—that I love you with.

“You only feel guilty.

“We’re divorcing anyway.

“Why bother telling you?”