Chapter 50 Part 1

Shen Li froze for a moment.

But then he realized that Qian Xingzhi seemed to want a reaction from him—one where he showed a bit of jealousy.

So Shen Li fell silent for a long while before he finally said, “Actually, there have been times… when the thought crossed my mind. But I still trust your character. You wouldn’t cheat on me.”

After all, Qian Xingzhi had given him such a strong sense of security. If Shen Li started suspecting him of wanting a divorce to be with someone else now…

No way. He wasn’t Qian Xingzhi, after all.

But Shen Li understood. Qian Xingzhi just wanted to hear that he cared.

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

With an expressionless face, Shen Li continued, “After you dumped me back then, I holed up at home every day thinking about it. Wondering if you really wanted a divorce because you needed a more compatible sex life.”

Qian Xingzhi: .

Only then did Qian Xingzhi straighten up. The cold expression on his face turned serious as he shifted onto the bed next to Shen Li’s. His head blocked the light, casting a large shadow over him, and Shen Li froze again.

Qian Xingzhi’s well-shaped thin lips parted and closed as he began to explain—clearly and thoroughly, as if afraid Shen Li might misunderstand even a little.

“I didn’t,” Qian Xingzhi said, his voice cold and stiff. “I have no interest in anyone else. You’re the only one I’ve ever been with, and you’re the only one I want to sleep with from now on.”

Shen Li met his gaze. After hearing that pure yet blatantly erotic confession, he quickly lowered his eyes and gave a small nod to show he’d heard.

Shen Li hadn’t expected Qian Xingzhi to state something like “only want to sleep with you” so bluntly.

But since the conversation had reached this point, Shen Li furrowed his brow and cut straight to the chase with clear logic. He seized the chance to ask about one thing.

“If you never thought about switching partners, then what’s with that 50% ‘sexual incompatibility’ as a reason for the divorce?”

Divorce over bad sex?

Was that right?

Maybe for a lot of couples, it was a reason. But Shen Li didn’t think it applied to them.

Qian Xingzhi was terrible in bed, yet Shen Li had never complained. Every time, he’d had to rely on mental pleasure to mask the physical discomfort. And Qian Xingzhi was the one getting dissatisfied first? Hadn’t he always finished satisfied?

Or did Qian Xingzhi demand a higher frequency?

That didn’t add up either.

If it was about frequency, Qian Xingzhi should’ve at least threatened him back then: “I want to do it more often, or I’ll divorce you.”

But Qian Xingzhi hadn’t hinted at it once. At most, he’d just said they didn’t see each other enough.

Shen Li saw the poor color on Qian Xingzhi’s face. He’d clearly heard the question but kept his eyes half-lowered, his thin lips pressed tightly without moving.

He even shifted his head away from looming over Shen Li. Realizing how important this was, Shen Li followed with concerned eyes. Then Qian Xingzhi’s cold, low voice spoke slowly.

“Actually… back then, I wrote 5%.”

“Huh?”

Qian Xingzhi had already moved his hips off Shen Li’s bed and sat back on the edge of his own. As he straightened his already neat blankets and pillow, he explained.

To Shen Li, Qian Xingzhi’s testimony sounded downright comical.

“I was in too much of a rush when I filled it out,” Qian Xingzhi said. “The first loop of the percent sign was too big, and I forgot to write the percentage for the other reason.”

Shen Li: ?

Three seconds later.

Shen Li sat up on the bed. His sharp eyes, which could see through lies, scrutinized Qian Xingzhi critically. “How long did it take you to come up with that one?”

Qian Xingzhi: …

“Forgot what I do for a living?” Shen Li’s beautiful eye corner hooked up, turning serious. “Inconsistent testimony like this usually gets submitted as key evidence to the prosecutors. That bit about nearly going bankrupt on camera, and now this 5% nonsense—it’d only fool a lovestruck fool.”

As soon as he finished, a dark ripple passed through Qian Xingzhi’s deep, pool-like eyes. His voice dropped even lower. “…Can’t you play the lovestruck fool just for me, for once?”

“—We’ll talk about that later. Stop changing the subject.”

Shen Li eyed him, his beautiful phoenix eyes like a ruler’s measure. “First, come clean. What were you really thinking back then?”

A long silence.

Qian Xingzhi said nothing, so Shen Li voiced the question that had plagued him these past few days.

“Was it because of the diagnosis on that medical record you left behind?”

“…Yeah.”

“Then why did you keep rejecting me when I tried to find you over and over?”

Shen Li could guess Qian Xingzhi’s motives, but he wasn’t sure.

Leaving that medical record must have been like writing the 50% now—like a plea for attention.

But why, right after the divorce, had Qian Xingzhi dodged him so decisively every time?

Shen Li knew the principle of not imposing on others what he wouldn’t want himself.

Put in the other man’s shoes: if he’d resolved to divorce and end things, he wouldn’t want endless disturbances and questions either. He’d seen plenty of cases where one ex stalked the other after divorce—some even going to crazy extremes to cling to someone who wanted out.

So for the first three years after the divorce, whenever Shen Li sought out Qian Xingzhi, it had hurt, but he’d kept it restrained. At least he didn’t want to burden him.

But that one time…

Qian Xingzhi had clearly been home but refused to see him, even after he’d traveled so far. He wouldn’t even grant a single meeting.

It had taken Shen Li half a year to accept that Qian Xingzhi truly didn’t want to see him.

So he’d stopped bothering him.

“I didn’t want you to see me like that,” Qian Xingzhi said calmly, as if talking about someone else. “You were always compromising downward for me those years. It must’ve been exhausting. And didn’t you have a chance to advance then? It would’ve been pointless if I’d become your burden right when you were rising.”

Shen Li’s eyes dimmed.

The provincial department had an opening back then. Guan Ning had wanted to recommend him, but he hadn’t gone.

Going would’ve meant relocating, following orders—maybe a transfer to another region or more frequent business trips. Qian Xingzhi had just finished renovating their new home. Shen Li’s plan had been to wrap up that major cross-province case and then spend real time with him.

Qian Xingzhi didn’t know where he’d heard about it.

How had he found out?

“And later, why didn’t you go?” Qian Xingzhi asked.

Shen Li replied, “I wasn’t suitable at the time. The provincial department passed on me.”

Qian Xingzhi fell silent.

He really hadn’t wanted to burden Shen Li, who was always rushing around for cases.

Even if he’d spoken up, what would he have said?

I’ve been promoted—stay with me?

Qian Xingzhi couldn’t fully explain his insistence on the divorce back then.

Not until later, when he’d stumbled across a short internet poem that fit perfectly. He’d copied it into his notes:

“I always knew that moon wasn’t mine. But for a moment, the moonlight shone on me.

That day, I realized the moon shining only on me also lit up others. Jealousy bloomed in my heart. I bowed my head and swore never to gaze at the moon again…”

He didn’t want to disturb Shen Li too much.

And if he had to, at least not as a burden.

Moonlight trickled in through the old iron window bars, weaving silver-gray grids across the two side-by-side narrow beds. The ancient ceiling fan stirred the stagnant summer heat but couldn’t dispel the seven-year gulf spanning the space between them.

Qian Xingzhi’s arm, pillowed beneath his head, pressed down on half a faded blue plaid bedsheet—the same kind Shen Li had swiped from his police academy dorm the year he graduated.

This one was new, though. The old one had long since gone missing.

Strangely, they’d once shared a bed, shared fluids and body heat. Now even their breathing seemed tuned to different time zones.

Qian Xingzhi knew Shen Li had a natural sense of shame about sex, unable to discuss it without restraint.

His own condition would be romantic fodder in a novel—maybe even a kink. But in reality? Pure disaster.

So Qian Xingzhi’s cold voice softened calmly. “Sorry. I’ve changed a lot these years. I’m not as sensitive anymore, and I don’t have such strong needs in that area either. That’s why I came back to find you.”

He wanted Shen Li to know there was no need to worry. He’d handled everything—his emotions, his illness, his life, his career.

With it all sorted, Shen Li wouldn’t need to compromise for him anymore. Qian Xingzhi could take better care of him instead.

Flatly, Qian Xingzhi added, “You don’t need to be my assistant. I was planning to move to the village anyway. Once WCC fully collapses and the circle’s top dog changes, I can follow you anywhere you want to go…”

Before he finished.

Qian Xingzhi felt the light above his closed eyelids suddenly dim—

The next moment.

The bridge of his nose was grazed by cool fingertips.

A dragonfly-touch, gone as soon as it landed.

He snapped his eyes open.

Shen Li had already pulled back, his gaze fixed steadily on him.

It looked so gentle.

“We’ll figure out the rest later,” Shen Li said. “But from now on, if you’re ever feeling off anywhere, tell me right away. That’s rule one.”

“Hm?”

Qian Xingzhi’s deep eyes turned to Shen Li.

Shen Li’s crow-feather lashes trembled as his jaw and neck tensed into a beautifully graceful arc.

“Got it.”

Qian Xingzhi paused. His somewhat stiff voice rumbled thoughtfully for a moment before he asked, “Any rule two?”

Shen Li seemed prepared. He said, “I really don’t like how you show affection. It makes me uncomfortable…”

“Got it.”

Qian Xingzhi agreed without hesitation. This time, as if confirming his promise, he repeated it, grasping Shen Li’s needs more clearly. “So in front of cameras, we’re just acquaintances? Or friends?”

“Either works,” Shen Li said. “Not just cameras—tone it down in front of others too.”