Qian Xingzhi lowered his gaze to look at Shen Li.
He saw Shen Li gazing up at him too, his entire face softened by the faint morning light, almost gentle.
But in certain ways, Shen Li really was quite unyielding.
It wasn’t as if this were the first day Qian Xingzhi had known him—Shen Li had always been like this.
Shen Li never posted on Moments, so back when they were classmates, Qian Xingzhi had assumed he’d been blocked.
He never let anyone sit on his bed, so when they were roommates, Qian Xingzhi thought he must hate him.
He never let anyone touch his deliveries, so when they first started living together, Qian Xingzhi wondered if he’d ordered something shady.
Shen Li didn’t like being held while he slept, so every time after they’d made love—if Shen Li hadn’t passed out from exhaustion—he’d insist Qian Xingzhi not hold him, or else he simply couldn’t sleep—
Shen Li was someone with strong personal boundaries, and Qian Xingzhi understood it wasn’t deliberate coldness toward him.
Still, being turned down again and again was hard to get used to.
Seeing that Shen Li had no intention of responding, Qian Xingzhi figured he’d get no answer at all and had no desire to press the issue.
He casually grabbed a shirt and pulled it on, ready to leave—perhaps the next second, he’d yank open the door, storm out, and slam it behind him with a bang, just like every fight during their seven years of marriage.
And then…
The harsh, bitter truth would rear its head once more, proving they simply weren’t right for each other. Staying together had been a mistake from the start.
The birth chart compatibility readings and horoscope predictions had been spot-on after all: incompatible people shouldn’t even begin, or they’d only destroy each other, draining away at both sides.
Take these past couple of days, for instance.
Ever since Qian Xingzhi had entered the cabin, he’d spent less than two full days face-to-face with Shen Li, and they’d already clashed at daggers drawn twice.
The first fight had been in the bathroom. In a heated moment, he’d kissed Shen Li right in the middle of Zhou Yulin’s phone call. Shen Li had slapped him for it, then grudgingly tolerated him anyway.
And now, just over thirty hours later, Qian Xingzhi’s own forbidden zone was being hammered by Shen Li’s unyielding boundaries, on the verge of shattering—
Who was on that phone?
Why wouldn’t he let him see?
Qian Xingzhi’s emotions were drawn taut like a bowstring, but he took a deep breath and restrained himself from exploding. He stepped toward the door but held back, retracting his foot.
A hundred feints from Qian Xingzhi.
He elegantly checked the door lock and closed the door again. Then he busied himself packing the two large suitcases, pretending to be occupied.
Only when he felt he’d mostly steadied his emotions did he decide he was ready. If Shen Li said just one proactive word—questioning him or explaining himself—Qian Xingzhi was confident he could respond with the maturity of an adult and the skill of a seasoned actor.
But then he heard Shen Li say:
“…Don’t be mad. Here, take a look.”
Qian Xingzhi froze at the words. Turning back, he saw Shen Li dragging his injured leg over to his side and handing him the phone.
Those eyes were calm and crystalline, genuinely gentle.
Qian Xingzhi lowered his gaze, his heart trembling. He composed himself into the restrained, polite version of himself that Shen Li preferred. “Sorry. I was a bit rude just now.”
“It’s fine,” Shen Li said calmly. “You did far worse things last night.”
Qian Xingzhi’s eyes darkened. The next second, Shen Li leaned in and rubbed the phone against his cheek, coaxing him:
“Are you going to look or not? If not, I’ll just… mmph.”
Qian Xingzhi gripped the back of Shen Li’s head, forcing him to keep looking up as a fierce kiss descended.
For some reason, Shen Li felt Qian Xingzhi’s aggression even more intense than the night before. It nearly buckled his legs beneath him.
Qian Xingzhi caught him with one firm hand under his hips, half-dragging, half-carrying him upward. The sudden support eased the pressure on his injured leg considerably, but Shen Li’s heart still skipped all the same.
They had long been the most intimate of people, having done far more intimate things countless times.
Yet this kiss felt thrilling all the same, heart-stopping in its intensity.
“…Were you about to head out just now?”
Shen Li’s voice came out rough from the kiss. His hands pressed lightly against Qian Xingzhi’s chest, pushing him back a touch as he frowned faintly and asked.
“Not especially,” Qian Xingzhi replied evenly as he released him with perfect composure. “I came back this time to solve our problems with you, not to slam doors for your benefit.”
Shen Li’s steady gaze lingered on Qian Xingzhi for several seconds before he calmly looked away.
“Sorry. That was my issue just now.”
It wasn’t clear what exactly he was apologizing for.
Qian Xingzhi’s impassive gaze swept over him. “No need to feel sorry. We’re not in a relationship. You’re still deciding whether to remarry me or not.”
They were standing very close. Perhaps due to the familiarity of their bodies and an instinctive reliance, hearing those words stirred an odd sense of security in Shen Li’s heart.
Qian Xingzhi really seemed to have changed—not hysterically demanding anymore, but giving him some comfortable space. It made Shen Li feel like the undignified one instead.
And the more Qian Xingzhi yielded a step, the more Shen Li abandoned any resistance.
He lightly smacked the phone against Qian Xingzhi’s chest once more and turned to leave.
“Look through it however you want. Password’s still your birthday. Never bothered changing it.”
With the utmost professional composure, Qian Xingzhi guaranteed himself he absolutely did not let his lips curve upward.
He simply accepted Shen Li’s phone without further refusal.
After all, he really did want to see it.
“Mine’s 190925.”
Qian Xingzhi returned the courtesy, sharing his own password in an utterly flat tone.
Shen Li frowned slightly upon hearing it, not quite understanding.
“Why are you using our divorce date as your password?”
Qian Xingzhi’s heart supplied the real answer: It’s a constant reminder to study hard, train harder—I’ve already lost my wife once.
But a puppy could only whine something like that while begging for affection. The new-and-improved version of himself certainly couldn’t say it aloud.
“…The day of my Edo Tensei.”
Qian Xingzhi’s long fingers tapped the screen, calmly unlocking Shen Li’s phone as he explained.
“Hm?”
“Meaning, I’m willing.”
Shen Li: …
The two men shared a tacit understanding and said nothing more.
Shen Li sat back down on the edge of his bed. He fiddled lightly with the curling green tendrils of the hanging plant, let out a slow breath, then picked up the Program Group’s iPad and got back to work. He continued outlining the details of the 0225 Case.
Meanwhile, Qian Xingzhi acted as if he weren’t all that interested in Shen Li’s phone. He headed downstairs first to brew himself a cup of coffee, then made a mug of hot milk for Shen Li. He carried both back upstairs, set the milk beside the diligently focused Shen Li, and only then began sipping his premium coffee while casually browsing the phone.
When he opened WeChat and saw the pinned contact at the very top:
[Xingzhi]
Warm golden morning light spilled through the window, the rosy dawn seemingly brewed into honey.
For some reason, a wildly arrogant intuition bloomed in Qian Xingzhi’s heart:
Shen Li might have changed the display name recently,
but that top spot had probably never been removed for him.
Qian Xingzhi lifted his coffee cup and took a long, hearty gulp before suppressing the upward tug of his lips. He continued scrolling through Shen Li’s other info with exaggerated seriousness, just like how his old man—the company CEO—read the financial news every morning.
At the same time, though, Shen Li couldn’t quite suppress the frantic throbbing at his temple.
Exhausted from last night, he hadn’t had a chance to organize the case developments before passing out completely.
This morning had been a whirlwind. After talking it over with Lin Jie on the phone, Zhao Rong had messaged him too, but he hadn’t replied before the battery died.
The best thing now was to sort out his thoughts while he had a moment, loop in Zhao Rong, or else the livestream would start up again for hours with no time to check.
Strictly speaking, the case wasn’t his to handle anymore. But since he’d gotten involved, with Guan Ning’s tacit approval and Zhao Rong leading it, he’d naturally become a sort of half-consultant.
Zhao Rong was his disciple, after all. Even after “graduating,” he’d only been assisting in someone else’s group, running errands under the team lead.
By the time Shen Li had quit, Zhao Rong was just starting to take cases independently—mostly minor, trivial ones. This “accidental drowning” might not have even qualified as a case at first, but now it had escalated into “rape and murder.”
From the sound of Zhao Rong’s voice on the phone the night before last, Shen Li could tell he was pretty nervous himself.
Cases like this—where the victim had no family or friends pushing for justice, standing alone and vulnerable—were exactly why public prosecution mattered most.
Once Shen Li slipped into work mode, he focused with laser intensity.
It didn’t take long before he’d sorted the investigative details and leads as neatly as a teacher grading homework. He grabbed Qian Xingzhi’s phone and pulled up Zhao Rong’s number to call him.
By then, Qian Xingzhi had also spotted the recent messages Zhao Rong had sent Shen Li:
[Master!]
[Master is awesome!]
[I followed your advice from the night before last and checked Song Wenyu’s sister-in-law’s family accounts. Big payoff!]
[Back in February that year, they took 400,000 in bride price. Then when the bride arrived in August, they returned 300,000!]
[I traced the payment account and hit an offshore one. Suspect they used a foreign account—seems tough to investigate.]
[So I’m planning to pivot to Shi Youxia today.]
[Does my thinking check out, Master?]
