Chapter 7: You Don’t Have to Leave

After saying that, Quan Heng fell silent. Wen Congrong slowed his movements, trying to think of a way to respond.

Before he could come up with anything, though, Quan Heng let out a soft sigh and turned back toward the dining table.

Was he really hurt?

Wen Congrong set a wok over the flame, poured in some oil, and added the vegetables. As they sizzled, he hesitated, then pulled his phone from his pocket.

He opened Weibo, which he hadn’t logged into in ages, skipped past the stream of recommendations, and searched for Quan Heng.

He only knew how Quan Heng’s name sounded, not how it was written. But when he typed in the pinyin, the keyboard filled in the characters for him.

So that’s how you write Quan Heng. Wen Congrong committed the name to memory and hit enter. Quan Heng’s verified account came up at the top of the search results. He had over five million followers and was verified as an actor.

Wen Congrong didn’t follow celebrity news, so he had no idea whether that counted as a lot. It seemed like a pretty big number to him, though.

Quan Heng had a fan community and a trending-topic page, too. Wen Congrong didn’t click either. They were unfamiliar territory. Instead, he scrolled down to see what people were saying about him.

The longer he read, the more his brow furrowed. He flipped the vegetables with his spatula, added a spoonful of salt, then carefully studied the posts in the search results.

They all had the hashtag #QuanHeng, but the posts didn’t sound like they came from people who liked him.

Mockery and outright viciousness filled the screen. Wen Congrong checked the timestamps. They were all recent.

Suspecting a smear campaign, he kept scrolling, hoping to find posts from real fans.

But after a long search, he found barely any sincere praise. Most people were mocking Quan Heng for having bad acting, a stiff, lifeless face, greasy looks, and ugly costumes.

One post read, Who else follows Quan Heng just to hate on him? It had tens of thousands of likes.

Wen Congrong opened it. The comments were full of photos and GIFs of Quan Heng in various roles. He looked at them, completely unable to match the characters in the pictures to the man himself.

Surprised, he opened one photo after another. The characters really did look awful. Their makeup was all over the place, and none of it suited Quan Heng’s features.

Were these pictures maliciously edited, or did he really look like that? Wen Congrong couldn’t make sense of it. Frowning, he left the discussion and searched for Quan Heng’s profile on Baidu Baike.

He memorized the information there, then followed Quan Heng before putting his phone away. He added a spoonful of MSG to the wok, gave the vegetables a few more tosses, and plated them.

As he washed the wok, he kept thinking. Quan Heng had the sort of face that looked like a masterpiece of Nuwa’s craftsmanship—one more touch and it would be too dazzling, one less and it would be plain. The thought that people were wasting such a face on those roles struck him as absurd.

I could do a better job than those people, even if I were just the makeup artist or director.

Why were they going out of their way to make Quan Heng look so bad?

Wen Congrong suddenly thought of what had happened at the restaurant. The realization came to him all at once, along with fragments of things he’d heard the girls in his class say back when they were obsessed with celebrities: the agency smearing its own talent, casting-couch deals, overcommercialization, management turning a blind eye, contract traps…

Those words seemed to fit Quan Heng’s circumstances one by one. They also explained why his agency kept giving him shows chosen for quantity and buzz, not quality or suitability.

His agency clearly wasn’t thinking about Quan Heng’s long-term future. They were even trying to ruin him, pushing him into compromising situations. That had to be why things had ended the way they had the night before.

Wen Congrong had thought the incident at the restaurant was over and done with. He hadn’t wanted to dig any deeper. He hadn’t managed to play the hero and save the beauty, and he hadn’t wanted to get tangled up in someone else’s problems.

He had enough trouble of his own. How could he possibly find the time to meddle in other people’s lives?

But now, knowing what Quan Heng was dealing with, he couldn’t help worrying that the man’s reckless, desperate stunt the night before might provoke those powerful-looking men into retaliating.

After washing the wok, Wen Congrong filled it with water and took some frozen meat wontons from the freezer. He dropped them into the pot, then leaned out slightly to check on Quan Heng in the living room.

Quan Heng sat motionless at the dining table, his back to Wen Congrong. He wasn’t barging into the apartment and acting like he owned the place the way he had the day before. He sat quietly, his shoulders giving a small twitch.

Was he crying? Wen Congrong froze. Was this guy a little too fragile?

Then he thought of all the abuse and mockery on Quan Heng’s Weibo, of the crowd of people who had cornered and bullied him the night before, and of how they’d gotten him drunk. Wen Congrong realized that his thoughts had been a little too harsh.

After being treated so unfairly, it was understandable that Quan Heng might be sensitive.

Wen Congrong sighed and poured the soup base into the pot once the wontons had risen to the surface. He added chopped scallions and turned off the heat.

After washing his hands, he raised his voice and called toward the slight, narrow-shouldered figure outside. “Quan Heng, could you give me a hand?”

Someone with so little confidence and sense of security needed to feel included—and encouraged.

Quan Heng didn’t respond. Wen Congrong waited patiently, counting to thirty in his head before trying again.

“I followed you. Your Baike page says you’re allergic to green peppers and Sichuan peppercorns, right? I’ll remember that.”

He chose his words carefully, guessing that Quan Heng might be starved for affection. “I’ll make sure to avoid both from now on. Don’t be sad.”

Wen Congrong didn’t know how things had ended up here, or why he’d bothered to remember the allergies of a stranger he’d known for less than twenty-four hours. Still, he spoke with complete sincerity.

Quan Heng had been talking to the System. He raised an eyebrow, both surprised by the protagonist’s trusting kindness and faintly amused by it.

He stopped pretending to be vulnerable and turned to the System, which sat on his shoulder, facing the kitchen and relaying the protagonist’s every move.

“Villain.”

“What is it, Host?” The System was practically drooling at the sight of the kitchen.

Quan Heng hadn’t noticed the way it was eyeing the pot. His voice was full of amusement. “How long do you think the protagonist can keep being so warmhearted and good?”

“His whole life,” the System answered without hesitation. “He’s the protagonist. The protagonist who holds the world together will always be a bright, cheerful little sun, no matter what he’s going through.”

“…”

Quan Heng didn’t comment. He only rubbed at his eyes. When Wen Congrong called him a third time, still patiently, he finally turned around.

Wen Congrong saw that his eyes were red, as if he’d just been crying. They still shimmered with tears.

For a moment, Wen Congrong was dazed.

Those were the first thing he’d noticed about Quan Heng the day before, too.

They were strikingly beautiful phoenix eyes, the outer corners tilting up ever so slightly. Deep and bright.

When Quan Heng had looked at him through a haze of drunkenness, there had been something faintly inquisitive in his gaze. But it had vanished quickly, like a breeze passing over a lake and leaving ripples that disappeared almost at once.

That brief moment had been enough to make Wen Congrong agonize outside the restaurant before finally deciding to climb up and help him.

It turned out Quan Heng could have gotten himself out of trouble without him. Still, Wen Congrong was relieved. His efforts had gone to waste, but that was better than leaving Quan Heng to sink into a mess he couldn’t escape.

“Don’t be sad.” When Quan Heng stood there without moving, Wen Congrong gave in and went over to him, offering him an easy way out. “Come try the soup. See if you like it.”

He took Quan Heng by the hand, applying a little force to guide him into the kitchen. “Your Baike page says you like spicy food, so I added extra pepper.”

Quan Heng followed, step for step. His gaze fell on Wen Congrong’s fingers curled around his wrist.

After days of delivering takeout under the blazing sun, Wen Congrong’s skin had become slightly lighter in places, with a few faint sunburn marks on his fingertips.

Wen Congrong didn’t notice Quan Heng looking at his hand. He led him to the stove, found a spoon, and dipped it into the pot. “Try some.”

He’d already wasted time, so there was no point in rushing out to deliver food. He waited patiently for Quan Heng to respond.

The savory aroma filled the kitchen. Quan Heng lowered his head, then looked up at Wen Congrong’s amber eyes. At Wen Congrong’s encouraging nod, he opened his mouth and tasted the soup.

“How is it?” Wen Congrong asked.

“It’s good.” Quan Heng nodded.

Seeing that Quan Heng seemed to have come out of his sadness, Wen Congrong let out a barely perceptible sigh of relief. He patted him on the shoulder and finally smiled. “Good. I’m glad you like it.”

“I was worried it wouldn’t be to your taste.” He set down the spoon and placed both hands on Quan Heng’s shoulders, his expression serious. “I think it’s delicious, too, but I know some people don’t like it.”

“Everyone has different tastes. You don’t have to try to make everyone like you.”

Quan Heng heard the reassurance beneath the words, as well as the pointed meaning. He blinked, his lashes trembling, then turned his face away.

“But I haven’t seen my fans look forward to anything I do in a long time…”

He sounded convincing. The System floated beside them with its arms crossed, shaking its head.

“Host, you still have some fans. The protagonist’s definitely not going to believe that.”

When it had been scrolling through Quan Heng’s Weibo and his fan community, it had found plenty of posts from devoted fans. Wen Congrong must have seen them, too.

The System thought Quan Heng’s acting was so bad that there was no way Wen Congrong would fall for it.

But before it could finish laughing, it saw uncertainty cross Wen Congrong’s face. After a long pause, Wen Congrong pressed his lips together and wrapped his arms around Quan Heng.

“It’s okay. I’ll be your fan from now on. I’ll encourage you every day.”

Wen Congrong was thinking about all the Weibo posts he’d read. It never occurred to him that Quan Heng might be playing up his misery.

“Really?” Quan Heng turned back to him in surprise. Disbelief filled his beautiful eyes, their reddened rims still damp. His gaze held only Wen Congrong, and his shoulders trembled as if he were truly delighted.

The look in Quan Heng’s eyes—like Wen Congrong was the only person in the world—left him momentarily disoriented. Awkwardly, he patted Quan Heng’s back. The position was difficult, especially since Quan Heng was half a head taller, but Wen Congrong stubbornly kept at it until he’d soothed him.

“Really.”

“I’m so happy. Thank you.” Quan Heng rested his chin on Wen Congrong’s shoulder and spoke softly. He pretended not to notice Wen Congrong’s shoulders tensing all at once.

He breathed in the scent of freesia drifting from the other man. Where Wen Congrong couldn’t see, the corners of his mouth lifted, amusement filling his eyes.

“I thought you’d hate me after how awful I was yesterday. I was drunk.”

So that was why he’d been a little nasty the day before.

“I was thinking I’d leave after lunch so I wouldn’t bother you.” Quan Heng’s voice sounded troubled. “It’s all right if I don’t have any money. I can go apologize to my manager…”

Wen Congrong held the trembling man against him, trying to warm him. He felt Quan Heng’s tension ease. After a moment’s hesitation, he said, “You don’t have to leave. You can stay here. I live alone anyway.”

He sighed softly, giving in to the fact that he’d originally planned to let Quan Heng stay only a couple of days.

“You’re so kind. Thank you.” Perhaps he was too happy to contain himself. Quan Heng suddenly hugged Wen Congrong back and rubbed his cheek against Wen Congrong’s. “I’ll try not to be a burden.”

His warm breath brushed Wen Congrong’s earlobe and neck. Wen Congrong’s body was stiff, but he still tried to relax and let Quan Heng wrap his arms around his waist.

He felt genuine sympathy for the man.

What had Quan Heng’s agency done to make someone so gentle lose so much confidence and feel so insecure?