Then, for many days, life passed quite peacefully.
Having just declared they wouldn’t argue over small matters, only to start bickering again within days would indeed be embarrassing. Refusing to lose face over something so trivial, Xie Qi had been exceedingly well-behaved lately.
Unknowingly, the lounge corner of the Drama Club had become Xie Qi’s dedicated office space. He lingered there like a family man swamped with endless tasks yet never forgetting to come home, habitually multitasking while waiting to pick up Wen Jiang after school.
Occasionally, after finishing script discussions with Lin Wenzhi, Wen Jiang would spot Xie Qi slumped listlessly over the corner table. In such moments, he could ignore him and let him sort himself out, or go over and ruffle his hair a couple of times—Xie Qi would perk right up again.
Lately, there hadn’t been any major incidents to provoke Xie Qi’s temper. Wen Jiang had even put their Couple Bracelets back on. With Xie Qi occupied by club rehearsals, only Drama Club matters could capture his attention these days.
Though irksome messages occasionally harassed Wen Jiang, they stirred no bigger waves. Glimpses of this appeared in his chat history.
—
Lin Xun: Really not considering acting in my show?
Lin Xun: Pitiful little puppy.jpg
Lin Xun: Big sis, I’ll do anything.jpg
Lin Xun: Did you see the proposal I sent you?
Lin Xun: Wen Jiang, you’d be perfect for it.
Lin Xun: Oh right, about that mission we agreed on before…
Wen Jiang: Shut up.
One hour later
Lin Xun: Got it.
—
Jiang Hehu: How’s the ring?
Wen Jiang: Little dinosaur thumbs up.jpg
Jiang Hehu: Oh.
Half an hour later
Jiang Hehu: That’s it?
Another half hour later
Jiang Hehu: What about the painting?
Wen Jiang: Little dinosaur thumbs up plus deluxe invincible double edition.jpg
Jiang Hehu: Oh.
Another half hour later
Jiang Hehu: That’s nothing.
Jiang Hehu: You haven’t seen the good stuff yet.
—
Wen Tianlu: Student Council cat 1.jpg
Wen Tianlu: Ice sculpture bunny.jpg
Wen Tianlu: Student Council cat 2.jpg
Wen Tianlu: Bird outside the office window.jpg
Wen Tianlu: How come all three of us messed up, and I’m the only one not forgiven yet?
Half an hour later
Wen Tianlu: Student Council cat 3.jpg
—
Wen Jiang didn’t always carry his phone; sometimes it ended up with Xie Qi, who conscientiously avoided peeking. But when notifications piled up, he’d glance over, his brows furrowing instantly. Having vowed never to get mad over such things, Xie Qi stared for a few seconds before pulling out his own phone and scrolling up through a dozen messages.
Xie Qi: Wanna eat?
Wen Jiang: Little dinosaur OK.jpg
Xie Qi: Thirsty?
Wen Jiang: Little dinosaur clapping.jpg
Xie Qi: Game console arrived.
Wen Jiang: Little dinosaur starry eyes.jpg
Xie Qi: Play this weekend?
Wen Jiang: Little dinosaur holding “OK” banner.jpg
Xie Qi: Are you doing an emoji non-repeat challenge?
Wen Jiang: Little dinosaur nodding.jpg
A perfectly smooth conversation—every reply from Wen Jiang within five minutes. No doubt, the official boyfriend had won. Xie Qi set down his phone, his mood lifting considerably.
Seeing Xie Qi regulate himself so well, Wen Jiang thought about awarding him a little red flower. His own spirits were high too. The two weeks of rehearsals had been busy yet fulfilling and serene, evoking a long-lost sense of normalcy and familiarity. Reflecting, Wen Jiang realized that ever since Qian Lang’s mistaken text, one thing after another had piled up around him. It had been ages since he’d experienced such ordinary school life.
Lin Wenzhi was surprised too. After the initial overhauls, Drama Club rehearsals had hit their stride—smooth sailing ever since. No disruptions, no gossip, no side dramas or accidents. In the blink of an eye, the Drama Festival loomed close. Everyone brimmed with confidence, diving into the tense yet exciting final preparations.
“Something’s off,” Lin Wenzhi mused to Wen Jiang during a break. “Our days have been way too drama-free.”
Too smooth is suspicious, Wen Jiang thought, expressionless as he sipped boxed juice beside her. “Off?”
“Definitely off.” Lin Wenzhi waved her juice box toward the underclassmen clustered in the distance, then back to bite her straw, implying volumes. “How have you not run into a single incident?”
Wen Jiang recalled her laundry list of hypotheticals: “accidentally drinking poisoned drinks before curtain,” “drama costume sabotaged pre-stage,” “locked in a warehouse by mystery assailants.” Lin Wenzhi had a terrible impression of that underclassman Ke Yuan, convinced he held the “scheming rival” card. She guarded against him relentlessly, always suspecting he’d loose a dark arrow at a critical moment to frame others and wreck the Art Festival.
As for the prime targets—the story’s male and female leads, Wen Jiang (who’d snagged the male lead spot) and Lu Jinghuai (whose Supernatural Ability overlapped, utterly dominating the rival)—Lin Wenzhi fretted more over Lu Jinghuai’s vulnerability. But Wen Jiang had already assured her: “She’ll be fine.”
“I’ve talked to Jiang Hehu.” Though Lin Wenzhi had only asked him to check Jiang Hehu’s stance, if the guy offered help, Wen Jiang would put it to use. Glancing at Lu Jinghuai, who pored over sheet music across the room, he added: “She’ll perform her song on stage.”
“Hm?” Lin Wenzhi blinked, then burst out laughing after a beat of confusion. “Great. You’re quick on the draw.”
She had zero doubts about Wen Jiang’s follow-through. Musing further, she sighed, “No wonder the president agreed… You remember Gao Mingcheng? President let him help with backend, checking digital ledgers.”
Someone who’d pissed off Jiang Hehu getting smoothly into Drama Club duties? The president wouldn’t greenlight that without reason. Most likely, after Wen Jiang’s chat with Jiang Hehu, the latter had approached the president to vouch and “delegate authority,” and the president had casually asked about Gao Mingcheng’s membership request.
Strictly speaking, Gao Mingcheng still wasn’t an official member—just an extra handyman… But with Jiang Hehu turning a blind eye to it, whether his cousin starred or not was irrelevant.
Still, Lin Wenzhi wasn’t fully reassured. After pondering, she ventured: “But there’s another possibility—Ke Yuan’s holding back something bigger.”
“Campus story trope number sixty-eight: Protagonist flips the potential big-boss cousin rival, who then warns the rival not to stir trouble. Rival plays meek on the surface but seethes with jealousy underneath.”
“‘Someone like my cousin actually scolds me for the protagonist’s sake? I’ve always been the one drawing all eyes—am I really worlds apart from him?'”
“This jealousy ferments like aged wine, deepening daily at the sight of the leads. In the end, it corrodes the rival’s heart. Forget his own stage shine—he craves destroying theirs. So he skirts the cousin, using any means to ruin the Art Festival. Better no celebration at all than one where he doesn’t sparkle—logical, right?”
Lin Wenzhi elaborated, hooked on her theory: “Fleshing out that corruption arc with POV shifts could stretch thirty chapters easy.”
Sounds like a mid-boss at least, Wen Jiang thought, silently draining his juice. “Logical.”
“Right?” Lin Wenzhi nodded too. “Better stay vigilant, double-check everything. Costumes and props should be fine, though.”
Wen Jiang finished his juice and tossed the carton into the trash. “Mm.”
With that settled, Wen Jiang headed for his backpack—the Drama notes were inside. Lin Wenzhi trailed him to the next topic: “Oh, right—internal voting for the next play’s theme is coming up.”
“Soliciting your input early,” she said. Art Festival not even started, and they were already scripting the next—golden duo perks. Per tradition: “Any taboos?”
Wen Jiang’s ritual reply: “None.”
“Cool.” Lin Wenzhi flipped open her script notes. “Next play has a role I think suits you: Player 1. You’ve seen the profile—super strong, everyone knows it, but he doesn’t believe it himself. Get it?”
“Got it,” Wen Jiang replied flatly. “Like how I’m actually a master comedian.”
Lin Wenzhi, who’d been rambling nonstop, froze mid-step: “…”
“…” As his taciturn partner went stone-faced, Wen Jiang dropped his gaze silently. The “comedian” line was the joke. Not funny?
“…Yeah, you are.” Her affirmation fell flat, then: “Another one’s that fool’s festival gag skit we mentioned. Still undecided—half the club wants full gender-swap cast, half says staging won’t match under current setup. Plot stays the same, though.”
Wen Jiang had reached Xie Qi’s side. He unzipped the backpack on the neighboring seat and pulled out his notes. Xie Qi held a pen in one hand, propping his face with his knuckles, staring fixedly at his screen.
The Drama Club buzzed with activity, noisy all around, but Xie Qi remained utterly unfazed. Wen Jiang didn’t know Xie Qi’s exact daily schedule—he seemed leisurely at times, napping openly on the Training Field for two hours without care—but as Xie Family heir, he surely had mountains of duties.
If he worked openly here, it was public-facing business. Xie Qi didn’t disturb Wen Jiang; Wen Jiang didn’t disturb Xie Qi. He just kept chatting with Lin Wenzhi.
Normally, Lin Wenzhi steered clear of Xie Qi too. To most at Qingchi, he was the type whose glance could launch you to stardom—or exile you on a whim. Ambitious ones weighed their worth first; those preferring to stay out of trouble minimized their presence, avoiding his sightline.
Only around Wen Jiang, both in work mode and oblivious to surroundings, did Lin Wenzhi end up passively closer. She said: “Remember the role pitched for you? Straight play: male king. Swap: empress.”
…And who plays Wen Jiang’s spouse? Xie Qi’s attention shifted soundlessly.
“Vaguely,” Wen Jiang said after thinking. “The one whose partner dies right at the start?”
Xie Qi’s attention soundlessly withdrew.
“Yep.” Lin Wenzhi nodded, jogging his memory. “Then hooks up with the sibling—has a kid even.”
Who plays that sibling? Xie Qi’s attention shifted again.
Wen Jiang’s recall stirred: “And the second one’s dead before curtain too?”
Lin Wenzhi nodded: “Yep.”
Xie Qi’s attention withdrew once more.
“You remember a ton,” Lin Wenzhi said approvingly. “Opening scene?”
Wen Jiang rattled it off: “Admiring flowers in the garden with ten lovers.”
Crack! Xie Qi’s pen snapped audibly.
They both glanced over at the sound. Lin Wenzhi looked away first: “I’ll poll others then.”
“Mm.” Wen Jiang waved as she left, then looked down. Xie Qi still stared earnestly at his screen—the pen had vanished.
I didn’t snap in anger, Xie Qi broadcast innocently, evidence swiftly destroyed.
…Fine, at least tempers stayed even. Tolerant Wen Jiang reached over and patted his head twice.
