Xu Daye had shared many stories about Jing Li that evening, mostly the fun and amusing ones. He glossed over anything sad, unhappy, or unpleasant.
Yet some truths slipped through, even in passing remarks.
On top of that, Jing Li had once treated Weibo like a personal diary, chronicling much of his life there. Ji Yunzhang had seen those posts early on, when he’d first tasked An Jiaming with gathering information on him. But they hadn’t known each other well then, so he’d respected boundaries and politeness. If Jing Li didn’t bring it up, he wouldn’t pry.
Jing Li paused for a few seconds before shaking his head. “It won’t be presumptuous.”
He shifted into a more comfortable position, sitting cross-legged on the sofa and pulling a throw pillow into his lap. His fingers toyed absently with one corner as he carefully chose his words. Then, in a soft voice, he continued, “They’re vain, domineering, and fiercely competitive. Everything has to be number one with them. From the time I was little, they compared me to every other child in the family.”
“If they took up piano, I had to learn it too. Dance, painting, guqin—whatever they studied, I had to as well. And my results always had to come in first. I couldn’t lag behind in anything.”
“So that’s how you picked up so many talents,” Ji Yunzhang said.
Jing Li nodded. “Yeah.”
“Was it exhausting?” Ji Yunzhang watched him, his gaze gentle and tinged with heartache.
Exhausting? Of course it was. Back then, his days had been filled with dance practice, piano scales, and diligent studying. His world had shrunk to the life his parents mapped out for him, with no room to catch his breath. They’d never once asked if he was tired.
No one else ever had, either. Ji Yunzhang was the first.
The edge of the pillow crumpled under his grip. Jing Li’s voice came out faint. “It was exhausting. So exhausting.”
“I even cried in secret sometimes. I thought about running away from home once or twice. But they kept a tight leash on my allowance—said it was to keep me from going astray. I didn’t have a dime to my name.”
After a quiet moment, he tucked away that flicker of vulnerability and went on. “That said, looking back now as an adult, I’m actually grateful. Without them pushing me, those skills wouldn’t be on my résumé. I wouldn’t be as accomplished as I am today.”
“They were strict with me and held me to high standards. I didn’t mind. I could understand it was their way of showing love—even if it was mixed with some of their own selfish motives.”
Ji Yunzhang listened in silence until that point. Then he asked, “That’s not why you cut ties with them, though. What else did they do?”
Jing Li’s expression grew distant. He lowered his eyes to the pillow in his lap and was quiet for a long stretch. Finally, he said, “Teacher Ji, I don’t think I’ve told you this before, but I’m gay. I like men.”
“I know,” Ji Yunzhang replied. “I had An Jiaming look into your background. You’ve never hidden your orientation. It was one of the reasons I chose you. Otherwise, it would have held you back.”
Jing Li looked up, breaking into a smile again. “Teacher Ji, you’re almost too candid.”
Ji Yunzhang apologized. “I’m sorry.”
Jing Li’s eyes crinkled with amusement as he waved it off. “No need to apologize. If I were the one arranging a fake marriage, I’d do the same—run a full check first. The risks would be too high otherwise.”
Custard Bun, having tired of its chew toy, bounded back over and leaped onto the sofa. It flopped down beside Jing Li, resting its head on his thigh.
Jing Li glanced down and stroked its head.
“My parents couldn’t accept it. Like I said, they’re so competitive and image-conscious. Me being gay was a source of shame for them. They couldn’t face their relatives and friends.”
Ji Yunzhang asked, “Why come out so early?” He hadn’t even finished high school yet.
Jing Li pressed his lips together. “My dad was chasing a big contract at the time. To seal the deal, he wanted me to go out with the other company’s daughter—she’d confessed to me. She was their only child, spoiled rotten. I turned her down flat and came out right then.”
“You handled it well,” Ji Yunzhang said gently, his words like a soft breeze. “You didn’t hurt her or lead her on.”
“Yeah, she’s doing great now. She even sent a WeChat message congratulating us.”
“And just like that, after my college entrance exams, I left home and never went back. They never reached out, either.” He paused, then gave a self-deprecating laugh. “They were probably so disappointed in me by then. Figured I was a lost cause. So they…” He let out a slow breath. “They had a second child.”
After everything with Xu Daye’s mother, he’d spent those weeks shuttling back and forth to hospitals with his friend. He’d witnessed too much of life’s bittersweet joys, sorrows, and cruel inevitabilities. He didn’t want to one day regret not reconciling with his own parents while he still had the chance—the old adage about a child wanting to care for their parents only after they’re gone weighed on him. So he’d decided maybe it was time for a proper talk.
But the moment he pulled up to the neighborhood gate, he spotted his parents returning from somewhere. Their faces were alight with joy as they murmured about baby names.
It turned out his mother was already pregnant.
He remembered that day not being cold at all. The sun blazed brightly, yet he had felt utterly freezing—colder even than during A City’s sharp temperature drops. The chill burrowed relentlessly into his body, piercing to the bone.
Perhaps stirred by the memory of that moment, Jing Li suddenly felt cold himself. He scooped up Custard Bun. The dog’s body heat ran a touch warmer than a human’s, and holding it filled Jing Li with comfort.
“Jing Li.” Ji Yunzhang called his name out of the blue.
“Hm?” He turned to look.
“Can I hug you?” Ji Yunzhang gazed at him. Beneath the lights, his eyes were calm and tender.
Jing Li’s heart lurched as if struck by something forceful. Numbness and shivers raced to his fingertips. He let go of Custard Bun without thinking and stared back at Ji Yunzhang in stunned silence.
The question echoed in his ears, over and over, hammering at his resolve.
How fragile reason truly was—it crumbled at the slightest touch.
He watched himself nod, then felt Ji Yunzhang draw him into an embrace.
Hugging Ji Yunzhang felt nothing like hugging Custard Bun. The bun might be warm, but it couldn’t hug back. Ji Yunzhang could, though. And it felt so safe.
Jing Li leaned into him and closed his eyes.
Just for tonight—just for this moment—let him be vulnerable. Let him cross the line.
~~~
An Jiaming had mentioned a variety show earlier, and he’d quickly found a perfect fit. He placed a video call to Ji Yunzhang and Jing Li.
With no work on their schedules, neither had gone to the studio.
They set the laptop on the table and sat side by side. The camera’s narrow field of view forced them close—shoulders brushing, legs touching.
So near to Ji Yunzhang, Jing Li’s foot accidentally nudged his. Ji Yunzhang frowned.
“Why are your feet so cold? You chilly? Heater too low?”
Jing Li hastily shifted his foot away. “No, the temperature’s perfect. I’m not cold—it’s just poor circulation. Happens every winter.”
Ji Yunzhang gave him a helpless look. “Then why no socks?”
Ever since Jing Li had moved in, he’d noticed his roommate’s aversion to socks. He always had to remind him. Out in public, though, Jing Li bundled up properly—solid habits there.
Caught out, Jing Li chuckled awkwardly, murmured an apology to An Jiaming onscreen, and headed upstairs to grab some socks.
An Jiaming watched the whole exchange, his expression turning complicated.
The way Ji Yunzhang and Jing Li interacted didn’t look scripted at all. It was effortless, intimate—like they’d always been a couple. He hated to imagine if they’d truly lost themselves in the roles.
He had nothing against them getting together for real. But if it stemmed from the pretense, from sinking too deep into character… there would come a time when the illusion shattered. Then what?
The entertainment world brimmed with show-spawned romances—common as dirt, yet almost none lasted. They dissolved into acrimony, leaving wreckage in their wake.
Noticing his mood, Ji Yunzhang prompted, “Spit it out.”
An Jiaming opened his mouth, then closed it. Nothing.
He might be Ji Yunzhang’s manager, but he had no real pull—especially not over personal matters. He couldn’t meddle. And anyway, he trusted Ji Yunzhang to know his limits.
“Nothing.”
Jing Li returned moments later, fluffy socks hugging his feet—thick and cozy. Ji Yunzhang glanced down and nodded, approving.
An Jiaming: “…”
He cleared his throat. “Business time.”
Ji Yunzhang: “Shoot.”
Jing Li leaned in, waiting too.
“It’s Pineapple TV’s Romantic Journey. Five couples team up for a travel-vacation setup, hitting scenic mountains and rivers to showcase married-life romance and tenderness. Chief director’s Guan Lin—she holds the record for highest romance-variety ratings with Best Couple. Check it out sometime.”
Jing Li had never done a romance show or watched one. He nodded earnestly, already planning to binge it.
Ji Yunzhang motioned for more.
An Jiaming sipped his water. “Contract’s clean—no red flags. Program Team gave major concessions, including partial edit rights. They’ll screen each episode for us pre-air to avoid bad cuts or forced drama. Sent it over; give it a scan.”
Ji Yunzhang murmured agreement, snatched his tablet, tapped into his email, and pulled up the file.
Jing Li craned his head to peer along.
Fresh from a wash, his hair fluffed soft and full. In the angle, a few strands grazed Ji Yunzhang’s chin and lips—a faint itch that sank straight to his core.
Ji Yunzhang’s eyes fixed on his profile for a beat, darkening.
Then Jing Li gasped in surprise.
Ji Yunzhang snapped back. “What?”
An Jiaming, alarmed, chimed in too.
Jing Li raised his head and suddenly realized that he was practically lying on Ji Yunzhang’s chest like this. He quickly sat up straight. His eyes sparkled brightly, giving him a very naive and inexperienced look. “So much money!”
An Jiaming: “……”
Ji Yunzhang couldn’t hold back and burst out laughing.
Too cute.
