Shen Li felt apologetic about it.
Qian Xingzhi’s account was so straightforward and casual that Shen Li even wondered if, had he not insisted on asking about the reasons for their divorce back then and why Qian had avoided seeing him for the past seven years, Qian would have told him anything at all, given his current way of handling things.
Shen Li truly hadn’t expected that, even to this day, Qian Xingzhi still took that sentence he’d hurled during their argument so much to heart.
It had been far too long. Shen Li couldn’t recall at all what the quarrel had been about or who had started it.
The only thing that remained vividly etched in his memory was how Qian’s furious eyes had suddenly gone dim.
Qian had sulked for three full days without speaking to him, even clutching the blanket and sleeping out in the living room.
Only then did Shen Li begin to reflect on exactly what he’d said wrong to provoke such intense anger from Qian.
But after racking his brains, the most suspicious culprit seemed to be that one phrase:
“We are not on the same path.”
They said a harsh word could wound like the chill of winter in June, but Shen Li didn’t see it as anything cruel. He’d merely stated the simple truth.
He and Qian had temperaments and personalities that clashed wildly, and their principles for handling matters differed vastly.
If all the friends around them urged them to break up rather than patch things up, that alone proved just how incompatible they truly were—as if, beyond sharing the same gender, they’d never had a single thing in common.
What’s more, after graduating high school, the two of them had gone to different schools, entered different social circles, and gradually settled into entirely different classes in society.
Especially after they both started working—the time they spent together shrank dramatically.
So when Shen Li looked back, he realized Qian had changed so much compared to before.
But then again, who didn’t change?
If you calculated it strictly, this year marked the twentieth anniversary of their acquaintance. No one stayed the same after twenty years.
Shen Li wasn’t afraid of change itself, yet he still felt time had slipped away far too quickly.
From one’s early twenties to thirties was a decade; from thirties to forties was half a lifetime.
Now they had already traversed most of each other’s half-lifetimes, but Shen Li often found himself reminiscing in detail about those more than twenty years since they’d met—and it all felt as fleeting as a single instant.
Their first conversation, their first hand-holding, their first kiss, their first time making love…
A whole half-lifetime felt not nearly long enough for Shen Li to strip the vivid color from all those firsts in his memory.
Just like after the divorce, when Shen Li had deleted the “Hubby” contact name that Qian used to slyly change his phone to, reverting it to Qian’s original plain name card. Yet he’d never once considered removing Qian from the top of his chat list—not even if Qian started dating again, got remarried, or even passed away.
It wouldn’t disturb him or anything. He just wanted to keep it as a memento.
After all, no one decreed that you couldn’t pin your ex-husband at the top of your WeChat.
Nor did anyone stipulate that…
Two people who weren’t on the same path couldn’t fall in love.
Before speaking, Shen Li first glanced at Qian Xingzhi’s expression. But Qian had lowered his head after posing that question about whether they were on the same path, refusing to look at him anymore.
Qian seemed utterly indifferent now, no longer fixated on hearing his answer.
At the very least, the current Qian Xingzhi didn’t appear especially eager to know what Shen Li would say.
And so Shen Li gazed at his breathtakingly handsome ex-husband, whose thick, sword-straight brows were pressed low. When he wasn’t speaking, he looked even more strikingly handsome. Objectively speaking, the facts proved that this man—even with a cold expression—could captivate billions of young men and women. After all, that face held the power to make hearts flutter no matter what emotion it wore… though those brows remained perpetually, lightly furrowed.
…
Finally, Shen Li chose his words with care. “Did you do all this because of what I said during that argument back then?”
Qian Xingzhi had been measuring the length of Shen Li’s shin bone with his palm and forearm. At those words, he lifted his eyes, a hint of mockery in his gaze.
“You’re overthinking it. I just still like you a little—not that much.”
“Not that much?” Shen Li narrowed his eyes. “How much is ‘not that much’ exactly?”
Qian Xingzhi pondered for a moment, then replied with dead seriousness, “Hard to say. I still need to think it over.”
Shen Li: .
Shen Li’s thin lips pressed together slightly, and he said nothing more. Subconsciously, though, he felt Qian was being rather conservative with his words. Given how lovestruck this man used to get in relationships, the real number was probably even higher.
But of course, he couldn’t crack open Qian’s chest to peer inside, nor did he have any concrete proof that Qian was lying.
Qian Xingzhi finally released his leg and packed away the medicated oil.
Shen Li found that the oil seemed quite gentle, and especially slick—much better than the skincare cream he’d used earlier. So he reached out again, picked up the bottle Qian had just set down, and weighed it in his hand, glancing at it calmly.
While rubbing Shen Li earlier, Qian had actually started to get a bit hard. Fortunately, Shen Li’s barrage of questions had irritated him enough that, by the time he’d finished the massage, the arousal had subsided.
But now, as he stood up and glanced back at Shen Li, a nameless surge of heat rushed straight to his head—and southward as well.
Shen Li was just too damn good-looking.
His pair of straight, slender legs stretched out on the bed, the deep blue sheets rumpled into swirling creases around them. The contrast made his skin gleam with an almost violently white radiance, like the most piercing light from a snow-capped peak shattered and scattered across the mortal world.
The visual impact was staggering.
Shen Li’s movement was nothing more than turning his head expressionlessly to eye the bottle of oil. Yet on that face, noble and cool as carved cold jade, a faint chill of aloof beauty emerged.
Qian had seen that face cry far too many times—brows furrowed, the line of his jaw taut like ice about to crack…
No. He couldn’t.
Based on their past experiences and Qian’s own condition, it was best to proceed step by step, ensuring Shen Li wouldn’t get hurt.
With that in mind, Qian turned toward the bathroom. But then he heard Shen Li say,
“Do you have any other lube over there?”
Qian halted abruptly, his gaze darkening as it swept toward Shen Li.
Shen Li stated bluntly, without a change in expression, “I brought that box of condoms you bought.”
Qian Xingzhi’s brows furrowed deeply. “…You’re sure about this?”
Here?
Shen Li had always hated environments without a sense of security; his whole body would tense up inside, making things awkward. It really wasn’t ideal right now.
But Shen Li’s voice came cold, laced with a touch of impatience. “Don’t tell me you can’t get it up anymore. Why so much talk all of a sudden?”
.
When Qian Xingzhi finally pulled Shen Li into a full embrace, Shen Li’s pale, cool body trembled lightly. The price of skin that hadn’t touched in so long was that even this simple hug left Shen Li’s breathing teetering on the edge of losing control.
Qian truly feared hurting him again—the difference in their builds was no small matter—so he took his time with the preparations, repeating them thoroughly before tentatively kissing him while venturing lower.
Qian didn’t know what to say; he just wanted Shen Li to relax. So he murmured his name.
“…Shen Li.”
Shen Li responded, “Hm?”
Qian chuckled softly, his tone laced with mischief. “If you really can’t loosen up, just think about the case. Open up a bit.”
?
Shen Li: .
Shen Li froze for a moment, his mind buzzing. Then he realized Qian wasn’t serious. Frowning faintly, he shot Qian a fierce glare.
“You believe I won’t grab some sealing tape and shut that mouth of yours?”
The mocking smile at the corner of Qian’s lips broke free. “Getting so feisty?”
Shen Li irritably turned his head away, refusing the kiss. But his movements below were gentle and compliant.
In moments like these, Qian always harbored the illusion that Shen Li really did love him.
To the point that, as they went on later, Qian even felt…
The fragility on Shen Li’s body didn’t stem from his own ruination.
Rather, it was like pristine moonlight plummeting of its own accord—his moon willingly descending into a spring river of unknown depths.
.
By the end of that night, Shen Li had no idea what time he finally fell asleep. When he woke again, it was three in the morning, and not a single inch of him didn’t ache.
Qian Xingzhi slept soundly on the other bed not far away. Shen Li knew that after sessions like this, the man always crashed hard, his sleep quality jumping up several notches from usual.
So Shen Li headed to the bathroom without worrying about waking him, intending to check and clean himself up first. To his surprise, Qian had already wiped him down.
As for how comfortable it had been… well, that was hard to quantify.
Shen Li could only say it hurt less than before. He could feel that Qian had really held himself back—not even fully sheathing to the hilt by the end.
Otherwise, it couldn’t be that after seven years apart, that part of him had tightened up so much.
Yet Qian’s eyes had grown far more intense than before.
Even during the act, he’d become more silent. The awkward polite questions, and the occasional forceful commands he couldn’t hold back—they all differed markedly from the past.
Qian used to love coquetry, even in bed. But not anymore.
Still, Shen Li couldn’t quite put his finger on what felt off about it.
Since he’d already decided to accept these changes, he couldn’t exactly call it dislike.
But this was indeed the first time after being with Qian Xingzhi that Shen Li felt an inexplicable urge to light up a cigarette.
He did smoke, but only rarely.
Back when he was investigating cases, he’d only reach for one when he was deeply frustrated and his thoughts ground to a halt. This time, though, he held back. The main reason? There were no cigarettes here.
After climbing back into bed, Shen Li dozed fitfully for another couple of hours. Even as the sky outside began to lighten with the pale hues of dawn, sleep still eluded him.
He was always like this—whenever his mind grew chaotic, he couldn’t sleep. Only when he threw himself into work or study, concentrating intensely until he suddenly crashed, would drowsiness finally come.
But few people knew about this quirk of his.
Back in high school and college, nearly all his classmates and teachers saw him as that perpetual motion machine of boundless energy who never tired. Perhaps only Qian Xingzhi had ever truly understood.
Qian Xingzhi.
Qian Xingzhi…
How had his thoughts circled back to Qian again.
Shen Li’s body ached miserably, sending his mind into a buzz.
Finally, he could no longer feign sleep. Irritated, he opened his eyes, grabbed his phone first, and dealt with the messages and work matters he’d missed the night before.
Then he stepped out of the room and called Lin Jie, who was just about to go off duty. They exchanged a few brief words; she shared what information she could, and that was that.
Shen Li realized he still hadn’t replied to Zhou Yulin’s message, so he quickly typed out a few words and sent them off. The gist was that they’d talk once he was off the show, if there was time.
Then, around six in the morning, Shen Li scrolled through Weibo and the forums for a bit to gauge the direction of public opinion. He also pulled out his phone’s notes app and organized all the leads related to the 0225 Case from the past few days.
By the time his phone finally ran out of battery and shut down automatically, Shen Li had crept around quietly for ages searching for the charger—but to no avail. Qian Xingzhi was the type who loved tidying things up haphazardly, so who knew where he’d stashed it? To make matters worse, even his iPad was dead.
He had only gotten halfway through piecing together the case, on top of a sleepless half-night and an aching body all over. His mood was far from great—in fact, it was downright foul.
Especially when Shen Li glanced at Qian Xingzhi, who was sleeping soundly yet still wore that stern, cold expression even in slumber, as if weighed down by some heavy worry.
Without a second thought, Shen Li reached over to Qian Xingzhi’s bedside and fished out his phone.
He figured Qian Xingzhi’s phone might still have some juice.
But after these seven years…
Qian Xingzhi had long since upgraded his phone, so he probably wouldn’t still be using Shen Li’s birthday as the lock screen password.
Shen Li lowered his gaze and unlocked it.
With a stony face, he entered his own birthday.
Wrong.
Perhaps it was the sleep finally catching up to him, or maybe that love-struck haze was contagious.
For some reason, Shen Li keyed in their wedding anniversary.
