By the time Qiao Qi found herself sitting on the rooftop wrapped in Liang Yan’s coat, a skewer of grilled meat in one hand and a beer in the other, she understood: sometimes, playing pitiful really did work.

At least on her. This trick of Liang Yan’s worked extremely well.

Thinking back to how she’d hurried after Liang Yan just now, even hinting all sorts of ways that she wasn’t busy and wasn’t being bothered, she wanted to curse herself for having no self-respect.

After cursing herself, though, her eyes still couldn’t help chasing after Liang Yan.

Liang Yan, once alcohol entered the picture, was in even worse shape—as if all the negative emotions he usually kept hidden beneath his easy, composed exterior were now scrambling out with the help of the alcohol.

Late October, nighttime, the night thick and dark, the wind stronger still.

Liang Yan sat leaning lazily against a wall, an innately noble air about him even in this posture. That quality made him, even leaning against a wall, lifting his face as the wind tossed his hair to reveal the fine line of his jaw and the profile of his face, still striking enough to look magazine-ready.

His hands were large, his fingers long; three fingers alone could steadily pinch a can of beer. To make drinking easier, his other hand carelessly raked through his hair a couple of times.

With no more messy strands to shield them, the man’s peach-blossom eyes were exposed to the night air, the darkness of the vault above falling into them without obstruction.

His eyes seemed deeper than the sky itself.

He really wasn’t in a good mood.

Probably because of the matter with Liang Xumo.

Qiao Qi hesitated before speaking, “Actually… most of the public sentiment is sympathetic toward your sister. Once the heat dies down, people will stop paying attention—”

Before she finished, Liang Yan suddenly turned his head. His eyes carried a depth different from usual, the contours around them fully open; Qiao Qi could see her own face reflected in his dark irises.

Then she heard Liang Yan ask, “Is there anyone who’s been really good to you?”

His breath carried the scent of alcohol, and the wind carried it straight into Qiao Qi’s face.

Caught off guard, she breathed in that hormone-laced warm air, and in the chilly night, her whole body suddenly grew hot.

Her fingers, unconsciously, tightened around the beer can, making a small, disruptive, faint noise in the quiet night.

After a while, Qiao Qi slowly loosened her grip on the can, looked into Liang Yan’s eyes, and said with certainty, “Yes.”

Everyone at the orphanage had actually been good to her.

Everyone on the Misty Cloud Pavilion crew had been good to her too.

“Liang Xumo has also been good to me.” Liang Yan smiled slightly at Qiao Qi, then turned his gaze away, reaching out to knock over the empty can beside him. The can rolled across the ground, making a clear but not jarring sound.

Amid that sound, Liang Yan tipped the back of his head against the rough wall, his voice low, thick and heavy.

He said, “She’s good to me without asking for anything.”

Qiao Qi’s gaze stayed fixed on Liang Yan’s face; maybe it was the starlight and moonlight casting a thin layer of glow over his features, but in the deepening night, Qiao Qi found his profile growing clearer and clearer.

So much so that she didn’t notice: this time, Liang Yan hadn’t called Liang Xumo “sister.”

He’d used her full name.

“I know she’s good to you,” Qiao Qi said. “Aren’t you good to her too?”

Whenever something went wrong on set, he’d take Liang Xumo somewhere quiet the first chance he got; he’d let his usual carefully maintained playboy image slip because of her; he’d rush over the moment her work ended; he’d even, without a second thought, scoop her up right at the hospital entrance…

Thinking of all this, Qiao Qi suddenly paused.

She quietly frowned, sensing that her own mindset felt a little off.

Why did she remember these little details so clearly?

And… it seemed like it bothered her, somehow.

Thinking of everything Liang Xumo had been through, Qiao Qi couldn’t help criticizing herself for being petty.

At that moment, Liang Yan said, “I am good to her.”

Qiao Qi felt the emotions she’d only just managed to suppress rise again in a faint ripple.

She tried to stay composed, but out of guilt, she looked away from Liang Yan’s face, where her eyes had been resting all along.

She murmured an absent-minded “mm,” “Isn’t that a good thing?”

She lowered her head to fiddle with a pebble on the ground, using it to scratch idle marks into the dirt.

It wasn’t until she noticed what she’d written that she realized she’d traced out the two characters “Liang Yan”—and the moment she registered it, her ears flushed bright red without warning.

Fortunately it was too dark now to see clearly.

Mortified, eyes nearly reddening, Qiao Qi carefully shifted her leg and slowly covered the “Liang Yan” on the ground with her foot.

Chin resting on her knee, her eyes darted around innocently.

As if that alone could bury the evidence for good.

She didn’t dare look at Liang Yan, only listened with burning-red ears.

“Because she got hurt for my sake.”

Qiao Qi heard Liang Yan say this, and she stilled, catching a faint shift of emotion in his low, heavy voice.

It was a kind of suppressed feeling.

Qiao Qi turned her head involuntarily, her gaze falling on Liang Yan’s face again.

Just then, Liang Yan turned to look at her too, and the two of them met eyes in a moment of quiet stillness.

Liang Yan said, “Badly hurt. From the body, to the heart, to the spirit.”

“So I should be good to her. I know her health isn’t great, so I’ve told her assistant not to let her drink cold water, to keep regular meals. I know sometimes her mental state isn’t great either, and her sleep isn’t good, so I hope she can get out and about more when she’s not working.”

“My kindness toward her comes with conditions. But—” Liang Yan blinked slowly.

In that instant, something hard to catch flickered across the dark depths of his eyes.

His voice seemed to drop even lower. “Hers toward me has none.”

Strange.

They were clearly just having a normal conversation, but Qiao Qi suddenly felt her chest tighten, as if she couldn’t quite breathe.

She blinked blankly, then asked, “Isn’t that a good thing?”

Liang Yan laughed softly, then turned the question back on her, “Is it?”

Qiao Qi didn’t understand.

Liang Yan seemed to think of something, and laughed again.

Only Qiao Qi couldn’t find anything pleasant in that laugh—if anything, her chest felt even tighter.

“Maybe,” Liang Yan said, tilting his face back up toward the distant sky again, seeming to be talking to Qiao Qi and to himself at once, “Maybe so.”

Qiao Qi felt a twinge of unease; she frowned and called out, “Liang Yan.”

The next second, she saw Liang Yan slowly lift a hand and cover his own eyes.

Qiao Qi froze, saying silently, “Liang Yan…”

“Why is that.”

She heard him ask, voice very low.

Though it made no sense, Qiao Qi knew this question wasn’t meant for her.

Under the moonlight, he looked like a lone wolf curled in on itself; the world was so vast, and yet he could only fold himself into this one corner.

Her heart clenched, without warning.

Qiao Qi had grown up thinking she was fairly composed, yet all her emotional turbulence, it seemed, had settled onto this one person named Liang Yan.

He only had to lift a hand quietly, without needing to say or do anything more, and her heart was already turned upside down by him.

Her mind didn’t feel very clear either.

Unclear enough that, without thinking, Qiao Qi reached out and grasped the hand covering Liang Yan’s eyes.

The instant their skin touched, both of them felt the other stiffen for a moment.

But neither wanted to let go.

This was the first warmth of the day of Frost’s Descent.

And the only one.

The saying that the fingers connect straight to the heart was probably true.

What Liang Yan felt held wasn’t his hand—it was his heart.

He blinked, somewhat dazed, his lashes brushing lightly against her palm, a faint itch spreading through his whole body.

He lifted his face from beneath her palm and saw Qiao Qi leaning fully toward him.

If Liang Yan, under the moon, was a lone wolf, then in this moment, Qiao Qi was a defenseless little white rabbit, walking right up to him of its own accord.

Because of the difference in their positions, Liang Yan had to tilt his head up slightly to meet Qiao Qi’s eyes directly.

The man’s gaze stayed fixed on Qiao Qi; several seconds passed, then his eyes slowly, slowly moved downward.

Landing on Qiao Qi’s lips, parted slightly in a faint, dazed gap.

Her lipstick was a soft orange; the wind carried its scent to Liang Yan’s nose, and he thought he caught a faint hint of orange and fruit fragrance.

The scent seemed to drift from between her lips, like some secret realm hiding sweet nectar, drawing Liang Yan closer.

Without either of them realizing it, the distance between them kept shrinking, shrinking further.

Even Qiao Qi hadn’t noticed when her gaze had settled on Liang Yan’s lips.

She caught the scent of alcohol.

Faint, elusive.

So she wanted to catch it more clearly.

So she leaned in slowly, closer, closer…

—Suddenly someone accidentally kicked a pebble, which rolled against the empty beer can; the can hit the ground with a clang, then rolled away with a rattling sound.

…The sound also woke both parties from their bizarre, momentary trance.

Both reacted with startling unison, each silently cursing inwardly before jerking back at the exact same moment.

One, with plenty of open space behind her, accidentally sat down hard on the ground.

The other, with less space behind him, accidentally knocked the back of his head against the wall.

Both let out an “Ow!” at the same instant, thoroughly sobered up.

“…”

“…….”

“………”

Silence.

Endless silence.

Blushing.

Full-on, deep blushing.

Racing hearts.

And extreme guilt.

Out of sheer guilt, the two of them spoke at exactly the same time:

“Don’t you have a boyfriend?”

“Don’t you have a girlfriend?”

“…”

“…….”

The two fell silent again.

Then both realized, at once: Wait, what? Did they nearly cheat on themselves?

The atmosphere plunged into unprecedented awkwardness.

Honestly, at this point Qiao Qi would rather have been drunk.

Even passed-out drunk would’ve been fine.

But she had to admit, she was disturbingly sober right now.

She didn’t even feel the slightest urge to tell Liang Yan that she was, in fact, his girlfriend.

Because it wasn’t the right time yet.

Revealing it now would only make things even more awkward.

Possibly even blow everything up.

And this exact thought was running through Liang Yan’s head at almost the same moment.

So the two of them—one clutching her backside, the other holding his head—stared blankly at each other for several seconds before wordlessly standing up from the ground, tacitly agreeing to clean up the trash and pick up the cans.

Each moving stiffly, hands and feet awkward, hearts guilty, rushing for the nearest exit.

To avoid further suffocating awkwardness, neither chose the elevator; instead, they silently, quietly took separate staircases.

The whole way down to Liang Xumo’s floor was silent. After tossing out the trash, Qiao Qi turned to leave, then patted herself down and realized she was still wearing Liang Yan’s coat.

She quickly took it off, turned, and handed it back to him.

Liang Yan seemed considerably calmer now, though his earlobes, chilled white by the wind earlier, were now flushed deep red, but he at least managed to act nonchalant.

“So…” Liang Yan cleared his throat lightly, “What are your plans going forward?”

She had no plans.

But Qiao Qi didn’t want to see Liang Yan again anytime soon.

So she lied without changing expression, “Joining a production.”

With that, she quickly threw out a “bye” and turned to leave.

Only after Qiao Qi’s figure had disappeared entirely did Liang Yan react: Wait? Joining a production? Joining a production?!

At a time like this, how could they possibly split up!

If they split up now, would they even get another chance to reconnect?

But… when had Qiao Qi taken on new work?

Why didn’t he know about it?

Standing there, his mind racing for several seconds, Liang Yan pulled out his phone.

Two minutes later, every netizen’s phone buzzed with a fresh Weibo notification.

@Liang Yan V: Available? Any directors or producers out there, got work? Take a look at me?

Every netizen, along with every director and producer: “…?”

What kind of grand gesture was this?

Never seen anything like it.

Were we just not standing high enough?

—

Mr. Liang single-handedly stirred up the entire internet with one Weibo post, but he himself only lingered to watch the reaction for a bit before calmly logging out of Weibo, entirely composed.

Just then, a WeChat message popped up.

Zhou Jiaye: You sick or something?

Zhou Jiaye: Who takes on jobs like that?

Something occurred to Liang Yan, and he called him directly.

Zhou Jiaye picked up quickly, voice drawling, “What, got scolded on WeChat and now you want to call and get back at me?”

Liang Yan, unusually, didn’t banter back; his tone turned serious. “I recall your wife wears a police cap.”

Zhou Jiaye paused at that, then after a few seconds let out a slow “Ah,” admitting it.

Liang Yan gave a faint smile and pulled up a nearby bench to sit on.

He slung his coat carelessly over his arm, elbows pressed against his knees, his spine curving like a steel bar.

Head lowered, his voice dropping too, “So shouldn’t she be serving the people?”

Zhou Jiaye scoffed. “Go ahead, Young Master Liang, say what you need.”

Liang Yan stared at the ground, his gaze spreading outward in slow circles.

After a long while, his neck starting to ache, he straightened slowly, leaning back, the back of his head resting against the cold porcelain wall.

The chill seeped through the skin of his neck, inch by inch, into his brain. After a long pause, he said quietly, “Help me look into a few people.”

Zhou Jiaye didn’t ask who, instead dropping the joking tone entirely and earnestly saying Liang Yan’s name, “Liang Yan.”

Liang Yan gave a faint “mm.”

Zhou Jiaye said, “Honestly, I’ve been waiting for this call from you.”

Liang Yan made an “Mm?” sound.

Zhou Jiaye continued, “I kept thinking, this wasn’t something I could bring up on my own—mainly I didn’t know how to say it—but if you asked, I’d tell you everything, no holding back.”

The two of them fell silent for a few seconds without meaning to before Zhou Jiaye said, “You know my wife’s your fan, right?”

Liang Yan knew—that’s why he’d sent a signed photo on their wedding day.

Of course, he’d also gotten plenty of grief from Zhou Jiaye for being shameless about it.

“So she loves you and everything connected to you…” Zhou Jiaye rephrased, “She’s also very fond of your sister… very fond of Liang Xumo.”

Liang Yan’s eyes, closed until now, opened quietly.

The next second, Zhou Jiaye said, “So the moment that anonymous article showed up, my wife pulled the IP address.”

A faint flicker passed through Liang Yan’s eyes; the hand hanging at his side quietly clenched into a fist.

He parted his lips, but no words came out.

Just then, the door to Liang Xumo’s hospital room suddenly opened. Liang Xumo hadn’t expected Liang Yan to be right outside. “Liang Yan?”

Liang Yan turned, looking at Liang Xumo’s face with a somewhat dazed expression.

That familiar “sis,” which usually came so easily, stuck fast in his throat.

This was the first time in over ten years that Liang Yan hadn’t called Liang Xumo “sis.”

Author’s Note: Don’t panic. No need. Don’t rush. No need. When the time really comes, you’ll still get everything you want to see. [doge]