When Ji Qinghe spoke, he had a habit—he would place emphasis on certain words.

During normal conversation it wasn’t obvious, but once his emotions were engaged, which words he enunciated clearly and which he cut off abruptly became easy to detect.

When unable to communicate face-to-face, Shen Qianzhan usually judged his mood by distinguishing his vocal emphasis.

Rising tones at the end indicated satisfaction; suppressed tones indicated displeasure.

Clearly, Ji Qinghe was in a pleasant mood at this moment—perfect for striking while the iron was hot, raising flags and beating drums.

She found a support point and propped up her phone, feigning ignorance: “What consequences?”

Ji Qinghe didn’t take the bait.

Some things needed to be seen through a veil to have atmosphere—being too direct and explicit was neither sophisticated nor interesting.

“My eyes really miss you.” Shen Qianzhan leaned close to the screen, smiling as she looked at him: “They haven’t seen you for almost twenty hours.”

“My nose misses you too.”

“Without smelling your scent, I always feel like something’s missing.”

“My mouth is doing alright though—tonight it tasted tripe, goose intestines, bamboo shoots, beef throat, beef, rice cakes, potatoes, winter melon, and chestnuts. It’s been too busy to miss you for now.”

Ji Qinghe interrupted her: “You had hot pot tonight?”

Shen Qianzhan pursed her lips and hummed in acknowledgment: “Don’t want to hear the rest? There are many other places that miss you too.”

Knowing she was being deliberate, Ji Qinghe was still like a fish that had bitten the bait and couldn’t let go, willingly taking the hook: “No need to count them all—even if I gave you ten full minutes, you might not finish. After a pause, he added: “Which inch of your skin doesn’t miss me?”

Shen Qianzhan was delighted: “Well, there are some. Want to hear about them?”

Ji Qinghe glanced at her, his lips unconsciously curving upward: “Whichever doesn’t miss me, I’ll pay special attention to tomorrow night. Must achieve unified governance and complete territorial integrity.”

Shen Qianzhan choked.

All the provocative words on the tip of her tongue were completely blocked by that one sentence of his.

She snorted softly and removed the hair tie, holding it between her lips.

Then she gathered her long hair that was draped over her shoulders into a bundle with both hands, stretched the hair tie with two fingers, and efficiently tied it into a ponytail: “When you’re done with your meeting, send me your flight information. If I have time tomorrow, I’ll pick you up at the airport.”

Ji Qinghe neither agreed nor disagreed. His gaze fell on Shen Qianzhan’s crimson lips that held a few stray hairs, his Adam’s apple moved slightly, and he suddenly felt a bit restless.

He imperceptibly looked away and changed the subject: “Song Yan joined the crew?”

Seeing his concern, Shen Qianzhan proactively reported: “Yes, she checked into the hotel tonight with her manager and assistant. I had Su Zan schedule her scenes for tomorrow afternoon. If your flight isn’t delayed, you should be able to catch her first scene.”

Ji Qinghe made a light sound of acknowledgment, not particularly interested.

What could be seen on set were all fragmented scenes. Film crews needed to pay rent for shooting locations, so they usually concentrated all scenes needed for that location during the rental period, rarely performing continuously from beginning to end.

One scene might be an emotionally intense physical conflict, while the next could be the awkward coldness of their first meeting early in the plot.

He recalled the script and asked: “Tomorrow requires the black wood enamel carved ancient clock of the Eight Immortals of Penglai?”

“Yes.” Shen Qianzhan had the script beside her. She flipped through it and held it up to show him: “And it needs to be dismantled.”

She sighed deeply, maintaining a pose that looked beautiful even while frowning, and said: “I’m under so much pressure. What if it breaks during dismantling? Wouldn’t I have to bring you my head?”

“Not necessarily.” Ji Qinghe thought for a moment and said: “If it breaks, just prepare your household registration book.”

Shen Qianzhan didn’t catch on: “Household registration book?” Execute me according to the records?

“Mm.” Ji Qinghe switched hands, and after the screen briefly shook, he smiled and said: “If it breaks, we’ll get married. I won’t accept any other compensation except you.”

Shen Qianzhan’s heart contracted, as if doused with spice, instantly burning.

Her breathing became slightly rapid, and for a moment she couldn’t make a sound.

Rationally, Shen Qianzhan believed he was casually joking.

But emotionally, the topic of marriage was too serious. Even if he said it casually, Shen Qianzhan found it difficult to respond. She even had a small corner of her heart that faintly felt Ji Qinghe wasn’t joking with her.

If she dared to agree, it wasn’t impossible that Ji Qinghe might deliberately break the clock…

With her hesitation, Ji Qinghe understood her meaning and teased: “That hard to answer?”

“Not exactly.” Shen Qianzhan frowned with a serious expression: “I’m analyzing whether this counts as a proposal. If it does, I’m at a disadvantage. If it doesn’t, I’m still at a disadvantage.”

Ji Qinghe raised an eyebrow: “How are you at a disadvantage?”

Shen Qianzhan answered: “Kidney deficiency.”

Ji Qinghe was stunned, initially unable to figure out how her logical thinking operated.

The former disadvantage could be understood as such a proposal being too hasty—not only lacking a diamond ring and ceremony, but even lacking sincerity in the proposal attitude.

But this kidney deficiency—where did that come from?

Just as he was about to ask, footsteps sounded noisily outside the door.

Ming Jue knocked on the break room door several times and gently reminded: “President Ji, the meeting is about to start. You need to take your seat quickly.”

Ji Qinghe lifted his wrist to check the time and replied: “I know.”

Shen Qianzhan had only heard someone speaking but hadn’t caught the conversation content. Seeing him look down at his watch, she realized his break time was over.

“Go ahead with your work.”

Ji Qinghe nodded. After standing up, he didn’t immediately hang up the video call, walking while saying: “Rest early after you’re busy. Don’t wait for me.”

Shen Qianzhan hadn’t planned to wait anyway, but saying so would be too hurtful. She kindly chose to conceal this: “Okay.”

After speaking, she felt it was too cold, cleared her throat, and added: “You too, rest early.”

Ji Qinghe smiled gently.

He stopped at the door.

Beyond the door, business leaders in suits were chatting in twos and threes as they returned to their seats.

Holding his phone, he said the last words before hanging up the video: “Do you know what we’re like right now? Like children who’ve just adapted to being in a relationship and are learning how to love.”

After hanging up the video, Shen Qianzhan stared at the WeChat dialogue box for a while.

Unexpectedly, she quite agreed with Ji Qinghe’s final summary.

Although their relationship was quite deep and they were compatible in intimate matters as if custom-made for each other, in terms of romantic relationship, whether due to lack of experience or still being in the adjustment period, she always felt something was missing.

Could this be the legendary “a wife is not as good as a concubine, a concubine not as good as a mistress, and a mistress not as good as one you can’t have”?

She wasn’t that cheap, was she!

Thanks to the influence of Ji Qinghe’s words, Shen Qianzhan had particular difficulty falling asleep tonight.

She tossed and turned in bed, turned and tossed, watching time slip away bit by bit through her fingers while remaining completely wakeful and energetic.

The clock hands had passed midnight.

Wind rose outside the window, rustling the leaves on the branches.

Shen Qianzhan raised her hand to cover her eyes, rolled half a turn toward the edge of the bed while wrapped in her blanket.

After restlessly struggling until two o’clock, she could no longer bear the torment of insomnia. She sat up with her phone and called Ji Qinghe.

Just as the call connected, she noticed the time, immediately hung up, and switched to text instead.

“I thought about it tonight, and I think I might not be suitable for dating.”

She broke into segments, sent it, and continued typing: “I can’t be like little girls, looking at you with stars in my eyes, devoted to you with one hundred and twenty percent pure love.”

“I also can’t act coquettish every few sentences, calling you ‘darling husband’ or ‘darling piggy.’ For pet names, even with all my effort, I can only think of ‘damn man.'”

“We haven’t even been dating for a week. I have no experience and don’t know if our interaction mode is normal.”

For instance, when Ji Qinghe went on business trips, she had no feelings of loss, nor would she have the petty worry about him embracing bricks instead of her.

Or take the schedule reporting that should exist in relationships—she had no concept of reporting at all.

And the taboos in dating like “intimate relations should only happen after at least six months of dating” or “you can give him countless chances but girls must never take initiative or seduce”—she had violated all of these before they even started dating…

Shen Qianzhan wasn’t sure how her thoughts had diverged from his one sentence to this current situation, but after consulting various “Dating Tutorials” and “Dating Manuals” tonight, she suddenly discovered that her relationship with Ji Qinghe was precarious. Every step was like walking on thin ice—one careless move and she would fall into the icy river, chilled to the bone.

Ji Qinghe had just gotten off the plane.

The late-night airport was swept by cold winds under pale lights. Everything seemed shrouded in mist, and wherever he looked was the desolation of deep night.

He stepped out of the cabin door, walking while turning on his phone.

The moment his phone regained signal, it briefly connected to an incoming call from Shen Qianzhan.

Before he could answer, the call was disconnected and his phone screen returned to darkness.

Ji Qinghe walked quickly, soon stepping onto the elevator heading to the underground parking garage.

The next second, WeChat notifications began.

Vibration after vibration.

Ji Qinghe frowned, unlocking his screen while asking Ming Jue behind him: “Did you tell her I was returning at dawn?”

Ming Jue made a confused sound, momentarily puzzled: “I haven’t contacted Producer Shen.”

Ji Qinghe looked down at WeChat.

The first sentence that met his eyes was: “I thought about it tonight, and I think I might not be suitable for dating.”

His brow furrowed deeply, his entire heart seeming to plummet into a bottomless black hole without even making a sound as it fell.

Ming Jue was still waiting for his next instruction. Just as he looked up, he saw his face had turned dark as storm clouds heavy with wind, rain, thunder, and lightning.

He immediately fell silent and quietly, with no sense of presence, took a step backward.

Although he didn’t know what had happened, he had a premonition… Producer Shen might not have a very good night tonight.