Back in her room, Qiao Qi casually tossed the medicine aside and headed for the bathroom, undressing along the way. Her long hair, having loosened from being wet, had dried into the shape of a ponytail against her back.

As she pulled off her top, it caught against the wound, and she winced slightly.

Nothing more than that.

The glass door closed, sealing her within a small rectangular space. Warm water streamed down over her shoulders and neck, and steam gradually rose around her.

In a hazy, half-dazed state, Qiao Qi suddenly blinked lightly. She wasn’t sure what had come over her—she frowned tightly, then wiped her face and shook the water from her hands. Without even turning off the showerhead behind her, she walked straight out of the bathroom, bare and barefoot.

She found her phone and went into WeChat to look for Li’ang.

7: What are you doing.

He didn’t reply. Qiao Qi just stood in the living room, waiting. The water on her body evaporated, taking with it what little warmth she had left.

Goosebumps rose unnoticed all over her; the overhead light spilled down, illuminating every inch of her graceful figure.

Light passed through the water droplets, refracting into shimmering colors across her skin.

Not until the water on her body had nearly all dried did Qiao Qi finally press her lips together with an unreadable expression and toss the phone back onto the couch.

—

By the time she finished her shower, she’d lost track of the time. Qiao Qi wasn’t in any hurry to apply the medicine. Instead, she stood in the bathroom leisurely drying her hair, and once it was half-dry, leisurely applied two sheet masks—not once during all this did she touch her phone.

She didn’t even step out of the bathroom.

Only once everything was finished did she stand in front of the mirror, quietly studying herself for a moment, and belatedly realize she’d been avoiding something this whole time.

Avoiding whether Li’ang had replied to her message or not.

It was just one message.

She wasn’t someone who usually avoided things—why today…

Qiao Qi frowned at her reflection in the mirror, and after a few seconds, decisively turned and headed back to the living room.

Her personal phone had accidentally fallen into the crack of the couch, so she first picked up her work phone instead. Her finger accidentally brushed the screen, and it unlocked instantly, a WeChat message popping up.

It was from Liang Yan.

Liang Yan: Open the door.

Timestamp: twenty minutes ago.

That was probably right around when she’d just finished her shower.

Qiao Qi checked the time again and sent back a question mark.

Qiao Qi: ?

The reply came instantly.

Liang Yan: Open the door.

Qiao Qi eyed the door suspiciously, checked the time once more, and made no move to open it.

Qiao Qi: It’s so late—something wrong?

The other side seemed a bit exasperated.

Liang Yan: …

The next moment, a knock came from outside the door, followed by a gentle female voice.

“Hello, Qiao Qi, I’m Liang Yan’s sister.”

It was Liang Xumo.

Qiao Qi immediately set down her phone and walked over to open the door.

The door opened to reveal Liang Xumo, still in the same outfit, though a bit more rumpled and dirty now compared to her elegant, gentle look earlier that evening.

But it still hadn’t dampened her warm, gentle aura.

Their whole family seems to share this kind of innate quality.

“Hello. Something wrong?”

Qiao Qi’s tone was neither warm nor cold. Having just finished showering, her face was bare and fresh; under the light, her features looked bright and almost youthful, her emotions plainly visible in her eyes, giving her a somewhat childlike quality.

Quite different from Cheng Yanyun, dressed in a qipao with heavy makeup on set.

A completely different face for the role.

Liang Xumo curved her lips into a smile. She first glanced sideways down the hallway, then said, “I came to help apply your medicine. I heard my brother accidentally hurt you?”

Qiao Qi startled slightly, and followed Liang Xumo’s gaze to look toward the left.

At the end of the hallway, Liang Yan too was still in his soaked, bedraggled state, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, forearm resting on the hallway railing, a half-smoked cigarette between his lips.

A wisp of smoke drifted from the corner of his mouth, then was scattered by the wind.

The smell of tobacco drifted faintly through the air.

Perhaps because she was staring so intently, it caught Liang Yan’s attention. He turned his head slightly, and even in the dim light, the lines of his profile were striking and eye-catching.

Strands of hair fell in front of his eyes, obscuring the emotion in those peach-blossom eyes.

But within those irises, something like flickering embers of firelight seemed to stir faintly.

Their eyes met for only a few seconds before Liang Yan calmly looked away.

He stubbed out the cigarette in a nearby trash can and turned back into his room.

Beside her, Liang Xumo said, “He’s like that—looks careless, but actually thinks about everything carefully. You didn’t reply to his message, so he didn’t even go shower—he’s been waiting for you this whole time.”

Qiao Qi blinked, and gave a flat “oh.”

For some reason, she’d originally intended to decline Liang Xumo’s offer to help. But after hearing this, she suddenly found herself considering Liang Yan’s feelings instead: if she refused, Liang Yan would probably be anxious the whole time.

Thinking this, she stepped aside and said to Liang Xumo, “Come in.”

Qiao Qi had never learned proper hosting etiquette, nor had she had much opportunity to. After inviting Liang Xumo in, she asked what she’d like to drink.

Liang Xumo sat down at the edge of the couch, back straight, hands resting naturally on her knees—a very proper, well-mannered posture.

Hearing Qiao Qi’s question, she lifted her chin slightly, still with that faint smile. “Plain water is fine.”

Qiao Qi said “okay,” and turned to boil some water.

Liang Xumo had assumed there’d already be water in the room—after all, she was a girl, how could she go without water on hand?

She hadn’t expected Qiao Qi would actually need to boil it now, and immediately stood up. “No need to boil it now—I can see you’ve already showered, let me apply your medicine first, or it might scar if we wait too long.”

“I’m not that delicate.” Even as she said this, Qiao Qi stopped what she was doing with the kettle. She turned and walked over to sit beside Liang Xumo on the couch, beginning to loosen her robe.

Liang Xumo gathered Qiao Qi’s hair to one side, revealing her pale, slender neck; the light overhead made her skin look even smoother.

Liang Xumo said with a smile, “Your skin is so nice, so fair.”

Qiao Qi hummed in response.

Liang Xumo, having gathered from Liang Yan’s descriptions that Qiao Qi wasn’t the warmest personality, hadn’t expected her to be quite this reserved. Worried that talking too much might make Qiao Qi uncomfortable, she fell quiet and carefully began pulling the robe down off Qiao Qi’s shoulder.

As she did, she tilted her head, looking around. “Where’s the medicine?”

It was right in front of Qiao Qi.

Without thinking, Qiao Qi stretched her arm forward to reach for it—but Liang Xumo’s hand was still on her clothing, and the moment she leaned forward, Liang Xumo accidentally pulled the robe half off her shoulder.

“Ah!” Liang Xumo panicked. “S-sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

She fumbled to pull the robe back into place, when her fingertips suddenly brushed across a crescent-moon-shaped scar. The scar was no bigger than a pinky nail, barely noticeable.

It wasn’t the kind of thing that would affect an actress’s career either.

But the moment Liang Xumo saw it, her whole body suddenly went rigid, every sound cutting off, her throat feeling as though a stone had lodged in it, unable to speak a word.

She stared blankly at the scar, until Qiao Qi held the medicine bag directly up over her shoulder, waving it in front of her, and only then did she snap back to her senses.

Her fingers stiffly closed around the bag. Liang Xumo even softened her breathing, watching as Qiao Qi straightened her clothes, the white robe covering that small scar once more.

As if nothing had happened at all.

Only she had seen it wrong.

“It’s fine,” Qiao Qi said.

Liang Xumo’s grip on the bag tightened further, the nail she’d torn earlier tonight in her moment of distress nearly puncturing through the plastic.

“Is it hard to open?” Qiao Qi suddenly turned to ask.

Liang Xumo snapped back to attention, quickly lowering her head to avoid Qiao Qi’s gaze.

Her voice came out a bit unnatural; she coughed twice before steadying herself. “No.”

But the hand opening the medicine bag was trembling.

Qiao Qi caught this out of the corner of her eye as she turned her head back, frowning slightly in confusion. “Are you scared? I can actually apply this myself—”

“It’s fine.” Liang Xumo cut her off, and when she looked up again, she’d returned to her usual gentle expression. She gently tore open the ointment and spread it evenly over Qiao Qi’s shoulder.

Worried her hair might get into the ointment, Liang Xumo stood up. “Do you have a hair tie? Let me put your hair up.”

Qiao Qi slipped the hair tie off her wrist, and Liang Xumo tied her hair up for her. With her hair no longer covering it, the light fell directly on her neck.

Amid the snow-white skin, there was a small speck of red.

Liang Xumo’s gaze lingered briefly on that speck of red, then she straightened up. “There, all done. Don’t put your clothes back on properly yet—let it air out for a bit.”

Qiao Qi said okay, “thank you.”

Liang Xumo smiled. “No problem.”

She turned to go boil water in the kitchenette area. “Girls should drink more hot water. Usually you can boil a pot in the morning and set it aside—by evening it’ll have cooled, so you boil another pot when you want to drink, mix the hot and cold, and it won’t be too hot.”

These were the kinds of habits one had to pick up from childhood. Qiao Qi recalled that as a child, she used to just grab cold water to drink—she’d never had the chance to worry about things like this.

Still, in the face of Liang Xumo’s caring words, she smiled and nodded. “Mm, got it.”

As she spoke, she turned slightly, her hand brushing against the phone wedged in the couch cushions. Qiao Qi pressed her lips together, then pulled it out anyway.

She didn’t try to hide it from Liang Xumo at all, scrolling to her chat with Li’ang. The most recent message was still the one she’d sent him: what are you doing.

He’d been gone for far too long today.

Qiao Qi frowned, displeased.

Liang Xumo noticed these small details and asked casually, with a smile, “Waiting for someone?”

Qiao Qi hummed “mm” without denying it.

“It’s fine, don’t worry, he’s probably just busy,” Liang Xumo said, smiling to comfort her.

Qiao Qi looked up at the sound of her voice, watching Liang Xumo standing not far away.

Liang Xumo really was quite gentle—the kind of gentleness that made people feel no distance at all.

She was a little like a soft white feather.

Qiao Qi stared at her for a while, then said “mm,” “or maybe his phone just died, I’ll wait a bit longer.”

“Okay, but it’s quite late now, so I won’t stay and wait with you.” Before leaving, Liang Xumo didn’t forget to apologize on Liang Yan’s behalf. “Liang Yan lost his composure a bit tonight—don’t hold it against him, he actually feels quite guilty about it.”

“It’s fine, I won’t hold it against him,” Qiao Qi said honestly.

The words came out sounding a bit presumptuous, but Liang Xumo knew she didn’t mean it that way.

“Alright. You two still have more scenes to film together going forward—good luck.” Before turning to leave, Liang Xumo asked, almost offhandedly, “Oh, by the way, your name is really lovely—is that a stage name?”

“No, it’s my real name,” Qiao Qi said. “I’ve always been called Qiao Qi.”

She hadn’t had the awareness to consider changing her name when she first entered the industry, and she’d never really wanted to anyway.

“Oh I see, I see.” Liang Xumo’s eyes flickered slightly, and she said with a smile, “It really is lovely.”

“Thank you.”

The door closed, and the hallway was left with only its faint, dim light, casting an ambiguous glow across the murky, unreadable look in Liang Xumo’s eyes.

After a good while, she lightly clenched her hand, then turned and left.

When she opened the door to Liang Yan’s room, he was still in the shower, the sound of running water echoing inside. Liang Xumo sat off to the side, lost in thought. She’d already arranged for the family driver to pick her up shortly, and by the time Liang Yan finished showering, the car had just arrived at the hotel entrance.

Liang Yan came out without even drying his hair. “I’ll walk you down.”

Liang Xumo stood up. “Dry your hair first before you go out.”

Liang Yan sighed, exasperated. “It’s fine, really.”

Liang Xumo frowned. “How is it fine? If you don’t take care of it now, you’ll regret it with headaches when you’re older.”

“Isn’t dad’s occasional headache from not taking care of himself when he was young?”

“Don’t think just because no one’s watching you out here you can be this careless. If I find out later you’re still not taking care of yourself, I’ll have dad drag you back to the company.”

“Okay, okay, got it, got it.” Liang Yan, afraid his sister would keep nagging, immediately turned to go dry his hair without another word.

Halfway there, he remembered something. “Oh, right, sis, is my phone charged? If not, plug it in for me.”

His phone had died overnight; he’d meant to charge it once he wrapped for the day, but with everything going on, he’d forgotten.

Liang Xumo agreed with a “sure,” and bent down to search the couch, eventually finding two phones. She checked both. “The white one’s dead—I’ve put it on the charger in the bedroom.”

“Okay.”

Given the nature of his work, Liang Yan spent more nights in hotels than at home; he practically had a nominal suite in every film city, and this one was no exception.

Though it was technically a hotel room, the closet was stuffed full of his own clothes, everyday items scattered around just as they would be at home, even the diffuser from his actual house sitting on the nightstand.

Just arranged in complete disarray.

His clothes were a mess too.

Liang Xumo sighed, and before leaving, still couldn’t help tidying up her brother’s room a little. As she was leaving, the phone on the nightstand automatically powered on.

A flood of notifications popped up all at once.

Quite busy, this one.

Liang Xumo didn’t look any further, closed the door, and left.

Just then, Liang Yan finished drying his hair, casually tousling his now-fluffy black hair without much care for how it looked.

Liang Xumo swatted him. “Where’s your idol image?”

Liang Yan curled his lips into a smile, quite full of himself. “A real idol doesn’t need an image to protect.”

He added, tilting his chin up slightly, “I’m exactly the kind of idol who doesn’t need an image.”

Liang Xumo laughed and swatted him again.

Before the two headed out, Liang Yan checked the time, and just as they were about to leave, turned back to his bedroom to grab his phone.

Liang Xumo teased, “What, replying to your girlfriend?”

“Yeah,” Liang Yan said. “She’s been gone so long, not sure if she’s been looking for me.”

“If I don’t respond and she was looking for me, and I don’t show up—she’ll definitely start overthinking it.”

As they stepped into the elevator, Liang Xumo asked, “You haven’t told her what you do for a living?”

At this, Liang Yan looked rather pained, struggling for a long moment before finally forcing out: “She’s a hater of Liang Yan’s.”

Liang Xumo: “…”

Just then the elevator doors opened. Liang Xumo silently reached up and patted the shoulder of her brother, who stood nearly a full head taller than her, and said earnestly, “Good luck.”

Liang Yan watched Liang Xumo get into the car, and only once it had disappeared from view did he finally let out a long breath.

The careless smile that had risen in his eyes gradually faded, replaced instead by a thick, inky layer of night that seemed impossible to dissolve.

The wind blew past; he blinked, then lowered his gaze to his phone, seeing the WeChat notification icon on the message list.

He swiped idly, tapped into WeChat, and saw a message from the person pinned to the top.

He stood there for a moment, then suddenly crouched down, grabbed a nearby twig, and started recording a video.

Liang: Playing with ants.

The other side seemed thoroughly unimpressed.

Liangou’s Sweetheart: Then go ahead and keep playing.

Liangou: 886.

A faint smile spilled into Liang Yan’s eyes.

Liang: Don’t go.

Liang: What are you doing?

Liangou’s Sweetheart: Waiting.

Liang: ?

Liangou’s Sweetheart: Waiting for the medicine to dry.

Liang Yan frowned, tossing the twig aside, no longer in the mood to play with ants.

Liang: What do you mean waiting for medicine to dry?

Liang: What happened to you?

Liangou’s Sweetheart: Nothing.

Liangou’s Sweetheart: Just scraped my skin a little by accident.

Liang: Scraped the skin and you call that “a little”?

Liangou’s Sweetheart: It wasn’t my fault.

Liangou’s Sweetheart: It was my coworker’s.

Liang: Is your coworker blind?

Liang: Or clumsy?

Liang: Why didn’t he scrape his own skin instead?

Liangou’s Sweetheart: …

Liangou’s Sweetheart: He already came and apologized.

Liang: “He”?

Liang: Whose “he”?

Liang: If an apology solved anything, what would we need the police for?

Liang: Why does your company even hire someone like that?

Liang: Stay far away from a useless guy like that from now on.

Having read through these messages carefully, Qiao Qi felt Li’ang made an excellent point.

So she replied earnestly, with just two words.

7: Okay.

Author’s Note: 7: I’ll be very obedient.

Liang the Useless: …

A few minutes late!

Hand out twenty red envelopes as penance!