The martial arts instructor accompanied Qiao Qi through a set of action choreography — from throwing punches, to raising legs, to drawing a gun — the whole sequence requiring her full, unbroken focus. Qiao Qi practiced it over and over, and because her fist form wasn’t quite right, her wrist ached several times to the point she could barely lift it.

Director Cheng, sharp-eyed, noticed and had Cheng Yueming, who’d been standing nearby with her phone, grinning ear to ear, go fetch some medicine from the pharmacy.

Normally, if her father asked her to run errands like this, Cheng Yueming would surely complain — but today, unusually, she immediately stood up from her lounge chair and gave her father a proper bow. “Sure thing, Daddy.”

Cheng Yuzhi’s face read, “Have you taken the wrong medicine or something?”

Cheng Yueming paid him no mind, gave a knowing little smile, and dashed off, phone in hand.

Just then, Cheng Yuzhi turned and noticed the young master lying nearby, also staring meaningfully at his phone.

“You young people these days, all you do is stare at your phones all day — what’s even so interesting to look at?” Cheng Yuzhi said, glancing at Liang Yan with disdain.

Hearing this, Liang Yan set his phone down on his own stomach, arms pillowed behind his head, and looked up at Director Cheng, replying with a cryptic air: “You wouldn’t understand.”

Cheng Yuzhi couldn’t bring himself to hit his own daughter, but who said he couldn’t hit this brat? Hearing that, he immediately smacked Liang Yan’s thigh.

The attack came without warning, and Liang Yan instinctively curled up, sending his phone tumbling to the ground, unguarded.

Face up.

The phone’s lock screen lit up.

Cheng Yuzhi narrowed his eyes and confirmed the lock screen showed a woman.

A woman in a green plaid dress, very fair-skinned.

Though her face wasn’t visible, from the straight collarbones and narrow, level shoulders, you could tell this woman had a great figure.

“You little punk, you got yourself a girlfriend?”

Liang Yan agreed without even thinking about it, reaching out to pick the phone up off the ground.

The set was always busy and messy, and the moment the phone hit the ground it picked up a layer of dust. He blew on the screen, then grabbed a tissue to wipe it clean.

Cheng Yuzhi, cigarette between his lips, teased deliberately, “Are you wiping the phone, or wiping the person?”

Liang Yan paused, looked up at Cheng Yuzhi, and shot back with a lazy air, “Are you flirting with me?”

Cheng Yuzhi, without a second thought, swung another hand at him — this time Liang Yan dodged quickly, lips curling as he nimbly slipped off the lounge chair, but, overconfident in his own success, ended up crashing straight into Qiao Qi, who had just been freed by the martial arts instructor.

Skinny as Liang Yan was, he still had a frame to him, and with the deliberate exercise he put into keeping fit, a real collision with him was enough to leave someone aching for a while.

Qiao Qi, already exhausted and worn out, was nearly knocked out cold by the impact.

She let out a hiss; her lips, tinted from lipstick, went a little pale, and a few beads of sweat beaded faintly at her temple.

Liang Yan hadn’t noticed at first, and casually tossed out a “sorry about that,” then turned and saw Qiao Qi’s expression was off, and his smile faded.

“What’s wrong? Not feeling well?”

Ever since learning Liang Yan was Li’ang, Qiao Qi had, without quite meaning to, started letting a bit of the small temper she usually reserved for people close to her show around Liang Yan. It wasn’t deliberate — she just occasionally couldn’t help herself whenever she looked at that face of his.

Right now was no exception; she was practically in agony, and he’d bumped into her and only tossed off a light “sorry.” A huge wave of grievance instantly surged up in her, and without even acknowledging him, she walked straight toward her own chair.

Liang Yan, thrown off by her cold attitude, followed instinctively, and it wasn’t until Qiao Qi lay down slowly on her chair that he vaguely started to catch on. “Ah… you… ah…”

No need to spell it out.

They were both adults; some things didn’t need saying to be understood.

Qiao Qi gave a low “mm,” closed her eyes, and casually lifted her arm to rest over her eyes, blocking out the light.

As she raised her arm, her slender, fair forearm slipped out from her loose sleeve.

A thin sheen of sweat covered it.

Caught in the light, it looked a little dazzling.

Liang Yan had originally wanted to lecture this junior colleague on proper etiquette — snapping at a senior over some minor disagreement, what kind of behavior was that — but seeing her lying there now like a fragile leaf, he suddenly wasn’t sure whether to stay or go.

It felt oddly awkward.

After a moment’s silence, he ran an unnatural hand through his hair and, feigning nonchalance, asked, “Where’s your water bottle, I’ll go get you some hot water.”

Qiao Qi didn’t react.

Liang Yan gave a light “tsk,” his own temper flaring up too, and poked at Qiao Qi’s hand, “I’m talking to you.”

Qiao Qi had makeup on, so she couldn’t actually press her arm flush against her eyes — she’d only lifted it to block the light a little.

Poked by Liang Yan, her arm shifted, and the light fell unobstructed onto her eyelids; she immediately frowned and turned her face away.

Liang Yan: “…”

Before Qiao Qi opened her eyes again, he turned and walked off.

Qiao Qi only opened her eyes after a good while, and unexpectedly found Liang Yan gone; her brows, which had relaxed slightly, furrowed again.

Just then, Cheng Yueming came jogging over from a distance, holding out a tube of ointment. “Put some of this on your wrist in a bit.”

Qiao Qi paused, surprised.

Cheng Yueming smiled and pointed behind her, at Director Cheng; Qiao Qi turned and, through a haze of cigarette smoke, met Director Cheng’s eyes.

Perhaps because her body wasn’t feeling well and her emotions had grown a bit fragile because of it, the stubbornness she’d been holding onto all day suddenly crumbled at this small bit of warmth.

Her eyes stung with welling tears; she reached out and took the ointment, gripping it tightly. “Thank you both.”

Cheng Yueming waved it off, said it was nothing, and quickly ran back to her own seat to keep playing on her phone.

Cheng Yuzhi asked why she was always on her phone, why couldn’t she learn from Qiao Qi. Cheng Yueming blurted out, “Qiao Qi’s even worse than me about her phone, okay? She— huh? Qiao Qi, why haven’t you been glued to your phone the past couple days like you usually are?”

Qiao Qi paused, thinking back over her own state these past two days… it did seem true that she hadn’t been checking her phone as often as before.

In the past, even when she wasn’t chatting with Li’ang, she’d still glance at her phone every now and then, checking whether he’d replied.

Or scroll back through old chat logs.

Now, it seemed… she’d spent all that time watching Liang Yan instead.

Qiao Qi froze for a moment, and then, uncontrollably, felt heat rise in her face, her ears reddening, the color spreading down her slender, fair neck. Her voice came out a little faint as she said “ah,” then, quite flatly, looked away and said, “Been a little busy lately.”

Cheng Yueming didn’t think much of it — after all, with the wrap approaching, things really were busy. “One more busy week and it’ll all be over.”

Reminded by that line, Qiao Qi suddenly realized: oh, wrap was coming soon.

Which meant she and Liang Yan would soon go their separate ways.

Aside from some necessary appearances and interviews, given the difference in status between her and Liang Yan in the industry, the chances of them appearing at the same events afterward would be slim.

Her mood suddenly, uncontrollably, sank. Qiao Qi had rarely experienced this kind of sharp emotional swing before, and especially not this suddenly — she froze for a moment, dazed, at a loss for what to do.

“Qiao Qi?” Cheng Yueming noticed Qiao Qi had zoned out and waved a hand at her.

Qiao Qi blinked, coming back to herself belatedly, and, expression unchanged, lay back down on her chair. “I’ll nap a bit.”

She said she’d nap, but really her mind was full — Li’ang from her phone and Liang Yan from the crew felt like two naturally opposing forces, endlessly pulling at every one of Qiao Qi’s senses.

The dull ache in her lower abdomen grew more pronounced; Qiao Qi, irritated, was about to look for something to cover her face with when she suddenly sensed a small patch of shadow fall over her head.

Before she could even open her eyes, she felt a light gust of air brush past her ear.

“Left the cup beside you.” It was Liang Yan, his voice low, carrying a faint, awkward edge, and then Qiao Qi felt a bit of extra weight settle on her stomach.

She opened her eyes and saw Liang Yan bent over her, placing something indistinct onto her belly.

Following it with her gaze, she saw it was an oddly-shaped hot water bag.

“Borrowed it from Xiaoyu, remember to return it once you’re done.” Liang Yan, half-bent over her, let his lashes sweep across the well-shaped curve beneath his eyes as he lowered his gaze.

Even without deliberately trying to seduce anyone, his eyes were still magnetic — but it was when he lifted his lids to reveal his irises that the watery glint in them could effortlessly pull someone in.

Qiao Qi found herself pulled in exactly like that, staring straight at him; the two forces that had been tugging at her mind suddenly, seamlessly, settled into peace with each other.

She blinked, her lashes flickering briefly to hide the sudden gleam that had flashed through her eyes, then, as if nothing had happened, quietly shifted her gaze away from Liang Yan, her hand resting on the hot water bag on her stomach. “Oh,” she said.

The hot water bag was made of rubber, and once soaked through with hot water it had gone soft; her palm pressed against it, and warmth spread eagerly from her hand to every corner of her body.

Somewhere in her chest, too, a corner slowly softened.

In a corner no one could see, the edge of Qiao Qi’s mouth quietly curved upward.

Rare as it was for Liang Yan and Qiao Qi to get along peacefully like a normal pair of coworkers for even a little while, he straightened up, looking down, his gaze settling on Qiao Qi’s face.

—At that moment Qiao Qi was still lying on the lounge chair; since he blocked half the light, her face was half pale and luminous, half more saturated in color.

But this contrast in shading didn’t give her a two-toned, mismatched look — instead it produced a comfortable, harmonious effect, entirely without any sharp edges.

Liang Yan narrowed his eyes slightly, suddenly finding that Qiao Qi was actually quite pleasant to look at. Though her features were bold and striking, perhaps because her eyes were dark and bright and always calm, unruffled, her whole face carried none of that garish quality it might otherwise have had.

As if he were only just now truly getting to know Qiao Qi — even with the wrap so close at hand, it didn’t stop his mood from turning subtly, pleasantly lighter.

He raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Is this how you thank a senior colleague? So rude.”

Qiao Qi silently grabbed the sunblock jacket beside her and draped it over her own face.

Liang Yan, in disbelief, looked over at Director Cheng. “Director, is this really the moral character of the actor you personally cast?”

Cheng Yuzhi, unbothered, said, “You’re one I personally cast too.”

Liang Yan: “…The world’s gone to the dogs, people have lost all sense of decency. I see through the both of you now.”

—

That evening, to ease everyone’s tension, Cheng Yuzhi paid out of pocket to order barbecue and crawfish for everyone, and quite a few people posted about it on Weibo and their social media.

Qiao Qi couldn’t handle that kind of food; she cradled a bowl of congee, sipping it in small mouthfuls, scrolling through her phone as she ate. When she scrolled to a Weibo post Liang Yan had made two minutes earlier, she paused, then quite calmly gave it a like.

When his phone chimed with a Moments notification, Liang Yan glanced at it without thinking much of it; only that night, back at the hotel, sorting through a pile of notifications, did he find Qiao Qi’s avatar among them.

He froze, and suddenly realized something: Qiao Qi had never once liked one of his posts before. The two of them, though they’d added each other on WeChat, had always coldly lain dormant in each other’s friends list like a couple of corpses.

Why had she suddenly liked one now?

Liang Yan thought about it, and a memory flashed before his eyes — a few days ago, leaving the KTV, Qiao Qi holding the car keys, smiling at him with a look of gentle warmth, saying: “I’ll drive, Teacher Liang.”

At the time he’d only found it a little odd; now he suddenly realized something far more serious.

Surely he hadn’t, out of a fit of overflowing kindness, attracted himself some unwanted romantic trouble?

Mulling it over, he chose to message that “biggest fan” of Qiao Qi’s he’d pinned to the top of his chat list.

Liang: Hello.

Liang: Doing a quick interview.

Liang: How likely do you think it is that your idol has fallen for Liang Yan?

A few seconds later, the other side replied.

Liangou’s Baby: Have Liang Yan’s ancestors’ graves started smoking with good fortune or something?

Liang Yan: “…”

Nope.

Thanks.

Clear-headed again.

Author’s Note: 7: Bad romance?