Even with Qiao Qi’s fan having said that, Liang Yan still hadn’t fully set his mind at ease. He rubbed his chin, an inscrutable look on his face, and flipped through his own Moments feed a few times before, a few seconds later, switching out of Moments and tapping into the crew group chat.
Ming Yan: Afternoon tea’s on me for everyone tomorrow.
Out of a group chat with dozens of actors in it, the first to reply was Qiao Qi.
Cheng Yanyun: Thanks, Teacher Liang~
Cheng Yanyun: [adorable.jpg]
Right after, the other actors all threw in their own stickers one after another, but Liang Yan only had eyes for Qiao Qi’s.
A mysterious tilde, and a sticker that didn’t match her image at all.
Liang Yan: “…”
Not normal.
Definitely not normal.
This was the first time Qiao Qi had ever replied to him in the big group chat — and instantly, too.
So why the sudden attention?
There could only be one reason —
Based on his many years of experience in the industry being subtly courted by all kinds of actresses, Liang Yan was now completely convinced: his family’s ancestral graves really had started smoking with good fortune.
So, the next second, Liang Yan opened his friends list, found Qiao Qi’s WeChat profile, tapped the three dots in the top right corner, went into her permissions settings, and set: don’t let her see my Moments.
Once that whole sequence was done, Liang Yan felt considerably more at ease, and turned to chat with his pinned contact with a lot more confidence.
Liang: Just went and did a check.
Liang: Nothing smoking.
Even if there had been smoke, he’d have gone ahead and done something thoroughly disrespectful anyway — doused that smoke with a bucket of cold water.
And in fact, that’s exactly what he’d just done.
When Qiao Qi received this message, she sharply sensed something was off. She’d originally been about to ask where he’d gone to check, but halfway through typing the message she suddenly caught on to something and quickly grabbed her other phone.
Her heart gave a slight, uneven thump; without realizing it, Qiao Qi swallowed hard, her finger swiping across the screen for a good while before tapping into Liang Yan’s WeChat profile on her main account.
The section that used to display his Moments had gone blank.
She tapped into it — even more blank.
Not “visible for the last three days.”
Not “visible for the last month.”
Not even “visible for the last six months.”
Qiao Qi: “…”
Great.
So the “check” he’d done turned out to be blocking her.
Unexpectedly, though, Qiao Qi wasn’t angry at all — instead, a subtle sense of pride and smugness rose up in her chest… um.
Probably because Liang Yan had just strangled any possibility with the crew’s actresses in the cradle, for her sake?
Caught off guard, the corner of Qiao Qi’s mouth curved upward.
Even though there was no one else in the room, Qiao Qi still deliberately cleared her throat, sat up unnaturally straight, and pressed down the smile threatening to break across her lips.
But the amusement in her eyes gave her away completely.
7: So it’s only on Qiao Qi’s end that nothing’s smoking?
Thinking of Liang Yan’s standing in the industry, the amusement in Qiao Qi’s brows vanished in an instant, replaced by obvious displeasure.
7: Qiao Qi isn’t the only good-looking woman in this world, you know.
Liangou: …?
Liangou: I’m truly impressed.
Liangou: Checking up on me and hyping up your idol at the same time.
Liangou: Are you Qiao Qi’s paid PR army or something?
Liangou: How much does she pay you? I’ll double it!
7: Who’s checking up on you.
7: Don’t spread rumors.
Liangou: Oh really?
Liangou: Then I won’t say anything else.
7: [deadpan-glaring-at-you.jpg]
Liangou: Hahahahahahahahahaha.
Liangou: Nope, actually there was smoke.
Liangou: That smoke drifted slowly up over my head and formed the shape of the number 7.
Liangou: Oh gosh, who could that be, I wonder?
Liangou: Do you know her?
Liangou: Please tell her I’m already 25 this year, three years past the legal marriage age — she’s really running quite late.
7: ………….
7: Actually, isn’t your main job a screenwriter?
Acting’s just your side gig… hiss—
Halfway through typing the message, Qiao Qi suddenly snapped back to her senses, and, gripped by a wave of retrospective fear, deleted it character by character.
…Ah, having a secret really wasn’t a good thing.
Qiao Qi instinctively pressed her lips together, staring at the screen, her finger tapping the phone screen back and forth as she wrestled with herself, until a message popped up in the window.
Liangou: Actually, no, I’m not.
Liangou: But I could be.
Liangou: Want me to switch careers and become a screenwriter for your idol someday? The kind of show that wraps after three episodes.
Qiao Qi: “…”
Ha.
Having a secret really was nice — she got to see certain people’s true colors, completely unobstructed.
She’d really like to see just how much this man disliked Qiao Qi.
And how, later on, he’d swallow every one of these spilled words back down, one by one.
🙂
Author’s Note: This is from the stockpile queue.
My cousin’s in town for a work trip, I need to go have dinner with her.
I’ll post a bit now.
I’ll make it up tomorrow.
(Maybe I’ll add a bit more in the middle of the night)