Qiao Qi and Liang Yan’s story had originally only been fermenting in the ship’s super-topic, but then some marketing account, embellishing things for effect, dragged it over onto their own Weibo, and right after that some “traitor” sent in a few photos of Qiao Qi’s dark expression on set.

The internet exploded instantly.

There were at least seven or eight versions of the Qiao Qi and Liang Yan story floating around, and every single version ended with the two of them breaking up.

Qiao Qi came across this mid-scroll and was furious — they weren’t even together, so what was there to break up?

Liang Yan wasn’t in much better spirits either. He went to WeChat, dark-faced, to find the legal team and PR department, asking them point-blank whether they still wanted next month’s paycheck.

The heads of the legal team and PR department each replied with an “Understood” in turn, then got straight to work.

This time, instead of sending out another cease-and-desist letter or clarification statement, they went straight to court against any marketing account whose repost count exceeded a certain threshold.

Qiao Qi hadn’t originally known about any of this — it only came up when, during the last few scenes that evening, Director Cheng, satisfied with their progress, mercifully gave everyone a short break and mentioned it in passing.

Qiao Qi froze at the words and instinctively turned to look at Liang Yan.

Liang Yan wasn’t even trying to hide it — he’d been like this ever since walking out of the makeup room.

— Not bothering her, not interfering with her, but also never once letting his gaze leave her face.

Utterly pitiful.

Everyone on set who saw it sighed the same thing: “So even Young Master Liang has days like this.”

Though admittedly, most of it was just people enjoying the drama.

In truth, Qiao Qi hadn’t expected Liang Yan to go to such lengths over all this — she genuinely couldn’t quite figure out what was going on in this man’s head.

On one hand, he clearly still cared about her just as much as before; on the other, he was carefully drawing a line between them.

This kind of behavior was just… not like him.

Yes, really not like him at all.

Qiao Qi had tried to analyze the reasons, tried to think it through, but hadn’t managed to catch the actual key to it.

She didn’t believe Liang Yan would choose to distance himself just because her life was “messy.”

His distance felt, if anything, more like another kind of protection.

But what was he protecting, exactly.

Qiao Qi had no idea.

Thinking this over, she withdrew her gaze with a touch of disappointment, pretending she knew nothing and going back to her script.

There was a scene that required Liang Yan to text Qiao Qi an SOS signal. At first neither of them thought anything of it, but once filming officially started, the camera zoomed in on a close-up of Liang Yan’s phone.

【SOS】

The next second, the message popped up with a red exclamation mark.

Everyone in front of the camera froze, then realized.

Oh. He’d been blocked.

Well. Solid proof added to the “cast conflict” pile.

Liang Yan’s response to this: “…”

Silence, as tacit confirmation.

Qiao Qi’s response to this: quietly unblocked Liang Yan from her contacts.

While she was at it, she also pulled his other two accounts out of the blacklist on her second phone.

As for everything else — playing dumb.

No response given.

Qiao Qi had thought she was already a master at playing dumb, but it turned out the real champion lay elsewhere.

Liangou: Whoa!

Liangou: You finally unblocked me, waaah!

Liangou: We haven’t talked in so long, don’t you miss me at all!

Qiao Qi: “…?”

What did that mean?

Liangou: Ugh!

Liangou: New job’s brutal.

Liangou: Are you still on a business trip?

Liangou: Tough times, tough times!

Qiao Qi: “…”

Was there something wrong with this man?

What did he mean by this?

Was he just pretending none of it had ever happened?

Yesterday all water under the bridge?

Fine.

Let’s see what kind of nonsense he could stir up then.

7: Yeah.

7: On a business trip.

7: Ran into an extremely difficult partner to work with.

7: Been thinking about quitting every single day.

Liangou: …That bad?

Liangou: Worse than Liang Yan?

7: About the same, honestly 🙂

Liangou: Maybe the guy’s just in a bad mood.

Qiao Qi paused, and suddenly seemed to grasp what this whole charade of Liang Yan’s was for.

7: Why would he be in a bad mood?

7: I’m the one in a bad mood.

7: I’m the one who should be in a bad mood.

Liangou: Look at you, getting worked up again.

7: I am not.

Liangou: Fine, you’re not.

Liangou: It’s the other party overthinking things.

7: What’s there for a grown man to overthink.

7: All that sentimentality — did he steal the female lead’s script or something?

Liangou: Probably not?

Liangou: Maybe he’s afraid of affecting you.

So that was it after all.

Qiao Qi stared at her phone screen for a long while, and only got up once the screen went dark.

She walked straight to the door, opened it, and went directly across the hall.

Knocked.

What nonsense was this.

They’d finally worked their way from strangers-online to something more-than-colleagues-less-than-lovers, and now he wanted to wipe the slate clean and go back to square one?

There was no such good deal in this world!

So Qiao Qi didn’t think twice before kicking the door across the hall, giving him no room to hesitate.

“Count of three. If you don’t open the door, you’ll never need to open it for me again.

“One—”

The words had barely left her mouth when the door opened.

Caught her off guard, how fast it opened.

Qiao Qi even froze for a second.

Hm?

Only at one?

Wasn’t he usually supposed to hold out until at least two point five?

She’d figured a fussy piece of work like Liang Yan would at least make it to two point eight.

Liang Yan had clearly opened the door in a rush — he wasn’t even wearing shoes, just a gray bathrobe thrown over him, his hair a mess, but his eyes perfectly clear.

Looking at Qiao Qi, his voice came out low and hoarse. “What.”

Qiao Qi stepped forward.

Liang Yan froze.

Qiao Qi actually couldn’t quite meet his eyes at the same level, especially at this close distance — she tilted her head up slightly, her tone certain, each word deliberate: “I’m not afraid.”

Liang Yan’s expression froze for another instant.

The more shocked, the more at a loss he looked — or whatever other emotion was surging through him — the more Qiao Qi felt that this man was real.

He was no longer the idol standing high above everyone, nor the young master who was effortlessly composed no matter where he went.

He was a living, breathing person, flesh and blood, with his own pride, and his own moments of defeat.

In that very instant, all the confusion, the hurt, even the suffocating resentment from before, dissolved away completely.

In this uncertain, shifting relationship of theirs, it had truly always been Liang Yan working hard to move things forward. Before they’d acknowledged each other, he’d given her every possible way out, never once tried to test or trap her. After they’d acknowledged each other, he’d looked after her feelings, and the moment he sensed she wasn’t steady enough yet, he’d matched his pace to hers, step by step.

Now, it was her turn to take the last step.

Just as she’d been thinking, she stepped gently forward, half her foot nearly crossing into Liang Yan’s room.

The door stood wide open, in a hallway where anyone might pass by at any moment, and Qiao Qi said, openly and without reservation: “I’m not afraid of being affected by you.”

Liang Yan said nothing, but something in his eyes was slowly, inch by inch, brightening.

It was the most singular sight Qiao Qi had ever seen.

Like the faintest spark in the darkness, and simply because of one sentence of hers, it flared up, spreading wildly in every direction.

A single spark could set the whole plain ablaze.

Let alone Liang Yan’s already fragile self-restraint.

A vein stood out faintly at his temple, and when he spoke his voice was even lower, hoarser.

“Do you know what happened.”

Qiao Qi said, “Did you lie to me?”

Liang Yan denied it urgently. “I didn’t.”

“Then will you lie to me in the future?” Qiao Qi asked again.

“I won’t.” Liang Yan said it with certainty.

Qiao Qi smiled. “Then what does what happened even matter?”

“Liang Yan, is it me you don’t trust, or yourself?”

Liang Yan looked at Qiao Qi, and finally lowered his head. He bent at the waist and pulled Qiao Qi tightly into his arms.

Qiao Qi was forced to tilt her head back.

The man buried his face in the crook of her shoulder, his breath like a flame.

And yet he seemed, at the same time, like some fragile little creature, apologizing under his breath: “I’m sorry.”

Qiao Qi rose onto her toes, working to hold her fussy, fragile little princess of a boyfriend in her arms, patting his back gently, the way one might soothe a giant pet.

“If your reason for pulling away from me actually holds up, I can tell you it’s fine.”

“I don’t know,” Liang Yan said.

Because he himself wasn’t certain whether Liang Xumo had actually done anything to hurt Maiya.

Qiao Qi found it almost funny. “I’m clearly the one who’s not doing so well here, so why are you the one acting like the wronged party?”

She’d wanted to say this for a while now.

At the words, Liang Yan startled, lifting his head from the soft crook of her shoulder.

He couldn’t bring himself to let her go, his arms still wrapped tightly around her waist.

The door had long since been kicked shut by Liang Yan.

His gaze now rested unabashedly on Qiao Qi’s face; after a long moment he lowered his eyes and said, “Because I was afraid it would make things worse for you.”

“What do you mean?” Qiao Qi asked.

Liang Yan was silent for a good while.

Just then his phone rang, and both Qiao Qi and Liang Yan turned to look at it.

Seeing that Liang Yan didn’t seem to want to answer, Qiao Qi asked, “Not picking up?”

Liang Yan said quietly, “Let me see who it is.”

It was Yu Min.

Liang Yan’s hand tightened almost imperceptibly around the phone. Qiao Qi didn’t notice this small detail — she was just puzzled as to why he wasn’t answering.

She walked over and glanced at the caller ID. “Auntie Yu?”

Liang Yan hummed, and picked up the next second.

Yu Min never wasted words, getting straight to the point: “If you have time now, come now.”

“I’d suggest you not tell Qiao Qi.”

The room was quiet enough that Qiao Qi heard this last sentence clearly.

Qiao Qi froze, not understanding what there could possibly be that she wasn’t allowed to know.

A private matter?

But the next second, her hand was taken.

Qiao Qi looked down and saw it was Liang Yan holding her hand.

She said nothing, only glanced at him.

Liang Yan clearly noticed, but didn’t turn to respond to her — instead he said to Yu Min, “I’ll bring her with me.”

Yu Min was silent for a moment. “That’s your decision to make.”

The call ended, and Qiao Qi was still watching Liang Yan.

Only then did Liang Yan look back at her. He no longer held anything back, and told her everything in one breath.

“It’s about Maiya. She… before, Liang Xumo had seen her.”

Qiao Qi froze, not quite understanding.

What did Liang Xumo having seen Maiya have to do with what happened to Maiya?

Unless…

Qiao Qi’s pupils tightened.

But, unexpectedly, she didn’t pull her hand away from Liang Yan.

Instead she gripped it even tighter.

As if Liang Yan were the only piece of driftwood in her vast, endless sea.

“Wh— what do you mean…”

Liang Yan gripped her hand back just as tightly, as if this were the only way he knew to comfort her.

“I…” Liang Yan said, with difficulty, “I don’t know either.”

“I’m only guessing.”

Liang Yan continued, “If it’s really true… I’m sorry—”

Qiao Qi cut him off coldly. “Sorry for what?”

Liang Yan froze.

Qiao Qi pressed again: “Sorry for what?”

Liang Yan opened his mouth. “I…”

Sorry for what.

Sorry for not having recognized Liang Xumo’s true nature sooner?

Or sorry for not having taken Qiao Qi away from Mingtian back then?

Or perhaps, sorry, that he shouldn’t have thrown a fit as a child demanding a little sister.

If they were to trace it all the way back, how far back into this tangled mess would they have to go.

And the root cause of the wrong — how could that possibly land on Liang Yan’s shoulders.

Qiao Qi had known, ever since she was old enough to understand things, that she was destined to be alone in this world, and that Liang Yan was the one stroke of great fortune amid all her misfortune.

She had always kept a clear head, and, more than most people, always known right from wrong.

She had always been the “victim,” so she understood better than anyone that Liang Yan was a victim too.

Whatever Liang Yan might or might not owe anyone else, he had never once owed her anything.

So she said: “Liang Yan, it’s her who owes us.”

Author’s note: Qiao Qi — a girl who might get tangled up over matters of the heart, but will never lose her sense of balance over anything else.