In truth, both Liang Yan and Qiao Qi understood that confirming this relationship right now probably wasn’t the wisest timing.

And yet they’d gone ahead and confirmed it anyway — hastily, abruptly.

As for the reason, they probably both understood it too.

— Neither of them knew what was coming next. So all they could do was tie each other, as tightly as possible, into their own web of connection, leaving behind a bond too precious to easily let go of.

It seemed like only this way could they set out with some sense of security, however manufactured.

Liang Yan leaned against Qiao Qi’s closet, watching her pull a long black down jacket out from inside.

The jacket had a hood trimmed with a ring of fur; paired with a mask, it would probably be enough to make her unrecognizable to anyone.

Liang Yan was still wearing his white sweater. Qiao Qi glanced at him sideways. “Go change your clothes.”

Liang Yan didn’t seem to think it mattered, his gaze still fixed on her. “Why? Doesn’t it look good on me?”

“Thanks, it looks great.” Qiao Qi’s face stayed flat. “The second we step outside, we’ll be trending.”

Liang Yan said, “Would that be bad?”

As he spoke, he stepped forward and personally helped Qiao Qi into the jacket, zipped it all the way up, and pulled the hood over her head for good measure.

He didn’t let go right away. Instead, a faint smile playing at his lips, he grabbed both sides of the hood and yanked, hard—

Caught off guard, Qiao Qi stumbled straight into his chest, and Liang Yan took the opportunity to lean down, using the roomy hood as cover, and press his lips to hers.

He bit down gently, watching Qiao Qi’s eyes widen with amusement. “Guess I’ll go change into a black down jacket too, then. Couple’s outfits.”

Qiao Qi, without a shred of mercy, stomped on his foot and told him to get lost.

Liang Yan sucked in a pained breath and called her heartless. Qiao Qi hummed flatly, “Thanks, my heart’s plenty warm.”

“Is that so? I don’t believe it,” Liang Yan said, starting up his shameless act again. “Unless you let me feel it myself?”

Qiao Qi said nothing, only raised her hand, palm open.

Liang Young Master retreated to preserve his life, hands clasped in a mock bow. “Your subject withdraws.”

Qiao Qi let out a soft huff.

Liang Yan turned, smiling, and as he turned, the smile faded from his lips.

His eyes settled back into calm, unruffled stillness.

Behind him, out of his sight, Qiao Qi’s expression wasn’t much lighter either.

She watched Liang Yan’s retreating back, one hand resting gently on her own wrist, palm feeling the faint chill of the bracelet.

She’d chosen the thickest down jacket she had, and yet somehow it still felt like she couldn’t quite warm herself up.

After a long moment, Qiao Qi finally, calmly, looked away.

Never mind.

Take it one step at a time.

Too bad, someone wasn’t about to give them the chance to take things one step at a time.

Liang Yan said couple’s outfits, and he meant it — cap on his head too, he walked out of the hotel hand in hand with Qiao Qi, showing off, utterly unbothered.

Not far from the hotel, some staking-out fan-club admins and fans were camped out. Qiao Qi had meant to circle around them, but Liang Yan insisted on “walking straight into the storm,” pulling Qiao Qi right toward them.

Qiao Qi cursed at him: “Are you out of your mind!”

Liang Yan said, “Let’s go see whether they’re solo fans or ship fans.”

Qiao Qi’s legs weren’t as long as his, so she always trailed half a step behind; she used the angle to her advantage, studying his back.

For some reason, she couldn’t shake the feeling that Liang Yan was stalling too.

Stalling on going to see Liang Xumo.

By this point, Liang Yan had already pulled Qiao Qi close enough to the fans that they could faintly make out the conversation.

“Not staking out anymore, it’s too cold, save me!”

“I’m heading home too, shipping this pair is going to be the death of me!”

Sounded like these two were ship fans.

Their fan identity fully exposed, someone nearby chimed in with a pointed edge: “Shipping recklessly really can be the death of you.”

Whoa.

That one’s a solo fan, then.

Liang Yan, never one to shy away from a bit of drama, lowered his voice. “Definitely one of yours.”

Qiao Qi didn’t want to bother responding.

Even though the two of them right now probably wouldn’t be recognized by their own mothers, Qiao Qi still felt uneasy.

After all, a certain young master’s whole air and bearing wasn’t something clothes alone could hide.

So she said quietly, “Let’s go.”

Liang Yan had had his fun and was about to leave when, suddenly, a loud sound rang out behind them:

“AH—!”

“Holy sh*t!!!”

It was that group of fans.

Liang Yan and Qiao Qi instinctively glanced at each other, both hearts sinking at once.

Just as they were weighing whether to turn around, reveal their true faces, and threaten-slash-bribe them into silence, or take off running right that instant, more conversation drifted over from behind them again.

“Oh my god! Young Master Liang’s sister… huh?”

“I give up! I’ve felt like a mole popping in and out of a melon patch all damn day!”

“Quick quick quick! It’s real! It’s been dug up! There really is a hospitalization record!”

“Oh my god! Young Master Liang cares so much about his sister — with everyone digging into this, is he going to storm off and quit the industry in a rage?”

“Is the big young master finally going home to inherit the family fortune?”

“Huh, I actually heard some gossip before, that Young Master Liang’s family was really against him being in the industry in the first place.”

That last part was true.

Qiao Qi had heard Cheng Yueming mention it before, so her first instinct was to let go of Liang Yan’s hand and reach for her phone.

Opened Weibo.

Sure enough, there was Liang Yan on the trending list.

And there, too, was Liang Xumo’s name.

Compared to the “Liang Yan” tag itself, it was clearly the “Liang Yan’s Sister Is Mentally Ill” tag that was drawing far more attention.

Qiao Qi froze, her thumb hovering, unable to bring itself down onto the screen.

She turned to look at Liang Yan.

The night was thick and dark; he wore a black down jacket, cap pulled low, mask on his face.

Honestly, it wasn’t easy to make out his eyes clearly.

But Qiao Qi could still feel the layers of chill radiating off him.

Before she could look any closer, the phone was taken out of her hand by Liang Yan.

He stood there in the cold wind, silent as some crouching beast.

The cold light of the screen illuminated the only part of him left visible — his eyes.

Afraid he might act rashly, Qiao Qi instinctively reached out and grabbed his hand.

Maybe it was the wind, but his hand was ice cold.

Like a block of ice.

Touching it, Qiao Qi felt an inexplicable ache in her own hand, and her heart ached right along with it.

“Liang Yan…” Her voice was very soft.

Behind them, the fans, caught up in the trending news, had already dissolved into excited chatter, no one paying any attention to the fact that, right there in the dark, stood the very subject of the topic.

Liang Yan didn’t respond right away — he coldly scrolled through the related Weibo posts before switching off the phone.

He didn’t hand the phone back to Qiao Qi. Instead he tucked it into his own pocket, then took her hand and put that into his pocket too, saying flatly, “Let’s go.”

The car was in the underground parking lot; by the time the two of them got in and sat down, nearly five minutes had already passed.

Liang Yan stayed silent the entire time, and the longer it went on, the more unsettled Qiao Qi felt.

She was so focused on watching him that she hadn’t even buckled her seatbelt.

Noticing, Liang Yan leaned over on his own to buckle it for her.

But Qiao Qi took the chance to pull him into a hug instead.

Liang Yan froze, and Qiao Qi’s voice sounded in his ear.

Clearly worried herself, she still forced a steady tone to comfort him. “It’s fine. This has nothing to do with you.”

Liang Yan’s hands went slack for a moment; the seatbelt clicked into place, drawing tight enough to catch Qiao Qi’s breath.

The next second, she found herself pulled into his arms instead.

In the small confines of the car, both of their breaths came heavy.

“I know,” Liang Yan said, his voice low and deep, holding her even tighter. “I know exactly what these people are after.”

“What?” Qiao Qi’s mind was entirely occupied with Liang Yan; she hadn’t even thought about the motives or purpose behind any of this.

Liang Yan slowly let her go, looking into her eyes, brushing the messy strands of hair from her face; once her clean, clear features were revealed, he pressed a kiss to her forehead.

Then he returned to his own seat, started the car, his voice colder now. “If they want to move me from where I stand, they’ll need to earn the right first.”

He was, after all, a top idol who’d weathered storm after storm in the entertainment industry for years. What hadn’t he seen?

Did they think that using Liang Xumo as leverage would be enough to drive him out of the industry?

Ha.

Keep dreaming.

The car sped toward the hospital; once it had quieted down, Qiao Qi finally had the mental space to think things through.

And then she realized Liang Yan was right.

Someone really was trying to come after him.

To everyone on the outside, Liang Yan and Liang Xumo’s relationship looked close and affectionate.

In truth, Liang Xumo’s illness wouldn’t normally be much of a story to chase — except that Liang Xumo happened to be Liang Yan’s sister.

A top idol’s beloved sister falling ill — that made for a huge story.

Fan clubs and marketing accounts on rival sides were bound to seize the chance to get involved.

To begin with, Liang Yan’s father had never been fully on board with his son being in the entertainment industry.

If Liang Xumo were to be dragged into further trouble because of Liang Yan’s public identity, it wasn’t hard to imagine what his father might do.

Perhaps, before, Liang Yan would have pushed back against his father for the sake of his own ideals, or his own freedom.

But if this situation ended up hurting the sister he loved most — would he really stay as indifferent as before?

He wouldn’t.

So he would leave the industry.

Once Liang Yan left the entertainment world, all the resources he currently held would be carved up and redistributed among various parties.

And the one who stood to gain most directly from that would be…

Qiao Qi frowned slightly.

She realized there wasn’t really any single, obvious direct beneficiary.

As for indirect beneficiaries, there were far too many to count.

But an indirect beneficiary would have no real reason to risk offending Liang Yan over such a small sliver of gain.

After all, no matter how you looked at it, Liang Yan was still the legitimate heir of the Liang family, its young master.

So — who was it?

Qiao Qi glanced at Liang Yan, faintly puzzled. The man had long since pushed his cap back for the sake of driving comfortably. The car’s heater was on, and wearing a mask while driving was uncomfortable, so he’d pulled it halfway down, revealing the high bridge of his nose.

This face, which usually carried that ever-present careless smile, was now, in this moment, coated over with a layer of frost.

He really did care about Liang Xumo, in the end, didn’t he?

After all, they had lived together for so many years.

Whatever affection and time he’d invested was, in the end, real.

Qiao Qi suddenly felt a wave of discomfort. She frowned, deliberately pushing the feeling down.

For her, this was probably a matter she wanted to feel uncomfortable about, but shouldn’t.

Relationships could be messy; but in the face of bigger matters, one still had to keep a clear head.

So Qiao Qi suggested, “Why don’t… you deal with the Weibo situation first.”

Just then a red light came on, and Liang Yan hit the brakes, the car rolling to a slow stop.

He turned to look back at her.

His tone was completely earnest. “They think I’d leave for Liang Xumo’s sake, but you and I both know — she doesn’t deserve that.”

“Doesn’t she?”

Qiao Qi looked up at once, meeting Liang Yan’s eyes.

“Don’t worry. As long as you’re in this industry, I’m not going anywhere. Unless…”

Qiao Qi asked, “Unless what?”

“Unless you get pregnant and need to go home to rest up, in which case I’ll take a break with you for ten months.”

“Huh? Ten months doesn’t sound right. There’s postpartum recovery too, right?”

“After postpartum recovery, there’s raising the kid too, right?”

“So how long would that take? People say a kid’s character shows by age three — should we wait until they’re three to go back to work?”

“Round that up and that’s basically four years. Let’s just round it to five for a nice even number.”

“How does that sound?”

“Oh? Would you want a son or a daughter?”

“Honestly, I don’t really mind, but sons are exhausting — raising a boy is rough, then he hits fifteen or sixteen, rebellious phase, skipping school one day, getting in fights the next, and we’ll be chasing after him paying off other people’s medical bills.”

“Finally he grows up, and then we’ve got to buy him a house, a car, get him a wife — what a money pit!”

“So personally, I’d vote for a daughter.”

“Hm? What do you think?”

Qiao Qi: “…Shut up, you.”

How did this young master manage, every single time, to squeeze in absolute nonsense right in the middle of the most tense moments?

And here she’d been worrying herself sick over him.

What a waste of worry that had been.

Author’s note: Young Master Liang: Because you don’t have the necessary equipment, let me handle it — I definitely won’t be wasting anything. Qiao Qi: …?