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Song Zhi raised her hand to type a sentence: Is there anything you can’t say over the phone?
She thought for a moment, then deleted it character by character, and replied with a simple “Okay”.
Tomorrow afternoon seemed to be free.
He Hanyang had been staring at his phone until he saw the word “Okay” appear in the chat box, and the furrow in his brow gradually relaxed.
He re-read the word several times.
Liu Pin curiously poked his head over: “What are you looking at? So happy?”
He Hanyang locked his phone and said blandly: “Nothing.”
Liu Pin and a few others around exchanged glances, their smiles ambiguous: “Oh, looks like our Teacher V’s spring has finally arrived.”
They had been teammates for two years, training and competing together, so they knew each other very well.
He Hanyang had been so ascetic these years that he was too lazy to even masturbate to porn.
It wasn’t that he wasn’t interested in women, but rather that he had high standards and wasn’t impressed by those large-breasted internet personalities.
He had, however, watched Song Zhi’s off-key MV hundreds of times, repeatedly.
Liu Pin leaned in suggestively: “Honestly, tell your brother, you’ve watched Song Zhi’s MV so many times, can you honestly say you never got hard even once?”
Boys often talked about such topics when together, but He Hanyang never participated.
Strictly speaking, he rarely participated in many of their activities.
Being too lazy to talk was one reason, and not being interested was another.
In the prime of his youth, facing someone he liked, how could he not feel anything?
But He Hanyang always felt that it was a blasphemy towards Song Zhi.
Every time he thought of her, and after performing a certain action to satisfy his physiological desires, he would fall into long periods of self-reproach.
She was like a fairy living in the heavens, untainted by worldly dust.
He Hanyang desperately hid his feelings deep inside.
He knew his place; he knew he wasn’t good enough for her.
Just thinking about it felt like a luxury.
But... he still wanted to try.
What if? What if she gave him this chance?
Even if it was a one in a billion chance, he wanted to try.
The team had gathered today, a sort of farewell for him.
It was the true decision-makers among the higher-ups who wanted to remove him. Liu Pin and the others were reluctant but knew they couldn’t contend with capital.
He refilled He Hanyang’s glass with wine: “It’s okay, if the team doesn’t want you, we do. Let’s meet often in the future.”
He Hanyang nodded, clinked glasses with them, and tilted his head back, downing the drink.
Liu Pin wasn’t good with alcohol. After a few drinks, he was swaying, putting his arm around He Hanyang’s shoulder, only for He Hanyang to disdainfully remove it several times.
He could only turn to embrace the wine bottle: “Before, you’d throw smoke to help us. Next time, you might throw smoke to loot our bodies.”
Teammates turned rivals. Having spent days and nights together, the few of them understood He Hanyang’s strength better than anyone.
On Weibo, there was a fierce debate about who was the best in AOI.
No matter how intensely they argued, even the people who were being defended felt that He Hanyang was the most formidable.
SOLOing against him was hopeless.
“From now on, it might be even harder to see you,” Liu Pin was an emotional person. When he reached the emotional part, he even covered his face and cried.
He Hanyang was a person who disliked trouble too much.
Because he disliked trouble, he didn’t even bother making friends.
Spending time to maintain those dispensable relationships felt unnecessary to him.
He Hanyang patted his shoulder: “Don’t cry, someone’s watching.”
Liu Pin immediately wiped away his tears and sat up straight.
...
After finishing their drinks, they planned to go for a second round. He Hanyang glanced at the time on his watch and refused: “It’s late. Go back and rest.”
He picked up his coat, stood up, and pushed open the door to leave.
He left decisively, without a hint of lingering attachment.
________________________________________
After the shoot, Song Zhi removed her makeup.
To match the theme, her makeup today was a bit thick, even using theatrical greasepaint. Her face felt like it was wrapped in cling film.
It wasn’t breathable and was very uncomfortable.
Xiao Xu bought her a hot Americano and waited for her by the car door.
She yawned as she walked over, took the Americano from his hand, and casually asked: “I heard Sister Wanyue say you’re going back home for a blind date tomorrow?”
Xiao Xu’s face instantly flushed red. He muttered softly: “I clearly told Sister Wanyue not to tell anyone.”
Song Zhi frowned in dissatisfaction: “What, she can know, but I can’t?”
Xiao Xu quickly shook his head: “You can.”
“Then why did you only tell her?”
“I needed her to approve my leave.”
“Am I not your boss?”
This endless barrage of questions left Xiao Xu breathless. He simply pretended to be mute and said nothing more.
The little fellow was amusing to tease. How long had it been, and he was already blushing and silent?
Song Zhi didn’t continue to make things difficult for him. She sipped her coffee slowly, her gaze fixed on the car window.
The weather was turning cooler recently; winter would arrive soon.
Old people often said that winter was the season of farewells.
It was rush hour, and traffic was a bit congested. The car moved in fits and starts, and the coffee in her hand had grown cold.
Song Zhi yawned unenthusiastically, put on her eye mask, rested her head against the seat, and fell asleep.
Song Luo had already started taking over company affairs, constantly busy and rarely seen.
She had explained her overnight absence yesterday over the phone.
She casually made up a lie and managed to deceive him.
If he knew she had spent the entire night with Jiang Yanzhou, he would probably go after him.
Just thinking about it felt terrifying.
She didn’t know how long she had slept. When Xiao Xu woke her up, it was already dark.
She took off her eye mask, said goodnight to them as usual, and then opened the car door to get out.
Uncertain if Song Luo was home, she decided to get something to eat first.
Song Zhi changed direction and went to the convenience store across the road.
The oden here was good. She casually picked a few items and walked outside, carrying a disposable paper bowl.
It was dark, and no one recognized her.
She speared a fishball with a bamboo skewer, took a bite, and her delicate brows furrowed together from the heat.
A bottle of water appeared in front of her.
Song Zhi looked up in confusion. Jiang Yanzhou sat down in front of her, his long legs, encased in black trousers, casually crossed.
“...Why are you here?”
“I was thinking of you,” he smiled gently, “so I came.”
Perhaps it was a lingering effect of his past coldness, but Song Zhi always felt that his gentleness was an illusion.
She looked at him suspiciously, then at the bottle of water: “You didn’t poison the water, did you?”
Jiang Yanzhou unscrewed the bottle of water on the table, took a sip, and then handed it to her: “I tested it. No poison.”
Only then did Song Zhi confidently take it and drink.
It was halfway through when she realized something was amiss.
Jiang Yanzhou still wore that gentle smile on his face.
Thinking about how they had already done that last night, Jiang Yanzhou probably wouldn’t be so bored as to play such childish indirect kissing games.
She confidently put down the water bottle and continued to eat the remaining fishballs.
By the third one, she felt a bit full.
She had still overestimated her appetite.
But throwing it away felt wasteful. To make full use of it, she pushed the bowl towards Jiang Yanzhou: “You eat it.”
As soon as she spoke, she remembered that Jiang Yanzhou never ate other people’s leftovers.
She was about to retract her words, but before her hand could even retrieve the bowl, he took the chopsticks she had used and unhurriedly finished the oden in the bowl.
Handsome people, even when eating, are particularly pleasing to the eye.
Song Zhi had to admit, she was indeed a looks-obsessed person.
Jiang Yanzhou’s face was simply too striking; just one glance made it hard to forget.
No wonder those younger girls secretly held affection for him.
After he finished eating, Song Zhi asked him: “How was it?”
He put down his chopsticks, took a tissue to wipe his mouth, and commented succinctly: “A little spicy.”
Song Zhi suppressed a laugh.
Jiang Yanzhou couldn’t handle spicy food.
This level was already bordering on unbearable for him.
She got up and went inside, buying him a bottle of water: “If you can’t eat it, then don’t eat it. No one’s forcing you. Your lips are all red.”
She handed him the water, but Jiang Yanzhou didn’t take it: “That bottle isn’t finished.”
Song Zhi said: “I drank from that bottle.”
He retorted, unashamed: “I drank from it too.”
...Never mind.
Song Zhi could only hand him the half-finished bottle of water in front of her: “Take your time drinking. I’m going back now.”
There weren’t many people at this hour. Song Zhi glanced at the time on her phone, wondering whether to call Song Luo.
The sound of footsteps behind her consistently kept a not-too-close, not-too-far distance.
Song Zhi finally stopped and turned to look at him.
Jiang Yanzhou also stopped. The scattered light from the streetlamp spread across his eyes, like an entire gentle galaxy drowned within them.
And Song Zhi became the brightest star within it.
She had known Jiang Yanzhou for many years, from her third year of junior high school until now.
She used to think that the name “Yanzhou” didn’t quite suit him.
Because he was the least talkative person she had ever met.
Indifferent and cold-blooded.
He had no particular aspirations, no specific person he wanted to become; his life itself was without purpose.
Song Zhi particularly hated his lack of romance. He didn’t notice her newly bought slip dress, nor her small face waiting for praise.
All he saw in his eyes was a body that could relieve his desires.
Song Zhi had tried, tried to adapt herself.
But in the end, she still gave up.
If she wasn’t happy, why should they stay together?
But after they broke up, he seemed to have forced himself to change.
He tried hard to cater to her preferences, breaking himself down and reshaping himself into the person she liked.
“Zhizhi,” he held her, his voice soft and lingering, “goodnight.”
The roar of passing engines and the laughter and chatter of passersby—it was the liveliest scene, yet Song Zhi suddenly felt as if everything had stopped.
Only Jiang Yanzhou’s words remained in her ears: “Zhizhi, goodnight.”
He held her for a long time, time slowly slipping away.
Song Zhi gradually came back to her senses. She placed her elbow on his chest and lightly pushed him: “Let go. If someone takes a picture, I’ll be on the hot search again.”
Although he didn’t understand the entertainment industry, after what happened a few days ago, he knew that appearing on the hot search in that manner wasn’t good for Song Zhi.
So he obediently released her.
But he still looked at her reluctantly.
Even though she was standing right in front of him, he still missed her terribly.
That surging emotion in his chest made his breathing somewhat ragged.
Song Zhi said: “Goodnight.”
Then she turned and left.
Jiang Yanzhou didn’t have a strong chance of winning her back.
She accepted his kindness but was slow to give him a response.
She walked into every gentle trap he set, only to pull away the next second without a hint of reluctance.
As if she only saw him as a mere pastime.
Jiang Yanzhou watched her retreating figure, his eyelids slightly lowered.
He silently pulled at the corners of his lips, his smile a little bitter.
As long as she didn’t resist him, that was enough. He had all the time in the world to play this game with her.
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