Watching Song Cheng press his lips together slowly, Qin Wunian found himself caught between moving forward or stepping back, standing or sitting. Ever since Song Cheng returned, he often felt he was in the wrong, yet when asked what exactly he had done wrong, he couldn’t say—because he hadn’t.
Back then, things had ended badly. Now, his reaction was normal. Song Cheng, on the other hand, looked entirely unfazed, as if four years had smoothed over every bump between them.
And in a way, that was true. For Song Cheng, four years was a long time. Perhaps just a month or two after their breakup, he had already moved on. From his perspective, he had only lost a backup partner, a casual fling—he regretted it, sure, but there was nothing more to be had.
Qin Wunian stayed silent. Song Cheng stayed silent. After a long while, Qin Wunian turned toward the bathroom. Song Cheng watched his unresponsive back and slowly lowered his eyes.
The director and Gan Yawen sat in the monitoring room, intently watching the four rooms.
The Couples Pair immediately took over the suite. Lü Ruosi, ignoring Liu Yanchu’s thoughts, closed the door and lay down, ready for a nap.
The Friends Pair, having just had their spat, sat quietly, treating each other like air despite the cameras.
The “Unforgettable Pair” was in good spirits; Su Yu helped Yue Yuran lay something on the floor, chatting as they worked. They seemed less like exes and more like close friends.
In theory, the director should have focused on the “Unforgettable Pair,” but he couldn’t. All his attention was on the “Redemption Pair” screen.
Qin Wunian was in the bathroom. Song Cheng sat outside, smoothing out the silk bed runner with deliberate, calm hands—his expression unreadable.
The director’s eyes lit up. This was the calm before the storm. He hadn’t regretted decisively signing Qin Wunian and Song Cheng. Other investors were hesitant, fearing future twists might cause trouble.
But after watching that viral live-stream fiasco, where Qin Wunian had shouted Song’s name with a mix of exasperation and care, the director had made up his mind. He was all in.
Perhaps some people would think Qin Wunian was angry because Song Cheng suddenly appeared on camera, bringing trouble for him. But the director didn’t see it that way—he’d been married almost thirty years. Every time he did something foolish, his wife would call him out by name, furious, and sometimes even grab a feather duster to swat him.
You call that “trouble”? No, no—it’s love.
The director had no idea what kind of surprises this decision would bring to the show. All he could do now was hope the surprise would come sooner rather than later.
After nearly fifteen minutes of hesitation, Qin Wunian finally emerged from the bathroom. He paused at the bedside, then rolled up his sleeves.
“Tonight, you sleep on the bed.”
The implication was clear—he himself would take the floor.
He turned to the wardrobe for an extra blanket, but as soon as he opened it, he heard Song Cheng’s voice behind him: “No.”
Qin Wunian looked back, puzzled. “You want to sleep on the floor?”
Song Cheng lifted his eyes. “No.”
Qin Wunian: “……”
Song Cheng gave him a small smile. “I didn’t answer earlier, so I’m saying it now. No, I’m not that narcissistic, and I don’t think you still like me. Since neither of us has those thoughts, sleeping on the same bed isn’t a problem. Am I right?”
Qin Wunian noticed a subtle shift in Song Cheng’s attitude. He frowned, staring at him for a moment, then lowered his gaze. “Suit yourself.”
The afternoon break was long. There were no phones, no TV, just a few books. Qin Wunian had no desire to show off, so he closed the wardrobe, walked to the other side of the bed, took off his shoes, and lay down properly.
He closed his eyes. Qin Wunian’s eyes always carried a certain coldness; his long, narrow eye shape gave him an unapproachable aura. Closing them softened his presence slightly, but not enough to make anyone feel tender toward him.
Song Cheng watched him pretend to rest and felt that heavy sinking in his chest when Qin Wunian had questioned him earlier.
It was like waiting a long time for terrible news, only to have it finally come true. Song Cheng slowly turned to lie on his side, back to the camera, eyes open, a faint confusion spreading across his face.
He didn’t know where he had lived before, or what he had been doing. After waking in the hospital, seeing the diary and Qin Wunian’s photos, he had been like a migratory bird returning to a warm place—flapping toward it without considering what might happen if he didn’t reach it, or if it was no longer warm when he did.
Now, though, he needed to think. Once, he could ignore it. Twice, he could gloss over it. But a third time, he had to face reality.
So, where should he go next?
The show only lasted ten days. After that, where would his life fly?
Lost in thought, he closed his eyes. Song Cheng always fell asleep quickly, and even a thirty-minute nap could recharge him completely.
Of the eight participants, five napped, but only Song Cheng, carefree as always, actually fell asleep.
Qin Wunian’s eyes were shut, but his mind raced—so many thoughts they could drown three hundred rounds. Unable to take it, he abruptly opened his eyes. Looking around the unfamiliar room, he exhaled slowly, preparing to step out for a while and clear his mind.
Sitting up, he instinctively glanced at Song Cheng. The other man was still lying with his back to him, hands clenched at his chest, legs curled tightly—a small shrimp curled up in the summer heat. Qin Wunian paused, then quietly moved to the side of the bed.
It was said that curling up while sleeping shows a lack of security.
Was Song Cheng feeling unsafe because of him?
And if so, what kind of fear was it?
Qin Wunian hadn’t even realized he’d been staring for so long—long enough for the director to notice.
Under the camera’s lens, Qin Wunian took two steps forward and knelt beside Song Cheng’s bed. Hidden from view by Song Cheng, the director banged his chest in frustration, deciding to add cameras to every room that evening.
Qin Wunian, unaware of the ripple effect, watched Song Cheng’s face, then his hands. Both hands were clasped at his chest, trembling slightly, as if trying to hold something, fingers twitching but grasping nothing.
Suddenly, he frowned, clenching his hands tightly until the knuckles turned white. Fearing injury, Qin Wunian called softly, “Song Cheng. Song Cheng, wake up.”
No response. He gently pushed his shoulder. “Chengcheng.”
At the sound of the nickname, Song Cheng’s eyes fluttered open, still dazed, staring blankly ahead, not seeing Qin Wunian’s face.
His voice carried a faint nasal tone: “Qin Wunian?”
Qin Wunian exhaled in relief. He nodded. “It’s me. You were having a nightmare.”
Song Cheng didn’t move. His mind still sluggish, he buried his face in the pillow, eyes closing again as if he wanted to keep sleeping.
“I wasn’t having a nightmare,” he murmured.
At this moment, Song Cheng resembled his school days—someone who loved to linger in bed, stubbornly clinging like a sticky rice cake, speaking softly while pretending to be helpless, and Qin Wunian couldn’t resist indulging him.
Four years had passed, and Song Cheng’s resilience had fully returned.
Song Cheng’s voice was low, and Qin Wunian matched him, lowering his own tone. Even with his habitual teasing, there was a subtle tenderness in it:
“You weren’t having a nightmare, huh? Then who was the one panicking almost to tears just now?”
Song Cheng paused his breath for a moment, remained silent for two seconds, then slowly turned his head and lifted his eyelids to look at Qin Wunian beside him. He drew out a slow, almost self-justifying explanation: “It wasn’t me. I didn’t cry.”
Qin Wunian raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. Song Cheng glanced at him, then turned his head back toward the pillow, his voice muffled and soft:
“I didn’t have a nightmare. I just saw you in my dream.”
Qin Wunian: “……”
His face darkened in an instant, the earlier warmth vanishing. “Seeing me made you scared enough to cry? Song Cheng, if you want to make me mad, just say so.”
Song Cheng: “I saw you walking further and further away in front of me. I tried so hard to catch up. While chasing, I grew wings and became a bird. I could fly, but I still couldn’t reach you. Eventually, your figure completely disappeared, and I got lost.”
Qin Wunian froze for a moment, watching Song Cheng sit up on the bed. He rubbed his own hand with a puzzled shake. “My hand’s so sore. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have flapped so hard in the dream.”
Qin Wunian: “……”
Song Cheng sat up as if nothing had happened, only to notice that Qin Wunian was half-kneeling by the bedside. He blinked in surprise. “Why are you like this?”
Qin Wunian remained silent, his gaze fixed on him.
Song Cheng had never known that in the hazy space between sleep and wakefulness, he would do subconscious things, and everything he said was completely truthful. Once fully awake, without anyone reminding him, he wouldn’t remember any of it.
Qin Wunian had never told Song Cheng this, because he wanted to gain a small advantage for himself. Apparently, over the past four years, no one had told Song Cheng either—otherwise, he wouldn’t be so calm now.
What he had just said, Song Cheng had already forgotten. Not forgotten in the usual sense—he simply didn’t dwell on it. The transition from sleep to wakefulness was seamless. Once he got out of bed, Song Cheng wouldn’t remember the dream at all. He walked to the window, breathed in the fresh air, then turned back to straighten the bedding.
It was then he noticed Qin Wunian still remained in the same position, motionless.
Song Cheng’s gaze grew increasingly peculiar. “What are you doing?”
Qin Wunian came back to himself and stood up. “You…”
Song Cheng’s eyes were wide open, confused, watching him.
Qin Wunian couldn’t finish the sentence.
His mind was like a tsunami, waves crashing and tossing him around without pause. A sudden, unimaginable thought struck him:
Could it be… could it be…
Could it be that Song Cheng came back this time… because he regrets it? To reconcile with him?!