When Qin Wunian returned, Song Cheng was sitting on the bed, staring at his phone.
His expression was subtle, and Qin Wunian asked, “What are you looking at?”
Song Cheng: “The fortune teller.”
Qin Wunian didn’t understand, so Song Cheng kneeled at the edge of the bed and handed him his phone.
Qin Wunian took two steps, accepted it, and saw it was a message from Yue Yuran sent a few minutes ago:
—Long time no see. Want to go out for a meal?
Qin Wunian smiled lightly and returned the phone. “He’s quick.”
Qin Wunian was not one to be humble. Whenever he did something considerate for someone else, he needed them to be profoundly grateful. Song Cheng, of course, knew what Qin Wunian had done behind the scenes, but he didn’t show any gratitude—just a resigned helplessness.
So much time had passed that in a few more months, Song Cheng could forget even someone like Yue Yuran. Yet Qin Wunian remembered, and as soon as he returned home, he started “digging pits” for others.
Song Cheng didn’t mind Qin Wunian’s meticulousness—he had long understood what kind of person Qin Wunian was. He was just tired on Qin Wunian’s behalf.
Yue Yuran was just a passing acquaintance; Song Cheng was outside that circle. They might meet only two or three times a year for work. It wasn’t worth the effort for someone so unfamiliar.
But Qin Wunian didn’t see it that way. Song Cheng looked at him and could tell he was enjoying himself.
Qin Wunian asked, “How will you reply?”
Song Cheng: “How else? Of course, I’ll refuse. Going out with him—I’m embarrassed, not him.”
Last time was just like that: opportunists always pick the soft target. Yue Yuran found Song Cheng easy to approach, just as Su Yu had chosen silence before. Song Cheng was close to Qin Wunian, so he naturally stood on Qin Wunian’s side, never holding him back.
The preliminary work was done; Qin Wunian was just lighting a fire. How far it would spread was another matter. He didn’t even think about Yue Yuran, taking Song Cheng’s phone as he sat on the bed.
Song Cheng had been there for several days. This was the first time Qin Wunian going out to work felt like a leisure outing.
The two of them cuddled close. After a while, Song Cheng gently pushed Qin Wunian away slightly, calming his breathing, and said softly, “I think I’ll go back in a couple of days.”
Qin Wunian was startled and immediately gripped his shoulders. “Why? Are you mad at me?”
Song Cheng: “……”
“Why do you always think I’m mad at the slightest thing? I’m not a pufferfish!”
He waved off Qin Wunian’s hand irritably. “I’ve been here long enough. It’s not good to keep Chengfeng at Ban Jie’s house, and I don’t want to disturb your work.”
Qin Wunian: “Who says you disturb me? With you around, I’m always on top!”
It was true. Whenever Song Cheng watched Qin Wunian shoot a scene, he was in incredible spirits, like he’d been electrified. Director Xue even wanted Song Cheng to stay on as a supervisor.
Song Cheng was quiet for a moment before speaking again: “I can’t follow you everywhere all the time.”
Qin Wunian gradually closed his mouth.
The two, once so tender, now sat side by side as if attending a silent protest.
Qin Wunian: “Your thoughts change so fast. Before, you wanted to be my assistant; now you don’t even want to stay a few days with me.”
Song Cheng: “……”
He cast a faint glance at the sulking Qin Wunian. “A few days wouldn’t matter, but this is over a month, and decades to come. I envy your ability to pursue something with passion. I want to find something—other than you—that ignites my enthusiasm too.”
Qin Wunian turned his head, still silent. Song Cheng paused for a moment before continuing: “As for being your assistant… back then, I was always uneasy. I thought that if I didn’t stick with you, one day you might just leave me behind. But now, I don’t think like that anymore.”
Qin Wunian remained quiet.
Song Cheng actually being able to think this way—he felt truly overestimated.
But he didn’t voice that. Instead, he wore a deliberately inscrutable expression and calmly asked, “Why is it different now?”
Hearing this, Song Cheng’s lips curved into a small smile. He grabbed Qin Wunian’s chin, attempting a playful, roguish move. But unfortunately, he was too beautiful and Qin Wunian too fierce. Even if he pulled down Qin Wunian’s pants, everyone would still think he was the one at a disadvantage.
No matter what Song Cheng did, Qin Wunian stayed calm, letting him get close. Song Cheng pressed a kiss to his lips with extra force, then said with a teasing sneer: “You ask why it’s different? Your body is already mine. Where else could you go?”
The little tyrant tilted his head back; the beauty lowered his.
Qin Wunian’s expression was inscrutable. He didn’t reply, making the role-play increasingly awkward. Song Cheng sheepishly began to let go, but Qin Wunian had already turned his own head and snorted coldly. “Just know that,” he said.
…
Two days later, Qin Wunian took another leave with Director Xue—this time in advance. The director arranged an afternoon slot so he could take Song Cheng to the airport. Sitting in the VIP lounge, Song Cheng checked the time—half an hour until boarding.
Meeting was a surprise; parting, silent. Even though Song Cheng had already said he would come to see him again in half a month, Qin Wunian wasn’t in high spirits.
Song Cheng was about to speak when Qin Wunian opened his mouth first:
“After this film wraps, I plan to semi-retire.”
Song Cheng froze, eyes wide. “You’re retiring? But you’re only twenty-six!”
Qin Wunian glanced at him. “Semi-retire. That means taking only one or two projects a year, a few endorsements at most. Other than that, nothing.”
Song Cheng blinked, then let out a small sigh of relief, though he still hesitated. “Is it because of me that you decided this?”
Qin Wunian admitted it frankly. “Yes.”
Song Cheng: “……”
Qin Wunian elaborated: “Not entirely because of you. I’ve already won the awards I wanted. My popularity has nowhere to grow. I’ve been in this industry since I just became an adult, working three hundred sixty-five days a year, dizzyingly busy. Acting is my career; being a star isn’t. I love acting, not running around like a puppet.”
He turned to look at Song Cheng. His gaze softened, a tenderness even he wasn’t fully aware of. “I’ve wanted this for a long time. You helped me make up my mind. I won’t give up on my career, but I want a family too.”
Song Cheng met his eyes and slowly pursed his lips.
His face flushed again. After finishing the variety show, he hadn’t blushed for some time, yet today it happened again.
He grasped Qin Wunian’s hand, interlacing their fingers, but turned his face away so Qin Wunian couldn’t see. He murmured, “If you’ve decided, then… then let it be.”
Qin Wunian’s lips curved slightly. He gently helped Song Cheng calm down, then lowered his gaze to the blue flight schedule.
In truth, it wasn’t Song Cheng who helped him decide—it was Song Cheng who postponed his decision.
Four years had passed. Before Song Cheng returned, Qin Wunian had been counting the days—four years of anger, confusion, and drifting aimlessly. Even a non-stop schedule, for someone with no private life, was still a blessing; it kept him from returning to an empty home and feeling the kind of soul-emptying loneliness that could consume a person.
But self-deception couldn’t last forever.
At the start of the year, Qin Wunian had begun to have thoughts of change. When Zhou Qingge accused him of domestic violence, it gave him the impulse of “just do it.”
Though it felt impulsive, his mind was extremely clear. He was twenty-six; the reckless years were over. It was time to mature. Life couldn’t be lived like this forever. If he could never let go, he had to do something.
Zhou Qingge was like a gift from the heavens. At first, Qin Wunian resisted. It wasn’t until Ban Yunfang pressured him that he agreed to take some remedial actions—because he had already formed a plan. He wanted to pause his career, using semi-retirement to split the twelve months of the year: ten months searching for the missing Song Cheng, and two months for himself, to relax and avoid total despair.
People had heard of work-life balance, but never a balance like this. If Qin Wunian voiced this plan, it would surely draw laughter. That he could laugh meant he was both fortunate and unfortunate.
Everything has two sides. One, most people never encounter someone like Song Cheng, who can crush and repair their hearts. Two, they will never experience the feeling of loving someone with your soul, your life, your entire world.
Indeed, giving comes at the cost of blood and tears, but the reward is trembling, and unyielding intimacy.
…
Boarding time came. Qin Wunian escorted Song Cheng to the special passageway, repeating the same few instructions: call if anything happens, call even if nothing happens; don’t let Chengfeng leave the neighborhood; if he must go out, have an assistant pick him up.
And no more meetings with Song Siyue—the Yue-named ones are never good.
Now that Qin Wunian had physically established his position, he had the confidence to voice this opinion. Before, he dared not express it, fearing Song Cheng might think otherwise.
No matter what Qin Wunian said, Song Cheng nodded along obediently. Finally, he waved to him, and as the flight attendant giggled quietly to the side, Song Cheng boarded the plane.
Only after taking his seat did he let out a sigh.
The one who was returning? That was him. The one who couldn’t bear to part? Also him.
But he didn’t regret it. Back when he had clung to Qin Wunian, he had taken it for granted. Now, clear-headed, he realized that couples should grow together, not have one racing ahead while the other lingers idly behind.
Gazing out at the runway, Song Cheng felt a surge of determination. Qin Wunian was making changes for their future; he had to catch up too.
Leaning against the headrest, his eyes were bright and clear, different from before, now carrying hints of strategy and calm resolve. The flight attendant handed him a drink and returned to the crew to chat.
“He looks way better than on the show! So steady! Doesn’t look shy or timid at all~”
“Yeah, they say it’s all scripted! I’ll check it out myself later—maybe he’ll even smile at me!”
The crew chattered away, unheard outside. In the economy cabin, passengers were still boarding, and the noise carried back to him. Song Cheng had never been able to sleep on planes—he preferred high-speed trains and regular trains.
But according to Qin Wunian, this year, at least, those options were out. Maybe next year.
Unable to sleep and with nothing to do, Song Cheng took out his phone. Before switching to airplane mode, he glanced at the online updates one last time.
While scrolling, a WeChat notification popped up—someone wanted to contact him. Not Yue Yuran this time, but Su Yu.