On his way home, Su Qingci spotted an old woman selling roasted sweet potatoes. Her back was hunched, her face flushed crimson in the winter night. Su Qingci called out to her and bought all the remaining roasted sweet potatoes.
Seeing someone from such an upscale neighborhood carrying such down-to-earth food, the security guard chuckled, proactively greeting the resident—only to be handed a bag of roasted sweet potatoes by Su Qingci.
“I won’t say no then.” The guard warmed his hands with the sweet potatoes before pointing across the street. “That person’s here to see you. I saw him last time.”
Su Qingci followed the security guard’s gesture and saw Koenigsegg yet again: “…”
The security guard said, “He’s been waiting there for an hour.”
The moment Su Qingci spotted Pei Jingchen, Pei Jingchen also saw him. He immediately opened the door, got out of the car, and crossed the street.
Su Qingci felt both amused and exasperated. Before, he’d always wait in his car outside Pei Jingchen’s office building. Now the tables had turned—Pei Jingchen was the one showing up outside his apartment complex every other day.
Was Pei Jingchen conspiring with the heavens to toy with him? Back then, he’d begged for it relentlessly but never got it. Now that he’d given up, it was thrust upon him. Giving him unrealistic hope when he was terminally ill, then hinting at a spark of life when his heart had turned to ashes? Fuck that!
Su Qingci felt irritated. Before he could explode, Pei Jingchen blurted out, “Did you really go paint Vivian’s portrait?”
Su Qingci: “?”
Pei Jingchen’s expression was solemn, his gaze piercing, leaving Su Qingci utterly confused. “Is that why you sought me out?”
Pei Jingchen remained silent with a stern face, clearly stung.
Su Qingci felt utterly baffled. What the hell was wrong with him, freaking out in the middle of the night? Had he stared at code until his brain melted? If he was sick, he should get treatment!
Su Qingci pressed his forehead with the hand holding the bag. He never imagined he’d grow impatient with Pei Jingchen. Just as he was about to tell him to leave, something occurred to him. Had Pei Jingchen come here to interrogate him?
Damn it, this was even more inexplicable!
What right did he have to question him? Not only were they no longer together, but even during their “honeymoon phase,” they never interfered in each other’s work. If he wanted to get involved, he should have done it back then.
Damn, this was even more baffling!
Su Qingci never told Pei Jingchen, “You can’t sign with XXX, go collaborate with XXX instead.” So what right did Pei Jingchen have to dictate what he painted or who he painted?
Su Qingci detested people pontificating about his artwork more than anything. He was about to glare at Pei Jingchen when it suddenly hit him—could it be… could it be that Pei Jingchen was… jealous?!
Su Qingci shuddered violently.
Good heavens, if this had happened before, he would’ve been so thrilled he’d have held a press conference to announce the joyous news!
But now, he dared not flatter himself. Rather than jealousy, Pei Jingchen was simply annoyed by his broken promise! He’d once promised with such tenderness to draw only him, yet now he’d broken his word. A momentary flare of anger was only natural.
Su Qingci applauded his own self-awareness.
If only Pei Jingchen really was jealous—what better way to show he cared?
Su Qingci lifted his gaze to find Pei Jingchen staring at his hands.
“Here, take it.” He flung the remaining baked sweet potatoes toward him.
Pei Jingchen caught them instinctively, their weight surprising him. “Why did you buy so many?”
Su Qingci replied casually, “Finished buying. Wanted her to get home sooner.”
Though he hadn’t finished his sentence, Pei Jingchen understood—and found it astonishing.
Su Qingci wasn’t a villain, but he wasn’t a philanthropist either. In fact, he often preferred to stand by and watch coldly.
Pei Jingchen had inherited a bit of Pei Haiyang’s helpful nature. For minor favors, he’d lend a hand if he could. Like that time walking home from school during a downpour, when he saw farmers at a roadside stall scrambling to pack up their apples—he’d step in to assist. Or when he encountered an elderly grandfather pushing a cart selling vegetables, he would buy as much as he could afford—provided he found the produce acceptable.
Su Qingci, however, wouldn’t. He didn’t want to buy, didn’t want to eat, and certainly didn’t want to lend a hand out of pity. While he wouldn’t go so far as to say “those who are pitiful must also be hateful,” he reasoned: the world is full of suffering, and there are many pitiful people. I sympathize with them, but who sympathizes with me?
He was that kind of dark, self-centered person—a world apart from the sunny, kind-hearted Mu Yao. That’s why Mu Yao could hang out with Pei Jingchen, inseparable for all three years of high school. That’s why Mu Yao was the universally adored little angel.
Truthfully, it wouldn’t be hard for Su Qingci to put on a facade—to play the gentle, pure-hearted role, to “plastic surgery” himself according to Pei Jingchen’s partner criteria. But that’s Su Qingci’s absolute bottom line. He could act out, could scheme endlessly to grab Pei Jingchen’s attention, but he couldn’t bring himself to lose his self by blindly copying others.
It was a kind of stubbornness. He wanted Pei Jingchen to see him clearly, to fall for the real Su Qingci—not some imitation of someone else, not a stand-in for another.
So he poured his heart into revealing his true self, unleashing his authentic essence.
Pei Jingchen weighed a roasted sweet potato in his hand and remarked, “I never expected you to do something good.”
Was that sarcasm? Su Qingci sneered inwardly. Of course he wouldn’t expect it—how could a gloomy, wicked, self-serving young master ever do a single good deed? Helping old ladies cross the street was Mu Yao’s specialty. What was he, Su Qingci, showing off for? To whom?
Su Qingci: “I’m accumulating virtue for myself. Next life, I won’t be reborn. I won’t be human.”
Pei Jingchen choked on his words, suddenly recalling something Su Qingci had once said—something he’d dismissed and ignored… It had been in the car, below Lingyue Headquarters. Su Qingci had come to meet him for lunch and then told him he was sick.
He couldn’t even articulate what illness he had, stammering and stuttering—clearly a last-minute improvisation born of inadequate preparation.
For some reason, Pei Jingchen recalled this incident, momentarily dazed by the phrase “accumulating virtue.” But Su Qingci had an extreme personality; sometimes when he flew into a rage, he spoke with a split tongue, spouting contradictions and harsh words to provoke others and himself—it was perfectly normal.
In such moments, Pei Jingchen’s response was always silence—never arguing back, for arguing would only lead to a fight.
It was like this again, Su Qingci thought with a bitter laugh inside. He wanted to have a proper, satisfying argument, but Pei Jingchen simply wouldn’t take the bait.
After painting all day, Su Qingci was exhausted. Half an hour in the winter wind had left him chilled to the bone. Utterly drained, he cursed his own forgetfulness while shielding himself with sarcasm. Adopting a haughty air, he remarked, “In the middle of the night, you drove two hours and waited another hour. Isn’t your time precious, Mr. Pei? Isn’t every minute of his time driving Beijing’s GDP? So please, Mr. Pei, give me a reasonable explanation for this unusual behavior.”
Pei Jingchen froze.
Su Qingci smiled. “Are you angry that I broke my promise, or jealous that I drew someone else?”
Three days later, in business class, Pei Jingchen removed his Bluetooth earpiece.
As the flight attendant pushed the meal cart past, Assistant Xu ordered two Earl Grey milk teas. The gentle collision of Sri Lankan “Ceylon” black tea and fresh milk released a delicate, rich aroma.
Pei Jingchen took a sip. Too sweet.
Su Qingci would probably like it.
Pei Jingchen couldn’t figure out why a sip of milk tea would lead him straight to thoughts of what suited Su Qingci.
It was most likely because of what Su Qingci had said three days ago, on that snowy night.
It felt like the elastic band holding a string of beads snapped, sending the beads scattering everywhere. They bounced and rolled chaotically across the floor. You wanted to stop it, to tidy it up, but there was simply no way to begin.
Jealousy is synonymous with envy, and envy stems from affection. He couldn’t tell if his annoyance toward Su Qingci outweighed the lingering fondness cultivated over decades of companionship. Either way, his faint affection wasn’t enough to breed jealousy, so he felt no pangs of envy.
Then why this unsettling turmoil?
“Because you’re accustomed to it,” Su Qingci said. “You’re accustomed to my eyes, my heart—everything being you. Only you.”
Unlike Pei Jingchen’s reserved nature, he wasn’t one to hold back. Su Qingci, fiery and outspoken, wore his affection on his sleeve. He confessed his feelings every other day—whispering “I adore you to death” across the dinner table, murmuring “I love you so much” while leaning against his shoulder during movies, or even seizing the moment mid-stroll to wrap his arms around his neck and declare “I love you.”
Hearing it so often didn’t exactly make him tired of it, but it certainly lost its novelty. Even the most passionate sweet nothings, when spoken and heard daily, gradually lose their impact.
But this time, Su Qingci’s confession wasn’t like his usual joyful, domineering assertiveness. It was more like a cat guarding its food, its claws firmly clamped around a piece of dried chicken. This confession carried a subtle sadness, colder than autumn winds, chillier than winter snow. Pei Jingchen suddenly felt a pang of discomfort. He couldn’t quite pinpoint the feeling—was it tenderness, bitterness, or heartache?
The cat no longer guarded its food. It crouched in the distance, silently watching the dried chicken jerky. It knew it didn’t belong to it, that snatching it would mean getting beaten. Yet, ravenously hungry, it could only stare longingly.
The warm baked sweet potato had grown cold and hard. Fine snow blanketed the ground, the streetlights casting a faint glow that refracted into a breathtaking silver-white.
Pei Jingchen had a strange illusion—that Su Qingci was about to shatter.
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