A tingling sensation rose from the base of Shi Zhou’s neck, quickly transforming into an intense wave of heat that made his legs weak. Flustered and irritated at it, he shoved at Qin Yancheng. “Qin Yancheng, get up already!”

After the chaos, the two of them finally stood up. Qin Yancheng calmly got dressed while Shi Zhou went to change out of his wet clothes. The hospital room was thick with the kind of awkwardness that made the air feel heavy—but maybe Shi Zhou was the only one feeling it. Qin Yancheng remained his usual composed self.

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Because of Qin Yancheng’s intense aversion to IV drips and medication, the doctors couldn’t even do routine rounds. Shi Zhou cleared his throat and said, “Hey, you need to dry your hair, or you’ll catch a cold.”

Qin Yancheng, busy typing on his phone, sent a final “Got it” to Xin Jing on WeChat before glancing up. “Your reality show’s been postponed. It’ll start tomorrow afternoon. If you still want to go, go.”

Shi Zhou blinked. “What? How could it be postponed?”

Artists’ schedules were always tight. It wasn’t like they could just move things around on a whim.

Yet within an hour, when Shi Zhou checked Weibo’s trending list, the tag #Real:ZeroDistancePostponedOneDay had actually made it to the top.

The official reason was a reshuffling of the shooting schedule due to new internal arrangements. The production team asked viewers to wait patiently and promised a surprise guest as compensation.

Seeing that it was real, Shi Zhou perked up instantly. He genuinely liked this reality show, especially its unique format and picturesque locations—mountains, oceans, and all.

As the name suggested, Real: Zero Distance was a live-streamed reality show where a central camera broadcasted everything in real-time, supplemented by individual cameramen following each participant. Viewers could pay to focus on whoever they liked.

Shi Zhou disliked the overly-scripted variety shows that required multiple takes and heavy editing. They felt fake and lifeless.

Livestreaming could backfire easily, but since Shi Zhou had no intention of faking a public persona from the start, it didn’t bother him to show his real self.

After a pause, he gave Qin Yancheng a suspicious glance. “You didn’t… pay to delay the show, did you?”

Qin Yancheng replied flatly, “Money wouldn’t help.”

Shi Zhou was finally reassured. Having an entire crew wait for him would’ve been mortifying.

Then again… maybe it was fate?

His good mood didn’t last long. While organizing some daily necessities Aunt Zhang had dropped off, Shi Zhou’s phone began vibrating wildly.

His heart sank—so many notifications like that at once were rarely good news.

Sure enough, when he opened Weibo, he found his name suddenly plastered all over the trending page. Unlike past gossip and baseless rumors, this time he was the main headline—complete with a set of malicious hot tags:

#SugarDaddyExposedForSurnamedSStarlet#
#NoTalentJustTradingFavorsAndSleepingUpward#
#ShiZhouAccompaniesQinYanchengToHospitalAtNight#
#ConfirmedSugarBaby:ShiZhouAndQinYanchengLivingTogether#
#SellingYourLooksToClimbTheLadder#

Shi Zhou’s heart fell like a rock. Flirty interactions and harmless rumors were one thing, but being caught sneaking into Qin Yancheng’s luxurious private estate at night? That was something else entirely.

—A disreputable, D-list celebrity, long rumored to have shady ties with Zheng Qi and accused of sleeping his way to the top, was actually spotted entering an ultra-luxury mansion district in the dead of night?

The first thought that crossed the minds of countless onlookers was: Shi Zhou is a kept man. And with the added fuel of hired trolls and sensationalist media, the situation quickly spiraled into chaos.

Shi Zhou watched as the crowd erupted into a frenzy, waves of mockery crashing over him—it was all so absurd, so sudden.

He knew the paparazzi had probably been tailing him for a while, but he’d always been careful: wearing masks and sunglasses, leaving through the underground garage. Even if there were stalkerazzi lurking, they shouldn’t have been able to identify him inside the car.

But when he zoomed in on the leaked photo, he realized the fatal slip-up had happened on that harrowing night when Qin Yancheng had his asthma attack. In that moment, he hadn’t been thinking about anything else.

The photo showed Shi Zhou in thin sleepwear, standing in front of a lavish villa under the cover of night, his face pale with panic as he followed paramedics into an ambulance.

Maybe the original cannon fodder had offended too many people. Or maybe this was simply his doomed fate—career destroyed, reputation shredded by slander, crushed under the weight of public condemnation.

Now, an army of trolls and gossip accounts swarmed in, turning it into another feast of scandal, steering the narrative toward filthy speculation about under-the-table deals and unspeakable relationships.

Shi Zhou’s fans were too few and too scattered to fight back. Even with the support of his shipper fans, their voices were drowned out by the flood of ridicule and doubt.

[Oh ho, no wonder he clings to Qin Yancheng for clout—turns out he’s just a spoiled sugar baby riding on his patron’s favor!]

[I’m disgusted. And he still dares to play the “self-made” card? More like “self-made” in bed, huh? Wasn’t he already cozy with the CEO of Qixing before this? How hardworking of him.]

[No parents to teach him basic decency, no wonder his character is trash.]

[No surprise he snubbed my idol on that show last time—acting like such a diva. My idol worked his way up step by step, unlike this whore who just climbs from one sugar daddy to another.]

[Zheng Qi’s looking real cuckolded right now, @ZhengQi, how can you take this? Wasn’t Shi Zhou your little pet before?]

[How does he even get these opportunities? He’s about to join Real: Zero Distance—with his level of fame? Who’s he sleeping with for that?]

[The only “masterpiece” he’s known for is his collection of scandals. What’s his best work? 108 Ways to Climb Into a Rich Man’s Bed?]

Qin Yancheng noticed Shi Zhou’s expression darken and asked, “What is it? Show me.”

Shi Zhou handed over his phone. Qin Yancheng skimmed through the storm of comments, his brow furrowing slightly—just as Li Cheng’s call came through, frantic, “Shi Zhou! Have you seen Weibo?!”

Shi Zhou took the phone back. “Yeah, just finished scrolling.”

“Jesus, this wave is too big—Qixing’s PR team can’t suppress it!”

Shi Zhou sighed. They couldn’t just brute-force away the trending topics either—that would only make them look guiltier, and trying to silence the backlash would only make it worse.

—Either he had a plausible explanation to dismantle the attacks, or he had to lie low and take the hits, letting it become a permanent stain on his career.

But what plausible explanation was there? Staying overnight at Qin Yancheng’s place, rushing to the hospital with him at midnight… Their social statuses were worlds apart—no one would buy them being “just friends.” And if they told the actual truth? “Oh, we just live together platonically, totally respectful and chaste”? Yeah, right.

Shi Zhou exhaled, shrugging. “Guess I’ll just lie low and wait for it to blow over.”

Li Cheng let out an exaggerated gasp. “What are you talking about? Aren’t you and Qin Yancheng dating? I called to discuss when to go public with the relationship! Dating and being a sugar baby are completely different things!”

If Qin Yancheng stepped forward and openly acknowledged them as equals in a real relationship, the narrative would flip instantly—from a sordid tale of exploitation to a fairytale romance between a young billionaire and a rising star.

Shi Zhou glanced at Qin Yancheng. “We’re not—”

The hospital room was quiet enough for Qin Yancheng to hear Li Cheng’s voice through the phone. He plucked the device from Shi Zhou’s hand and said coolly, “Tomorrow, at Yanjin Airport. I’ll address the media in person. Tell the press to be there.”

Then he hung up.

Shi Zhou stared at the ended call, stunned. “Wait—hold on, what are you clarifying? Did you not hear him? He wants you to admit we’re together!”

Qin Yancheng’s gaze was steady. “Do you want your career ruined? To be followed by those vile rumors forever?”

Shi Zhou was floored. Holy shit, is he really about to lie for me?

Before, when they’d accidentally been shipped as a couple or when Qin Yancheng had casually defended him on Weibo, it hadn’t been a big deal. But now? A billionaire at the top of the wealth rankings—a man with zero romantic scandals, who could overturn the industry with a flick of his wrist—was going to fake a relationship to save his crumbling reputation?

“You were caught by the paparazzi because of me,” Qin Yancheng said flatly. “I don’t care about gossip. Consider it repayment for saving my life.”

—Was it really just repayment?

There were a thousand ways to repay a debt. Qin Yancheng couldn’t tell if there was something else tangled in his motives—something he couldn’t yet name.

By the next day, Qin Yancheng’s complexion had improved, though he was still slightly pale.

When they boarded the plane, Shi Zhou had been struggling with his oversized luggage—until Qin Yancheng effortlessly lifted the massive suitcase one-handed, startling him into yelping, “Put that down!”

Only then did the bodyguards, belatedly realizing their oversight, rush forward to take everything.

Qin Yancheng recovered quickly. The sight of medical equipment made him nauseous anyway, and he’d refused further treatment, insisting on an early discharge.

“Tsk tsk tsk, this private jet of yours is something else—understated luxury with real class,” Shi Zhou finally embarked on his reality show journey in high spirits, glancing around appreciatively. “But you could barely walk straight yesterday, Qin sir. I’m not joking—even the doctor said flying right now isn’t advisable.”

“Yesterday, I—”

Qin Yancheng’s sentence trailed off.

Shi Zhou mentally filled in the blank: Yeah, yesterday was probably just you being disgusted by the hospital. He’d never seen someone vomit themselves into near-fainting just from getting a blood draw, an injection, or even a basic temperature check.

“Just how much do you hate hospitals? Did they owe you money or something? This is the first time I’ve heard of someone using sheer spite as motivation to recover faster—just to get discharged.”

Qin Yancheng shot him a cool glance. Shi Zhou grinned, sticking out his tongue before diving back into Weibo, curious to see what fresh creative insults the internet trolls had cooked up.

Back in the day, Shi Zhou hadn’t fully grasped the destructive power of cyberbullying. He’d naively thought, just turn off your phone, unplug the internet—who cares what strangers say?

But now that the fire had burned him repeatedly, he realized:

Damn, even for someone as thick-skinned as me—the type to “walk my own path in someone else’s shoes and let them go barefoot”—I’d still love to crawl through the screen and strangle these foul-mouthed, unreasonable keyboard warriors.

A hand flashed into his view—Qin Yancheng’s slender fingers plucked the phone from his grip. “Stop looking.”

“Tch, I’m genuinely amazed. These people probably look perfectly normal in real life, but online? Full metamorphosis into demons.”

“That’s why they’re nobodies.” Qin Yancheng slipped on his headphones and an eye mask.

A moment later, assuming Qin Yancheng was asleep, Shi Zhou slowly—painfully slowly—reached to retrieve his phone from the man’s lap.

Qin Yancheng’s icy voice cut through: “Xiao Ni, cut the WiFi.”

Shi Zhou thumped his knee. “Fine, fine! Go to sleep already. If you feel unwell, tell me—don’t just tough it out silently.”

An hour later, Qin Yancheng’s private jet touched down at Yanjin Airport. The leaked tip-off had worked—the terminal was swarmed.

For the first time, Shi Zhou experienced the chaos of a fan welcome. Stepping out flanked by bodyguards, he whistled under his breath at the spectacle. Damn, this is next-level.

Front and center: a sea of media, cameras flashing like strobe lights. Behind them, a roaring crowd—Shi Zhou’s fans, Qin Yancheng’s fans, and hordes of “ChengZhou” shipper devotees waving signs. The moment the pair appeared together, deafening screams erupted as fans strained on tiptoe to capture their first official candid shot together.

Bystanders gaped, asking which A-lister had arrived. They had never seen such a grand airport welcome by fans—if one didn’t know better one would’ve thought a concert was taking place right there in the airport.

But the media’s focus wasn’t on Shi Zhou. The real headline? “Reclusive Billionaire Qin Yancheng—The Man Who Never Dates—Is Finally In Love!”

“President Qin! How do you respond to allegations of financially supporting Shi Zhou?”

“What’s the nature of your relationship?”

“Why the late-night hospital visit?”

“Are you accompanying Shi Zhou for his show filming?”

“President Qin…”

Bodyguards muscled through the scrum. Shi Zhou rolled his eyes. Wow, bold of you to ask these pointed questions right in front of the subject—y’know, me?!

Shi Zhou was almost enjoying the chaos—it was the kind of scene where everyone was shouting, yet no single voice could be clearly heard, only fragments of questions breaking through the noise.

But then a flicker of concern cut through his amusement. Qin Yancheng just got discharged, and now he’s being jostled around in this madness? Even a temple fair during peak season wouldn’t be this packed. If his notoriously delicate constitution gives out from all this—

He turned to check on Qin Yancheng, only to find the man as aloof as ever. Their eyes met briefly—then, without warning, Qin Yancheng laced their fingers together, pulling Shi Zhou into a firm, very convincing “couple’s grip.” Without a word, he strode through the crowd, the picture of protective intimacy, leaving the media scrambling in their wake.

Qin Yancheng’s palm was cool, his grip firm. Shi Zhou, seizing the chance to finally touch those coveted pianist fingers, dared to trace a teasing circle on his palm.

The shippers lost it. Screams hit glass-shattering decibels as signs waved frantically—their ship was sailing in real time.

Shi Zhou marveled inwardly. Qin Yancheng’s acting skills are unreal. This fake romance performance? Oscar-worthy. And the crowd control? Masterful.

The two were already standing close, but with the bodyguards and crowd jostling around them, Shi Zhou found himself nearly pressed flush against Qin Yancheng.

The crisp scent of snow pine and mint shampoo—Qin Yancheng’s signature fragrance—wrapped around Shi Zhou’s senses. He couldn’t help taking a deeper breath. Damn, this man is lethal. Even his scent is an outright seduction.

The reporters, unsatisfied with the lack of answers, doggedly pursued them, firing off questions nonstop.

It wasn’t until they reached the car that Qin Yancheng finally turned. In one fluid motion, he pulled Shi Zhou against his side, arm secure around his waist, and faced the clamoring crowd with icy detachment:

“Do I need to submit a relationship report for your approval—or should I start cutting you paychecks?”

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The crowd fell dead silent for two full seconds. Even the camera flashes froze mid-burst—no one had seen this razor-edged retort coming.

After expecting nothing but his usual icy indifference, the media was wholly unprepared for Qin Yancheng’s directness.

Pressed against Qin Yancheng’s side, Shi Zhou bit down hard on his tongue to stifle explosive laughter. Since when did Qin Yancheng develop such killer comebacks? That was equal parts savage and deadpan—absolute gold.

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Shi Zhou quickly patted his back to help him catch his breath. Qin Yancheng hadn’t eaten anything, so there was nothing to throw up, yet he couldn’t stop coughing and retching, wheezing like bellows as his breathing grew more labored.

The doctor immediately asked, “What’s going on? When did this symptom start—”

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“Get out!” Qin Yancheng suddenly snapped. Having long held a position of power, his presence was already formidable. Now that he had dropped his usual restraint, the pressure in the room dropped instantly, suffocatingly so. Even in his weakened state, his dominance didn’t waver.

Shi Zhou was just about to hand him his inhaler and froze at the command. The doctor looked at him, clearly baffled.

—Most VIP patients were difficult to deal with, and everyone knew who Qin Yancheng was. But no one expected this financial legend, worth billions, to have such a terrible temper.

Afraid Qin Yancheng would work himself into another fit, Shi Zhou looked apologetically at the doctor. “Would you mind stepping out for now? I’m really sorry.”

Now alone in the room, Shi Zhou helped him take a dose from the inhaler. Worried he’d throw it again, he kept a firm grip on it this time. “What just happened? Is your stomach acting up again?”

Qin Yancheng pressed his lips together and said nothing. Shi Zhou noticed his symptoms seemed to ease up the moment the doctor left, which made it all the more puzzling.

He wanted to check if his upper abdomen was cold to see if it was another stomach spasm. But at the moment, Qin Yancheng looked off—mentally unstable. Shi Zhou didn’t dare make a wrong move and set him off again.

After observing him all day, Shi Zhou realized something: whenever Qin Yancheng saw a doctor—especially one holding a syringe or about to draw blood—he’d have a strong physical reaction: vomiting, dizziness, and more.

Because of his intense response, most tests couldn’t proceed. Shi Zhou was getting anxious and feared he’d vomit up blood. Ever since they entered the hospital, Qin Yancheng had become a completely different person, barely speaking, utterly cold.

Several young nurses who had timidly approached to ask for his autograph were all too scared to come near. Shi Zhou tried to coax a smile out of him, grinning: “Beauty, you scared the girls stiff. You should be called Granny Qin from now on.”

“I want to go for a walk,” Qin Yancheng said in a rare moment of opening his mouth.

Of course, the doctor didn’t approve. He was also confused—while Qin Yancheng’s condition wasn’t too serious, most people would glue themselves to the bed after hearing the words “heart disease.”

Didn’t they say the wealthy fear death the most? Apparently, not always.

Shi Zhou sweet-talked for ages and finally got permission to push Qin Yancheng around in a wheelchair for a bit.

Qin Yancheng didn’t like that either, but compared to lying in bed, he reluctantly chose the lesser of two evils.

Under the starry night sky, the autumn wind was cool and refreshing.

Qin Yancheng took a deep breath. The smell of disinfectant was gone, and the suffocating pain that had been gnawing at his heart eased slightly. For the first time in a while, he seemed more like his usual self. “Weren’t you supposed to catch a flight today?”

“I backed out of that reality show. Dear Qin sir, would you mind reimbursing my breach-of-contract fee?” Shi Zhou paused, then suddenly remembered, “Oh, right—one serious warning: don’t lock the door when you sleep! What kind of dumbass habit is that? Do you know how worried I was?!”

Of course Qin Yancheng knew.

Back then, his chest had been in unbearable pain, his airway clogged as if he couldn’t breathe no matter how hard he gasped or coughed. And yet, he remained perfectly conscious:

Perfect.

This would count as accidental death, not suicide.

A subtle sense of relief and triumph crept in. Qin Yancheng let go, letting his awareness fade. But then—he heard Shi Zhou calling his name outside, barefoot, frantically running up and down the stairs. He even tried to kick the door open…

Busybody. Why did he care so much?

Yet something warm and alive seemed to stir in his hollow heart, gently knocking against him, pulling back some of his sunken sanity—

He shouldn’t want to die. He had always fought so hard to live.

The night breeze was chilly. Shi Zhou wrapped Qin Yancheng’s coat more tightly around him. Qin Yancheng said, “When does the show start filming? I’ll get air clearance. You can be airborne in thirty minutes.”

Good lord. Most private flight routes needed nearly two days’ notice. Qin Yancheng said thirty minutes like it was nothing—talk about flaunting your power and money.

Shi Zhou tilted his head. “I already turned it down. I can’t keep ghosting them like this—the production team wouldn’t agree.”

Expressionless, Qin Yancheng asked, “Forget them. Do you want to go?”

Shi Zhou hesitated, then said, “Forget it. There’ll be plenty of shows like that. Next time.”

Qin Yancheng fell silent, pulled out his phone, and opened WeChat. Shi Zhou saw the contact name “Xin Jing.” Right—he had totally forgotten about Qin Yancheng’s childhood friend in all the panic last night.

The doctor had only approved a thirty-minute walk. Shi Zhou didn’t care whether Qin Yancheng wanted to go back or not—he was pushing the wheelchair, so he made the rules.

Qin Yancheng clearly didn’t want to return, his mood visibly souring again, but he stayed silent and endured it.

Still, after some fresh air, he did seem in better spirits than when he first woke up. At least now he wasn’t demanding to be discharged like an unstoppable force.

The VIP suite was fully equipped, even with a kitchen and bathroom—more comfortable than most luxury hotels. Shi Zhou turned on the wall-mounted TV to add some life to the room. The channel just happened to be airing a children’s show—his childhood favorite, a certain yellow sponge.

—Yes, Shi Zhou still secretly watched cartoons as an adult, but with Qin Yancheng next to him, he felt too embarrassed and reluctantly changed the channel. Still, nothing else was interesting.

Qin Yancheng, ever sharp, noticed Shi Zhou’s fixated gaze and finally let a subtle, nearly imperceptible smile touch his pale lips. “I’m going to shower. You can watch the kids’ channel if you want.”

Shi Zhou blushed and stubbornly denied it. “Who said I want to watch it?! I’m not that childish!”

Qin Yancheng had low blood pressure. The moment he stood up, his vision went black, and he toppled straight back down. Shi Zhou quickly caught him. “Oh my god, are you even in any shape to shower? Maybe don’t.”

“I’m fine. Just stood up too fast.” Qin Yancheng shook his head, waiting for the darkness to pass.

“You saying you’re fine doesn’t count. I’m asking the doctor.”

Shi Zhou left the room and came back soon after, looking like he was trying to hold in laughter. Finally, he asked, “Qin sir, how about… you don’t shower today?”

“I have to. I’m fine. What did the doctor say?”

Qin Yancheng was a bit of a clean freak. Shi Zhou knew he’d never win this argument, so he gave in with a mischievous smile. “Hehehe, beauty, the doctor told me to watch you shower.”

Qin Yancheng: ……
“What?! Don’t think I want to watch! I’m doing this because you might faint again, okay?” Shi Zhou huffed.

Sure, Shi Zhou loved ogling beauties—especially an undressed one—but this time, he really didn’t want to look.

The view was just too dangerous. One look, and he’d probably have another springtime dream and have to secretly wash his underwear the next day out of shame.

Sharing the room only made it more awkward.

Qin Yancheng weighed the shame of being seen naked against the misery of not bathing.

Finally, he raised his hand and began unbuttoning his hospital gown. Better to be ogled than to stay dirty.

The bathroom wasn’t very spacious. Shi Zhou stood next to the tub, and his eyes—by sheer instinct—drifted over.

One glance. Averted. Then another glance…

Qin Yancheng had stunning collarbones, broad shoulders, a narrow waist, proportions that rivaled any top male model. Shi Zhou couldn’t look away. He wanted to reach out and touch—and as for what was between those long legs…

Qin Yancheng noticed his gaze. In a dry tone, he said, “Careful you don’t get a nosebleed.”

Shi Zhou blushed furiously, turned around, and snapped, “Screw off! I told you last time it was just because of the heat! It’s dry in autumn! Nosebleeds are normal, okay?! And you—you heartless jerk! You think you’re better-looking than SpongeBob?! I’m here keeping you company, you know!”

Qin Yancheng felt helpless. But all the discomfort he’d felt in the hospital eased a little from Shi Zhou’s antics. This VIP suite looked more like a hotel than a hospital room. Slowly, the turmoil in his stomach calmed.

Though he didn’t exactly mind being stared at, he didn’t want to be ogled by this little pervert forever. He rinsed off quickly and reached for the bathrobe.

Shi Zhou had his back turned. Hearing the splash of water, he figured Qin Yancheng was stepping out and turned around—

Suddenly, Qin Yancheng gasped softly and collapsed on top of him with no warning!

Shi Zhou was totally unprepared. The moment he turned, he was knocked flat!

The scent of minty body wash and damp steam enveloped him. Qin Yancheng landed fully on top of him, still wet and undressed.

Shi Zhou, in thin loungewear, was soaked through too, his body outline clearly visible. Their position—absolutely indecent.

“You! What the hell are you doing?!” Shi Zhou stammered.

“Sorry… got dizzy,” Qin Yancheng said hoarsely. He braced himself with both hands on either side of Shi Zhou, trying to push up. But the floor was slippery, and he collapsed again—

This time, the position was even worse.

Shi Zhou’s mind exploded: BOOM!

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“Q-Qin Yancheng…” He hadn’t expected the cannon fodder’s body to be so sensitive to touch. His voice trembled and cracked, “You bastard—you’re such a freaking scoundrel!”

Qin Yancheng closed his eyes, a faint suspicious flush rising to his pale cheeks. Whether from embarrassment or something else, he whispered, “Give me… a moment.”

His warm breath brushed against Shi Zhou’s neck, sending a strange, shivery tingle down his spine.

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Everything happened too suddenly. Shi Zhou stood frozen on the spot, stunned, maintaining his original posture without moving a muscle.

Staring at the spilled medicine on the floor, he realized he’d been wrong all along. The reason Qin Yancheng died so suddenly, the reason he succumbed to an acute illness that wasn’t even highly fatal—wasn’t fate. It was simply because he didn’t want to live anymore.

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That cryptic line Qin Yancheng had once said—“Good advice can’t save the damned, and great compassion can’t redeem the self-destructive”—was, in hindsight, about himself.

Even sitting outside the emergency room, Shi Zhou remained dazed, his mind blank, while a terrifying memory from the depths of his mind resurfaced. It felt as though an invisible hand had gripped his heart, squeezing it so tight he could barely breathe from fear.

He could still feel the coldness of Qin Yancheng’s fingers on his wrist, the weak, futile struggle as he tried to hold on but had no strength left.

After falling unconscious, Qin Yancheng had collapsed in Shi Zhou’s arms, cold all over—so much so that Shi Zhou had to keep tremblingly checking again and again whether he was still breathing.

When the ambulance arrived, Shi Zhou’s hand was still pressed to his chest, feeling for a heartbeat.

No matter how he tried to rationalize it, he couldn’t understand why Qin Yancheng had thrown away the medicine.

That action had clearly been suicidal. But Shi Zhou didn’t believe he would suddenly choose to end his life. At least in day-to-day life, Qin Yancheng had never shown suicidal tendencies. Aside from being evasive about his health and irresponsible with his body, everything else about him was… passably normal. He even lived somewhat earnestly.

Shi Zhou had always jokingly called him a “psycho,” but it had just been teasing. Deep down, he believed Qin Yancheng was just temperamental and aloof—never did it occur to him that his mental state might involve actual medical concerns.

Which meant: in the original script, Qin Yancheng didn’t die by accident due to an asthma attack. Or rather, he did die of asthma—but it wasn’t an accident.

In the original world, the one without Shi Zhou as a variable, Qin Yancheng, upon realizing he was having an attack, silently gave up on saving himself. He calmly walked into death amidst suffocating pain.

A female doctor rushed out. “Family member? Are you the patient’s family?”

Shi Zhou shook his head, then nodded.

“Which is it? Can you sign?”

“I’m family. I’m his… brother. I can sign.”

Shi Zhou signed the critical condition notice. The doctor said beside him, “Prepare yourself mentally. The patient has acute angina with malignant arrhythmia. There’s a risk of cardiac arrest.”

Shi Zhou’s brain was still a fog. She said many things, but all he processed were the words cardiac arrest. In short: he might die. Qin Yancheng might really die like this.

Shi Zhou collapsed back into his chair, rubbed his face hard with both hands. The body he now inhabited had sensitive tear ducts—his palms were soon damp and hot, tears dripping uncontrollably.

He had known this would happen. He’d prepared himself, hadn’t he?

He was terrified of death. Terrified of sudden illness. And most of all, terrified of this very feeling—sitting helpless outside an ambulance or ER.

He still remembered the last time he’d sat in a chair like this. He had no idea how long he waited, only that fear and anxiety consumed every second like a lifetime.

Then the doctor had come out, lifted their glasses slowly—and those two words, “I’m sorry,” exploded like thunder. It shattered his world. He’d completely lost it—roared in hysteria, a wild storm of rage.

If not for his best buddies restraining him, he might’ve rushed the doctor and body-slammed him on the spot.

He wasn’t a total brat. Once he calmed down, he realized how insane and unfair that outburst was.

But in that moment, logic had meant nothing. The doctor who announced his brother’s death had felt like Death himself. Shi Zhou couldn’t accept it. Would not accept it.

Shi Li had been twenty-seven that year—the same age as Qin Yancheng. So young. So sudden.

Now, he had just signed two critical condition notices in one night.

Shi Zhou glanced out the window. The sky had begun to lighten—rosy gold dawn igniting the clouds.

Suddenly, his phone rang. It was his temp agent Li Cheng calling. “Shi Zhou, you live in Four Seasons Spring City, right? I can arrange a ride to the airport for you.”

Shi Zhou didn’t even have time to respond before the emergency room door opened. His heart clenched. His palm grew sweaty. His pulse thundered. He dreaded hearing those two words again.

“Are you the patient’s family?”

Shi Zhou leapt up. “How is he?!”

Li Cheng was still listening intently on the other end of the line with confusion.

Realizing the call was still live, Shi Zhou muttered hastily, “Qin Yancheng is sick. I’m not going. Replace me if you want—I’ll pay the damages,” and hung up.

Only when the doctor said, “He’s out of immediate danger. After a few more hours of observation, we’ll transfer him to a general ward,” did Shi Zhou exhale, as though a thousand-pound boulder had dropped from his chest.

He slumped back into the chair, overcome with trembling relief.

Three years ago, Shi Zhou had been dazed and numb, not understanding anything as others handled the procedures. Now, he could calmly manage his emotions while paying fees and calling Bai Ran to get a contact for Qin Yancheng’s family.

He summarized the situation. Bai Ran gasped, “What?! That serious? But… but we can’t reach President Qin’s family—”

“His parents are gone?”

“His mother might still be alive. But I’ve never met her… not sure. It’s just—”

Shi Zhou sensed Bai Ran was hiding something. “No one else will know. Not even Qin Yancheng.”

“…Alright. The thing is, President Qin and his mother don’t get along. She might have some… mental issues…”

“What?”

Could Qin Yancheng’s madness be inherited from his mother?

But maybe not. From another perspective, Shi Zhou remembered a quote: Some people spend their lives being healed by childhood; others spend their lives healing from it.

Just what happened in the past to make Qin Yancheng like this?

After staying tense for so long, Shi Zhou finally relaxed when Qin Yancheng was transferred out of ICU. He reached out to smooth the furrow between his brows—still creased even in sleep. After confirming that his breathing and heartbeat were steady, Shi Zhou yawned and fell asleep on the couch beside the hospital bed.

He hadn’t been asleep long when Li Cheng called again. “Shi Zhou, filming doesn’t start until tomorrow afternoon. Today was just for promo footage—it’s fine if you can’t make it.”

Groggy and cranky, Shi Zhou’s young master temper snapped, “I said I’m not going! Unless you can get plastic surgery and go in my place tomorrow!”

Of course he wanted to be on the show—money, exposure, popularity. But Qin Yancheng had nearly died. With not a single relative around, how could he bear to leave while he was still unconscious?

Li Cheng didn’t know what was going on. He just thought: Shi Zhou is getting too full of himself. To turn down such a golden opportunity? He really must be riding high on Qin Yancheng’s support.

With Jinshui Film Studio now up and running, and Qin Yancheng dipping into the entertainment industry, no one would dare rival him from now on.

Now fully awake, Shi Zhou went downstairs for a quick meal, picked up medicine, and finished the remaining paperwork.

When he returned, Qin Yancheng was awake. He had already yanked off the oxygen mask and was trying to pull out the IV needle.

“Hey hey hey!” Shi Zhou rushed over, pushed him back down, stuffed his unruly hand under the blanket. “What are you doing? The IV isn’t done! How do you feel? Anything uncomfortable?”

Qin Yancheng’s voice was hoarse, barely more than a rasp, but firm: “…I want to be discharged.”

Shi Zhou froze. “What?”

He wondered if his ears were broken.

“I. Want. To. Leave.” Qin Yancheng enunciated every word. His sharp, beautiful features were clouded with darkness, and his pale face was full of hostility.

Great—Shi Zhou’s ears were fine. It was Qin Yancheng’s brain that was broken.

“Qin Yancheng, I signed two critical condition notices for you last night! You almost fucking died!” Shi Zhou couldn’t hide his anger, but he kept his voice low, afraid of stressing his heart.

Qin Yancheng didn’t budge. He acted like staying another second in the hospital would get him abducted by aliens. He struggled to get up again, but Shi Zhou held him down with gentle threats and coaxing.

What the hell—why did he seem like a totally different person?

Too weak to fight, Qin Yancheng eventually lay stiff and silent, staring blankly at the ceiling.

Shi Zhou looked at his sickly pale face, those thick, feather-like lashes lowered. Even with that cold look of gloom, Shi Zhou’s heart softened. He couldn’t keep scolding such a beautiful man.

“Qin sir? Hungry? Want me to get you some congee?”

But the moment he said it, he regretted it. What if Qin Yancheng ran the moment he stepped out?

“Actually—forget it, I’m too lazy to go downstairs. I’ll order delivery.”

Qin Yancheng still didn’t respond. His foul mood was visible to the naked eye. In fact, Shi Zhou had rarely seen him wear his emotions so clearly.

Out of the corner of his eye, Shi Zhou suddenly noticed his fingers trembling uncontrollably.

You c an fi nd t he la te st cha pte rs at ( th e bl mu se . c o m )

Just as he wondered what was going on, the doctor knocked and entered. “The patient’s awake? How do you feel? It’s time to draw some blood—”

Before the doctor could finish, Qin Yancheng suddenly started shaking all over—then clutched the bedrail and began retching violently.

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Apart from the desktop computer, Qin Yancheng’s office also housed a laptop he frequently used. Shi Zhou, accustomed to typing on a laptop at home, immediately zeroed in on the latter.

Writing smut about Qin Yancheng on Qin Yancheng’s own laptop—the mix of guilt, shame, and thrill was indescribable.

Under his fingers was the same keyboard Qin Yancheng’s cold, elegant fingers tapped daily. Each key seemed to carry his faint, icy fragrance. And now, it was being used to type out content so shameless it couldn’t even be viewed without censorship…

You c an fi nd t he la te st cha pte rs at ( th e bl mu se . c o m )

Shi Zhou’s fingers flew across the keyboard as if the words typed from it themselves carried an extra layer of meaning.

Time slipped by unnoticed. Paragraph after paragraph spilled onto the screen. Shi Zhou giggled like an idiot as he typed, his tongue unconsciously flicking against his teeth.

No worries, Qin Yancheng won’t be back for at least four hours.

Conference Room.

The executives, well aware of Qin Yancheng’s poor health and his visibly weakened state today, dared not exhaust him. The meeting was compressed to a record two and a half hours.

Qin Yancheng dismissed everyone with a wave but stayed behind to review a few proposals.

Bai Ran reminded him, “President Qin, aren’t you heading back early? Mr. Shi is still in your office.”

Qin Yancheng paused, then frowned. Left alone, Shi Zhou was absolutely capable of causing chaos. Better to return and check on him.

Qin Yancheng’s laptop was indeed different. The uniquely stimulating environment made Shi Zhou lose himself in his writing, his speed multiplying.

After finishing the day’s update, he casually posted it on Weibo, smugly rereading his work while debating whether to ride the creative wave and write more—

Then—

The door swung open without warning.

Shi Zhou’s lewd grin froze mid-face as he locked eyes with Qin Yancheng.

Even Qin Yancheng, ever unflappable, was momentarily stunned by the intensity of that strange and heated expression before his brows furrowed. “Who said you could use my computer?”

Shi Zhou jolted, his metaphorical tail puffing up like he’d been caught cheating in bed. He hastily schooled his features.

Thankfully, even in panic, his reflexes held. He swiftly closed the browser and deleted the file—just as Qin Yancheng strode over—

Shi Zhou’s heart pounded frantically!

Channeling twenty-three years of singlehood into his fingers, he permanently erased the Word file and emptied the recycle bin—

Click. The moment the mouse clicked Qin Yancheng snapped the laptop shut.

—Definitely no evidence left behind.

“I was just playing games!” Shi Zhou lied smoothly, vacating the chair. “Relax, I didn’t touch your files. Your trade secrets are safe.”

Qin Yancheng silently reopened the laptop. He did trust Shi Zhou, and this computer held no sensitive data—his desktop handled that.

—But he also knew there was nothing inappropriate on it. Unless infected by malware, there shouldn’t be any adult content to justify that expression on Shi Zhou’s face earlier.

He scanned the screen, checked the recycle bin, and ruled out the possibility of Shi Zhou downloading pornos in his workspace.

Shi Zhou watched Qin Yancheng check the laptop nervously, suddenly unsure if he’d truly wiped all traces. Could files be recovered?

Then again—was Qin Yancheng really suspecting him of corporate espionage?

“You only sent me to adopt hamsters to get rid of me!” Shi Zhou blustered, guilt fueling his outrage. “I told you I wouldn’t snoop! What kind of person do you take me for?!”

Bluster to cover panic. In his rush, he hadn’t been as thorough as he had wanted and Shi Zhou was not very certain about erasing all traces. This was his best shot at derailing further inspection by Qin Yancheng.

In the middle of his embarrassed stewing, his stomach chose that moment to growl loudly. It could be heard quite audibly in the silent office.

Qin Yancheng finally abandoned the inspection. “Hungry?”

Shi Zhou huffed, embarrassed.

Unbeknownst to Shi Zhou—still agonizing over his digital cleanup—the entire office was marveling at him.

Brother Shi’s presence really makes a difference—President Qin actually left work two hours early today. Here’s hoping he comes every day so we can escape earlier from the terrifying shadow of President Qin’s oppressive presence.

Back home, Shi Zhou packed for tomorrow’s reality show flight.

Worry over Qin Yancheng’s health gnawed at him. After much deliberation, he finally said, “Qin Yancheng… maybe I should just cancel.”

“Why?”

“I’ll, I’ll miss you! Hehe, one day apart feels like three years.” Shi Zhou dodged with oily charm.

Qin Yancheng watched him pack, also not reassured about his solo trip. Shi Zhou’s survival skills were appalling.

“I’ll hire you a new assistant.”

Shi Zhou tilted his head. “Hey! I’m learning! Not everyone’s born knowing how to cook like you—did you sneak into culinary school or forget to drink Meng Po’s soup?”(TN: Meng Po, the goddess of oblivion, serves this soup on the Naihe Bridge, a pathway into the underworld. Drinking the soup allows souls to embark on their new existences unburdened by the weight of their previous lives).

“Learned abroad.” Qin Yancheng replied lightly.

Shi Zhou’s mind conjured images of a younger Qin Yancheng destroying kitchens while following online recipes and couldn’t help being amused.

For all his reticence and coldness, he wasn’t uninteresting once you got used to him.

“But why cook yourself overseas? I just hired helpers—”

Shi Zhou clamped his mouth shut.

Stupid! The real Shi Zhou was a penniless orphan from a mountain village—when had he ever studied abroad?

Qin Yancheng’s sharp gaze pinned him.

Shi Zhou breezed on, “I mean—rich people usually hire help, right? Wait, focus—I really don’t want to go! Qin sir, I’ll miss you!”

Qin Yancheng dismissed his dramatics thinking he was just joking around as usual, urging him to pack properly and not mess around.

Shi Zhou went to bed early.

Half-asleep, he felt someone tuck him in. Murmuring “brother,” he snuggled deeper—then jolted awake.

His brother was gone.

He had died too.

Though he knew it likely wasn’t possible, sometimes, he wished his brother had also transmigrated.

But wishes were just that. Shi Zhou lazily checked his phone for the time, recalling how he had used Qin Yancheng’s laptop to write smut then froze—

Oh no!

He’d deleted the Word file but forgot to log out of Weibo on Qin Yancheng’s laptop!

No wonder his left eye had been twitching ominously.

If Qin Yancheng saw that…

The sheer horror of it made him want to bash his head against the wall.

Any lingering sleepiness Shi Zhou had was instantly scared away.

Maybe Mars was nice this time of year…

Wait, things were still salvageable.

Since Qin Yancheng hadn’t noticed earlier, the laptop was likely in his study now. Under cover of darkness, he could erase all traces and scrub the system clean.

The goal was clear, the laptop in the study down the corridor.

Shi Zhou jumped into action. Barefoot, he crept into the hallway—

When passing by the door of Qin Yancheng’s room, he held his breath and attempted to walk past slowly, but after taking two steps, he heard Qin Yancheng coughing very violently.

It actually felt a little breathless, as if he was struggling for air.

Listening to this, even Shi Zhou felt bad for Qin Yancheng—he quickly decided to log out of his Weibo account, erasing any “incriminating” evidence, before heading in to check on him with a cup of warm water to soothe his nerves.

But just as he had the thought, a heavy thud echoed from inside, followed by Qin Yancheng’s labored, stifled gasps—each breath sharp and wheezing, like a broken bellows.

Something’s wrong!

His asthma—why now, of all times?!

Shi Zhou’s heart lurched into his throat. He spun around and rushed to push open Qin Yancheng’s door—

Locked?!

“Qin Yancheng! Open the door!” he shouted.

No response. Qin Yancheng was probably already incapacitated. Without wasting another second, Shi Zhou bolted downstairs and hammered on the housekeeper’s door.

Aunt Zhang opened it, bewildered by his panic and the fact that it was 3 a.m.

“Aunt Zhang—do you have a key to Qin Yancheng’s room?!”

“What’s going on? Only Mr. Qin has his room key. The other rooms—”

“Damn it! That idiot Qin Yancheng—why the hell would he lock his door?!”

Shi Zhou hadn’t expected the attack to hit so suddenly. Sweat dripped down his back as he sprinted back upstairs, grabbing his phone to call both the fire department to break down the door and emergency services.

Through the door, Qin Yancheng’s ragged breathing grew weaker, more strained.

Shi Zhou kicked the door with all his strength—BANG!—but the solid wood barely shuddered.

Fuck! Who locks their bedroom door at home?! And why the hell is this door so sturdy?!

The firefighters response time was actually faster than expected, but to Shi Zhou, every second stretched into an eternity. His hands trembled as he pressed against the door, listening helplessly as Qin Yancheng’s breathing faded—then nothing. He couldn’t hear anything.

Clutching the inhaler, his palm slick with sweat, Shi Zhou cursed himself for not noticing the warning signs earlier at the office.

Sudden attacks like this could be fatal. He was extremely afraid because it was just like how his brother died.

He hadn’t seen it happen, but his mind had conjured the scene in nightmares—waking in cold sweat, drowning in helpless despair.

The firefighters swiftly broke the lock. Shi Zhou stammered thanks before shoving past them into the room.

Qin Yancheng lay curled on the floor, fingers clawing at his chest, his face bloodless, lips tinged blue. His whole body shook with each suffocating gasp.

Shi Zhou hauled him upright, propping him against his chest, and shoved the inhaler into his mouth.

Qin Yancheng took two desperate puffs before his eyelids fluttered open to seemingly look at Shi Zhou but his gaze was hollow, unfocused.

“Qin Yancheng? Can you hear me?” Shi Zhou wiped the cold sweat from Qin Yancheng’s brow, his own voice shaking from fright.

Qin Yancheng’s fingers twitched, then weakly closed around Shi Zhou’s wrist in an icy grip.

Relief flickered in Shi Zhou at this, it seemed he was still conscious.

Then—

In a sudden burst of strength, Qin Yancheng snatched the inhaler from Shi Zhou’s grip and smashed it against the wall.

You c an fi nd t he la te st cha pte rs at ( th e bl mu se . c o m )

The plastic shattered. Medicine sprayed across the floor.

Shi Zhou froze, staring in disbelief.

Qin Yancheng was very weak but his eyes were clear now—cold, detached—before he slowly closed them again.

And in that moment, Shi Zhou finally understood how the “White Moonlight” really died.

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Shi Zhou looked like he had been struck by lightning, utterly shocked.
“Qin—Qin Yancheng, you didn’t know I like men?”

Before Qin Yancheng could respond, Shi Zhou quickly added, “Don’t be scared! I don’t like every man, and I definitely don’t like you!”

It was the truth—Shi Zhou only liked beautiful faces with godlike looks.

You c an fi nd t he la te st cha pte rs at ( th e bl mu se . c o m )

He’d have to be insane to like someone as cold as this guy, who clearly wouldn’t respond no matter what. Total waste of emotion.

Qin Yancheng’s expression wasn’t one of surprise at discovering Shi Zhou’s orientation.

He frowned slightly, his gaze complex as he looked at Shi Zhou.

Of course he knew Shi Zhou liked men. The first time they met, Shi Zhou clung to him like glue, spouting flirtations nonstop. Qin Yancheng looked nothing like a woman—clearly not a case of mistaken gender.

But he had never met such an exaggeratedly thirsty little pervert before. Shi Zhou had surely seen other men’s bodies over the years—or at least looked at himself in the mirror. Yet just one glance made his nose bleed?

Shi Zhou huffed, “My bathtub broke. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have bathed at your place.”

Qin Yancheng took a deep breath and calmly replied, “The hairdryer’s on the shelf. If you need clothes, just call me.”

Logically, being lusted after to this extent was disgusting.

But for some reason, when it was Shi Zhou, he didn’t find it unbearable. What did bother him was Shi Zhou’s blunt, unequivocal “I don’t like you.”

Shi Zhou tilted his head. “Qin Yancheng, what’s that annoyed look? Don’t tell me… you’re homophobic?”

Qin Yancheng said nothing, just closed the door and left.

—Well, that confirmed it. Definitely homophobic. The air pressure in the room had dropped instantly. No need to get so pissed, right?

I didn’t even bring up your psychotic issues, and you dare be homophobic?

Shi Zhou got dressed and washed off all the blood from his nose. Though the dining table was piled high with fragrant delicacies, he couldn’t stop replaying that shocking sight in his head.

Qin Yancheng placed Shi Zhou’s favorite fried chicken wings in front of him. “Eat up. You won’t get to after the day after tomorrow.”

Shi Zhou grinned. “Aw, you’ll miss me?”

The day after tomorrow, he was heading off to film the reality show. They said the location had mountains, sea, great scenery, and food and fun—which was why he agreed to go in the first place. But none of it could compare to Aunt Zhang’s cooking—or the rare dishes Qin Yancheng occasionally made himself.

He asked Qin Yancheng that teasing question, but in truth, he was the one reluctant to leave.

He didn’t know what spell he was under, but he actually felt a twinge of longing for this handsome, frosty statue of a man.

At least Qin Yancheng’s health had improved in the past two days. Shi Zhou kept a close watch—forcing him to eat, take meds, and go to bed early. Qin Yancheng’s lips finally regained a light rosy tint. Shi Zhou felt a strange sense of pride, like he was raising a beautiful man himself.

—It’s just one week away. Qin Yancheng should be fine, right?

But that night, when Shi Zhou closed his eyes, the image he’d struggled to forget came rushing back again.

He wanted to leap up and scream to his little smut-loving fans: I saw it! I really saw it! It’s HUGE! The “big and good in bed” trope? At least the first word was confirmed. The last part… pending further research. But hey, half my fic’s already validated!

Think dirty by day, dream dirty by night. Shi Zhou dreamed of “springtime pleasures” and didn’t wake up until 9:30. Upon waking—yikes—he was in quite an embarrassing state.

Face flushed, cursing Qin Yancheng under his breath, he washed both himself and his underwear squeaky clean before heading downstairs to scavenge for food.

In the drawer beside his bed, Shi Zhou had hidden two inhalers and some nitroglycerin pills—just in case Qin Yancheng had a sudden angina attack. Originally, one set was for Qin Yancheng to carry, but he’d coldly refused. In the end, Shi Zhou had to keep everything himself.

When he opened Weibo, it had exploded from the few photos of Qin Yancheng he posted yesterday. Followers were surging. He was now a top-tier stan—known not only for his writing but also for the thirst-trap content he provided. A dual-threat in both land and sea, so to speak.

While browsing his album to pick more photo “gifts,” Secretary Bai Ran suddenly called. “Mr. Shi, President Qin’s not feeling well. Can you try convincing him to go to the hospital? We’re all too scared to bring it up—he might flip out…”

In Bai Ran’s eyes, Shi Zhou had long since become the rightful madam of the house. She used to suffer in silence, but now she had someone to call for reinforcements.

Shi Zhou asked urgently, “What happened?”

“He’s better now. But just earlier, he had trouble breathing and got dizzy. Almost passed out in the meeting room. Scared us all to death.”

“Shit!” Shi Zhou gasped, his heart shooting to his throat. “Hang tight, I’m coming over now!”

This was Shi Zhou’s first visit to the Qin Group headquarters. The front desk ladies greeted him in perfect sync with, “Hello, Mr. Shi!” Clearly all fangirls—totally unshocked to see the real-life protagonist walk in. Instead, they looked delighted, their eyes screaming OTP real!

After all the way to the top floor, he pushed open the office door. Qin Yancheng looked deathly pale, lips tinged with purple, slumped on the sofa with eyes closed.

His suit jacket was draped over the side. He wore only a white dress shirt, with two or three top buttons undone. The crisp fabric around his chest was slightly wrinkled—probably from when he clutched at it during his breathing episode.

Hearing the noise, Qin Yancheng didn’t even open his eyes. “Leave.”

Shi Zhou walked up. “Where do you feel unwell? Come on, I’ll take you to the hospital.”

“Shi Zhou? Why are you here?” Qin Yancheng’s face eased slightly, though still annoyed. “Who told you?”

Bai Ran had long since fled. Shi Zhou naturally wouldn’t rat her out. Puffing up his chest, he said, “I had a premonition! And hey, I was just out practicing my driving. Thought I’d stop by.”

A few days ago, Qin Yancheng let him pick a car for daily use. Shi Zhou had chosen a white Lamborghini—a model he’d loved in his past life but missed out on due to lack of stock.

He died in a car accident, so truthfully, he was a little scared. Thankfully, after some practice, his confidence returned—as long as he didn’t run into a drunk, speeding, wrong-way-driving idiot again.

Qin Yancheng seemed to accept the explanation. He closed his eyes again, voice hoarse. “I’m fine. Go home.”

Shi Zhou had just relaxed yesterday, but now he was tense again. Clearly Qin Yancheng hadn’t recovered. These symptoms were edging closer to asthma-triggered cardiac failure. It was terrifying.

Shi Zhou began to consider pulling out of the reality show.

He asked, “How do you feel now? Does your chest hurt? Still having trouble breathing?”

“I’ll say it again—I’m fine.” Qin Yancheng’s tone was cold, clearly annoyed.

Looking at that moody, sharp-edged face, Shi Zhou figured one more question and he’d be stepping on the tail of a psycho and causing him to explode like a landmine.

—But then he thought, What the hell, I came here out of concern and you give me attitude? Want a fight, huh?

Luckily, Qin Yancheng still had some conscience left. Before Shi Zhou could start scolding, he said with a softer tone, “A girl in Sales raised a hamster. It just had a litter.”

Shi Zhou snorted. “So? I’ve pet a hamster before.”

He had, once. His terrifying father wouldn’t even allow pets. When he was in middle school, his older brother secretly got him one.

When their dad found out, he nearly crushed the poor thing to death. Shi Zhou never dared keep a pet again.

“She’s giving them away. Too many born.”

Shi Zhou’s eyes lit up. “Wait, you mean I can have one?”

Still a child at heart—his attention diverted in an instant.

Qin Yancheng sighed. “The company bans pets. Don’t let them know I told you.”

“You’re such a nice boss—wait, but I remember you’re allergic to furry animals. Can I keep it at your place?”

“In your room, fine.”

When people saw Shi Zhou appear, they thought the “madam” had come to inspect. They panicked, scrambling to hide the hamster cages.

Shi Zhou blinked innocently. “Do you still have hamster babies?”

A petite girl cried out, “I’m sorry! I’ll take them home today, Teacher Zhouzhou—Madam! Madam, if I lose this month’s bonus, I’ll have to eat dirt!”

Shi Zhou cringed at the weird “Madam” title. Clearly they weren’t on the same page. He patted his chest, “Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of it!”

The girl, confused but relieved, asked, “Wait, you’re not here to inspect? President Qin doesn’t know?”

Shi Zhou shrugged, pretending Qin Yancheng was clueless, and urged her to take the rest home—Qin Yancheng was allergic after all.

Eventually, Shi Zhou sat contentedly in Qin Yancheng’s office, playing with the baby hamster.

Then he remembered: Crap! I came to take him to the doctor! But the man had gone back to meetings. Couldn’t drag him out now.

—Damn! What kind of idiot am I?

Got played like a fiddle by Qin Yancheng!

Left with no choice, he asked when the meeting would end.

It was the quarterly executive meeting—expected to last four hours.

Shi Zhou was horrified by the length. He couldn’t yank Qin Yancheng out of there, so he had to wait.

Bored out of his mind, he dared not play with the fragile baby hamster too much, lest he accidentally hurt it.

So, he pulled out his phone and checked the comments and DMs from his alt account—fans starving for content.

He’d ghosted them for two days. Yesterday’s encounter with Qin Yancheng had given him massive inspiration. Today, he had to write!

Once again, the steamy, stunning image of Qin Yancheng’s naked body flashed in his mind. Inspiration surged.

His fingers itched. Creativity was fleeting—if he didn’t write now, the moment might be lost forever.

You c an fi nd t he la te st cha pte rs at ( th e bl mu se . c o m )

Shi Zhou’s inner angels argued, and finally, he made a bold decision.

He looked toward Qin Yancheng’s computer.

—I’ll just use it real quick. I swear I’ll delete all the evidence afterwards.

AN: Playing at the edge of danger.JPG

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The moment Shi Zhou saw the Weibo post, it felt like the whole world had gone silent—mostly because the noisy, jeering haters had collectively fallen mute like a bunch of chickens.

If they hadn’t been hell-bent on mocking Shi Zhou like lunatics, Qin Yancheng clearly wouldn’t have posted that Weibo at all. But the haters just had to go marching up to him with their faces bared for a slap.

You c an fi nd t he la te st cha pte rs at ( th e bl mu se . c o m )

The onlookers couldn’t help but marvel: Qin Yancheng’s protectiveness was borderline violent. The man used to post maybe two Weibo a year, and now he’d broken that annual record within mere days.

Shi Zhou stared at the word “sweet” in “very sweet cake”, and a moment later, burst into leg-slapping laughter.

That word really did sum up the cake’s “devastating” power. Other than being tooth-achingly sweet, there really wasn’t another word that could pretend to praise it.

But as funny as it was, Shi Zhou suspected that Qin Yancheng had no idea what kind of implications the photo he posted carried—

Sure enough, the trending topics list lit up like fireworks:

#ShiZhouBirthdayCake
#QinYanchengSuspectedOfficialAnnouncement
#ChengZhouCP
#QinYanchengExtremeProtectiveness

Once Shi Zhou had laughed enough, reality hit—this was bad. One look at the trending topics and he had a full-blown headache.

Qin Yancheng had always lived in a position of power, doing things as he pleased. Did he even realize that posting something like that was essentially him stepping in personally, interacting, and indirectly telling the world “ChengZhou is real”?

[No wonder there were two little holes in the frosting of Shi Zhou’s cake—after seeing Qin Yancheng’s post, we now know that was where the couple figurines originally stood]

[I thought Shi Zhou was trying to be a calculating boy with that pic—turns out he was already being discreet, he deliberately removed the figurines before taking the photo]

[So is this an official announcement?!]

[Not quite? I get the feeling President Qin always acts first—like maybe he hasn’t even wooed the guy yet?]

[Tch! Our President Qin is rich, handsome, and successful—like hell he needs to chase anyone, let alone a D-list nobody like Shi Zhou]

[LMAO don’t look down on others—your President Qin just unilaterally “announced” it]

[Shi Zhou is a green tea bitch! That wasn’t an announcement at all!]

[Keep flaming, the more you hate, the more your President Qin won’t be able to woo him—enjoy eternal bachelorhood]

Speculations and arguments flooded the feed. Qin Yancheng had a real talent for dropping a bomb and vanishing, leaving behind scorched haters and giddy shippers mining the rubble for sugar.

Shi Zhou was exasperated. He really was grateful Qin Yancheng stepped in to defend him, but this way? The man who never had a single scandal just burned a bridge with his own reputation.

There were softer ways to handle it! Did he really not care about his own image at all?

Shi Zhou called him up. “Qin sir, have you looked at Weibo? Do you realize what you’ve done?”

Qin Yancheng, his computer screen still open to the Weibo comments, said blandly, “The photo is factual. Their overthinking is their own problem.”

Shi Zhou opened and closed his mouth. “…But do you not care how people interpret this?”

There was a pause on the other end—he vaguely heard Secretary Bai reminding him about an upcoming meeting.

Shi Zhou sighed and hung up. Well, technically, nothing he posted was false. There was no trickery, just rampant misunderstanding. But how had it gotten this far?

Qin Yancheng was obviously straight. Why couldn’t anyone else see that? Was he the only one with a finely tuned gaydar?

Meanwhile, his fanfic inbox and “Runaway Airship” comment section were full of people begging for updates. Because to Shi Zhou, Qin Yancheng was just a beautiful, emotionless being who’d never love anyone—he could shamelessly ship the two of them because he knew the truth.

He continued writing his birthday cake chapter but instantly deflated when reminded just how horrible that cake had tasted. Ugh, even now he couldn’t bring himself to look straight at the word “sweet” let alone a cake made by the alternate Shi Zhou that was laced with an aphrodisiac.

He opened Weibo for a break and browsed randomly, noticing a group of fans who couldn’t write but still wanted to contribute to the ship. They were out there gathering and editing dashing pics of Qin Yancheng and Shi Zhou. Since there weren’t many photos of the two together, skilled Photoshoppers had gotten to work.

Shi Zhou tilted his head in thought for a moment then opened his photo gallery—he had tons of Qin Yancheng pics too. Why not share the joy?

He quickly selected nine photos to post—

Wait, no, no, no!

He almost uploaded pictures of Qin Yancheng at home!

He hurriedly unselected anything too private and only kept three photos that could plausibly have been taken by passersby.

But since he’d taken them so close up, one even showed Qin Yancheng glancing directly into the lens. The lighting and angle were so good you could see his thick eyelashes and faint blue veins—lethal beauty in HD. Even Qin Yancheng’s own fans snuck over to the ChengZhou fandom circle silently to grab the images.

The comments flooded in:

[Aaaah President Qin is so handsome!]
[How is this so high-def? I’m licking my screen! Long live Airship Madam!]
[I finally have a crystal-clear image of President Qin in my brain—I’ll dream so sweet tonight!]
[Let me hug the cute OP and give you a kiss!]

Shi Zhou happily set his phone down, thinking if only he could one day post all the gorgeous lifestyle shots of Qin Yancheng too—especially the ones of him in a bathrobe… just imagining it gave him a nosebleed.

Well, not literally. He’d always thought nosebleeds from attraction were just exaggerated fiction. No one he knew had ever actually bled from eye candy.

“Aunt Zhang, I want to take a bath—” Feeling inspired to write more spicy scenes, he asked, “Can you run the tub for me?”

Aunt Zhang agreed, then mumbled from inside his bathroom. “Huh? The drain valve seems broken?”

Shi Zhou paused, recalling how he’d forced it last night when it got stuck. Guess brute force wasn’t a miracle after all. His brother had said, “You’re like a walking disaster. Always rushing in with brute force. Try a little patience sometime.”

Aunt Zhang continued, “Maybe use the tub in sir’s room? The one downstairs only has a shower.”

Shi Zhou agreed, still typing away. Fine. He’ll just be gentle this time and make sure he doesn’t break Qin Yancheng’s tub too.

The story he was writing had progressed to Qin Yancheng pinning Shi Zhou to the bed, kissing down his body…

Back at the house, Qin Yancheng arrived to find Aunt Zhang watching gardeners swap out dead winter plants in the backyard. They were carefully selecting new plants—nothing Qin Yancheng might be allergic to.

Shi Zhou had randomly declared he’d plant a tree like the great historical figures, but the second the landscapers showed up, he disappeared. Clearly, physical labor wasn’t his thing.

Upstairs, Qin Yancheng removed his coat and saw Shi Zhou’s laptop open on the coffee table, full of dense text.

Last time he glanced at it, Shi Zhou had turned beet red like a cooked crab—could it have been this he was writing?

Qin Yancheng stepped closer to peek—

And the screen went black, the computer lock screen time arriving just in time.

It was password-locked and Qin Yancheng wasn’t going to try out passwords just to snoop. In the end, he quietly closed the laptop and set it aside.

Meanwhile, completely unaware that he’d just narrowly avoided social death, Shi Zhou was gleefully playing with a line of floating rubber duckies in the tub.

When the palm of his hand pushed the water, some of them moved forward, some rotated, and they all scattered.

Only at home could he secretly indulge like this. Otherwise people would think he was childish or a sissy. No respect for personal hobbies!

“Splash splash—”

The sound of water masked any footsteps. Shi Zhou didn’t notice someone entering until—

Qin Yancheng pushed the door open, one hand loosening the belt of his robe.

Shi Zhou looked up—and was instantly thunderstruck!

He was almost completely naked! Standing right in front of him!

“Holy—MAMA! AAHHHH!” Shi Zhou’s scream cracked. He’d taken a full blast of visual assault completely unprepared—this was too damn much!

Despite living together for ages, this was Shi Zhou’s first time seeing that part of Qin Yancheng.

—Oh. My. God. Why is he so big?!

His brain instantly dredged up the spicy passages he’d written. Words once confined to fiction surged into vivid reality. All he could see was Qin Yancheng’s body. His eyes locked on, unable to look away. That size, that distance—it was almost within reach. From the tub, he was at eye level.

Qin Yancheng had long legs, perfect proportions, a sculpted torso… and going lower…

The rising steam and water lapped against Shi Zhou’s bare skin like a caress. His mind exploded.

His nose grew hot—then a single drop of blood plopped into the water.

Qin Yancheng was still holding the doorknob, clearly also stunned.

But he was a man used to pressure. He quickly snapped out of it, tied his robe shut, and said coldly, “Why are you in my bathroom?”

Shi Zhou clutched his bleeding nose and mumbled, “Why’d you barge in without checking? Couldn’t you hear me playing with the water?!”

Damn, unconscious seduction was the most lethal. This damn book’s top-tier looker really was fatally alluring. For a beauty-loving little perv like Shi Zhou, the damage was off the charts.

Qin Yancheng wordlessly handed him tissue. Shi Zhou stood and shook off water, only to feel pure despair—he’d actually gotten a nosebleed from lusting after Qin Yancheng’s body, right in front of him!

Now Qin Yancheng definitely thought he was a pervert!

No, it had to be the water temperature! Dilated blood vessels! Completely normal!

You c an fi nd t he la te st cha pte rs at ( th e bl mu se . c o m )

Qin Yancheng saw he was too busy with his nose to cover up, so he grabbed a nearby towel and wrapped it around him.

The more Shi Zhou thought, the more indignant he became, “Why didn’t you close your eyes! You looked at me too! We’re even!”

Qin Yancheng said flatly, “Why would I close my eyes? We’re both men. But why did you nosebleed from looking at me?”

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