After countless demonstrations and corrections from the bakery ladies, Shi Zhou—now self-proclaimed Master Pastry Chef—finally managed to independently produce something that vaguely resembled a cake.

It was a two-tiered cake that had been painstakingly assembled, with simple (and slightly rough) frosting edges. It was… not very round.

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Shi Zhou sighed. “Should I just buy one instead? This is too ugly to give to anyone!”

The bakery owner—a devoted shipper of the ChengZhou pairing—had long assumed the cake was for Qin Yancheng even if she had never asked.

She grinned, “This is priceless! Zhouzhou personally made it after all! Most people never get to taste a cake made by their lover who spent a whole week learning just for them, filled with love!”

Shi Zhou immediately shook his head. “It’s not for a lover!”

The owner just smiled knowingly, as if he were being shy or secretive. She then pulled out a tiny, adorable Q-version doll that looked unmistakably like Qin Yancheng—cold and aloof even in cute form—perfect for cake toppers.

She had made a matching one of Shi Zhou too—long hair, high ponytail, and all. Supporting her OTP in person was bliss.

“Teacher Zhouzhou, after eating the cake, just wash off the frosting and keep these as keychains—a couple set!”

With time running short, Shi Zhou carefully took the cake out of the fridge, arranging the decorations, ribbons, and even a Bluetooth speaker set to play Happy Birthday.

Qin Yancheng went about his day as usual, and Shi Zhou suspected that he didn’t even remember his own birthday.

At least Shi Zhou didn’t have to worry about him skipping dinner because if he had work engagements, he’d call to let Shi Zhou know.

…Wait, why did that sound so couple-like?

The minute hand crept forward.

Shi Zhou spotted Qin Yancheng’s car pulling into the garage.

Not wanting to overwhelm him, Shi Zhou had already dismissed the staff, leaving only Aunt Zhang—who wisely made herself scarce.

Qin Yancheng opened the door—

And was greeted by a riot of colorful streamers and balloons, some smiling, others bearing wishes like “Long Life and Prosperity.”

Before he could react, a shower of confetti exploded into the air!

The birthday song immediately began playing cheerfully as Shi Zhou leapt out from behind the door, shouting—

“QIN YANCHENG! HAPPY BIRTHDAY!”

For once, Qin Yancheng’s expression went completely blank. Confetti dusted his hair and shoulders as he stood frozen.

Even when Shi Zhou reached up to brush the bits off his head, he didn’t react, his face gradually twisting into something complicated—almost dangerous.

He indeed hadn’t expected such a surprise.

Not even the cake rumors during the past couple of days regarding himself and Shi Zhou had tipped him off. He only thought Shi Zhou just happened to be learning to bake cake at this time.

—Qin Yancheng never celebrated his birthday.

Or rather, he loathed the very idea. Not because he found it boring, as others assumed, but because too many unbearable memories were tangled up in that date. Such that he subconsciously avoided and forgot his own birthday.

The cheerful birthday music grated against his nerves, his self-control fraying at the edges. This kind of fraying had actually always been occurring silently, it was just that his logic and control had the upper hand when he was sober, allowing him to appear as a normal person.

But now, rage and madness, usually locked away, surged violently. He wanted to smash everything—to—

No. That would scare Shi Zhou. That would make Shi Zhou angry.

This was all Shi Zhou’s effort—the decorations, the cake, clearly handmade and lopsided.

Qin Yancheng bit down hard on his tongue, the taste of blood sharpening his focus. It reminded him to maintain his mask of calmness.

He closed his eyes, lips pressed tightly together.

Shi Zhou tilted his head. “What’s wrong? Feeling sick?”

Qin Yancheng looked pale, his whole body tense as if he was suppressing or enduring something. He neither appeared to be moved nor startled by the surprise but rather—self-loathing?

“Hey! Qin Yancheng, what’s up with you?”

“…I don’t celebrate my birthday,” Ain Yancheng admitted quietly.

Shi Zhou grinned and slapped his own chest. “No problem! You’ll get used to it! Next year, I’ll make you an even bigger and better cake!”

Qin Yancheng sat down, his control gaining the upper hand, his rigid posture easing slightly. He eyed the lopsided cake and a faint smile tugged at his lips.

Though the sight was breathtaking, Shi Zhou just wanted to muffle him. “Stop laughing! It’s not that ugly! I just threw it together—you’re my taste tester, got it?”

“You will eat my cake, no complaints!”

Qin Yancheng’s smile deepened. He hadn’t expected Shi Zhou to specially learn baking for him. A trace of warmth and sweetness suffused his heart.

He knew Shi Zhou was lazy and not very good with his hands, in addition to impatient and not one for artistic pursuits. But the bad tempered little fox was so thoughtful, placing such importance on a date he himself avoided like the plague—putting effort into the decorations and even personally baking a cake.

Qin Yancheng lowered his eyes. “Thank you, Shi Zhou.”

Maybe this was a start—a step away from the shadows of the past that still imprisoned him.

The table was laden with dishes prepared by a Michelin-starred chef, complete with elegant candlesticks. Shi Zhou scratched his head sheepishly.

“Don’t thank me! I told you, you’re just my guinea pig! Now light the candles and make a wish!”

The lights dimmed, leaving only the flickering candlelight—warm, alive, like a lifeline in the dark. Injecting color into his dark and lifeless world, causing warmth to run through his veins.

Qin Yancheng quietly watched Shi Zhou’s face glow in the soft light, his eyes which always resembled a sea of stars reflecting the flames as he grinned. “Make a wish!”

“I’ll make one too—Qin Yancheng, I hope you stay healthy, live a long life, and find happiness every day.”

Unlike pretty but hollow toasts, Shi Zhou’s words were earnest, almost solemn.

—Qin Yancheng, I hope you defy fate, rewrite the ending, and live on.

His gaze burned with hope.

Qin Yancheng’s fingers resting in the table twitched imperceptibly. He looked away, heartbeat unsteady and fast but his face carefully blank.

Shi Zhou began to sing Happy Birthday. Qin Yancheng blew out the candles, silently making a wish.

As the lights returned, Shi Zhou removed the two unmistakable topper dolls, snapping a photo of the now-plain cake to infuriate the antis.

After washing off the frosting, he pocketed his own doll keychain—regardless of what Qin Yancheng did with his. In any case, he was keeping his doll for a keychain.

Qin Yancheng watched Shi Zhou attach the keychain, then calmly took the grinning, ponytailed Shi Zhou doll.

“Hey! That’s mine!”

Qin Yancheng arched a brow. “Isn’t this for me?”

Shi Zhou paused. The bakery owner had said “chibi Zhouzhou is for President Qin~”—but he’d never admitted who the cake was for, let alone agreed to swap!

Qin Yancheng had already pocketed it, expression unchanging.

Resigned, Shi Zhou kept the chibi Qin Yancheng, grumbling internally—Who wants your icy chibi-version anyway? So ugly!

Cutting into his labor of love, Shi Zhou’s mind wandered back to Runaway Airship’s masterpiece and what would follow after—

After eating the aphrodisiac-laced cake, they’d share wine, then—passion! A shared bath that included some underwater adventures, then back to land for more—

But reality intruded as he took a bite of his own cake—

Holy shit, this is terrible.

Dry, dense, scratchy, and cloyingly sweet—like he’d murdered a sugar merchant and dumped the entire stock into the batter.

Yet Qin Yancheng ate it without complaint, calm and composed. Definitely an excellent eater.

Shi Zhou coughed, embarrassed. “Uh… You don’t have to finish it, just a taste is enough. Let’s just eat the real food.”

With Qin Yancheng’s stomach issues, this abomination might actually kill him. Even Shi Zhou himself was unwilling to eat a second bite, it was that awful.

But Qin Yancheng kept eating, as if determined not to waste Shi Zhou’s “masterpiece.”

At this time the doorbell rang. Not long later, Aunt Zhang returned with a box of cake and confusion on her face. “Mr. Qin, there was no one at the gate—just this cake with a card—”

Qin Yancheng took the card—and his expression changed drastically, practically icing over.

“Throw it away.”

He even got up to wash his hands immediately, as if the card were contaminated, ordering Aunt Zhang to do the same.

Shi Zhou blinked in bewilderment. Qin Yancheng’s reaction was way too extreme. Just how much must he hate that person? He’s never been the melodramatic or exaggerated type—this was really out of character.

The cake looked exquisitely crafted, with Oreo crumbs coating the sides of the creamy white mousse, a starry mirror glaze on top, and a sweet chocolate cake base at the bottom.

Ever since learning how to make cakes himself, Shi Zhou had developed an appreciation for such skilled craftsmanship. He couldn’t help but marvel, “This must be from a professional bakery, right? It’s so beautiful—must’ve been complicated to make… Hey, Qin Yancheng, don’t throw it away! It’s such a waste—at least try a bite?”

Qin Yancheng’s expression remained icy, his jaw tense. After a moment, he said coldly, “No. Aunt Zhang, throw it out.”

Shi Zhou protested, “Then I’ll have some.”

His own cake was practically inedible—so awful that while he felt slightly ashamed comparing it to this masterpiece, he was mostly just… craving.

“If you want cake, I’ll buy you one. Don’t eat her creations,” Qin Yancheng said firmly. He knew this wasn’t store-bought.

Zeng Yan had made the exact same cake again.

Four years ago, on this very day, there had been an identical cake. Perhaps clinging to the last shreds of warmth in his memories and his innate longing for maternal love, Qin Yancheng had truly believed she could change—that she genuinely regretted her past atrocities.

But the price of that misjudgment had nearly been his life.

Aunt Zhang had no choice but to dispose of the cake. Shi Zhou harrumphed but ultimately let it go, switching back to his main account to troll the antis.

The birthday celebration had been nearly perfect—except for the fact that, in the middle of the night, Shi Zhou groggily heard Qin Yancheng apparently suffering from food poisoning courtesy of his “love-filled” cake, getting up to search for stomach medicine.

Everything else had gone smoothly—but who could’ve predicted that the very next morning, Shi Zhou would once again become the internet’s favorite punching bag?

Some shameless paparazzo had apparently staked out Qin Yancheng’s house on his birthday and captured the entire scene of Aunt Zhang tossing out the “mystery cake.”

[Look at this clown still bragging about his cake on Weibo when President Qin’s housekeeper threw it in the trash!]

[LMAOOO I’ve never seen someone get humiliated this fast—hahahaha so embarrassing, this is hilarious!]

[That cake is so ugly even dogs wouldn’t eat it! And he actually thought he could seduce our President Qin with that? *vomits*]

[Not just ugly—it looks disgusting. A dog would puke if it ate that! Poor doggos don’t deserve this!]

[I’m wheezing—this just gets funnier the more you look at it, especially comparing Shi Zhou’s Weibo post with the pics of the cake in the trash. I’ll be laughing about this for a year.]

[@Shi Zhou, how’s that face slap feel? So embarrassing—you deserve it!]

Shi Zhou just wanted to roll his eyes so hard they’d get stuck. Why are you all so obsessed with seeing me humiliated? Go dig through the trash yourselves—if I could make cakes that pretty, I’d have switched careers to baking already!

Oh please—your so-called “dog food cake” was devoured by your precious idol!

But no matter what he thought, the reality was that netizens were already gleefully circulating side-by-side comparisons of his Weibo post and the photos of the discarded cake, mocking him relentlessly. And there wasn’t much he could do about it.

He’d genuinely just wanted to make a cake for Qin Yancheng’s birthday—not for clout, and certainly not to keep milking their ship for attention.

He’d never even publicly stated the cake was for Qin Yancheng in the first place, so now he had no choice but to endure the humiliation silently.

Shi Zhou rarely swallowed his pride, but as he irritably scrolled through the torrent of ridicule, trying to figure out how to clap back at these idiots more subtly—

Qin Yancheng stunned everyone yet again by suddenly posting on Weibo:

A simple caption—[Very sweet cake.]—accompanied by a photo.

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

But this picture was slightly different from the one Shi Zhou had posted—

Because clearly visible on the cake were those two unmistakably matching chibi-version dolls!

AN: Netizens: Being Shi Zhou’s anti is just asking for repeated face-slaps—it never ends well.

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Since Shi Zhou’s subtle endorsement of the “ChengZhou” ship in front of the media, Qin Yancheng’s fans—egged on by professional anti-fans—had been relentlessly mocking him, eagerly waiting for the faceslapping to occur and for him to be put in his place.

But two whole days passed, and Shi Zhou continued business as usual—not only unpunished but increasingly visible in the public eye, his career seemingly on an upward trajectory. There was no sign of the expected faceslap or humiliation.

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

As the ship’s fanbase grew, Qin Yancheng’s fans grew restless:

[Does President Qin not check Weibo? Does he seriously not know some shameless little bitch is riding his coattails?]

[He’s got assistants and secretaries—someone must’ve told him by now. His name’s literally in the trending tags!]

[Maybe President Qin is just too magnanimous to bother with a nobody like him. Anyone with half a brain knows the ship is fake.]

[If there’s even a sliver of truth to this ship, I’ll livestream eating shit upside down!]

Meanwhile, Shi Zhou had been locked in an epic battle with cake-making. He’d burned countless cake bases, undercooked or collapsed even more, and even managed to explode one, coating the entire oven in sticky batter. Aunt Zhang had seriously considered whether they needed a new oven.

Shi Zhou wasn’t a patient person by nature, and two days of failure had him on the verge of a meltdown. But his stubborn competitive streak kept him going—he had to make a decent cake.

Since this was meant to be a surprise birthday gift for Qin Yancheng, he naturally had to keep it under wraps.

So Qin Yancheng kept catching whiffs of a strange mix of sweetness and burnt odor from the kitchen, while Aunt Zhang innocently shrugged, claiming she had no idea where it was coming from.

Qin Yancheng sighed at Shi Zhou. “I told you—you’re banned from the kitchen.”

—And for good reason. Shi Zhou had long since earned his title of Kitchen Menace.

Once, after seeing Qin Yancheng cook, he’d stubbornly tried making scrambled eggs with tomatoes—only to set the pan on fire. In his panic, he’d grabbed a small fire extinguisher and sprayed it everywhere, leaving himself and the kitchen covered in foam.

Another time, attempting stir-fried cabbage, he’d forgotten to turn on the exhaust fan, filling the entire first floor with smoke. Qin Yancheng had come home to what looked like a house fire.

After countless such incidents, Qin Yancheng had finally issued a decree: Shi Zhou was not to enter the kitchen.

Shi Zhou huffed. “I didn’t go into the kitchen! That burnt smell is all in your head!”

Qin Yancheng could only sigh, wondering what bizarre experiment Shi Zhou was conducting now.

“Keep an eye on him,” he told Aunt Zhang. “If he wants something to eat, you make it for him. Or just order takeout. It’s too dangerous letting him near the stove.”

Aunt Zhang, sworn to secrecy about the surprise, nodded obediently. Thankfully, Qin Yancheng rarely pressed for details.

Later, she quietly suggested to Shi Zhou, “Mr. Shi, maybe you should take a class at a bakery—maybe the online recipes are just bad?”

Shi Zhou glared at his latest disaster—a cake base so deformed it looked like it had been through a war. He scooped up a spoonful and shoved it into his mouth… Blech!

Not only ugly, but disgusting. He chugged half a glass of water to wash it down before lamenting, “Great minds think alike! It has to be the recipe’s fault—no way someone as brilliant as me could fail this hard!”

Shi Zhou chose a popular bakery that just felt right. After explaining his mission and paying for lessons, he even bought small gifts for the staff. They were pleasantly surprised—Shi Zhou was funnier and more down-to-earth in person, not to mention even more handsome than on-screen.

Who wouldn’t adore a charming, good-looking guy? Shi Zhou quickly won over the entire bakery staff.

And the question of who the cake was for became the shop’s hottest gossip.

Despite Shi Zhou’s pleas for secrecy, whispers spread like wildfire—

“I’ll only tell you—don’t spread it around, but Shi Zhou is…”

Or outright posts like: “Shi Zhou is learning to bake at our shop! OMG, he’s even hotter in person—so cool yet adorable! Instant fan. Who’s the lucky one getting his cake?!”

Shi Zhou had overestimated their ability to keep secrets—and underestimated his own star power.

The news exploded.

Anti-fans who’d been lying in wait for days, hoping to see Shi Zhou humiliated, were furious to hear he was happily baking cakes instead. The more they saw of him, the more irritated they became.

Combined with the original host’s long list of enemies and rival studios buying trolls to stir the pot—everyone knew Qin Yancheng’s birthday was coming up. Baking a cake now? Either he was deliberately baiting shippers or planning some shameless, green tea-dripping gesture to win Qin Yancheng over. Either way, it was disgusting. (TN: green tea: someone who is fake, manipulative and calculating).

Qin Yancheng’s fans, already riled up, couldn’t stay silent. No one had ever dared to force a ship with Qin Yancheng so blatantly.

Shi Zhou’s long-standing anti-fan army went ballistic, their rage spilling over into unchecked vitriol:

[Look at his trash-tier acting—a coma patient has more expression than him.]

[Heard he’s an orphan—explains why he’s so shameless and ill-mannered.]

[That long hair makes me sick. Trying so hard to be ~unique~, huh? Looks like a genderless freak.]

[SHI ZHOU, GET OUT OF THE INDUSTRY! Still no explanation for that shady history with Qixing’s Zheng Qi? Found a new sugar daddy already? Can’t stand on your own two feet without a man? PATHETIC.]

Reading these hateful comments—clearly from people projecting their miserable lives onto him—Shi Zhou just wanted to roll his eyes so hard they’d detach. Even his usual “don’t argue with idiots” attitude was fraying. He ached to scream “FUCK YOU” and slap each and every one of them through the screen.

Fine. If they wanted to play dirty, he’d fight fire with fire. Hiding behind anonymity to spew venom? Well, he’d make sure they choked on it.

With professional guidance, Shi Zhou finally produced a semi-presentable cake. He quickly posted a photo of it with the perfect caption to piss off the haters:

[Teehee~ Getting better at baking!]

There was no doubt that what would follow would be a wave of crazy backlash.

After all, rumors of “Shi Zhou learning to bake” were one thing—him confirming it during this firestorm? That was a direct provocation.

Anti-fans lost it, puffing up like stepped-on pufferfish, screeching even louder and even dragging his ancestors from eighteen generations back into the mud.

Shi Zhou logged off after posting—no point reading the hate. He switched to his alternate account, “Runaway Airship,” where the comments were actually fun.

On weekdays, his evening activities were checking his phone, reading comments, and entertainment gossip. Now, because he didn’t want to check Weibo, he had turned to playing games or writing smut.

Normally, Qin Yancheng would find Shi Zhou curled up on the couch like a little fox, giggling at his phone. Now, he was silently gaming, sipping fresh juice Aunt Zhang had made. Although he was very well taken care of, instinct still let Qin Yancheng know that he might not be very happy or that he had encountered something troubling.

Qin Yancheng checked Weibo—and his frown deepened at the flood of vicious comments. No wonder Shi Zhou had stopped browsing.

As antis kept howling, Qin Yancheng’s fans, convinced they were defending their idol’s honor, were mid-rant when—

Qin Yancheng’s official account followed Shi Zhou.

People rubbed their eyes, refreshing repeatedly.

[Wait… what? President Qin followed Shi Zhou?]

[AHHHH! DOUBLE FANDOM EUPHORIA! SAY IT WITH ME: CHENGZHOU IS REAL!]

[Bullshit! It’s fake! Maybe President Qin just wants to keep tabs on Shi Zhou’s antics.]

[Ooh, I can analyze this! President Qin’s basically saying: “I’ve seen your little stunt. That’s enough—don’t push your luck.”]

[Agreed.]

Most sided with the “warning” interpretation, cheering Qin Yancheng for putting Shi Zhou in his place. Believing they could now verbally abuse Shi Zhou even more with President Qin’s official stamp of approval.

But just as the fastest typers were gearing up for another round of bashing—

Qin Yancheng didn’t just follow Shi Zhou.

He commented under the cake photo: “Good progress.”

And posted a standalone message: “That’s enough.”

Everyone froze.

Taken alone, the message could be read as Qin Yancheng telling Shi Zhou to back off. But paired with the comment? It sounded more like a rebuke to the trolls.

Qin Yancheng’s wording was deliberately ambiguous—avoiding outright confirmation of any relationship (to shield Shi Zhou from gold-digger accusations) while implying he’d been paying attention to Shi Zhou all along.

The “that’s enough” suddenly felt much broader. Everyone could only stop for the time being, but when they came to their senses, they felt indignant.

[Maybe it was Secretary Bai who posted this? She’s usually the one managing the account.]

[Right, this might not be from President Qin himself.]

But such self-deceiving arguments couldn’t hold water. While Secretary Bai Ran typically managed the account for business promotions and reposting major announcements from Qin Corporation, only Qin Yancheng would be this terse and cold in tone. Just reading those few words, one could practically envision his indifferent expression.

Moreover, the phone model used for Qin Yancheng’s personal posts was different, and unlike Bai Ran—who always signed off with a “Bai” to distinguish her posts—there was no such marker here.

Onlookers who had been following the drama were stunned. Though the exact nature of Qin Yancheng and Shi Zhou’s relationship remained a mystery, one thing was certain: Qin Yancheng was undeniably defending Shi Zhou.

Shi Zhou’s legion of anti-fans, who had been eagerly awaiting his long-anticipated humiliation, instead found themselves brutally slapped in the face by Qin Yancheng.

But there was nothing they could do except stare helplessly.

—Any further attempts to stir the pot or muddy the waters were futile. After all, Qin Yancheng’s own fans could now at least confirm that Shi Zhou and Qin Yancheng were definitely on good terms, and that Shi Zhou wasn’t some random clout-chaser forcing a connection.

The simple words—”That’s enough.”—loomed large. Everyone quietly shut their mouths, some even stealthily deleting their nastier comments. Only the slowest trolls and paid antis were left awkwardly stranded, their hateful remarks now painfully exposed.

In stark contrast to the antis’ fury and misery, the shippers were ecstatic—as if celebrating the New Year.

[Zhouzhou made a cake himself? 100% for President Qin!]

[President Qin personally shutting down the haters? HUSBAND MATERIAL!]

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

[IT’S NEW YEAR’S! SWEETER THAN THE NEW YEAR’S! OUR SHIP MIGHT BE REAL?!]

[Hey, isn’t Airship Madam writing a fic about birthday cake, aphrodisiacs, and ahem? WRITE FASTER, WE NEED FOOD!]

[Also, whoever said they’d “eat shit upside down if this ship had any truth to it”—how’s that face slap feeling? LIVESTREAM WHEN?]

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Shi Zhou stood at the entrance like he’d been struck by lightning, staring at the trending Weibo list. His brain was filled with a chorus of little versions of himself screaming—all with the expression of The Scream painting.

—Yesterday, Qin Yancheng caught him writing smut fanfiction. And today, he just ambiguously smiled and nodded to confirm the “ChengZhou ship”? As one of the supposed parties, he actually had the guts to publicly fan the flames of their fake relationship himself?

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

He was done for. Dead. Toast. Looking back now, maybe Qin Yancheng got nauseous yesterday because he read that filthy fic. And now, pulling this kind of stunt the day after… Did he have any dignity left in Qin Yancheng’s eyes?

Qin Yancheng was sitting in the living room on a work call. Hearing the door close, he looked back at Shi Zhou, said a few more things, then hung up.

His tone was calm and detached as always. “Why are you standing there? Come eat dinner.”

Shi Zhou bit his lip, nodded, washed his hands, and then sat down at the dining table like he was heading for execution.

Qin Yancheng didn’t seem to know he’d just been forcibly shipped online. He quietly sipped his porridge in that usual, elegant way. Meanwhile, Shi Zhou felt like he was having his last meal. After all, he had written explicit fanfiction about the guy. And now this massive misunderstanding? He, once so brash, now shrank like a scared little quail, eyes down, completely subdued.

Dinner used to be lively. Shi Zhou was a chatterbox who could yap nonstop with anyone. Even if Qin Yancheng only occasionally hummed in response, Shi Zhou could still carry a conversation all by himself—and sometimes even coax a rare smile out of him.

But today’s dinner felt like a funeral. A silent mourning for someone who had no media experience and had foolishly smiled and nodded his way into scandal.

Qin Yancheng put down his spoon and said slowly, “I saw the video.”

Shi Zhou’s hand trembled, and a chunk of braised pork fell back into his bowl.

Trying to act cool, he replied, “Ah, you’re pretty well-informed…”

There was a brand-new phone identical to Qin Yancheng’s on the table. Shi Zhou had hoped he was the kind of boring guy who didn’t read gossip or Weibo—figured he’d at least be delayed in hearing the news.

Qin Yancheng saw right through him and asked, exasperated, “Do you think I just stare into space when I’m not working?”

While he usually stuck to current affairs, ever since this little whirlwind from the entertainment industry entered his life, he’d occasionally check up on his antics online. Just to see if he’d gotten himself into more trouble.

Unlike Qin Yancheng, who took the whole thing with detached amusement, his fans were already exploding:

[What the hell! Shi Zhou really has some nerve. Latching onto someone else’s popularity without shame.]

[This is like someone loudly claiming to be the hunter in Werewolf—just stupid and doomed. Waiting for karma.]

[I bet he’ll be groveling in an apology within two days.]

[That’s not enough—I bet President Qin will kick this shameless loser out of the industry.]

Shi Zhou gave a dry “oh,” waiting for Qin Yancheng’s reaction. But the man seemed to have nothing more to say.

After a long silence, Shi Zhou could only lower his head and admit fault. “I was wrong. I shouldn’t have nodded. I swear I wasn’t trying to use you for clout… I’ll post a clarification after dinner. I’m sorry.”

He knew full well that if he clarified now, after gaining attention, it would only look worse—like he intentionally stirred hype and then tried to backtrack. Not only would Qin Yancheng’s fans mock him mercilessly, but even his own tiny fanbase—those who’d defended him—would feel betrayed. A betrayal like that? It would be devastating.

Shi Zhou had few fans to begin with, and his public image was already bad. This incident would just make things worse.

Still, he had to take responsibility for his actions. He had a mental draft of the apology post ready, and planned to run it by his cheap manager before posting.

Then Qin Yancheng tapped his finger on the marble table, recalling how Shi Zhou had cared for him the day before. After a pause, he said, “Don’t make that mistake again. But today, you didn’t confirm anything directly—no need to clarify. Just let it cool down.”

Shi Zhou blinked. He hadn’t expected Qin Yancheng to be so… understanding. Immediately, he perked up. “Awesome! Qin sir, you’re so generous! Should I pledge my undying love to repay you?”

He was used to cracking flirty jokes, so the words just slipped out. But then he remembered—wait, the smut fanfic thing hasn’t been resolved yet! Why hasn’t Qin Yancheng brought it up? Did he accept it? Or was he so sick yesterday that he forgot?

If he forgot, great! That night, Shi Zhou continued typing away on his “masterpiece.” The few chapters he’d posted last night unexpectedly drew in a crowd of excited readers. His bold move at the press conference had only grown the “ChengZhou ship” fandom, who now had enough confidence to fight off anyone who doubted them.

Seeing the joyful reactions, Shi Zhou sincerely appreciated Qin Yancheng’s tolerance. If he’d posted a clarification now, things would’ve turned ugly real quick.

His comments were flooded with flowers and requests for updates. He posted another few thousand words, then checked his DMs—someone called him “Airship Madam” and asked if he’d write an ABO version of the story for extra spice.

ABO? That was unfamiliar territory. Curious, Shi Zhou checked out the infamous “Flower Market” website everyone mentioned. After skimming a few chapters, he was confused, so he researched more thoroughly.

Suddenly, everything clicked: Damn. People really know how to play these days! Such vivid imagination!

Inspired, he dashed out 2–3k words, getting more and more excited as he wrote. Eventually, he closed his laptop and glanced at his phone’s calendar—only a week left until Qin Yancheng’s birthday.

The supposedly big deal reality show he’d signed up for started three days after the birthday—just enough time. Since he owed Qin Yancheng a mountain of favors, Shi Zhou decided to throw him a big birthday celebration. After all, Aunt Zhang said Qin Yancheng never celebrated his birthday. Probably thought it was boring and hated the empty flattery that came with parties.

Shi Zhou slapped his chest and vowed: This young master will show him what real birthday joy looks like!

He had a week to plan, but the question of what gift to give was already tricky.

Qin Yancheng was too rich. Anything expensive would seem average to him. And Shi Zhou, though he’d picked up some ad gigs recently, was still broke after basic expenses. His star status was still too low, and he couldn’t afford luxury.

After pondering a bit, he decided to turn to the internet for help.

—@RunawayAirship:
[If I want to give someone a birthday gift, what should I give?]

He added some basic context: [Male, turning 27 soon, I don’t know what his hobbies are either.]

Responses came quickly:

[Omg! Is it your boyfriend, Airship Madam?]

[If you can’t think of anything, conquer him with money—just buy something expensive. At least it shows your attitude.]

[+1, agree with the one above.]

[+1, me too.]

[Go big—five figures minimum. He’ll love it no matter what.]

[Even better if it’s six figures.]

Shi Zhou added more context:

—@RunawayAirship:

[He’s super rich. I can’t conquer him with money.]

[Besides work, he has no hobbies. Personality is super boring.]

[Only guess is maybe he likes sports cars. His garage is full. But I can’t afford that either.]

After posting, the thread went quiet for a moment.

Then someone cautiously said:

[Wait, this sounds…familiar.]

[Yeah…]

[27, filthy rich, cold personality…]

[Even I, a casual lurker, know who this is. Isn’t that Qin Yancheng?!]

Shi Zhou: ………?

Time from “posting” to “being exposed”: less than ten minutes? What??

As more people connected the dots, Shi Zhou panicked. Crap, crap! This throwaway question might’ve accidentally exposed that someone’s living in Qin Yancheng’s house?!

Luckily, when people clicked on his profile and saw him posting ChengZhou fanfiction, they redirected:

[Ohhh, the OP writes ship fics. Got it. This is just for inspiration, huh?]

[So the real question is: “What birthday gift should Zhouzhou give President Qin that’s the sweetest and spiciest?”]

[Nice question! I’m following your fic, Airship Madam! Let’s brainstorm together!]

However, the comments quickly devolved:

[I suggest a box of condoms—gift-wrapped with a soft, sweet Zhouzhou inside.]

[Or book a kinky hotel for three whole days and nights.]

[Yes! A deluxe adult toy bundle!]

Shi Zhou’s mouth twitched. He quickly replied. “I’m being serious here!” But he couldn’t blame them—they were just like him. Smut writers attracting smutty readers.

After much chaotic debate, Shi Zhou eliminated gifts like watches, ties, and cufflinks, and filtered out all the raunchy options. Eventually, his eyes landed on one suggestion: “Bake a cake yourself.”

He smacked his forehead. That’s it! Sure, anyone else would say that with Shi Zhou’s cooking skills, the best-case scenario would be “not burning the house down.” The worst? Poisoning Qin Yancheng. But Shi Zhou was confident! With a good scale, timer, and a step-by-step guide, how could a genius like him fail?

Once he announced “cake” was the winner, the netizens got hyped again:

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

[Put something special in the cake, wink wink~]

[Yes! Drug the cake! Let’s go, Madam! Pen to paper!]

[Totally agree. A cake full of “love”!]

Shi Zhou tilted his head, staring at the screen, thinking: In real life, it’ll be a normal cake… but in the fic? Definitely adding that in. Spicy plot unlocked!

AN: Baby, go wild. If your identity ever gets revealed, everyone might just assume those fics were autobiographical~

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The next second, Shi Zhou leaped up and swiftly blocked the screen, flipping it shut with a dramatic flair—the coolest move of his life.

“I was just writing randomly! I just… didn’t want to bother naming the characters, so I borrowed some names. I mean, Word has a find-and-replace function, so…” Shi Zhou stammered, his toes curling in embarrassment so hard they could’ve torn up the plush carpet beneath him—if not for its high quality, he might’ve ripped out a few tufts.

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

After a few seconds of frantic toe-scrunching, he suddenly realized he was barefoot, and every mortified twitch was on full display.

Shi Zhou: …Fuck.

Qin Yancheng frowned slightly. He had only glanced at the screen reflexively.

His blood sugar was crashing, his vision swimming with dizziness and black spots, making it impossible to actually read anything.

But Shi Zhou’s flustered, defensive posture—like a little fox hiding behind its tail—radiated a warmth and liveliness that was both ridiculous and strangely comforting. Somehow, it soothed the inexplicable, simmering rage in Qin Yancheng’s chest.

He took a deep breath, shifting his focus from Zeng Yan and unauthorized IV drips—two things that would have normally sent him into a fury—to a new question—just what the hell did Shi Zhou write to make him this embarrassed?

Shi Zhou’s ears burned red. He stared down at his toes, which wiggled awkwardly as if waving hello.

The silence stretched on. Just as Shi Zhou began to fear he’d be thrown out—along with his laptop—or suffer the same fate as that unfortunate phone smashed against the wall, Qin Yancheng suddenly coughed violently before rushing to the bathroom, retching uncontrollably.

Shi Zhou abandoned his humiliation and hurried after him, patting his back. “What’s wrong? Stomach pain?”

Qin Yancheng shook his head, gesturing for him to leave.

“Should I call the doctor again?”

—This was exactly the wrong thing to say.

At the word doctor, Qin Yancheng also caught sight of the blood and needle marks on the back of his hand and immediately gagged harder, his whole body trembling as he dry-heaved.

He hadn’t eaten all day, and even though he had vomited out gastric juice and bile, he still couldn’t stop dry heaving, and his whole body was trembling slightly.

Shi Zhou thought this might be anger-induced and decided silence was best. After a while, Qin Yancheng rinsed his mouth and leaned heavily against the sink, his voice hoarse.

“Don’t overreact… No more doctors… If you can’t move me, just… leave me.”

Shi Zhou wondered if he was delirious again—until Qin Yancheng swayed and collapsed forward.

Shi Zhou barely caught him this time, thankfully avoiding a repeat of their first meeting. Now he understood Qin Yancheng’s earlier muttering.

But how could he not overreact? A grown man just fainted, and he wasn’t even allowed to call a doctor?

Qin Yancheng must have been too exhausted and distracted earlier to throw a tantrum. But the IV stand in the bedroom had already been knocked over, the needle yanked out violently. If Shi Zhou pushed his luck, he’d end up like that shattered bag of medicine on the floor.

Assuming this was another blood sugar crash, Shi Zhou found some candy and fed it to him. Despite Qin Yancheng’s insistence on being left alone, Shi Zhou couldn’t just abandon him. He half-dragged, half-carried him back to bed, cleaning the blood from his hand.

Staring at Qin Yancheng’s pale, beautiful face even while unconscious, Shi Zhou couldn’t understand what could twist a person like this—why he refused treatment when it could help him.

Was his body, his health, his life really worth so little?

If Shi Zhou hadn’t been here, would Qin Yancheng have just endured the fever alone? Collapsed on the cold floor, waiting for sheer survival instinct to wake him up?

—Idiot.

Shi Zhou cursed under his breath.

White Moonlight, get your shit together! Fight your damn fate!

The next morning, Shi Zhou got ready for Qixing Entertainment’s annual gala. Over breakfast, he asked Aunt Zhang, “Is Qin Yancheng feeling better today?”

Aunt Zhang set down a plate of pasta. “Mr. Qin already left for the office.”

“What? He’s still sick! Did he at least eat breakfast?”

Aunt Zhang nodded. “His fever’s gone, and his complexion is… passable?”

Qin Yancheng had always been like this—Aunt Zhang was used to it.

Youth and a strong constitution let him push himself like this, but if he didn’t change soon, his body would give out.

Shi Zhou spotted a note on the table: “Call the driver if you need a ride.”

Qin Yancheng’s handwriting was elegant yet sharp—much like the man himself.

Why not just text the number? Oh, right. He’d smashed his phone yesterday in a rage.

The driver dropped Shi Zhou off at the hotel, where paparazzi were already camped outside. The moment he stepped out, cameras flashed wildly.

As a rising star who’d just trended overnight, Shi Zhou was prime tabloid fodder. Big-name celebrities had been photographed and interviewed to death, but someone like him? Fresh meat.

Dazzled by the flashes, Shi Zhou couldn’t make out any questions. Not wanting to seem arrogant, he randomly picked a young female reporter with a sweet face, smiled, and nodded.

The reporter froze, seemingly stunned by his smile—before suddenly beaming back, her eyes crinkling with delight.

Shi Zhou blinked. What’s with that reaction? When was he this irresistible?

Before he could ponder it, he was herded inside.

The top-floor banquet hall was packed with champagne towers, chocolate fountains, and endless delicacies. Shi Zhou happily nibbled on a cake, thinking, this beats rotting at home.

After the Jiang Song incident, whispers about Shi Zhou’s “mysterious backer” had spread. Unsure whether he was a paper tiger or the real deal, no one dared provoke him today.

As for the speeches and corporate grandstanding on stage? Shi Zhou couldn’t care less.

He was happily crafting the most absurdly shaped ice cream when someone called his name. Turning, he saw Zheng Qi—dressed in a sharp suit, fresh off his speech—standing behind him.

Shi Zhou took a bite of ice cream and warily stepped back. Is he about to beat me up while Qin Yancheng’s not here?

To his surprise, Zheng Qi looked devastated, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears. He sighed and said slowly, “Shi Zhou, since you left, I’ve thought a lot about our past… about all the time we spent together.”

His sincerity seemed genuine. As the male lead, Zheng Qi had the looks to match—his handsome features shadowed with regret, appearing deeply affectionate and remorseful. It indeed could inspire feelings of forgiveness in a lesser man.

Shi Zhou let out a bewildered “Ah?”—this kind of script wasn’t unfamiliar to him. The trope of the scumbag gong having an epiphany after the stand-in leaves, realizing the stand-in was his true love all along, pining day and night until finally winning them back for a happy ending…

But this wasn’t realistic!

The last time they met, Zheng Qi had practically wanted to kill him. Had he been body-snatched or possessed? Since when did the script change? But that wasn’t the important part—the real issue was—

He’d read these lines before! This was what Zheng Qi was supposed to say to Song Duannian during the “crematorium arc” later in the novel!

Shi Zhou blinked and tentatively asked, “Wait… are you saying you’ve fallen for me?”

Zheng Qi lowered his head slightly and nodded, his voice solemn. “It took me too long to realize how good you are, to finally understand that it’s always been you in my heart. Shi Zhou, I can’t live without you.”

Shi Zhou’s eyes widened in exaggerated shock. He covered his mouth as if he’d just heard the words he’d been longing for all his life, on the verge of happy tears.

Zheng Qi watched him, barely suppressing his delight. It seemed Qixing Entertainment’s future could still be salvaged after all. If he could move Shi Zhou, he might just manage a roundabout way to get Qin Yancheng to show mercy—

Shi Zhou gasped dramatically. “Oh my god, what a coincidence! You’ve got great taste—I love me too!”

Zheng Qi: “……?”

Shi Zhou’s face remained the picture of blissful sincerity—the turnaround was so fast that Zheng Qi actually wondered if he’d misheard.

But clearly not, because Shi Zhou’s expression dropped in an instant, and he turned away indifferently to go back to scooping his ice cream.

Realizing he’d been played, Zheng Qi nearly lost his temper—but then he remembered how Qixing had finally made a qualitative leap this year, rising from a mid-tier entertainment company to doubling its assets, with a bright future ahead. How could he let all his years of hard work be casually destroyed by Qin Yancheng?

Suppressing his anger, Zheng Qi lowered his voice into a tender murmur. “Zhou’er, I know you can’t forgive me right away. I know you hate me—it’s all my fault. But I truly love you. If I could, I’d cut out my heart to show you—it’s completely filled with you.”

He delivered the lines with such sincerity and seriousness that he absolutely deserved an honorary Oscar for Best Actor on the Run.

Unfortunately, Shi Zhou had read these lines before too—they were originally meant for Song Duannian. Now, with the pronouns swapped and even a cringey nickname slapped on him, all Shi Zhou could think was “I’m not oily, the heavens made me this way,” as if Zheng Qi was radiating a greasy aura from head to toe.

—With skin that thick, you wouldn’t even need oil to fry him. Just coat him in breadcrumbs and you’d have a whole plate of pork rinds—enough to make the neighbor’s kid puke.

Suddenly, the vanilla ice cream in his hand didn’t taste so good anymore. Shi Zhou wolfed down the last two bites and turned to leave, needing a cigarette to calm his nerves.

Thankfully, Zheng Qi had enough sense not to chase after him and continue oozing grease.

Leaning lazily against the bathroom wall, cigarette in hand, Shi Zhou coincidentally ran into another “acquaintance”—Song Duannian, who must have come with Zheng Qi.

The moment their eyes met, Song Duannian’s expression stiffened. He pretended not to see Shi Zhou, lowering his head to wash his hands.

After a moment’s thought, Shi Zhou took a drag and said in a carefree tone, “Song Duannian, I once had a dream…”

What followed was essentially the original novel’s plot progression. Given Zheng Qi’s personality, this kind of soap-opera-level melodrama wasn’t just plausible—it felt almost inevitable.

The faucet’s water trickled steadily as Song Duannian silently cupped his hands under the stream, not saying a word.

Shi Zhou knew he was listening, but he had no idea how much was actually sinking in. A gut feeling told him—Song Duannian’s gentle nature wouldn’t hold up against Zheng Qi’s relentless pressure. In the end, he’d probably still walk the same old path.

Shi Zhou sighed. He really was a meddler—wanting to spare Song Duannian the humiliation and suffering ahead, wanting Qin Yancheng to live a healthy life—but why were they all so damn stubborn?

By the time the golden-red sunset painted the sky, Shi Zhou had had his fill of fun and was finally driven back. Seeing that Qin Yancheng had already returned from work, he was about to launch into a lecture about his self-destructive habits when his phone buzzed ominously with Weibo notifications.

Swearing up and down that he hadn’t done anything to trend again, Shi Zhou tapped open the app—

A crisp video interview played. A sweet-voiced female reporter asked, “Zhou Zhou, is the ‘ChengZhou’ ship real? Or will it be real in the future?”

Shi Zhou’s heart skipped a beat.

Then, the video showed him looking directly at the camera, smiling faintly—and nodding.

Shi Zhou: “……”

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

God-freaking-dammit!

How the hell did this misunderstanding happen?!

No wonder the reporter had given him that bizarre, delighted grin after his response—

That was the legendary “fujoshi smile”!

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Qin Yancheng and Shi Zhou’s respective fanbases were locked in a chaotic battle over the trending ship hashtag. While fighting it out, they were ironically boosting its popularity even further.

Spotting shippers discreetly “looking for sugar” (TN: moments to support the ship) only made both sides even angrier. “What double the ecstasy?” some fans raged. “This is internal betrayal!”

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

But the shippers argued back with fervor. The ultra-stylish but slightly oversized trench coat Shi Zhou wore on the red carpet—didn’t it look exactly like the one Qin Yancheng had on when they took their seats? How could anyone not get it?

Shi Zhou had returned the coat to Qin Yancheng after the red carpet, borrowing a warm down jacket from backstage instead.

Even though Qin Yancheng’s footage was fleeting and framed to protect privacy, and he had been sitting the entire time so the coat wasn’t fully visible, people still managed to Sherlock Holmes their way into spotting the match and sugar-coating the moment.

Shi Zhou scrolled through Weibo and thought, these people really are Holmes reincarnated. Sharp-eyed and relentless!

The sugar wasn’t even the most shocking part. In some obscure, tucked-away corner of the fandom, he found a fic. A spicy one.

Shi Zhou wasn’t new to erotic stories or smut. But reading one with his own name as a character? That was a whole new level of stimulation. The immersion feels were disturbingly strong.

Of course, the other male lead was Qin Yancheng. Shi Zhou imagined that cold and elegant face, and then—based on the fic—how Qin Yancheng would forcefully press him onto the bed, kiss him roughly, and then…

Having seen Qin Yancheng in a bathrobe far too many times lately—and having clumsily tried to change his clothes during that one drunken night—Shi Zhou had basically seen Qin Yancheng half-naked, and could mentally fill in the gaps for a vivid picture.

He didn’t even know what emotion he finished reading the entire thing with—blushing, short of breath, knees weak. Absolutely overstimulated.

But then, he couldn’t help but sigh and lament that after two lifetimes, he was still a virgin. Not even as bold as the fanfiction version of himself, who could tease, seduce, and ultimately be reduced to sobbing pleas.

God, the more he pondered the weirder it was!

Shi Zhou flung his phone away like it was radiating inappropriate vibes. The term “ChengZhou” was now visually unsafe for him.

Trying to clear his mind of explicit imagery, Shi Zhou decided to get back to work and check the schedule his agent had sent for the upcoming Qixing annual gala.

Whatever the event’s agenda—praise, criticism, pep talks—none of it mattered to him. As a salted fish (slacker), he just wanted an excuse to eat, drink, and be entertained.

Just then, the door to Qin Yancheng’s room clicked open. Shi Zhou looked up and saw his face flushed an alarming red—clearly running a fever.

So that so-called “it’ll be fine after a night’s sleep” low-grade fever had predictably worsened due to a complete lack of care.

Shi Zhou immediately sat up. “You’re burning up.”

Qin Yancheng just croaked out a hoarse “It’s fine,” like Shi Zhou had asked whether he’d eaten, utterly calm and collected.

But Shi Zhou noticed his hand trembling around a glass of water. He took the glass, filled it with warm water, and told him to go lie down. He then checked his forehead and neck.

—Shi Zhou judged that you could probably crack an egg on him and cook it through. Efficient and eco-friendly.

Qin Yancheng, delirious from the fever, lay with eyes closed while Shi Zhou paced around. The thermometer beeped twice.

“Holy crap—thirty-nine degrees?!” Shi Zhou shouted.

Just to be sure the thermometer wasn’t broken, he took his own temperature—36 degrees and change. So it was working fine. No wonder Qin Yancheng was barely lucid.

“Come on, we’re going to the hospital. What if that pretty brain of yours melts?”

Qin Yancheng, barely conscious, only caught the word “hospital” and suddenly opened his eyes, fierce and absolute. “I’m not going!”

Shi Zhou was alarmed not only about the high fever but that it might induce acute illness. “You’re nearly at forty degrees! Are you trying to die?”

Qin Yancheng’s gaze turned dangerous again. “I said I’m not going.”

Shi Zhou could tell he was on the verge of another mental-breakdown-tier outburst. Please don’t lose it like a lunatic again, he silently prayed.

After weighing his options, he said, “Fine, no hospital. But did you take antipyretics? Should I call a doctor to come here?”

Still, Qin Yancheng shook his head. “Leave me alone… cough…”

Resigned, Shi Zhou went downstairs to ask Aunt Zhang for the family doctor’s number—only to discover there was no doctor. The man was so allergic to doctors he didn’t even have one on standby.

So Shi Zhou settled for asking about fever meds. Aunt Zhang handed him some, clearly worried. “Mr. Qin doesn’t like being taken care of when he’s sick. He gets angry.”

She was indeed warning Shi Zhou out of good intentions. Qin Yancheng’s temper was legendary. If he hadn’t shouted someone out of the room already, he was probably holding back.

Aunt Zhabg also knew that Shi Zhou wasn’t a saintly patient soul either. In fact, the both of them might even get into a shouting match.

For the sake of their relationship she warned Shi Zhou.

Naturally, Shi Zhou wasn’t a masochist nor did he want to provoke Qin Yancheng, but considering that the man was scripted to die around this time, he would feel guilty if he just stepped back. So, Shi Zhou still took care of Qin Yancheng, feeding him the meds, sticking children’s fever patches on his forehead, and just doing his best.

Qin Yancheng fought him like he was being poisoned. If not for his weakened state, Shi Zhou wouldn’t have been able to pin him down.

He finally got him to open his mouth and poured in some water—not gently. By the time it was over, Shi Zhou was drenched in sweat.

As he tucked Qin Yancheng in and adjusted the air conditioning, he heard the man muttering through clenched teeth, “I’m not sick… I’m not sick…”

Shi Zhou, knowing that this was fever talk, rolled his eyes. “Sure, sure. You’re perfectly healthy. May you live to a hundred.”

He tiptoed out of the room, muttering bitterly to himself. Why’d he have to be so tall? I couldn’t drag him to a hospital even if I tried. If the fever didn’t go down after a while, he would have to contact a doctor to come to the house to see him and give him an injection or an IV drip or something.

His phone buzzed. A message from Xin Jing.

Shi Zhou had already looked him up. Despite his easygoing attitude, Xin Jing was a big-name variety show director with powerful parents—a station director dad and a famous dancer mom.

He texted Shi Zhou with a tone that sounded suspiciously like a shipper. No matter how Shi Zhou explained last night, he refused to believe that there really wasn’t anything going on between him and Qin Yancheng. “How’s Qin Yancheng? Acting normal?”

Shi Zhou laughed. Looked like Qin Yancheng’s mental state was public knowledge. He texted back: “Not normal. Running a high fever, refuses to go to the hospital or see a doctor. Had to force him to take medicine.”

Unexpectedly, Xin Jing replied like it was a relief: “At least he took it. He didn’t cuss anyone out? Wow, see, it’s different with you.”

Shi Zhou didn’t know whether to laugh or cry: “It’s not about me! He’s just too weak to throw a fit.”

Xin Jing thought, you haven’t seen him at his worst. The man could wake from a near-death experience and still rage so hard it took two doctors and a sedative to calm him down. Who even knew where all that strength came from.

After over an hour, Qin Yancheng’s fever had risen, not fallen. Shi Zhou finally called a doctor while he was passed out and got him hooked up to an IV.

As he watched the needle in Qin Yancheng’s slender hand and the white patch covering it, Shi Zhou suddenly panicked. “How do we remove the needle later?”

Aunt Zhang offered, “I can do it… but Mr. Qin won’t get angry, right?”

Shi Zhou sighed. “Better angry than brain-fried. Let him take it out on me.”

After all, Qin Yancheng couldn’t bite him to death. Shi Zhou figured if he didn’t argue with someone fever-mad, he wouldn’t get mad himself.

Done with his nursing duties, he slumped on the couch, sneakily pulled out his phone, and checked to see if the smut fic had updated. It hadn’t.

But the fic had opened a door to a whole new world.

Who knew stories featuring yourself could be this spicy? He was even tempted to write his own. He registered a burner account called “Runaway Airship,” then changed it to “Runaway Airship at the Flower Market” after browsing a few author names.

He opened his laptop and began typing experimentally. But his inexperience showed—his brain moved like a rocket, but his fingers were tricycles in comparison.

Just then, the landline in Qin Yancheng’s room rang. Worried it would wake him up, Shi Zhou rushed in to pick it up.

The caller ID: Zeng Yan.

That possibly-ex-girlfriend again. Following Qin Yancheng’s usual method, Shi Zhou decided not to answer—but his finger slipped and accidentally connected the call.

Shi Zhou: “…”

He couldn’t hang up now. Bracing himself, he pressed the phone to his ear.

On the other side, Zeng Yan didn’t expect the call to connect. “…Chengcheng?” she asked softly.

Shi Zhou, polite but stiff, “Sorry, he’s sleeping. May I ask who’s calling?”

Her voice was gentle, ageless, with a hint of worry. “Sleeping? Is he ill?”

Before Shi Zhou could answer, she added, “Who are you?”

Shi Zhou opened his mouth, eyes drifting to his screen full of spicy fanfic starring him and Qin Yancheng—still mid-bed scene in some alternate universe.

But if this woman was the ex-girlfriend, and they could possibly reconcile, he didn’t want to be an obstacle. He quickly debated what role to play: driver? bodyguard? housekeeper?

CRASH!

Qin Yancheng suddenly tore the door open, one hand pressed to his stomach, the other dripping blood from a forcibly removed IV needle. His face was deathly pale, full of barely restrained fury.

He leaned on the doorframe, radiating murderous energy, terrifying and sharp.

Reaching out with his bleeding hand, he said in a sinister but calm voice, “Give me the phone.”

Shi Zhou, startled, quickly handed it over.

Qin Yancheng held the phone and, enunciating each word coldly, said:

“Zeng Yan. That’s. Enough.”

Then he smashed the phone against the wall, shattering it.

Shi Zhou stared at the bloody shards on the floor, thinking maybe he should apologize for taking the call.

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

But before he could, Qin Yancheng’s eyes slowly moved… and landed on—

The laptop screen behind Shi Zhou.

Shi Zhou suddenly remembered that he was writing a smutty fic in Word and the interface had not yet been exited!

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This was Shi Zhou’s first time walking the red carpet. He’d joined in for the novelty, but now that he was actually doing it, he found it pretty boring.

After striking a pose under the relentless barrage of camera flashes, the host—likely instructed to give him extra screen time—dragged him into an awkward interview before finally letting him enter the main venue.

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

Following the seating chart, Shi Zhou found his assigned spot in the farthest, most pitiful corner from the stage. He’d barely warmed his seat when someone clapped him on the shoulder. “Hey! Shi Zhou, what are you doing here? Qin Yancheng’s looking for you.”

It was Xin Jing, who then cheerfully pulled him up with the ease of an old friend. “Come on, let’s go. The organizers set up an extra seat for you near the front.”

Shi Zhou wasn’t keen on moving—he and Qin Yancheng weren’t some inseparable duo, after all. But then he spotted the food and desserts at the front tables and realized the hierarchy was blatantly obvious. Even the champagne was several tiers higher in quality, and the dishes were still steaming hot, unlike his own table, where the food had long gone cold.

For the sake of good food, Shi Zhou reluctantly took the seat next to Qin Yancheng. The organizers, likely banking on Qin Yancheng’s looks and fame, had placed him at a table with A-list celebrities, making the atmosphere a little stiff. Fortunately, an idol group’s opening performance on stage helped lighten the mood.

Shi Zhou greeted everyone politely before sitting down and quietly digging into his meal. The media snapped photos of the table, but while the others sat rigidly, afraid of staining their rented designer outfits or being caught in unflattering shots, as a result, he received a lot of strange looks. But Shi Zhou didn’t care.

His outfit wasn’t rented, and he wasn’t about to starve himself for the sake of photos. After freezing outside, he wasn’t going to let hunger ruin his night too.

Once he’d eaten his fill, Shi Zhou amused himself by peeling oranges from the fruit platter, meticulously keeping the skins intact. Soon, a neat row of naked oranges sat before him, and he began looking for a “human trash can” to help finish them.

Just as he was trying to force feed Qin Yancheng, the stage lights suddenly cut out. In the darkness, a pale figure drifted toward him—half a face floating in midair…

Shi Zhou jolted, accidentally shoving the orange against Qin Yancheng’s chin. When the lights came back on, he realized it was Jiang Song—half his face covered in black dye, clothes torn and disheveled, looking like he was one step away from begging on the streets with a bowl.

Not only Shi Zhou but everyone else at the table couldn’t help but sneak glances.

Jiang Song, who had once been so smug, now stood humiliated, his pride crushed underfoot. But his regret wasn’t for framing Shi Zhou—only for not being clever enough and for his bad luck.

How could Shi Zhou sit at this table, next to Qin Yancheng, acting so shamelessly intimate? Gritting his teeth, Jiang Song forced out an apology. “Shi Zhou… I-I’m sorry. It was my fault.”

His manager had scripted a whole speech for him to save face in front of Qin Yancheng and the media, but seeing Shi Zhou’s infuriating expression, Jiang Song’s jealousy burned too hot. He couldn’t bring himself to say more.

He braced for Shi Zhou to gloat and humiliated him, further stepping on his dignity. Or play the victim, throwing himself into Qin Yancheng’s arms for comfort like some white lotus.

Instead, Shi Zhou just waved him off dismissively. “Yeah, yeah, got it. Now scram.”

Jiang Song’s punch had landed on cotton. Confused, he hesitated. But Shi Zhou genuinely wasn’t overthinking it—he’d just been startled by Jiang Song’s horrifying appearance in the dark. Covered in black dye, with that resentful glare, he looked like a floating half-head ghost. He would have scared the life out of someone more timid.

Now, in the light, it was just ridiculous. Shi Zhou, who had a low threshold for laughter, was afraid he’d burst out giggling, so he just wanted Jiang Song out of his sight.

Elbowing Qin Yancheng, Shi Zhou finally cracked, laughing quietly. “Couldn’t you at least have spread the dye evenly? And your bodyguards—like master, like servants. They really went full avant-garde with his outfit, huh?”

If Shi Zhou had been the one handling it, he’d have gone straight for violence—punching Jiang Song until his face was swollen.

But this was arguably more satisfying. Jiang Song got a taste of his own medicine, humiliated in front of everyone. And given how image-conscious he was, it must have stung even more.

Shi Zhou’s temper flared up and faded just as quickly. Since he hadn’t actually suffered any real harm, he wasn’t one to hold grudges.

Jiang Song, meanwhile, braced for Shi Zhou to humiliate him further, but Shi Zhou just lazily glanced at his pile of oranges and handed a few over, hoping to avoid waste.

Jiang Song eyed them suspiciously, half-convinced they were poisoned. But despite his resentment, he was too scared to refuse. Trembling, he took them, barely tasting them in his anxiety. When he looked up and met Qin Yancheng’s icy glare, he nearly choked and only then did he flee.

Qin Yancheng didn’t know why, for a split second, he’d felt reluctant to let anyone else eat the oranges Shi Zhou had peeled. But the thought vanished as quickly as it came, leaving his usual calm.

When the A-lister next to Shi Zhou left to prepare for a performance, Xin Jing plopped down in the vacated seat. “Wow, Shi Zhou, can I have an orange—wait, did you peel these for Qin Yancheng?”

Shi Zhou nodded earnestly. “Please, take some! I got carried away and peeled too many. By the way, I meant to ask earlier—you two know each other?”

“Childhood friends. We were in the same class from elementary school until tenth grade. What a cursed fate!”

Shi Zhou tilted his head, glancing at the ever-expressionless Qin Yancheng. If Xin Jing had known him since childhood, then he’d seen the real Qin Yancheng—making Shi Zhou, the “imitation,” feel a tiny bit awkward.

Misreading his expression, Xin Jing hastily clarified. “Don’t get the wrong idea! I may look youthful and innocent, but I’m a total top who’s charmed countless bottoms!”

Shi Zhou burst out laughing at the “youthful and innocent” comment. Who described their own baby face like that?

The awkwardness forgotten, he waved a hand. “No, no, since we’re all friends here, I’ll be honest—we’re not that kind of relationship.”

Besides, Qin Yancheng didn’t seem particularly gay. Shi Zhou’s “gaydar” pinged him as neither straight nor bent—more like carved from ice.

Xin Jing howled with laughter, shooting Qin Yancheng a look that screamed You’re hopeless! A glare from Qin Yancheng shut him up, and after hurriedly adding Shi Zhou on WeChat, he scampered off.

Qin Yancheng coughed lightly into his hand. His immune system was weak, and he’d been fighting a cold for days. Tonight’s chaos and the biting wind had made it worse.

Listening to the coughing beside him, Shi Zhou worried about an asthma attack. He’d recently discovered Qin Yancheng’s birthday was coming up and hoped he’d at least make it to another year.

Back then, his brother had told him that a new age meant a fresh start—all bad luck reset, blessings and hopes ushering in a new chapter.

As a child, Shi Zhou had believed it wholeheartedly. Later, he dismissed it as childish humoring. But after Shi Li’s sudden death, he couldn’t help wondering—had it been because his brother had been too busy with work in Melbourne that year, missing his birthday and Shi Zhou’s well-wishes so that was why…

He was overthinking it. But regardless, he decided to pray for Qin Yancheng’s health and longevity when the day came.

Growing bolder with familiarity, Shi Zhou suddenly reached out and touched Qin Yancheng’s neck and forehead. “Qin Yancheng, you’re running a fever!”

Qin Yancheng’s lips were pale, but his expression was indifferent. “Low-grade.”

No wonder he’d barely eaten. Low grade fevers were often more uncomfortable. Shi Zhou had initially been baffled by his rigid posture, but now it made sense—he’d been feeling unwell the whole time.

“Then why didn’t you just rest at home? Why come to this event?”

Qin Yancheng studied him silently, as if considering his answer or having nothing to say.

Finally, he replied flatly, “Jinshui Film City starts operations next month.”

It seemed like a non sequitur, but Shi Zhou, still focused on Qin Yancheng’s health, didn’t overthink it. “Oh, so you’re practically in the industry now. With your looks, you really should show your face more—it’d be a waste otherwise.”

Shi Zhou’s schedule was quite loose. The next morning, Shi Zhou slept in until noon, only waking when his phone buzzed incessantly.

Yawning, he reluctantly reached out from under the warm covers, unplugged his charger, and grabbed his phone, burrowing back in to check his messages in the dark.

Well, well—his first time trending on Weibo!

#ShiZhouElegantEatingPrince
#FoodieSoulFoodieVibes
#DumbButGorgeous

But for someone with as many anti-fans as Shi Zhou, while many praised him (even gaining him new fans), just as many mocked:

[What a country bumpkin, stuffing his face like he’s never seen food before. Starving ghost reincarnated?]

[So what if his table manners are decent? Still looks fake as hell.]

[Who’s he hooked up with this time? Doesn’t seem to be Qixing’s CEO Zheng anymore?]

That last one hit the nail on the head. Another trending topic left Shi Zhou speechless—a gif of him and Qin Yancheng sitting together.

It wasn’t even an intimate moment, just a brief glance exchanged, followed by a three-second clip of Shi Zhou peeling an orange while Qin Yancheng quietly watched his profile.

Yet somehow, this spawned a trending search topic.

Fans were already tearing into each other. Though Qin Yancheng wasn’t a celebrity, his fanbase was massive:

[They just happened to sit together. What could these two possibly have in common? Do you expect everyone to stay ten feet apart while eating?]

[Our President Qin would never be involved with some no-name pretty boy. Who even is Shi Zhou? Never heard of him.]

[The audacity! Some nobody dares to rub off on Qin Yancheng’s fame? Asking for death?]

Shi Zhou’s fans fired back:

[Oh, so your fandom is extra special? Our baby doesn’t need this clout.]

[With psycho fans like you, no wonder Qin Yancheng’s single. Who’d dare date him?]

[Are you blind? Clearly, Qin Yancheng was the one staring at Shi Zhou. Why’s Shi Zhou getting blamed?]

The two sides went to war, fighting tooth and nail.

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

Most amusing were the small but determined group of shippers quietly carving out their space, already crafting fan theories and even coining a ship name—”ChengZhou” (Ride the Boat).

A clever play on their names, poetic even. But Shi Zhou, with his mind perpetually in the gutter, couldn’t help feeling there was something… off about it.

Maybe the verb choice was just a little too suggestive?

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