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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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.

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

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.

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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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