AAUMOBIP C28

Chapter 28

This kind of self-deceiving approach could only fool himself.

He had to take a deep breath and steel his resolve before picking up his phone again to reply to Yun Jingqiu’s message.

[fon]: I saw it was a tonic meal set, so I just ordered it. I didn’t expect it to come with ox penis soup.

[fon]: If Yun-ge doesn’t want to drink it, then don’t. Over-supplementing isn’t good.

[fon]: Honestly, you don’t seem weak, just a little exhausted.

[fon]: Are you really mad?

He had actually called him by his name—so he was surely upset. But since Yun Jingqiu was willing to message back and hadn’t blocked him, it meant he wasn’t completely angry. He could probably still coax him.

Yun Jingqiu was busy filming, and only replied around noon.

[Husband]: I finished it.

[Husband]: It was breakfast my Xiao He specially ordered with love—of course I drank it all.

[Husband]: Seems I did over-supplement though—during shooting, I had a nosebleed. The director almost had a heart attack from the scare.

So tragic?!

Liu He memorized this hard lesson. Next time he ordered tonics for Yun Jingqiu, he would make sure to choose carefully—something like black-boned chicken soup with red dates and goji berries would suffice. Otherwise, over-doing it was troublesome; the poor director practically collapsed with worry that something might happen during filming that would bring trouble to the production team.

After sending that message, Yun Jingqiu initiated a video call.

“Xiao He.” Yun Jingqiu had just eaten and glanced at him full of mock grievance.

His complexion was ruddy—he looked visibly healthier. The tonics had worked.

Liu He gave an awkward laugh. “Feeling better?”

“At least I’m not having more nosebleeds.” Yun Jingqiu teased sourly. “What did you have for lunch?”

“Fried chicken. A new butter-fried chicken place opened nearby—it’s really tasty.”

“Then next time I’ll be there, let’s go together.”

Even if his complexion had improved, Yun Jingqiu still looked utterly fatigued.

Filming had been rushed these days, day and night scenes alternating with little rest. Lack of sleep had left deep dark circles beneath his eyes, hidden beneath concealer during takes.

Heart aching for him, Liu He said, “You should sleep for a while. I’ll message Song-ge and ask him to wake you later. You’re way too exhausted. Do you still have night scenes tonight?”

Yun Jingqiu shook his head. “Not tonight. I can sleep properly tonight.”

These days, his average nightly sleep barely reached four or five hours.

He lay down on the sofa, holding his phone high above his face, unwilling to stop looking at the screen lit with Liu He’s face. But his eyelids grew heavy, slowly closing.

His hand slackened, the phone slipped, and fell right onto his face, jolting him awake.

“Ow—almost knocked myself out,” he grumbled, the dull pain temporarily forcing him alert. He shifted the phone to his ear.

“Go to sleep. I won’t disturb you. If you don’t want to hang up, then don’t. I can call you to wake up later, too.” Liu He reassured him softly. He had to go to the lab in the afternoon, but it wasn’t urgent—he could manage to serve as Yun-ge’s alarm clock.

“Call me Yun-ge once,” Yun Jingqiu muttered, his voice already dropping softer than usual.

Liu He indulged him, lowering his own voice. “Yun-ge.”

Moments later, all he heard was the steady rhythm of Yun Jingqiu’s breathing.

This man, so utterly drained, was finally asleep.

Liu He couldn’t help but smile.

He propped his phone on a stand and went back to searching academic references on CNKI,* his digital library.

When typing out his paper, he pressed the keyboard as lightly as possible, cautious not to make any noise that could wake Yun Jingqiu.

Yun Jingqiu’s phone rested against his own ear, so on the video feed, Liu He could only see the ceiling. He couldn’t see Yun Jingqiu directly.

Wearing earphones, he kept listening carefully to Yun Jingqiu’s slightly heavy breathing, enough to confirm the rhythm of sleep.

Yun-ge didn’t snore. But like any person, once asleep, his breathing naturally became deeper.

Liu He sent Song Zhiyuan a message:

[fon]: Yun-ge is asleep now. When’s his next scene? I’ll wake him.

[Song Zhiyuan]: Wake him at two, sister-in-law. I’m at Yun-ge’s place right now, taking care of Cream.

[Song Zhiyuan]: These days he’s been living in the film crew’s hotel, not home. He hired someone for Cream, but was still uneasy, so I dropped by.

[Song Zhiyuan]: [Photo] [Photo]

[Song Zhiyuan]: I know you miss Cream too—so here he is.

Liu He eagerly saved the pictures.

[fon]: Thanks, Song-ge.

Cream looked absolutely adorable—fluffy, plump, slightly bigger now, and even prettier.

Hugging his phone like it contained pure treasure, Liu He admired Cream’s cuteness for a long while. Only when his computer screen dimmed did he remember he was in the middle of writing his paper. He chided himself and got back to work.

He also set a reminder alarm to wake Yun Jingqiu.

Listening to the soft breathing in his earphones calmed Liu He’s heart.

When the alarm rang, he immediately silenced it, then gently called out:

“Yun-ge, time to wake up.”

His voice was very soft—unclear if he genuinely wanted to wake him, or didn’t want to wake him.

There was the sound of disorganized breathing, followed by a low hum and a hoarse voice: “What time is it?”

Yun Jingqiu fumbled for his phone, then smiled faintly when he saw Xiao He on screen. Leaning forward, he touched the phone screen with his lips.

“You just kissed me?” Liu He blinked in surprise.

“Of course. A kiss… through the screen.”

What he wanted more was to kiss Xiao He in person.

Xiao He’s lips were so soft—this hard phone screen was nothing but unpleasant.

Liu He laughed in exasperation. “Why don’t you just kiss your phone instead? I’m going to the lab now.”

“I’d rather kiss you,” Yun Jingqiu replied faintly.

Liu He hung up on him straight away.

Yun Jingqiu sighed in regret.

Liu He busied himself in the lab all afternoon.

His schedule lately had loosened up, but much of that time was fragmented. Even if he wished to go to City A for a surprise visit, it wasn’t realistic. The best he could do was extend their video calls. But Yun-ge’s own time was limited.

Later, Liu He sat alone in the cafeteria, eating his dinner slowly.

Across from him sat another person. A quick glance confirmed his identity, then Liu He turned back to his food.

“I’m finally free! Lao Xu has to follow his advisor into the mountains for two months.” Jiang plopped down, carrying his tray, chattering on.

Though they hadn’t met face-to-face in a while, the two had still kept in frequent touch online.

Liu He nodded, “Congrats.”

“Got time tomorrow? Let’s go out for a celebration meal!” Jiang insisted.

While eating their cafeteria food, they discussed options. In the end, they decided on spicy bullfrog hotpot.

After dinner, when most people had already left, the two returned their trays together.

“Lao Xu’s in the mountains now, and the signal there is terrible. Hardly reachable at all.” Jiang sighed. “He still tries to send me a safe check-in daily.”

Smiling, Liu He reassured, “It’s okay. Isn’t he with his advisor? Nothing should happen.”

Jiang muttered, “I know, but I still can’t help worrying. Wouldn’t you worry, if your big star was filming in remote mountains out of reach?”

Liu He thought about it seriously, then answered honestly: “I would.”

And added, amused: “If he stopped posting on Weibo, his fans would notice first and start searching.”

“True enough.”

After all, Yun Jingqiu really did treat Weibo like his personal diary—if he suddenly disappeared, it would stir quite a storm.

“He’s been filming a new drama, actually. Stayed up two nights in a row shooting night scenes, barely resting. If not for my own experiments here, I’d have already gone to check on him.”

“With that fish head mask you wore before?” Jiang teased.

Liu He cursed: “That was ages ago! How do you still remember?!”

“Well, it was the only live stream you ever did,” Jiang laughed.

Chatting and laughing, they left the campus together.

Since Lao Xu wasn’t at their rented place, Jiang didn’t want to go back. Instead, he went with Liu He to 1801.

He had been there once before, when they cooked hotpot together.

After unlocking “cooking skills” at Yun Jingqiu’s place, Liu He had experimented more at 1801 as well. His cooking was getting better and better.

The two played games into the evening. When it got late, Jiang yawned and said goodbye before heading out.

Meanwhile, news that Yun Jingqiu had been nominated for the Golden Taro Awards* stayed on trending searches for a while. Finally, the day arrived when he attended the Golden Taro Film Festival in Country C.

Liu He turned on the projector at home to watch the live broadcast.

Yun Jingqiu walked the red carpet wearing a deep-green haute couture suit. His cufflinks and wristwatch were both luxury brand endorsements he represented.

His hairstyle was neat, his face without heavy makeup—just slight touch-ups.

The man strode confidently across the red carpet in polished leather shoes, smiling perfectly for the flashing cameras.

Signing his name, pausing for photographs, he then made his way to his seat.

The Second World was not only nominated for his role as the male lead but also for its director.

“Teacher Yun, when will you collaborate with me again?” the director greeted warmly. “I already sent a new script to your agent. Please take a look when you’re free?”

Yun Jingqiu smiled back. “Depends on company scheduling. I’m already slotted for the next drama, so the timing might clash. When do you plan to start production?”

“Next year. Casting not done yet, crew not fully assembled.”

The two had built rapport while working on set, so after a round of polite formulas, their conversation became more casual.

“Will it shoot in City A?” Yun Jingqiu asked. “My partner plans to move there to live with me next year. I want to make sure I can still spend time with him. You know—long-distance is hard. Don’t want to let him down.”

“If it doesn’t conflict with deadlines, even better. This current movie I’m on—schedule’s insanely rushed. I had to stay up all night. My partner’s been complaining I don’t spend enough time with him—he’s very clingy.”

Liu He: ?

Liu He: Did I ever… say that?

The director of The Second World froze, expression complicated as he looked at Yun Jingqiu. “Do you have some kind of misunderstanding with me?”

“How could that be?!” Yun Jingqiu was perplexed. “I wouldn’t be sitting here today without your support—I’m deeply grateful. But my partner is clingy, and so adorable. I could never abandon him.”

“I didn’t ask you,” the director muttered at last, after a long silence.

“Ask me what?”

“I didn’t ask about your partner! Everyone in the circle knows you can’t shut up about him. You’re such a hopeless love-brain—every third sentence is about him.” The director cursed jokingly. “Anyway, just check the script. If it works for you, it’s yours. The role suits you.”

Yun Jingqiu perked up. “What role?”

“A total love-brain character.”

With total seriousness, Yun Jingqiu declared, “No kissing scenes. No bed scenes. I’m keeping myself pure for my partner.”

The director sighed. “There aren’t any. The character’s lover dies early—it’s a revenge story.” He waved the matter off, exasperated but understanding.

“Then good. I’ll read it after I go back.” Yun Jingqiu admitted openly to his own “love-brain” tendencies.