The Moon Runs to Me

Qin Sang had seen many sides of him. As a teenager, Xie Yuncan had been cool, proud, and sharp-edged—his lean frame carrying the school uniform with an effortless, untamed flair that made it hard to look away.

But she rarely saw him in formal wear—only a handful of times, easily counted. Today, however, he was unusually dressed up: a crisp blue shirt, black suit trousers that made his legs look exceptionally long, and a small red badge—the national emblem—pinned to his left lapel.

Unlike Wen Hengyu, who was always in a three-piece waistcoat and jacket, Xie Yuncan disliked constraint. His collar was slightly open, two buttons undone, his Adam’s apple sharp and prominent, collarbones straight and clean.

He looked mild and gentle on the surface, but there was a rebellious streak beneath—a defiance etched into his bones—and somehow, an indescribable allure.

“Ms. Qin, long time no see.”

Shen Yi was there too. Unlike Xie Yuncan, he was dressed more conventionally—a gunmetal gray peak-lapel suit, silver wire-rimmed glasses, the epitome of business professionalism.

“Hey, Jon!” Song Penny greeted him warmly. Qin Sang only gave a slight nod before lowering her gaze—he was too close. The faint mint scent mingled with a wisp of tobacco, almost drowning her.

Jon was Shen Yi’s English name. They seemed to be old acquaintances, and Shen Yi didn’t hold back, responding with a compliment: “Susan, long time no see. You’re getting more beautiful.”

Penny clicked her tongue. “Save the flattery. Do you have time now? I need your help with something.”

Shen Yi raised an eyebrow smoothly. “My pleasure.”

Penny glanced at Qin Sang and lowered her voice. “Sang Sang, I need to go handle something. Will you be okay on your own?”

Qin Sang had only come as a tag-along anyway. She nodded. “Go ahead.”

Penny breathed a sigh of relief. “Engineer Xie, I’ll leave my sister in your care. Keep an eye on her for me.”

The way she said it, like she was entrusting a child, made Qin Sang deeply uncomfortable. She pressed her lips together, thinking she’d be fine on her own—no special attention needed.

The man’s expression remained cool and aloof as he gave a slight nod, accepting the request.

Penny was truly busy—she was attending this symposium as a special guest and needed time to prepare her speech. She’d asked Shen Yi to help her review it, since this was a formal occasion with top industry professionals in attendance, and the video would eventually be made public. Any inappropriate phrasing needed correction.

Penny and Shen Yi left first. Watching them walk away, Qin Sang unconsciously shrank back—not for any particular reason, but because they were standing too close. She could feel the warmth of his breath.

Hesitant, she struggled to find a way to break the ice. Ever since their parting at the restaurant, the atmosphere between them had grown increasingly awkward. She felt ill at ease, unsure how to act around him.

After a long pause, she finally managed a stiff smile. “Director Shen and my cousin seem pretty close. Did they know each other before?”

“Mm.” Xie Yuncan’s gaze was deep, focused on her. “Shen Yi spent a year as an exchange student at the University of Hong Kong.”

To promote relations across the strait, Tsinghua had exchange programs with HKU, the University of Macau, and National Taiwan University. Shen Yi had applied to go to Hong Kong for a year in his sophomore year.

“I see,” Qin Sang said. “That makes sense.”

Penny had done her undergraduate degree in the mainland before being admitted to HKU. Shen Yi’s exchange year must have been when they met.

Xie Yuncan suggested, “Walk?”

Qin Sang paused, then nodded. “Okay.”

The symposium was a large-scale event. In addition to the Fifth and Eighth Academies, researchers from the Sixth, Ninth, and other aerospace units had also come. Experts from top domestic universities—Tsinghua, Harbin Institute of Technology, Nanjing University of Aeronautics and Astronautics, National University of Defense Technology—along with the Chinese Academy of Sciences, the Institute of Mechanics, and the National Astronomical Observatories were all in attendance.

As Qin Sang walked with Xie Yuncan, she saw many scholars and experts hurrying in. Several academicians and colleagues from affiliated institutions greeted him: “Engineer Xie.”

Qin Sang was a little surprised. There were many aerospace research institutes scattered across different regions, each with its own focus, employing countless professionals. Yet Xie Yuncan seemed well-known—even colleagues from other institutes recognized him.

She’d worried her presence might be inappropriate or cause unnecessary attention. Clearly, she’d overthought it.

In academic circles, truth and ability reigned supreme. Compared to her—a celebrity with a growing reputation—someone like Xie Yuncan, born a prodigy, was clearly far more welcomed.

Unnoticed, Qin Sang gradually relaxed. Hearing people greet him as they passed, she found herself playfully echoing, “Engineer Xie?”

“Mm?” He raised an eyebrow lazily. “What is it, Classmate Qin?”

For some reason—though the address hadn’t changed—she now sensed an inexplicable intimacy in it. His articulation was light, his voice husky, his clear eyes carrying a hint of nonchalance.

Her ears warmed inexplicably. She’d only mimicked what she’d heard so often, but instead of teasing him, she’d been caught off guard.

He hadn’t done anything—it was all his face. As Zhou Yihong once joked, he was a heart-stealer, blessed with the looks of a male fox spirit, yet his conduct was above reproach.

“Satellite No. 39 was launched on August 17 from the Xichang Satellite Launch Center aboard a Long March 2D rocket. The satellite has successfully entered its designated orbit.”

Hearing the promotional video, Qin Sang was confused. “Remote sensing satellites and BeiDou satellites—aren’t they the same?”

As a layperson, she genuinely couldn’t tell the difference. She’d only heard of the BeiDou system—China’s independently developed global navigation satellite system. But remote sensing satellites—she had no idea what they were used for.

She looked at him, bewildered.

Xie Yuncan paused, his voice deep but gentle. “BeiDou and remote sensing satellites have different applications. BeiDou is mostly used for road navigation and military purposes. Remote sensing satellites are used in forestry, oceanography, land management, and agricultural meteorology—for monitoring environmental changes, weather forecasting, and disaster early warning.”

“I get it,” Qin Sang said, catching on quickly. “So the meteorological bureau uses remote sensing satellites?”

“Mm.” He nodded. “The Fengyun-1 satellite used by the meteorological bureau is China’s first transmission-type polar-orbiting remote sensing satellite.”

Qin Sang let out a long “Oh,” only half-understanding.

She looked like she hadn’t fully grasped it but was trying hard to keep up.

Xie Yuncan’s brow lifted slightly, a low chuckle escaping him. “Classmate Qin is very clever—knows how to extrapolate.”

The teasing in his tone was unmistakable. Flustered, she said, “Are you making fun of me?”

“I may not understand the technical side of your work, but I know that whether it’s you or other researchers on the front lines—countless public servants—you’ve all put in tremendous effort to achieve these results.”

Every seemingly trivial news report was closely tied to ordinary people’s lives—representing the cumulative effort of perhaps thousands of researchers. She hadn’t understood before.

But because he was in it, she’d tried to learn.

Qin Sang mused, “Does it ever get lonely? Ordinary people don’t really pay attention to what you do. Even if they hear about it, they can’t truly understand.”

Actors and researchers were like polar opposites. Actors enjoyed the most social rewards—if they contributed anything, it was enriching the entertainment industry and boosting tax revenue.

Researchers, meanwhile, were unsung heroes. No one paid attention, and ordinary people rarely cared.

Forget leaving a name in history—most people couldn’t even grasp the significance of their work. Like the launch of Satellite No. 39—she doubted she was the only one who didn’t understand its purpose or intent.

It felt like…

A separate parallel world. What they said and did was incomprehensible to outsiders, separated by an invisible barrier.

Xie Yuncan’s voice was unusually gentle. “We’re just doing what our duties require. To ordinary people, it’s a job. To us, it’s the same.”

Glory, honor, flowers, and applause—those were just added extras. Whether they existed or not didn’t matter, nor would it hinder their dedication.

“Every profession has its own demands and standards. Anyone who works hard at their job—whatever their motivation—deserves respect and understanding.”

Over-glorifying or romanticizing a profession, viewing it through rose-colored glasses, would only skew resources and make true objectivity impossible.

Zhou Yihong needed understanding and recognition—that didn’t make him wrong. It was just a different choice shaped by personality.

But by the same token, not every researcher wanted to be in the spotlight or receive praise.

Those devoted to academia cared less about applause and more about spiritual and intellectual fulfillment.

“Sang Sang.”

He was looking at her.

This was the first time he’d called her so intimately.

Two simple, ordinary syllables—yet from his lips, they sounded tender and full of feeling.

“I’m just an ordinary person too. Plain, mundane—not as noble as you think. There are things I can’t solve, problems I can’t handle. Like right now—I don’t know how to make you understand that to me, you’re not just a classmate anymore.”