Chapter 029 [Three-in-One]
They held each other’s gaze for a long time. Even though, from Ji Tingqian’s perspective, he was merely an acquaintance of recent days—someone whose decision to stay or leave Ming Huai had no right to interfere with, and for whom there existed absolutely no justification to force him to remain—Ming Huai remained unusually stubborn on this matter.
Ming Huai’s eyes were dark and depthless, as if devoid of light, yet hiding within their depths a faint, almost imperceptible plea. Gazing at Ji Tingqian, his voice trembled slightly as he spoke again: “The rain outside is heavy. Please stay the night.”
Ji Tingqian couldn’t quite name the look in those eyes, but it was one he never wished to see in Ming Huai’s gaze. It brought a prickling pain, like needles piercing the heart. One needle might be bearable, but multiplied, they became agonizing—a relentless ache that spread from his heart throughout his entire body.
Faced with such an expression, Ji Tingqian even felt a strange conviction rising within him: if he refused, it would be akin to committing an unforgivable sin.
As if guided by an unseen hand, Ji Tingqian nodded and agreed to the request just like that.
The moment he gave his word, Ji Tingqian felt a sense of disbelief. How long had he actually known Ming Huai? Yet here he was, involuntarily following Ming Huai’s lead. It was a sensation Ji Tingqian had never experienced in his life, and his intuition whispered that this might be something extraordinary.
Seeing that Ji Tingqian intended to stay the night, Aunt Chen’s eyes flickered with a hint of worry. But she quickly composed herself, instead taking Dudu upstairs and leaving the space to the two young people.
Even after going upstairs, Aunt Chen couldn’t help but glance back with concern. She couldn’t tell what the two were discussing; Ji Tingqian remained perfectly composed, while Ming Huai looked somewhat ill at ease. Watching his awkward, fidgeting demeanor, Aunt Chen felt it was almost too painful to witness.
By this hour, Dudu was finally worn out. He lay sprawled across Auntie Chen’s embrace, his fluffy head nuzzling against her neck. Letting out a tiny yawn, he gazed toward the living room with half-open eyes and asked innocently, “Auntie Chen, is Uncle Ji staying with us tonight?”
“Yes,” Auntie Chen replied gently, patting Dudu’s back.
Dudu wrapped his arms around Auntie Chen’s neck, asking with a mix of excitement and anticipation, “Auntie Chen, can I sleep with Daddy and Uncle Ji?”
Auntie Chen shook her head. “No, tonight you’ll sleep with Auntie Chen.”
Can children meddle in adult matters? Of course not. Auntie Chen felt uneasy about not keeping Dudu close by; what if, in the dead of night, the child carried his pillow to find his father and witnessed something inappropriate?
Dudu’s spirits immediately sank.
Some truths simply cannot be explained to a child, so Auntie Chen could only resort to a gentler approach. She comforted him softly, “Dudu can sleep with them next time. Tonight, Daddy and Uncle Ji have important matters to discuss. If Dudu stays, they’ll need to take care of you and play with you, leaving no time for their conversation.”
This was a reason Dudu could reluctantly accept. As a sensible child, he absolutely must not cause trouble for adults. He hooked his pinky with Auntie Chen’s, promising, “Then next time Uncle Ji comes, can Auntie Chen ask Daddy to let me sleep with them?”
“Certainly, certainly,” Aunt Chen replied with a warm smile.
The atmosphere downstairs suddenly grew somewhat delicate. As the clock neared ten, Ming Huai knew that Ji Tingqian was a disciplined man; unless work demanded it, he was not accustomed to staying up late.
“Brother Ji, it’s already ten o’clock. Let’s head upstairs,” Ming Huai said.
Ji Tingqian murmured an “Mm” in response, then added, “Thank you for your trouble.”
“This is no trouble at all,” Ming Huai said as he led Ji Tingqian upstairs. “It’s truly dangerous out there with such heavy rain.”
Ming Huai brought Ji Tingqian to the room directly opposite the master bedroom. He switched on the light, revealing a space decorated with simple elegance. The pristine, spotless furnishings clearly indicated that the room saw little use on a daily basis.
“Actually, today it’s I who should be thanking you, Brother Ji,” Ming Huai said suddenly.
Ji Tingqian felt a flicker of confusion. Then, Ming Huai abruptly turned around. Standing together at the doorway, a single reach was enough to shut the door. Ji Tingqian heard only a loud slam before a warm body pressed against him. He had no time to react or push Ming Huai away; he could only receive a deep, solid kiss.
Ming Huai’s low laughter echoed in his ears, yet Ji Tingqian found himself unable to feel angry. To his annoyance, he realized he had already grown accustomed to Ming Huai’s sudden kisses.
In the end, Ji Tingqian simply straightened the other man’s posture and said with a stern expression, “Stop fooling around.”
Just like an old-fashioned cadre, Ming Huai muttered silently to himself.
Ming Huai knew all too well that Ji Tingqian was the type who appeared restrained on the surface but revealed a completely different side behind closed doors. Using a slow, subtle approach like boiling a frog in lukewarm water would never capture Ji Tingqian’s attention in certain aspects; you could spend ages plotting and executing a series of understated moves, yet Ji Tingqian might not notice a single thing.
It was enough to drive one to death with frustration.
Dealing with someone like him required speed, ruthlessness, and precision—be warm, be proactive, blend direct and indirect approaches. Only then would Ji Tingqian respond. Like now, although his brows were tightly furrowed, it still counted as an outward display of emotion.
Ming Huai shrugged, his face lit up with a smile, eyes curving into a pleasing arc. He never hesitated to admit what he had done. “Thank you, Brother Ji. Dudu had a wonderful day today.”
Ji Tingqian stood still, gazing at Ming Huai for a long moment before suddenly asking, “Is this your way of saying thank you?”
Only Ming Huai would think of using something like this as a token of gratitude.
Ming Huai nodded, then leaned closer again. Ji Tingqian didn’t retreat; instead, he faced Ming Huai directly, curious to see what he would do next.
The truth was, seeing Ji Tingqian so composed, Ming Huai lost his courage first. He didn’t dare try again. Just once had already made his heart race; another attempt might flush his face so deeply it would give everything away.
Ming Huai joked, “Does Brother Ji think that’s not enough? How about we do it again?”
He was genuinely joking and intended to fetch pajamas for Ji Tingqian right after saying this.
Yet for some reason, Ji Tingqian remained silent, merely gazing at Ming Huai with those deep eyes as if sizing up his prey. That single look sent a chill down Ming Huai’s spine, making it impossible to maintain the smile on his lips. His instincts screamed at him to turn around and leave immediately.
However, the moment that thought arose, any chance of acting on it vanished.
Ming Huai stared wide-eyed, disbelief etched across his face as he gazed at the visage mere inches away. Soon, however, he had no mind left for such thoughts; the other’s kiss was nothing like Ming Huai’s own timid, animal-like licks. It was aggressive, invasive—a testament that while memory might fade, bodily instinct remains.
After the kiss, Ming Huai immediately leaped back. His face burned an impossible shade of red, his head bowed so low he dared not lift it to meet Ji Tingqian’s gaze. From Ji Tingqian’s angle, all he could see were the other’s long lashes trembling rapidly, bearing an uncanny resemblance to the image that had danced through his mind just that morning.
This sudden surge of good cheer caught him off guard. Accustomed as he was to Ming Huai’s usual bristling, claw-ready demeanor, seeing the man now so flustered by a single kiss made Ji Tingqian feel his impression of Ming Huai might require several revisions.
“This is my return gift,” Ji Tingqian said, the corners of his mouth curving upward into a rare smile—the triumphant grin of a prankster whose scheme had succeeded perfectly.
Ming Huai had no mind to gauge how good the other man was feeling; he was a bundle of nerves and shyness, stumbling over his words. “I-I’ll go get you some pajamas.”
With that, Ming Huai fled the room like a rabbit, escaping its heavy atmosphere of lingering intimacy.
The smile on Ji Tingqian’s face grew ever wider, as if he hadn’t laughed so heartily in ages—a sensation both strange and familiar.
Distracted and absent-minded, Ming Huai rummaged through the wardrobe until it was a chaotic mess, yet still couldn’t locate anything in Ji Tingqian’s size.
How did he suddenly kiss me?! Ming Huai reached up to touch his lips, but the moment his fingers brushed against them, he pulled away as if burned.
Initiating a kiss and being kissed are two entirely different things. Ming Huai had never been someone with thick skin; back when he was with Ji Tingqian, he would often be reduced to tears by just a few of Ji Tingqian’s teasing remarks. The fact that he could now go this far with Ji Tingqian was mainly due to the endless mental preparation he had given himself day and night.
It took quite some time before his emotions finally settled slightly, allowing him to focus on finding his clothes.
The house still carried pajamas in Ji Tingqian’s size. For so long, Ming Huai had tried to downplay the reality that Ji Tingqian was no longer by his side, which was why he continued preparing double portions of many things. Doing so always gave Ming Huai a sense of reassurance, as if Ji Tingqian were still there with him.
He had always known these things would come in handy one day, Ming Huai thought as he held up a set of light gray plaid pajamas.
Ji Tingqian was slightly surprised when he took the pajamas into his hands. He glanced at Ming Huai’s slender frame, half a head shorter than his own, then looked again at the noticeably oversized pajamas in his grip. No matter how he looked at it, he couldn’t believe these could possibly be Ming Huai’s.
Ming Huai was chatting with Ji Tingqian, completely unaware of the other man’s confusion, when suddenly he slapped his forehead in frustration and said, “I forgot one more thing.”
He turned and left the room, moving much faster this time. Returning with a neatly folded pair of underwear, a hint of embarrassment on his face, he handed it to Ji Tingqian and said, “These are all new. Give me your clothes to wash later; they’ll be dry by tomorrow.”
Ji Tingqian looked thoughtful. His gaze gently swept over Ming Huai before settling on the garment in his hand, then he raised a question. “This doesn’t seem to be your size.”
With that, he openly scrutinized Ming Huai, from head to toe, as if missing no detail. Ming Huai couldn’t bear being looked at like that by Ji Tingqian; that gaze felt almost tangible, and wherever it landed, he felt an undeniable, scorching heat.
After being stared at for so long, Ming Huai no longer cared. Suppressing the nervousness churning inside him, he met Ji Tingqian’s gaze and lied without batting an eyelid or skipping a beat, “I bought it too big back then.”
It was midnight. Ming Huai tossed and turned in bed, unable to sleep. The mere knowledge that pushing open this door would reveal Ji Tingqian on the other side filled him with a mix of exhilaration and anxiety.
The curtains weren’t fully drawn. Lying on his side, Ming Huai gazed out the window. He could hear the pattering rain striking the glass; although visibility was poor, the sound alone told him the downshow showed no signs of letting up.
Keeping Ji Tingqian here tonight had indeed been a wise choice.
Tonight, Ming Huai hadn’t taken his medication, believing that with Ji Tingqian nearby, he would sleep much better. Yet, after a certain point, he realized that unless he was lying beside Ji Tingqian, it did nothing to alleviate his long-standing insomnia.
Thinking of this, Ming Huai reached up and switched on the wall lamp. He stared blankly at the faint yellow glow, unsure why, but tonight he simply didn’t feel like taking his medicine. Suddenly, fear washed over him; the room felt too empty, containing only himself. Dudu wasn’t by his side, and neither was Ji Tingqian.
Ming Huai abruptly sat up, nervously scanning his surroundings. The dim light offered little sense of security. Although the air conditioning was running, he felt profoundly uncomfortable, as if something were constricting his throat, threatening to suffocate him.
He hurriedly turned on every light in the room. In an instant, bright illumination flooded the space. Ming Huai squeezed his eyes shut against the discomfort, then opened them again to see the room bathed in brilliance; his heart no longer felt so heavy.
Ming Huai lay back down on the bed, his eyes half-open, hovering between wakefulness and sleep.
A flash of lightning sliced through the pitch-black night sky outside, followed immediately by a clap of thunder. Ming Huai’s eyes snapped wide open in instant alertness, all traces of drowsiness vanished. Instinctively, he glanced toward the space beside him, his gaze momentarily unfocused.
“Rumble—rumble—”
“Rumble—rumble—”
Thunderclap after thunderclap rolled through the sky, making sleep impossible for Ming Huai any longer. Draped in his pajamas and barefoot, he made his way to the window. Now, the scene outside came into sharp focus: just as he had suspected, the rain was pouring down with extraordinary intensity.
Another crack of thunder erupted overhead, causing Ming Huai’s body to tremble almost imperceptibly. He clutched the hem of his shirt, appearing slightly nervous as his gaze darted helplessly around. Suddenly, Ming Huai turned and walked decisively in one direction.
Ming Huai came to a stop before the door of the room across the hall. He just wanted to see Ji Tingqian—even a single glance would suffice, as long as he could confirm that Ji Tingqian was safe. He carefully opened the door; inside, all was pitch black. It took Ming Huai several moments before his eyes adjusted to the darkness.
Groping his way forward in the dark, he found Ji Tingqian sleeping soundly. He occupied only half the bed, as if habitually leaving space on the other side for someone else.
Gritting his teeth, Ming Huai made his way to the vacant side of the bed, lifted the covers, and slipped in. By the time he had pulled the blankets back over himself, Ji Tingqian still hadn’t reacted. Ming Huai let out a quiet sigh of relief—glad that he hadn’t woken him.
Yet, as soon as the thought arose, a deep voice suddenly sounded beside Ming Huai’s ear, its owner sounding somewhat helpless. “Ming Huai, it’s so late; what are you up to now?”
Once the words were spoken, silence fell over the room again, so profound that even their breathing could be heard clearly.
“I… I’m a little scared,” Ming Huai murmured, staring at a point in the void. Then he turned, fumbled until he found Ji Tingqian’s arm, and naturally wrapped his own around it. His grip was strong, like a drowning man clutching a life-saving piece of driftwood.
Ji Tingqian’s sigh echoed through the room. “Ming Huai, don’t do this.”
Don’t be like this? Like what? Ming Huai wondered.
The next second, Ji Tingqian provided the answer, “We are friends; this is going too far.”
Whether it was the weather, a shift in mood, or past events clouding her thoughts, Ming Huai suddenly no longer wanted to beat around the bush. She no longer wished to hide her intentions or continue this ambiguous dance with Ji Tingqian in such uncertainty.
“But I don’t want to be your friend,” Ming Huai said, voicing every thought that crossed her mind without hesitation. “Ji Tingqian, I like you.”
Ming Huai could feel Ji Tingqian’s arm stiffen noticeably, though only for a fleeting moment before his emotions settled back into calm. Sometimes, this aspect of Ji Tingqian frustrated Ming Huai to no end—he was simply impossible to read.
“We aren’t suitable for each other.” Ji Tingqian’s voice remained as pleasing as ever, low and resonant, always imparting a sense of reassurance.
Yet Ming Huai acted as if he hadn’t heard those words at all. Employing the same tactic as before, he rolled on top of Ji Tingqian and pressed his lips against those thin ones. This time, however, things unfolded differently; Ji Tingqian seemed prepared. The instant their lips met, Ming Huai was pushed away, yet he still clung tightly to Ji Tingqian’s body, refusing to let go.
Burying his head in the hollow of Ji Tingqian’s neck, Ming Huai felt an overwhelming acidity—his heart ached, and his eyes stung with tears. “Don’t push me away,” he pleaded, “just let me finish speaking.”
Ji Tingqian’s hand ultimately rested only on Ming Huai’s slender shoulders, unable to move further. In the darkness, Ji Tingqian’s brows knitted tightly together. He always went soft for Ming Huai, which was far too abnormal. Yet he absolutely could not love Ming Huai; he had not forgotten that Dudu still had a mother.
“I truly like you, whether you believe it or not,” Ming Huai said, digging his nails into his palms to hold back the stinging ache in his eyes. “Even if you can’t accept it, please don’t avoid me.”
Ji Tingqian offered no response—neither accepting nor rejecting, neither promising to stay nor vowing to flee.
In the latter half of the night, the two slept in the same bed, yet neither found peace. Especially Ming Huai, who seemed trapped in a nightmare; his entire body trembled incessantly, his face streaked with tears and sweat.
Ji Tingqian propped himself up to look at him, finally resorting to clumsily wrapping his arms around the other man. He murmured soothing words, unsure if they were even heard, yet having witnessed such distress, how could he simply turn a blind eye?
It wasn’t long before Ming Huai calmed down, nestling securely within that familiar embrace and drifting into a peaceful sleep. Ji Tingqian, weary himself, soon followed suit, and so they remained, asleep in each other’s arms.
The next morning, as soon as Ming Huai stirred awake, he found the other side of the bed empty. His gaze darkened instantly; he was certain the man had already left. Sure enough, when Ming Huai finished getting ready and headed downstairs, Aunt Chen greeted him with the news that Ji Tingqian had departed early that morning.
Unaware of the full situation, Aunt Chen smiled gently. “I tried to invite Mr. Ji to stay for breakfast, but he seemed quite rushed. He mentioned having urgent matters to attend to, so he declined.”
Ming Huai, in low spirits, merely murmured a perfunctory “Hmm.”
Ming Huai wasn’t at all surprised by how things had unfolded last night, yet a faint tinge of disappointment lingered in his heart. Although it was regrettable that he couldn’t share breakfast with Ji Tingqian, this very fact indirectly revealed that Ji Tingqian hadn’t remained indifferent to what had transpired between them.
What Ming Huai feared most wasn’t an overreaction from Ji Tingqian, but rather complete indifference—like that first night long ago. The fact that Ji Tingqian had later managed to interact with him without any lingering awkwardness only proved that he hadn’t taken that incident too seriously.
Optimistically, Ming Huai told himself that at least some progress had been made now.
However, subsequent developments took Ming Huai completely by surprise. He never expected Ji Tingqian’s reaction to be so intense. Forget about using Dudu as a way to get closer to Ji Tingqian; Ji Tingqian wouldn’t even give Ming Huai that opportunity. At this point, any message Ming Huai sent would surely vanish into the void, unanswered.
But Ming Huai didn’t mind; he continued to share trivial details of his daily life with Ji Tingqian at every meal, three times a day. After all, it wasn’t him who was being annoyed.
Instead, it was another matter that stirred up a modest yet noticeable storm. That day, after Ming Huai posted the photo, he paid it little attention. He never expected that a single image could propel him onto the trending searches.
Netizens were unanimously speculating about the identity of the other man in the photo. Ming Huai scrolled through the comments, finding everyone’s imagination remarkably vivid—and their schedules suspiciously empty. Otherwise, why would they devote so much energy to such trivial matters?
The photo had been altered by Ming Huai to such an extent that not only netizens, but even Yu Fanglan, who was fairly familiar with Ji Tingqian, failed to recognize him. When Ming Huai told her the man was Ji Tingqian, Yu Fanglan reacted as though she’d received the shock of her life.
At the time, the two were discussing this at Ming Huai’s home. Yu Fanglan was astonished. “Since when have you and Ji Tingqian become so close?” she asked.
Ming Huai blinked, offering her a look that spoke volumes yet required no words. “Brother Ji spent the night at my place that day.”
“What kind of joke is this?!” Yu Fanglan shot Ming Huai a sharp glare. “You must never speak so recklessly about something like this. Do you think you don’t already have enough scandalous rumors swirling around you?”
In late June, Yu Fanglan rushed to Ming Huai’s home with a script in hand. She was unusually excited; instead of sending an email upon receiving it, she went directly to his house in person.
When they arrived, Yu Fanglan deliberately built up the suspense. Holding a stack of papers in her hand, she asked, “Guess which director’s movie this is?”
A movie? Ming Huai’s eyes widened in surprise. Although he had been wildly popular in recent years, for various reasons he hadn’t taken on many film roles. The fact that Yu Fanglan was so excited about this one meant it couldn’t be directed by just anyone. Still, Ming Huai couldn’t guess who it was.
After a moment, Ming Huai spoke honestly: “Sister Lan, I really can’t guess. Just tell me directly.”
Yu Fanglan stopped playing coy and handed Ming Huai the script she had just printed at the office, her expression still brimming with excitement. “Read it carefully; this is an excellent opportunity.”
Ming Huai flipped open the script with curiosity, and on the very first page, it boldly stated—Director: Fu Hairong. Ming Huai could now fully understand Yu Fanglan’s feelings, for his surprise was no less than hers.
In the industry, the name Fu Hairong is a golden brand. Regardless of the genre or whether the film is intended as a competition entry, any actor who joins his cast inevitably sees a remarkable improvement in their performance. Moreover, Fu Hairong’s films have always been box-office guarantees, though he is by no means prolific, directing only when inspiration strikes.
“This script was personally sent to me by Director Fu’s team. I don’t know how many people will audition, but the competition is likely to be fierce. Several roles have already been cast with currently top-tier artists,” Yu Fanglan explained.
Ming Huai skimmed the message, then lifted his eyes and asked with a hint of confusion, “How did Director Fu end up contacting me?”
“I don’t know,” Yu Fanglan replied. “Why does it matter? What you should be doing now is seizing this opportunity and preparing for July’s audition.”
Suddenly, Ming Huai recalled something Director Fu Hai Rong had said while they were filming “The Farmhouse Courtyard,” but he quickly pushed the thought aside. That might have been one reason, yet he suspected there was something far more significant behind it.
Yu Fanglan had other matters to attend to; after mentioning this, she left.
By the time Ming Huai finished reading the script carefully, he realized what an incredible opportunity this was—a role that countless others would fight tooth and nail to secure. The film’s theme wasn’t particularly original, centered on a struggle for royal power in an ancient setting. What made it stand out, however, was the infusion of fantasy elements, instantly elevating the story into something grand and expansive.
From what he could see in the script, rather than being a film led by a single male protagonist, it felt more like a dual-lead story. The character Ming Huai was auditioning for had nearly as much screen time as the main protagonist.
Over the next few days, as Ming Huai delved deeper into the script, his confusion only grew. This opportunity simply didn’t seem like something that should have fallen into his lap.
The audition was scheduled for early July. During this period, Ming Huai not only immersed himself in studying the script but also embarked on a whirlwind tour promoting several TV dramas, flying from south to north day after day. With so much on his plate, he found little room in his mind for Ji Tingqian; his usual stream of chatter dwindled to mere “good morning” and “good night” messages, nothing more.
Ming Huai was truly exhausted; promoting the project drained so much energy that managing to say “good morning” and “good night” each day felt nothing short of a miracle.
In the blink of an eye, the day of the audition arrived. Yu Fanglan came early to pick Ming Huai up, with Yu Bin driving ahead. As they rode, Yu Fanglan shared the latest news she’d gathered, lowering her voice as she said, “I did some digging over the past couple of days. The male lead has already been confirmed—it’s Ji Tingqian.”
Ming Huai was sipping his milk when he heard Yu Fanglan’s words. He forgot all about his drink, mindlessly biting down on the straw. It took him a long moment to process what she’d said, his eyes clouding with confusion. “Ji Tingqian?”
“Yes,” Yu Fanglan replied, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. She hadn’t thought too deeply about it; in her eyes, Ming Huai and Ji Tingqian got along quite well. “Didn’t you have a good relationship with him? It’s perfect that you’ll be working together on this project.”
Ming Huai fell silent, chewing on his straw for a long while. He still couldn’t determine whether their relationship was truly good or not.
Upon arriving at the location, only four people were present. Fu Hairong sat in the center, flanked by both men and women. Ming Huai didn’t recognize most of them; he guessed there must be a producer and a screenwriter among them. Although the key personnel seemed complete, the setting hardly resembled an audition.
As soon as Ming Huai entered, he greeted everyone.
Fu Hairong laughed heartily and got straight to the point. “Let’s begin.”
Ming Huai nodded and began his performance.
The proceedings that followed were remarkably smooth. As soon as Ming Huai finished, Fu Hairong made the decision on the spot, without a hint of hesitation. Ming Huai even wondered if Fu Hairong had auditioned only him.
Yu Fanglan, however, didn’t overthink it. Securing the role was a testament to Ming Huai’s talent and a wonderful outcome in itself; there was no need to dig deeper.
Afterward, Fu Hairong treated everyone to dinner at a renowned restaurant nearby.
On the way, Fu Hairong and Ming Huai shared the same car. Privately, Fu Hairong proved just as approachable as he had been on the show, carrying not a hint of airs. As their conversation flowed, the topic naturally turned to Ji Tingqian. Without overthinking it, Fu Hairong let the words slip out freely: “Tingqian’s eye for talent is indeed excellent. Back when I asked him to recommend some candidates, he mentioned you. Hahaha! Though, I must say, that aligned perfectly with my own thoughts.”
Fu Hairong looked at Ming Huai with clear appreciation. On this matter, he and Ji Tingqian were of one mind; Ming Huai had been his choice from the start. Fu Hairong had always felt that Ming Huai was a child brimming with spirit, but since they had never collaborated before, he couldn’t be certain of the young man’s acting prowess. That was precisely why he had asked Ji Tingqian to provide a list of alternatives.
“Brother Ji recommended me to you?” Suddenly, Ming Huai’s mood dimmed. He couldn’t decipher the meaning behind Ji Tingqian’s gesture.
Mistaking Ming Huai’s reaction for a lack of confidence in his own abilities, Fu Hairong laughed heartily. “Although Tingqian recommended you, I wouldn’t have chosen you if you didn’t possess the skill yourself. Have a little more faith in your capabilities.”
Ming Huai had no time to explain things to Fu Hairong; a situation that had seemed certain to succeed now appeared to have a hint of uncertainty.
With filming scheduled to begin in early August, Ming Huai received the complete script immediately upon his return. Since his role was among the last to be cast through auditions and involved extensive scenes, very little time remained for him to prepare.
To ensure everything went smoothly, Ming Huai discussed matters with Yu Fanglan, and they decided to pause all his work commitments from July through August. Even so, Ming Huai found himself far from relaxed.
Since that day, Ming Huai and Ji Tingqian truly hadn’t met again. After returning from the audition, Ming Huai called Ji Tingqian; he answered, his voice sounding utterly devoid of emotion.
“Why did you recommend me to Director Fu?” Ming Huai cut straight to the point.
Ji Tingqian clearly hadn’t expected Ming Huai to ask that question. He fell silent for a moment before uttering two words: “Compensation.”
“Compensation?” Ming Huai immediately grasped Ji Tingqian’s meaning. He knew he shouldn’t hold it against a Ji Tingqian who remembered nothing, yet rage still made his entire body tremble. Restraining his emotions, he said, “I’ve told you before that what happened back then was an accident. I don’t need your compensation!”
“But I feel I should give it. By any account, you were the one who suffered loss,” Ji Tingqian stated with clear logic.
Ming Huai bit his lower lip, leaving several faint tooth marks on it almost immediately.
Hearing Ming Huai’s silence, Ji Tingqian assumed he might impulsively withdraw from the role. Frowning, he said, “Ming Huai, don’t act rashly. The final outcome is simply what you’ve earned through your own talent.”
“I won’t act impulsively,” Ming Huai replied, his voice calm once more.
Ji Tingqian felt an inexplicable flutter in his heart upon hearing those words. Just as he was about to say something more, the call ended on the other side. He sank heavily back onto the sofa, unable to help but wonder whether what he’d said was right or wrong. Yet if he hadn’t spoken thus, how could Ming Huai ever let go of such thoughts?
He considered his earlier statement a clumsy lie, yet Ming Huai, having lost all reason, believed every word Ji Tingqian spoke.
After hanging up the phone, Ming Huai, unsure of whom he was actually angry with, locked himself in his room for the entire afternoon, skipping dinner altogether.
At the same time, the words “Good morning” and “Good night” vanished from Ji Tingqian’s phone as well. It takes only twenty-one days to form a habit; when Ji Tingqian’s gaze instinctively lingered on Ming Huai’s chat window only to find nothing there, he couldn’t quite describe the taste of the emotion swirling within him.
However, before Ji Tingqian could fully savor the sentiment behind those messages, they vanished, only to reappear in his phone six days later. This time, the meaning was immediately clear. The moment he saw the messages return, Ji Tingqian couldn’t deny that a sense of joy began to blossom within him.
Ming Huai was merely upset for a short while; after all, accounts could be settled one by one later.
As for Ji Tingqian’s earlier doubts, they were entirely unnecessary. How could Ming Huai possibly pass up such a golden opportunity to spend extended time with Ji Tingqian?
In July, Ji Kun and Dong Ruman finally finished their busy schedule. After returning to the country, they gave themselves a long vacation, spending their days leisurely at the old family estate. Since Ji Tingqian happened to have no work commitments either, more than half of July was spent together at the old house.
Dong Ruman’s birthday fell on July 12th. In the past, she would have celebrated lavishly, hosting grand banquets either at the old estate or in hotels, making it as lively as possible. However, ever since that incident three years ago, she stopped doing so. Instead, she would go early in the morning to a temple to pray for blessings, and in the evening, the family would simply share a meal together to mark the occasion.
Yet by evening, Dong Ruman’s spirits remained low. She stayed in her room, staring blankly at her phone. Ji Kun could do little to help, offering only a few words of comfort. Not long after, just before dinner, a phone call came through. Clearly, Dong Ruman’s mood lifted instantly.
“Huaihuai,” Dong Ruman’s voice trembled slightly.
“Mom, happy birthday,” Ming Huai fidgeted with the fabric sofa, unwilling to upset Dong Ruman on her special day. “Since my brother’s here today, I won’t be coming back.”
“If your brother’s here, why doesn’t that mean you’re coming back? Isn’t this your home too, huh?” Dong Ruman couldn’t hold back; tears streamed down her face.
Ming Huai immediately became flustered, unable to find the right words. “Mom, please don’t cry, don’t cry, I…” His voice caught in his throat; it took a long moment before he could speak again. “I was afraid of upsetting you. I’ll come back another time when Brother isn’t around.”
In the end, Ming Huai couldn’t even recall how he’d ended the call. In previous years, he would always return to the Ji family home for Dong Ruman’s birthday and for Chinese New Year—but that was only when Ji Tingqian wasn’t there. He loved Ji Tingqian deeply, yet he wasn’t so selfish in love as to disregard others’ feelings. He knew that if Dong Ruman saw him and Ji Tingqian together, it would inevitably stir up painful memories. On such a joyful occasion, he didn’t want to cause her sorrow.
Dong Ruman cried in the room for a long while before finally calming down. Ji Kun held her close, whispering softly to comfort her. “Huaihuai still cares about you deeply. Don’t be like this.”
“Ji Kun, do you think I made a mistake? But if I don’t do this, how can I ever face Ming Huai’s parents? They only have this one child,” Dong Ruman sobbed.
After Dong Ruman finished tidying up and came downstairs, no trace of emotion remained on her face. Following dinner, she distributed the talismans she had obtained from the temple to everyone. The talismans were kept in a wooden box; Dong Ruman handed them out one by one until only one remained inside.
It was unclear what thought had crossed Dong Ruman’s mind as her gaze swept faintly over Ji Tingqian before returning to the last talisman in the box. “This talisman is for your younger brother,” she said. “We’ll give it to him when he returns in a couple of days.”
“Younger brother?” A crack finally appeared in Ji Tingqian’s usually indifferent expression, a flicker of astonishment crossing his face. How could he suddenly have a younger brother after being away for just a few years? Suddenly, he recalled the room on the second floor and the housekeeper’s words: “Young Master.”
Dong Ruman smiled gently. “Your brother shares the closest bond with you. He’s very well-behaved and handsome. When he was little, he loved sticking close to you, and even now that he’s older, though he calls you ‘Eldest Brother,’ he still prefers calling you ‘Big Brother.'”
But Ji Tingqian didn’t remember him, and there seemed to be no trace of this younger brother in the house.
A flicker of emotion passed through Dong Ruman’s eyes before she finally seemed to resign herself to fate. Looking away, she said, “When you both have time in the future… meet up.”