Shan Jiqiu looked at him. The side light split him in half—one side bright, the other hidden in shadow. In that moment, she thought of angels and demons.
Angel or demon, it didn’t matter. If it were him, wouldn’t the dead follow him, whether to heaven or hell?
“It’s already late.” Shan Jiqiu pointed at the sky. “Why did you call me up here?”
“Not late.” Lu Yun raised his brows, smiled, and tossed out the words as he strode toward the railing.
Shan Jiqiu curled her lips. He really had no respect for time—always doing the wrong thing at the wrong hour. She turned, noticing his hand, hidden in shadow before, holding a large bag. It looked like food.
So, he called her up here in the middle of the night for a midnight snack?
She walked closer, then froze.
Lu Yun had taken out a cake box.
Not snacks.
Cake.
He carefully lifted the cake from the box, set it on the railing’s platform, and steadied it. Then he leaned lazily against the half‑wall, arm resting on the ledge, head tilted toward her.
“Black Forest. Tempting?”
Shan Jiqiu stepped closer, stopping beside him. She glanced at him, then at the cake. It was just an ordinary Black Forest cake from the bakery, small—about six inches. The center was covered in chocolate shavings, encircled by white cream, with a single cherry hanging delicately on top.
The sight conjured an image: On a boundless black earth stood a lone snow‑capped mountain, and at its peak, a beautiful girl in a dark red dress. Alone, yet radiant.
In the past, Lu Yun had also bought her cake around this season, saying it was “cake season again.” But this year, on this day, she couldn’t help but suspect his intentions.
Lu Yun noticed Shan Jiqiu quietly staring at the cake, unable to read her emotions. He explained: “When I went out, I happened to see the bakery had one Black Forest left. I thought, isn’t it cake season again? Fate brought us together, so I bought it.”
Shan Jiqiu looked up at him, her words layered: “Such a coincidence?”
Lu Yun insisted: “Exactly that.”
Shan Jiqiu: “Then you eat it. Why call me?”
Lu Yun: “I never eat alone. A person should know how to share, right?”
She listened to his nonsense, but her heart grew warm. The biting cold wind seemed to vanish, replaced by that warmth. If she couldn’t see through this now, her sixteen years had been wasted. This was clearly his way of celebrating her birthday, giving her a taste of birthday cake. But judging by his manner, he wasn’t sure if she’d accept it. So he made up this childish excuse to spare her feelings. She recalled his earlier words—“Not late”—and suddenly understood.
Not late. Because it wasn’t midnight yet.
She gazed at the handsome boy before her, who always seemed careless, never serious. Her lips curved openly, her eyes smiling.
This boy had protected her, taught her, teased her, indulged her, warmed her—since childhood. He was the light that reached her when she was lost in darkness and despair. The sun she longed to chase at midnight.
As a child, Shan Jiqiu was introverted and withdrawn, with poor grades. She rarely spoke, like a little mute. She had no friends, and other children bullied her, calling her “mute girl.”
Lu Yun was the first to reach out. He taught her: “Little cub, no one is born to be bullied. If you don’t want others to look down on you, you have to make yourself strong.”
That was the first time she spoke to someone on her own: “How… do I become strong?”
The clean, handsome boy pulled two White Rabbit candies from his bag and placed them in her palm. “Study hard. Get first place, and no one will dare laugh at you.”
She lowered her gaze, noticing the scrape on his hand, though he didn’t care.
He smiled at her, stood, and walked away, swinging his arms.
She looked down at the candy, peeled one, and tasted sweetness for the first time.
Children’s hostility was often senseless—if you were different, you were odd, an outcast.
But good grades changed everything. Lu Yun was first in the grade, and everyone liked him.
From then on, Shan Jiqiu tried to listen in class, stopped hating school, and stopped feeling surrounded only by malice. She began to sense kindness. As she studied, she discovered the joy of knowledge. It eased her anxieties, soothed her fragile heart. Her grades slowly improved—from the bottom to the middle, then into the top ten, and finally the top five.
So it turned out—good grades really could break the cycle. Those who once bullied her now looked at her differently. They no longer dared to mock her openly, at most whispering behind her back.
Later, when she entered middle school, the new environment, plus the care of her grandmother and Lu Yun, slowly filled the gaps in her heart. That was how the Shan Jiqiu of today came to be. And later still, she realized her relentless effort wasn’t only to avoid being bullied. It was to chase after that boy she liked.
A stubborn desire to be worthy of someone outstanding.
She believed that if she stood ahead of him, he would only see her. But alas, though his eyes did hold her, his heart did not.
Still—it was fine. At least his heart held no one else.
“Lu Yun.” Shan Jiqiu’s gaze shone bright in the night, a faint glimmer of tears hidden within.
“Mm?”
“I…” She pressed her lips together, looking at him with near‑longing eyes. “I…”
“What is it?”
“I…” Her throat tightened with nerves. ‘Suddenly, I can’t bear to hand someone as good as you over to another girl.’ The words had been rehearsed in her heart for so long, yet they were harder to say than climbing Shu Road. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, nails digging into her palms.
The yearning and struggle that almost broke free from her heart flickered across her face, then vanished. Her breath escaped, and with it, her courage—never to return again.
“Let’s eat the cake!” She looked at the cake, her voice loosening, her smile both forced and defiant.
Lu Yun, instead of answering, rested his hand on her head like a walking stick. He leaned down slightly, laughing low by her ear: “I thought you were going to say something serious. Turns out you just wanted cake? And you held it in for so long—pathetic.”
Shan Jiqiu smiled faintly too, though her smile hid a trace of bitterness no one could see. Pathetic or not, she thought, she’d been pathetic for years anyway.
Then Lu Yun, like a magician, pulled out plates, forks, and knives from the bag, and then another can of cola. As always, he opened the tab one‑handed and handed the first can to Shan Jiqiu before taking one for himself.
No candles, no birthday song, no ceremony at all.
It was simply cake for cake’s sake. Each of them held a plate with a slice, a cola in hand, and sat down on the bamboo chairs behind them.
Shan Jiqiu lifted the cherry stem, tilted her head back, and bit the cherry into her mouth.
Lu Yun turned to watch her. At that moment, she looked like a child, delighted with a treat, eating with smug satisfaction. She was worlds apart from the girl she had been when he first spoke to her.
That first real conversation had been on her birthday—though Lu Yun hadn’t known it then. To him, she was just the new transfer student, a month into the class. Pretty like a doll. And truly like a doll—silent, withdrawn, not fitting in. He knew classmates whispered behind her back, calling her “mute girl.”
Maybe because his father was a soldier, he had a hero’s complex. And the first rule of being a hero was to protect the weak.
The weak one was that mute doll.
That day after school, a few mischievous boys bullied Shan Jiqiu again. On the way home, they bragged: next time, they wouldn’t pull her hair, they’d put bugs in her pencil case.
Lu Yun grew angry and confronted them. When words failed, fists flew. He won, though his hand was scraped. Later, back at his grandfather’s, after finishing homework, he went up to the rooftop to play—and saw her crouched there, small and alone, like an abandoned puppy. As he approached, she instinctively shrank back, her clear eyes full of wariness.
“Little…” He squatted in front of her. The word “mute” twisted in his throat, and he changed it: “Little cub, no one is born to be bullied. If you don’t want others to look down on you, you have to make yourself strong.”
He hadn’t expected the “mute girl,” who never spoke in class and whom even teachers had given up on, to actually answer him.
Inside, he was thrilled. His first time being a hero—even with a scrape—was worth it. And, thinking himself a “mature” hero, he smiled and handed her the White Rabbit candy he’d meant to eat himself.
Back then, Lu Yun misunderstood why Shan Jiqiu hid there.
But from those two candies began the doorway to their friendship.
Shan Jiqiu began learning how to act like a normal student. She tried to talk to people—still not much, but at least everyone knew she wasn’t mute.
Of course, that group of kids would still bully her sometimes, and Lu Yun would bully them back on her behalf.
That sense of accomplishment made him happier than getting first place. For the first time, he truly understood the feeling his father had when saving people.
Everything seemed to be moving in a better direction. Over that year, Shan Jiqiu grew more cheerful, and her grades improved.
Until her seventh birthday. That day, Lu Yun found the little cub on the rooftop, covered in injuries. Her grandmother had moved in a year earlier, becoming neighbors with Lu Yun’s grandparents. The two children often did homework and played together, so he knew bits and pieces of her family situation.
For example, he knew Shan Jiqiu’s mother sometimes wasn’t in a good mental state—she even hit her. But this was the first time he saw it with his own eyes: bruises and marks on her arms and neck, shocking to behold. Yet this was her mother, not classmates. He couldn’t fight her mother.
Lu Yun reached out to touch her neck, but she flinched back in fear. Seeing her scared, he lowered his hand and gently rubbed the bruises on her arm instead, asking if it hurt. She only nodded, not speaking. Her eyes brimmed with tears, but she held them back.
She looked so wronged, so helpless, it broke his heart. So he comforted her in his own way: “Cub, call me Brother Ah Yun. I’ll protect you. Whenever you’re hurt, come to me.”
She finally reacted, asking if he meant it. They hooked pinkies, and just like that, he became her Brother Ah Yun.
But that day, Shan Jiqiu’s mother committed suicide. By the time she was found, it was too late.
Afterward, Lu Yun learned that day had been Shan Jiqiu’s birthday. She had been beaten and abandoned by her mother on her birthday.
From then on, Shan Jiqiu developed a deep aversion to the word “birthday”—psychological, even physical.
Once, when Lu Yun wished her “happy birthday,” she actually vomited.
Her grandmother took her to the doctor. The doctor said it was a psychological condition—not severe, but not something to rush. They advised avoiding words or situations that might trigger her and nurturing her slowly.
Thankfully, under her grandmother’s care, Shan Jiqiu gradually recovered.
Yu Kexia’s surprise party years later had been an accident. After that, everyone agreed: on her birthday, they’d just eat and drink with her, keep her happy.
And Lu Yun never bought her birthday cake on that day—it was too obvious. But he didn’t want her to go without cake, so he chose her lunar birthday each year to buy one for her.
Luckily, he’d discovered that this silly girl never remembered her lunar birthday, so he could fool her every time.
Today, because of Shan Jiqiu’s behavior at the hotpot restaurant—clearly aware of everyone’s intentions, yet still thanking them—he was surprised, but more than that, happy. So much so that when the others joked that the shop owner liked him, he went along without hesitation.
This was an opportunity, and he wanted to try.
Since she had taken the first step, he would guide her through the rest. Help her fully move on, so she wouldn’t be haunted by her trauma forever.
Starting with small tests, slowly, step by step. Until one day she could be like any other girl—openly accepting blessings on her birthday, receiving gifts, making wishes, blowing candles, eating birthday cake. And now, looking at her, it seemed he had bet right.
The little girl really was digesting her pain, learning to let go and forget.
It was a good thing—a very good thing.
The rooftop wind was strong, chilling her from head to toe.
Shan Jiqiu shivered unconsciously. She thought about finishing quickly and going back down—it was far too cold.
“Qiu‑baby, hold this for me.” Lu Yun handed her his cake plate.
She took it blankly, holding one plate in each hand, staring at him in confusion.
He unzipped his hoodie, tugged at one sleeve with his opposite hand, then the other, and easily slipped it off, revealing the white long‑sleeved T‑shirt underneath.
Then Shan Jiqiu watched as he lifted the black hoodie, swung it over her head in a half‑circle, and let it fall gently onto her shoulders. A faint scent of mint mixed with detergent drifted down with it, along with his warmth, wrapping around her back.
“You think you’re made of iron? Coming up here dressed like that—you trying to die?” He scolded as he pulled the hoodie snug around her, then lifted his eyes to meet hers, lips curling into a smile. “Silly little girl.”
The mood was ruined. Shan Jiqiu bit her lip, forcing a smile: “Can you stop calling me ‘cub’ or ‘little girl’? You’re only a few months older than me.”
It felt like he was decades older.
Especially that “Qiu‑baby.”
Back when they first became close, he had called her “Cub” at every turn. She had told him not to, and he’d casually replied “Okay”—only to switch to “Qiu‑baby.” And he’d kept calling her that ever since, so naturally it rolled off his tongue.
Lu Yun calmly reached to take back his cake plate, saying matter‑of‑factly: “Even if I’m older by a day, an hour, or a minute—you’re still a cub, little girl.”
Shan Jiqiu: “…” Twisting words again.
Seeing her speechless, Lu Yun leaned back against the chair, long legs sprawled, eating cake while gazing at the sky.
After a moment, the girl beside him asked: “Aren’t you cold?”
Lu Yun finished his last bite, set the plate down, took a sip of cola, and then turned to her: “I’m a man. I run hot.”
Shan Jiqiu couldn’t agree with how boys their age always said “I’m a man” or “We men”—as if desperate to prove maturity, when it was really childish.
“Oh.” She set her plate aside, picked up her cola, crossed her legs, and shot back without hesitation: “I’m a young woman. I’m cold.”
They both laughed, then looked up together at the stars and moon scattered across the dark sky, chatting idly.
Staring at the moon, Shan Jiqiu spoke softly: “See, the moon is Earth’s only satellite, just 380,000 kilometers away. Yet it can only gaze from afar, never draw closer. It looks cold, but every night it reflects the sun’s warmth back to Earth.”
Lu Yun chuckled: “That’s because of the Roche limit. If it got closer, the moon would be destroyed.”
“Can you not bring physics into this?” Shan Jiqiu sighed. “I’m telling a romantic story.”
“I’m just stating facts,” Lu Yun said.
“Pfft.” Shan Jiqiu shot him a sideways glance.
“Go on.”
“But I prefer Mercury.”
“How so?” Lu Yun prompted.
“Because Mercury has no moon, yet it’s the closest planet to the sun. Lonely and stubborn, unsure if the sun even notices it, but willing to spend its whole life orbiting.”
*Just like me and you. I’m the lonely Mercury, and you’re the sun surrounded by stars. Close in distance, but forever out of reach.*
*Maybe every secret admirer is a Mercury.*
Suddenly feeling too sentimental, Shan Jiqiu pulled herself back: “Do you think we’ll see a shooting star tonight?”
Lu Yun laughed at her scattershot conversation: “What, you think I’m an observatory?”
Shan Jiqiu: “I’m just imagining.”
Lu Yun: “So do you want to make a wish?”
Shan Jiqiu: “If there is one, of course I’ll wish.”
Lu Yun: “You’re pretty casual about it.”
Shan Jiqiu: “Sometimes being casual brings the best surprises.”
She took a sip of cola, eyes still on the sky. When he didn’t reply, she turned—only to see something flash before her eyes.
It was a phone. The screen was held out in front of her, showing a meteor shower.
In her ear came a clean, low voice in the night: “It’s for you. Make a wish—there are plenty.”