“Does it feel good?”
Shan Qingshan let out a soft hum, his demeanor far colder than moments before.
“If it feels good, why don’t you moan?”
Zhou Chong’s flirtatious, amorous peach-blossom eyes held a smile.
He pinched Shan Qingshan’s cheek. “Little mute?”
Shan Qingshan brushed his hand away, got up, and put on his clothes.
His movements were even more brisk and ruthless than a casual hookup’s.
Zhou Chong was dazed for a moment.
They were lovers, weren’t they?
Zhou Chong got up, reaching for the bath towel from last night. He glanced at it.
No use.
He grabbed his pants instead, threw them on casually without even fastening the belt, letting them hang loose around his waist as he followed into the bathroom.
“Not sleeping a bit more?”
“Got a shoot.” Shan Qingshan’s voice was a little hoarse, sounding quite sexy.
Zhou Chong frowned, wrapping his arms around Shan Qingshan from behind, resting his chin on his shoulder, clearly displeased.
“And you didn’t tell me in advance? How long this time?”
“A month.”
“That long. No wonder you’ve been so eager since yesterday—turns out you were cashing in early. Had enough? Is our little treasure full?”
“Stop messing around. I’m washing my face.”
Zhou Chong leaned against the wall. “When you come back, it’ll be Mid-Autumn Festival, and right after that, my birthday. Coming home with me to celebrate?”
Shan Qingshan paused mid-wash. “No.”
The bluntness stung Zhou Chong.
This wasn’t the first time Shan Qingshan had refused him.
It was the Nth time.
They’d been together for three years, and Zhou Chong’s parents knew about Shan Qingshan too.
The old couple often brought it up, telling Shan Qingshan to come by the house and have a meal.
Shan Qingshan just wouldn’t go.
Didn’t want to meet the parents.
Didn’t want to bring their relationship into the open.
Three years of dating, and he remained Shan Qingshan’s hidden lover.
Even when paparazzi caught them, they said they were just good brothers.
It pissed him the hell off.
His chest felt tight and suffocated.
Zhou Chong was a second-generation rich kid, with wealth amassed over several generations of his family—obscenely rich and powerful. Everyone around him called him the Crown Prince of the Capital’s inner circle.
Zhou Chong had never feared anything in his life.
As if fate had arranged someone to keep him in check.
Shan Qingshan appeared.
Zhou Chong fell in love at first sight, pursued him relentlessly for a whole year before they started dating.
That made it four years in total.
Shan Qingshan had always been this cold.
Was Shan Qingshan just impossible to warm up, or was he the one who couldn’t warm Shan Qingshan up?
The thought that had surfaced countless times rose again, winding around his heart like vines, tightening until it ached terribly.
Zhou Chong asked, “Do you not like my parents?”
“No.”
“Then you don’t like me?”
“Don’t ask meaningless questions like that.”
No denial.
Zhou Chong’s expression soured.
Shan Qingshan walked out of the bathroom, changed clothes, and went downstairs.
Without even eating breakfast, he stood by the door putting on his shoes.
Once they were on, he didn’t move.
He stood at the entrance, looking up at Zhou Chong on the second floor.
Zhou Chong held out for three seconds, then sighed and resignedly walked over.
He despised himself. What a lovesick fool he was.
So lovesick that Shan Qingshan didn’t even need to speak—one direct look, and Zhou Chong felt like someone had a grip on his very lifeline, wanting both to fuck him and to raise the white flag in surrender.
And now he’d surrendered.
No choice.
When it came to Shan Qingshan, he had no choice.
It was fine.
Being a lovesick fool was a man’s best dowry.
He, Zhou Chong, was the god of ancient Greece who ruled over love-struck fools.
“Won’t come home with me to meet the parents, but you’ll stand here waiting for me to give you a kiss? Tsk, you get all the perks—a little thing that steals hearts and bodies alike.”
“You can’t even put your pants on properly.”
Shan Qingshan reached out and fastened the belt that had been hanging loose for most of the day.
Zhou Chong looked down at him, smiling. “Blaming me again? That’s not fair. It’s a grown-up belt—it knows to hold whoever unbuckled it responsible.”
Shan Qingshan ignored his glibness and tilted his head up slightly.
“Are you going to kiss me or not?”
They always had a goodbye kiss.
That good habit had been cultivated by Zhou Chong through relentless pestering and shameless persistence.
Zhou Chong thought: Qingshan, my little treasure, looks like he’s asking for a kiss.
He lowered his head, and just as he was about to close the distance, he suddenly changed his mind. “No kiss. I’ll owe you one. Keep you hooked, so you won’t forget to miss me.”
Shan Qingshan clearly hadn’t expected that. For a moment, there was a flicker of stunned surprise on his face.
“Not kissing?”
Zhou Chong: “Not kissing. You’re hooked for sure.”
Shan Qingshan lowered his eyes, opened the door, and walked out.
At that moment, Zhou Chong didn’t know this would be the last time they ever saw each other. Just as he didn’t know that a week later, he would see the entertainment headline—
ACTOR SHAN QINGSHAN DIES BY SUICIDE JUMPING FROM BUILDING
The police notified Zhou Chong to claim the body.
Zhou Chong stood before the bloody, mangled corpse for a long moment, then left with a cold face.
An officer chased after him. “Sir! If you don’t claim the body, Mr. Shan will have no one to take him home. His father refuses to claim it and told us to cremate him directly and scatter the ashes.”
Zhou Chong stopped and turned around.
His eyes were bloodshot, but his voice was eerily calm, as if suppressing some restless madness.
“That’s not Shan Qingshan. I still owe him something—he wouldn’t kill himself. This person’s face is destroyed; what can anyone recognize? Did you run a DNA test? Or fingerprint analysis? Without identification records, who would take a body home? Not many people know about my relationship with him—how did you even know to notify me? This isn’t him.”
“Sir, there are photos of the two of you in Mr. Shan’s phone album. We conducted an investigation—he left your apartment two days before his death. We ran the identification, and it’s confirmed to be Mr. Shan. We’d appreciate your cooperation in a more detailed inquiry—for instance, did he seem at all unusual before he left?”
Unusual?
How could there be?
The same coldness as always.
Except—when he was leaving, he’d wanted a kiss.
“Mr. Zhou?”
“Enough!” Zhou Chong erupted in fury, each word deliberate. “I told you—he! Is! Not!”
Zhou Chong left the police station.
The body was claimed by Zhou Chong’s parents.
By then, Zhou Chong was already contacting his eighteenth private investigator to search for Shan Qingshan’s whereabouts.
No one was willing to string him along anymore.
They wouldn’t take the job even for money—the last one he’d called had called him insane before hanging up.
Everyone knew Shan Qingshan was dead. Only Zhou Chong refused to believe it.
When Zhou’s father entered, he knocked a decorative ornament askew at the entryway.
Zhou Chong said, “Put it back exactly as it was. If it’s crooked, he’ll be upset.”
Zhou’s father straightened the ornament, walked over to him, and set down a stack of documents.
Bank transfer records.
“Shan Qingshan has been sending money to his father. Large amounts.”
Zhou’s father pulled out another file—medical records.
“He had severe depression. Did you know?”
Severe depression?
Zhou Chong took it and read through the records carefully. He stared at the attending physician’s name at the end for a long time.
“I’ve never heard of this person. I’ll find a better doctor for Qingshan, my little treasure.”
Zhou’s father was furious.
The man was dead—what doctor was there left to find?!
“Zhou Chong! He’s dead!”
Zhou Chong kept his head down, his voice low but stubborn and unyielding. “No. He said he was going to film a movie and would be back in a month. Only half a month has passed.”
Zhou’s father grabbed Zhou Chong by the collar and pressed him down onto the sofa. Seeing the tears filling Zhou Chong’s eyes, all the words he had prepared died in his throat.
Zhou’s father slowly released his grip. “He’s dead. Accept it sooner rather than later.”
After Zhou’s father left, Zhou Chong sat alone for a long time, the medical record crumpled and deformed in his grip.
After a long while, he stood up and wiped his face.
It’s fine.
If no one would take his case, he would find leads himself.
Start with the house.
Zhou Chong searched every corner of the home and found a shredded piece of paper in the trash bin, covered in Shan Qingshan’s handwriting.
As if he had found a treasure, Zhou Chong pieced it together for a long time until he saw the full picture.
Two characters at the top center pierced his eyes like needles.
Mist gathered before his vision.
“Last Will”
Below, only two lines were written, both crossed out with strokes.
One sentence could barely be made out—
When you met me, it was already the fifth year of my love for you.
Tears burst from his eyes. Zhou Chong collapsed onto the ground, sobbing uncontrollably, grief too overwhelming to contain.
Lunar August sixteenth, Zhou Chong’s birthday.
Clear skies.
Zhou Chong had just finished the Mid-Autumn Festival at home. He stepped through the door, kicked off his shoes, and started walking inside. After two steps, he muttered to himself, “Little treasure, don’t be upset.”
He straightened the crooked shoes and set them properly in place.
Forcing himself to perk up, he went into the kitchen, boiled a bowl of noodles, and placed it on the table. Clearing his throat, he mimicked Shan Qingshan’s way of speaking.
“The longevity noodles you asked for.”
Zhou Chong walked around to the other side of the table, pulled the bowl toward himself, and shoved a large mouthful of noodles into his mouth.
“Still Little Treasure’s cooking is the best. Delicious.”
His voice choked with sobs.
Tears dripped into the bowl, then were swallowed down together with the noodles he lifted to his lips.
Lunar August sixteenth, night.
The full moon hung high.
The cemetery caretaker found Zhou Chong’s body in front of Shan Qingshan’s tombstone.