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Mo Ran had always known he would be rejected by Chu Wanning. He simply couldn't keep the secret buried any longer; his loud, expressive behavior was impossible to miss. When they first lost touch, he had sworn to himself that this man was merely his mentor, his friend. He was meant to revere him, to love him from a distance, never to cross the line. He couldn't let his own lack of professionalism tarnish Chu Wanning’s career again. I’m better than that, aren't I? he would constantly tell himself.
In the past, Mo Weiyu had indeed been the type of person who courted controversy. People mocked him for how aggressively he threw himself at his co-stars, yet he never ended up with any of them. The public assumed it was just a cynical ploy to feed the fandom economy. Mo Weiyu knew the truth, and part of it wasn’t even his fault. How could anyone blame a boy born with a smile like that for using it? It wasn’t even a performance anymore when you’d known how to weaponize your dimples since birth.
Sometimes, a petty part of him wanted to make Chu Wanning angry, or desperate for a thank-you. He overthought everything. He was just a little wicked, completely unable to pass up any chance to be in Chu Wanning’s orbit. But this wasn't a "he asks, he receives" kind of dynamic. It was more like "he asks, and it ends." Because Chu Wanning was not the type of person to get involved with a former co-star from the screen, nor would he ever jeopardize his own hard-won reputation just for fun.
The mere thought of anyone else standing by Chu Wanning’s side as a partner drove Mo Ran to the brink of insanity. He would secretly wonder if Chu Wanning had a romantic past, or if he was currently locked in a quiet affair. He couldn't stop his mind from spiraling. Sometimes he would argue with himself: Chu Wanning’s solitary lifestyle naturally lowers the probability of any potential romance. But Mo Weiyu couldn’t shake it. His focus on Chu Wanning was narrow, obsessive, and targeted—even if he knew deep down it was just an excuse to justify his own avoidance. He knew his own heart; he couldn't survive a single day living a life without Chu Wanning.
Somehow, Mo Weiyu just couldn't rid himself of the idea of loving him. They were still friends who supported each other, once incredibly close, but now they had drifted into silence. The further he distanced himself from Chu Wanning, the more Mo Weiyu realized how clumsy and painfully obvious his attention-seeking behavior had been. If it had been anyone else but Chu Wanning, he would have been caught a long time ago. But Chu Wanning was the last person to think that way. He probably just thought Mo Weiyu was a slightly lost young man trying to find his footing in the industry, and so he had reached out with his own years of experience.
But Chu Wanning must have been disappointed in him eventually. Perhaps Mo Ran looked less like a serious actor and more like a media-hungry starlet who lived off tabloid scandals. Walking away from the eye of the storm was only fair. Xue Meng had once mentioned that Teacher Chu used to ask about his dating rumors, but then stopped entirely. He must have believed the tabloids, thinking Mo Weiyu was a lost cause.
This realization had caused Mo Weiyu immense pain, driving a fierce conviction home: until he became a better version of himself, he had no right to casually show up in Chu Wanning’s life, dragging a dozen public relations disasters behind him to disrupt his peace.
It wasn’t that he hadn’t tried to convince himself that he was just too deeply immersed in the character. But at family gatherings, whenever the television showed him and Chu Wanning together on variety shows promoting the drama, his survival instinct made him look away immediately. He would remember that sharp, elegant face, the flush at the corners of his eyes, and the bittersweet nature of their parting. He didn't dare to look.
Xue Meng would scoff, “Please, you’re not that method. You’re not that dedicated an actor.”
Later, during a keynote speech at an industry event—something he had done a thousand times—people commented on his natural charisma. His uncle and aunt used to joke before annual family dinners that if he ever quit acting, he should become a host. Sitting in the audience were his mother's distant colleagues. Xue Meng had said with immense pride, “They definitely wish they had a son like you. Sharp, fit, and gorgeous. That’s my brother.”
Oh God. If even Xue Meng was saying that, then Mo Ran’s behavior must have been utterly transparent. This was Xue Meng, after all. You had to love him for his blunt, unfiltered honesty.
Yet, throughout it all, Mo Weiyu tracked Chu Wanning with his eyes exactly 37.99 times.
Chu Wanning sat there. He had been thinner before, but now he had filled out beautifully—lean, solid, with phoenix eyes that seemed to look right through the world. Mo Ran’s staring was so blatant that the other guests began to glance nervously in that direction, wondering if there was a hidden camera they had missed. The tabloids later mocked him, calling it the best acting of his entire career.
His body had never truly recovered from its lovesickness. Folklore says that if you miss someone intensely for too long, your soul untethers from your body. That is what it means to be haunted, to be utterly lost. When your soul is no longer your own, your health begins to fail. Of all thirty-three heavens, the Heaven of Grief is the highest; of all four hundred and four ailments, lovesickness hurts the most.
Was Mo Ran smart? No, Mo Ran was a fool. He could spin sweet talk for the media, turning a phrase over three times in his mind before speaking, making sure every syllable served a purpose. But around Chu Wanning, he couldn't help but act like an idiot—dancing on set, fooling around doing absolutely nothing. Only by acting the fool could he justify breaking his own rules just for a laugh, lying about his tolerance for spicy food, claiming he loved it until his entire palate actually adapted. He used a secret music account to collect songs, a massive portion of which were sung by Chu Wanning, while the rest were simply written for him. For a while, because of these painfully obvious coincidences, many fans assumed it was a poorly hidden fake account.
Only under the guise of this playful persona could he pretend that even when this version of him was supposed to be straight, he was still dancing entirely for Chu Wanning. He would cut through crowds just to get close to him, his expression so solemn and reverent that onlookers genuinely thought they were about to kiss.
Only by playing the part of a mischievous young lover could he focus entirely on serving rather than taking. It allowed him to walk a safe, well-worn path, using his character’s mouth to utter the words his real self never could. Cough. Pretending Mo Weiyu was a better man than he actually was.
On the final day of filming, a man who was usually pampered and surrounded by entourages willingly played the clown just to bring a smile to his senior’s face. The drama was fiction, but the raw emotion trapped within it was entirely real. It was true—a textbook attention-seeker who craved praise wherever he went suddenly turned into a hopeless fool just to make his lover happy. The genuine joy radiating from him was unmistakable. And then, he wept uncontrollably in a lonely alleyway. He had to admit it to himself. No one else had ever touched that character except him.
People said, “You overacted. That wasn't a respectful nod to the source material.” The onslaught of online comments echoed the sentiment, claiming Mo Weiyu kept up his character even off-camera, while anyone could see how utterly icy and detached Chu Wanning remained beneath his criticisms. The media branded him as a boy who looked at everyone with cheap devotion—an actor who was over-selling a fictional ship rather than focusing on his actual craft.
Yet, they didn't understand a single thing.
Ye Wangxi had once teased him during a birthday livestream, noting how he seemed completely unable to let go of his last collaboration with Chu Wanning. It certainly wasn't just because his birthday happened to fall in spring. Earlier, while sorting through gifts, his staff had left a letter right on top of the pile. It appeared to be from a "Shipper" of him and Chu Wanning. Mo Weiyu had felt a wave of shyness; he didn't want to repeat the mistakes of his youth, and above all, he didn't want to scare Chu Wanning off. So, he had hidden all traces of his boyish pining. Unfortunately, his favorite fan-blogger interpreted this move in the exact opposite way—assuming he was trying to draw a firm line between them.
Mo Weiyu kept his mouth shut. In moments like this, he preferred to say nothing at all. Silence was the best armor. He didn't want to create any more distance between himself and Chu Wanning. Over the past few years, he had only seen Chu Wanning a handful of times, always with Xue Meng present. The rest of the time, even Shi Mingjing’s name was barely associated with Chu Wanning’s.
Besides, Shi Mingjing was practically torn to shreds by the internet half the time, and Mo Weiyu had no desire to be torn apart either. For a period, Mo Weiyu found himself looking up critique videos online. He swore it wasn't intentional, but sometimes you just have to look at the criticism to ensure you don't repeat the same mistakes in your next project. He quickly grew exhausted of it. The critiques weren’t always rational; some people were simply impossible to please. And many variables were entirely out of his control anyway. It felt more like the work of a future PR manager rather than an actor dealing with his own reputation.
Right on the heels of the backlash directed at Chu Wanning, Mo Weiyu noticed his own name popping up alongside his senior's with alarming frequency. He felt as though he was being deliberately steered away from Chu Wanning’s professional circle. People assumed they were fierce competitors. Furthermore, Mo Weiyu couldn't stand being compared to Chu Wanning by people who knew absolutely nothing. Mo Weiyu was, in fact, the biggest Chu Wanning fanboy alive—the number-one archivist, the most prolific editor of their show's clips. His aunt even admired his masterpieces; they had quietly taken over the director's job in their edits. He couldn't believe people were using his name to attack the man he adored.
Infuriated, Mo Weiyu acted without thinking and registered a fan account named Taxian-Jun to defend his idol. He made sure his arguments were entirely logical and structured, except for the tiny detail where he accidentally leaked insider information he shouldn't have known. The account blew up overnight, nearly landing him a lawsuit. One faction of fans dragged him, screaming about a "clout-chasing fan with a wife-delusion" who needed to step away from their idol, while another faction was convinced he was a malicious anti-fan hired by a rival agency.
“Now that is what I call a fan letter,” Ye Wangxi had casually observed, commenting on his somewhat unsettling yet detached fan behavior. Ye Wangxi loved musicals, and she had dragged Nangong Si along to see one. The musical told a story she refused to spoil for him. She had told Mo Ran, “I think your current cowardly state looks exactly like the protagonist. If it were me, I wouldn't say that hiding behind a lie to preserve a beautiful dream is better.”
“You think you’re the one who sees through everything,” Mo Weiyu replied with a soft smile. “But would you ever stop going to Nangong Si’s theater? It’s the same for me. I respect his work, but I also know him. I love the person he is.”
Ye Wangxi was an old friend. They had starred in a television drama together and were slated to shoot a movie soon. They did livestreams together often, and Mo Ran would always fix his dark eyes intently on her face while speaking, especially when she wasn't looking at him at all. The public naturally assumed he was madly in love with her.
But in reality, Ye Wangxi wasn't the cute, delicate girl she usually played on screen. She was fierce and resilient, and she held the key to the secret locked inside his heart.
Sometimes he wanted to look out for her, so he would reply to her social media posts with an overabundance of enthusiasm. Fans speculated: Has this boy gotten ahead of himself and fallen in love? Or is it just because they’re co-stars again? Early promotions? One fan quote read: “Just thinking about the fact that he might actually be talking to his co-star like that breaks me out into a cold sweat.”
Chu Wanning tried not to dwell on these things. If he had received a nickel every time the tabloids labeled that boy as the center of raw sexual appeal just for clicks, he would be a billionaire by now.
Scandal. Yes, it trending once again.
For months, people had been whispering: Is Mo Weiyu in love with Song Qiutong? They were always spotted in the same city, wearing identical clothes. Their recent drama possessed undeniable chemistry, and they looked beautiful together. Most importantly, Mo Weiyu wasn't Nangong Si. The rumors between Song Qiutong and Nangong Si made them look mismatched, but Mo Weiyu fit perfectly. The fans were willing to accept any dating rumor if it deflected the harsher critiques.
Chu Wanning, burdened by his own deep-seated insecurities, never allowed himself to imagine it. He figured a man like Mo Ran wouldn't want someone like him. When you are surrounded by brilliant blossoms, why would you ever glance at a common weed?
Mo Weiyu was breathtakingly handsome—the kind of face where you could instantly tell he had inherited his beauty from his mother. Soft, delicate lines balanced against a tall, imposing, and athletic frame.
His face possessed a quality that turned even the harshest media criticism into a strange kind of tenderness. The articles painted him as a rebellious bad boy, but to Chu Wanning, he only ever saw a devoted puppy.
Chu Wanning still remembered their final kiss on the day the drama wrapped. It was the very last scene. Even the way the boy kissed was like a puppy—a sudden, frantic press of lips, a quick retreat with a shy, breathless smile, and then another bold, rushing kiss.
In that exact moment, Chu Wanning had a sudden realization. Though this puppy often acted foolish, Mo Weiyu was incredibly intelligent. In fact, Mo Ran had always been smart. He used to be just a lovely, unfortunate lover, but now he had grown into someone capable of profound devotion. Wasn't that love still there? In the script, Mo Ran was a lovable hound, but dressed in those elegant blue robes, he looked brilliant.
Please don’t ruin my perception of him. Don’t twist it into something else, Chu Wanning thought. Perhaps that was Mo Ran’s magic—he made himself entirely believable as the character written on the page. Yet in private, during other gigs, Mo Weiyu wasn't like that at all. Others described him as a gentle, quiet soul, deep and fond of literature. But here, around Chu Wanning, he was restless, constantly seeking his senior’s validation.
When they finally left the production bubble, they felt a profound sense of detachment. They kept hoping time would heal it, but it never did. There was a gaping crater in their lives that nothing could fill, yet neither dared to reach out. On a Valentine's Day long after the silence settled, Chu Wanning went to see him. It was pure coincidence; they happened to be sharing the same studio at different time slots, and they even chatted with Xue Meng for a bit.
When he caught sight of Mo Weiyu, utterly radiant in his costume, he realized that even deep into the night, the boy carried enough light to illuminate the dark sky. Mo Ran watched him with eyes full of desperate hope, and Chu Wanning knew right then that he could no longer fight it. He couldn't keep this love locked away. So, he walked over, stepping right into his space. Mo Ran wasn't officially off the clock yet, so Chu Wanning just quietly watched him work, before slipping away without causing a stir. They hadn't even managed to exchange anything beyond polite pleasantries.
Word of their brief crossing leaked, and the toxic commentators swarmed back, acting as though he and Mo Weiyu were cutthroat rivals fighting for the same roles—as if their lives would ever truly intertwine again. Chu Wanning would never admit to the sharp, stinging pang he felt watching Mo Ran direct that exact same tender gaze toward Ye Wangxi. But just looking at him now, none of those things seemed to matter anymore.
Mo Ran had changed significantly over the past few years. At twenty-one, he was in the final stretch of his growth spurt. Chu Wanning still remembered filming their intimate scenes; that lean, powerful young body pressing against his own. Back then, when Chu Wanning had taken off his shirt to let Mo Ran map out the blocking for a touch, the boy had stubbornly insisted on waiting until the intimacy coordinator was present on set.
Now, he had filled out into a broad, solid man with visible muscle lining his arms. Yet, his facial features retained a trace of boyish youth—after all, he hadn't even crossed the threshold of twenty-five.
He recalled a break during filming when Mo Weiyu had pulled him by the hand to share a bowl of ice cream. He had asked Mo Ran, “Why aren't you eating?” Mo Ran replied, “I don't really like it, and the calories are too high. Do you like sweets?” Chu Wanning had never shared that secret with anyone, but he nodded. So, Mo Ran had scooped up his own portion and fed it to him.
It was only long after they stopped seeing each other that someone casually informed Chu Wanning: the boy who routinely fed him with his own chopsticks on set was actually notoriously germaphobic, possessing an unyielding sense of personal space.
Thinking about how wildly exaggerated the industry rumors were, Chu Wanning couldn't help but smile. Mo Weiyu was, without question, an easygoing, vibrant, and optimistic soul. He was a far cry from the rumored "on-set tyrant."
Chu Wanning had incredibly sensitive, allergy-prone skin, which flared up constantly during their shoot. He took medicine, and the symptoms eventually settled, but he could never shake the anxious habit of checking his own neck. Mo Weiyu would frequently reach out to check it for him, purely out of the goodness of his heart.
Later, Mo Weiyu began initiated touch by taking Chu Wanning’s hands. He loved comparing the size of their palms, whining, “Come on, let’s compare, just a quick look.” His heart would silently plead, Just this once, just let me have this. Chu Wanning would place his hand in Mo Ran's, and the boy would break into a foolish grin, yet he wouldn't actually tighten his grip. After letting his hand be held, Chu Wanning would chide softly, “What are you smirking at? Go practice your calligraphy and choreography.” “Keep laughing and I’ll pull rank as your senior.”
Even now, looking back at the peak of their most intense filming schedule, it felt as though true love had genuinely blossomed between them—a love powerful enough to make an entire city swoon. The fact that a twenty-year-old Mo Weiyu had once snuck away with him on a random afternoon, driving dozens of kilometers out to Butterfly Town just to watch the fireworks, felt entirely surreal.
It was easy for outsiders to harbor rigid preconceptions about Mo Weiyu. His mothers were Duan Yihan and Xun Fengruo, his uncle was Xue Zhengyong, and his aunt was Wang Chuqing; he was born into an artistic dynasty with endless resources, acting since he was a child. Chu Wanning, by contrast, entered the industry far too late and achieved stardom even later, primarily because Huai Zui had forbidden him from straying from the traditional path of his family heritage.
Early in his career, Chu Wanning had crossed paths with Nangong Liu, who desperately tried to recruit him to his agency. However, Chu Wanning quickly realized the promises were built on lies. Nangong Liu’s practices within the industry were notorious and abhorrent; he possessed zero respect for creators' copyrights or the well-being of the crew. He weaponized a polished smile to deceive everyone into believing in a corporate culture worth sacrificing for, when in reality, he was a ruthless capitalist who looked down on everyone. Nangong Liu was exactly the kind of hypocrite who would pompously claim he entered politics for his children's sake, when his sole motivation was to spite them.
Chu Wanning felt a deep pity for Nangong Si. Having such a tyrant for a biological father had effectively ended his screen career; as long as Nangong Si remained in the industry, his father would never leave him in peace.
The first half of Chu Wanning’s career had passed in relative obscurity. He was pigeonholed as an actor who could only handle a specific genre—Wuxia. Beyond that, the media painted him as a total nerd with no personal hobbies, a gaming shut-in who lacked the social graces required for commercial opportunities. But that wasn't true. He had always been willing to try new things.
For a while, people frequently asked if he and Shi Mei would ever become a couple. They had worked together on a few projects but shared almost no scenes together; he had no idea where the rumors originated. Shi Mei was undoubtedly beautiful, but Chu Wanning never imagined their interactions could be read that way. He had almost blurted out how ridiculous it was, but Shi Mei remained perfectly polite, smiling as he told reporters, “Teacher Chu is strictly my mentor.”
Chu Wanning’s thin skin burned with embarrassment. If those rumors spread, tying a young co-star to someone of his age felt cheap and inappropriate. The toxic commentators would inevitably return. He felt a wave of guilt and remorse that Shi Mei had to endure this undeserved scrutiny, even if it wasn't his doing.
Shi Mei’s career could have soared higher, but in the end, people simply warned others: “Don't become the next Mo Weiyu.” Those words made Chu Wanning’s face flush hot. That harsh comparison was undoubtedly the reason Mo Weiyu had stopped speaking to him altogether. Whenever anyone new appeared by Chu Wanning's side, critics would complain they weren't doing as well as Mo Weiyu, while others bluntly demanded to know why it wasn't Mo Weiyu instead.
Last year, they had met once more in a far more low-profile setting. Xue Zhengyong had reached out, saying, “Come on, Yuheng, we should catch up.” Because of these deep-rooted connections, they could never truly sever ties. When Chu Wanning had severed his contract with Rufeng Entertainment, it was Xue Zhengyong and Wang Chuqing who took him in and offered him a safe haven. He would never forget that kindness. Fans even described him as being fiercely protected, implying Sisheng Peak only cared about the profit he could bring, though in reality, it was the opposite—they were keeping him out of trouble.
“I wish we could see each other like this more often,” Mo Weiyu whispered to him under his breath.
His cheeks were flushed from the sudden rush of blood—Chu Wanning had rarely seen him drink, so it might have just been the steam from the hotpot. Before they met, Mo Weiyu loved spicy food, hotpot, maintained a strict germaphobic boundary, and never copied anyone else's style. After they met, he claimed his favorite food was wontons in chili oil, eating them every single day.
Peering through the dense mist rising from the hotpot, Chu Wanning looked at the Mo Weiyu before him and remembered the boy from the past.
He used to say his top three favorite foods were chili oil wontons, chili oil wontons, and chili oil wontons. He had used Chu Wanning’s utensils, mimicked his wardrobe. Was he truly absorbing his character, or was he merely locking his real self away under a convenient cover?
But it was all just promotions, right? Or perhaps he was simply a brilliant method actor whose character’s experiences had permanently altered him, carrying a piece of that fiction forever.
If their sporadic meetings had remained just that, the longing might have been bearable. He thought distance would teach him restraint, but every brief encounter only left him craving the boy more intensely than before.
This was wrong. Chu Wanning knew that if he couldn't accept that their lives might never truly converge, the constant ache of wanting what he couldn't have would eventually shatter his focus entirely. He wasn't built for a life of yearning. He had endured Wu Bei Company and Rufeng Entertainment, sacrificing so much just to finally arrive at Sisheng Peak.
Amusingly, he had once posted anonymously online, asking: What do you do if you’re desperately in love with a former co-star and can’t get over it? But the internet completely mistook it for a beautifully crafted fanfiction. The users raved about how perfectly it captured the character dynamics and praised the meticulous timeline, crowning his anonymous account as a literal fandom goddess.
Chu Wanning felt a wave of mortification. If his way of handling this mess was no different from a starry-eyed teenager, how could he ever convince Mo Weiyu to take him seriously? He still remembered how Mo Weiyu had been plagued by leaked scandals and fake accounts on shopping and music apps.
Then again, he had subtly fished for information from Xue Meng a few times. Xue Meng, in his usual blunt manner of teasing his cousin, dismissed the rumors entirely, wanting no part in the drama. So, Chu Wanning’s fierce pride forced him to stop asking. Prying into someone else’s private life was improper anyway.
Mo Weiyu possessed what most would call a thick skin. People misunderstood what that meant; it wasn't a lack of pride, but rather a stubborn refusal to give up on his goal. He had prepared himself for a very long time. To earn his way back into Chu Wanning’s life—in the right way, the proper way—he was willing to reshape himself into someone worthy of affection.
When he was younger, people told him that if he just learned to act cute and use his tears, things would be much easier. But those people didn't understand the fiber of Mo Weiyu’s being. It wasn't that he didn't regret keeping silent about what he truly desired; instead, he had buried those fierce feelings beneath the foolish excuse of “it’s for your own good.” No, it was entirely his own pride. A part of him was terrified of facing reality. With every passing minute, his regret deepened. Things would have been so much simpler if he had just reached out for what he wanted from the start.
Yet, others told him: “Nothing you are doing is original, and since no one else succeeded, your efforts are pointless.” Love and free will constantly push against each other, bound by promises. “Don't gamble on uncertainties. If you learn to wait, you will eventually reach your destination in a better way.”
For Mo Weiyu, choices had always been a luxury. His long-suppressed feelings were bound to trigger a massive, unstoppable rebound. He was tired of hiding in the shadows. The spell of his "must remain respectful" mantra dissolved completely during a routine livestream, when his eyes accidentally caught something in the background of Chu Wanning’s room. In fairness, there was a reason people usually put up a curtain behind them during online meetings.
The object was painfully familiar. It was an unreleased, unpublicized poster of himself. (Because the drama was shelved, of course. The producers had felt the original shoot deviated too much from the intended tone, forcing them to reshoot an entirely different set.)
Chu Wanning had actually slipped a photo card of him into a protective sleeve, leaving it casually on a cluttered desk—tucked between a chaotic pile of figurine boxes, mechanical tools, and what looked like a half-assembled robot.
Mo Ran thought his mind was playing tricks on him, or that he was projecting his own delusions. He replayed the recorded clip dozens of times, even pulling up the original poster file on his computer to compare them side-by-side. It was an exact match. What kind of person keeps a photo card like that? Maybe it was a gift from shippers? And Chu Wanning had kept it without even realizing what it was? Like a piece of standard fan mail?
But another, intoxicating possibility crept into his mind, mocking his long-standing blindness to certain truths. He couldn't possibly be so dense as to think Chu Wanning treated everyone with that same tender care.
What a foolish boy, Mo Ran. No wonder people laughed and called him a silly dog.
What Mo Ran kept to himself was that he had done the exact same thing as Chu Wanning—except he kept far more than just a photo card. That was the real reason his livestream background always featured a study adorned with Van Gogh prints.
His mother, Xun Fengruo, always tried to discuss his relationships in a delicate, roundabout way, as if dealing with a teenager's phase. But Mo Ran was twenty-five now, no longer a green rookie in the industry. He had won awards, survived internet boycotts (mostly driven by toxic fan culture, which we won't dwell on). Her favorite piece of wisdom was: “Love can find you late in life, but as long as you are ready, it is never too late.” And honestly, how could love ever be considered impossible when your legal guardian happens to be the most famous contemporary queer icon in the country, if not the world?
Chu Wanning knew he couldn't avoid seeing Mo Weiyu at the Sisheng Peak annual gala, where the younger man was hosting. His build had grown broader; last year’s suit looked noticeably tight across his frame. Chu Wanning knew this would make Mo Ran’s manager, Old Liu, sigh in despair—the middle-aged man looked after Mo Ran like a son, constantly hoping he wouldn't have to endure a brutal weight cut before his next project.
Perhaps it was just an illusion, but he noticed Mo Weiyu’s gaze constantly drifting toward his section of the room. He didn't know who the look was meant for, and a part of him felt he shouldn't read into it again.
Now, peering through that same rising steam, Chu Wanning and Mo Weiyu sat at the very same table. In the past, they would order a split spicy-and-mild pot, but tonight it had been replaced with a gentle mushroom broth—a quiet shift in tastes. The table was practically deserted otherwise. Madame Wang Chuqing was locked in an urgent international call regarding a collaboration with Taxue Palace. Xue Zhengyong was enthusiastically chatting up Jiang Xi, though no one was entirely sure why Jiang Xi was even there. Xue Meng openly referred to Jiang Xi as a family nemesis, a comment Mo Ran fondly noted as proof of Xue Meng's absolute genius.
Beneath the table, Mo Ran quietly brushed his leg against Chu Wanning’s knee.
Chu Wanning shot him a sharp glare out of sheer reflex, but the younger man merely offered his signature, sweet smile, completely unbothered. He was close enough that Chu Wanning could see his thick, down-turned eyelashes, fluttering with subtle, suggestive intent.
Throughout the evening, Mo Ran remained glued to his side, an unusual persistence that even Chu Wanning couldn't ignore. Did he have something important to say? Perhaps he wanted to share some news. They didn't find a moment of privacy until they slipped into an empty meeting room. The latest rumor regarding their shelved drama was that Mo Ran’s name would be billed after Chu Wanning’s, a change forced by the new broadcasting regulations cracking down on credit disputes. It would, at least, put an end to the fan wars.
Chu Wanning’s name was simply Chu Wanning—it wasn't a stage name. Many people only discovered this after the new regulations rolled out. Few knew of his ties to "Wu Bei," and even fewer knew of his connection to Huai Zui. Following the shift, Mo Ran stopped using his stage name exclusively, opting for Mo Ran (Mo Weiyu). People hearing it for the first time questioned his unusual surname, which didn't seem to follow traditional family lines. Mo Ran would patiently explain it was more of a blended patronymic system, even though stroke counts for billing were calculated by the first character rather than a legal last name.
It was a highly condensed explanation, but he really didn't need to dig into the history. Xue Meng had sent countless letters of complaint to Jiang Xi because the medical institutions under Jiang's name kept writing to ask if their family would donate biological samples to the genetic bank. Furious, acting as the self-appointed protector of his unofficial cousins, Xue Meng had marched down to the Cultivation Administration Bureau building with ten hired trucks. It looked like a cross between a fan support project and a protest, an extreme stunt that successfully forced them to cease the harassment. In Xue Meng's words, Guyue Night’s management was rotten to the core and their music production was terrible—a total waste of an artist's potential.
He was too loud, too intense. A netizen named Hua Binan (whose real identity we now know) had even paid for a massive plaza screen to livestream Xue Meng’s heroic display. Deeply moved by his own performance, Xue Meng began performing his self-written tracks live in the square. Ultimately, the entire incident was featured as a case study in Taxue Palace's journal, with Mei Hanxue credited as the lead author. The paper, which explored the modern applications of sonic attacks by cultivators, actually won an award.
The Mei brothers used incredibly similar stage names. Initially, due to child labor laws restricting working hours, the identical twins were cast to play the exact same role. This slight spelling difference and identical pronunciation meant that Xue Meng—a fellow child star—took years to realize his childhood friend wasn't just one person with an acting range so brilliant he seemed like two entirely different people in real life.
Just as it had taken Chu Wanning a long time to fully comprehend who Mo Weiyu truly was. He spent ages piecing it together. The confession the boy was pouring out was the polar opposite of what he had assumed, and it took a moment for the truth to sink in. The boy was saying... He had been in love with him for years.
Until Mo Ran pressed his lips firmly against Chu Wanning’s—a soft, breathless kiss, laced with a damp, warm intensity.
It wasn't as if Chu Wanning hadn't consented; he was certain he had nodded. And it was just a kiss, something they had shared once before off-camera, though neither had dared to bring it up since. Chu Wanning remembered their final joint endorsement shoot, where they had blurted out each other's real names on camera—a detail the brand hadn't requested at all.
But they shouldn't be doing this.
He remembered the warnings: “People can't stand your ship concept. It’s just queerbaiting, hollow, with nothing real behind it.” Like that day he was singing loudly on set, only for the producer to pull them aside days later, stating coldly: “You shouldn't be doing this. The song isn't a fit and won't be included in the soundtrack. The way you two were singing on set was entirely inappropriate.”
The way Mo Ran would brush his lips against Chu Wanning’s cheek during a casual embrace was deemed inappropriate. Just like the way Mo Ran was kissing him right now was inappropriate.
Why would a vibrant young man like him want to kiss someone like me? Was he too drunk? Chu Wanning felt a sudden pang of regret. During those final months of filming, he had always been so stern with Mo Weiyu, shutting down his playful antics at every turn. If he accepted this confession, would they be driven apart forever? How did things even get to this point?
Chu Wanning pressed his hand against Mo Ran’s chest, intending to push him away. But Mo Ran clamped his own hand over it, trapping Chu Wanning’s fingers beneath a much larger, warmer palm—exactly as they used to do. Mo Ran’s fingers pressed firmly against his own, forcing him to feel the steady, frantic thudding of his heart, mirroring the blocking of their old scenes.
He used to think that piece of stage direction couldn't be improved upon, until he discovered that feeling a heartbeat while your lips are melting into a kiss is infinitely better.
Mo Weiyu wouldn't grow any taller, though he was already towering over Chu Wanning. Mo Ran had once awkwardly admitted that his real height fell short of the inflated figures online, which agencies used simply so co-stars wouldn't look too short beside him. In one famous behind-the-scenes clip, he had to physically duck down just so Chu Wanning could reach up and touch his forehead. Now, that same broad chest was flushed flat against him, transmitting a wild, thumping heartbeat.
Rather than worrying about violating some inevitable commercial conflict-of-interest clause in their contracts, Chu Wanning was terrified this was merely a moment of fleeting infatuation. Am I not pathetic enough already? Obtaining what he desired in this messy, hidden fashion felt devoid of honor. He thought with a tangled mix of despair and confusion, but the thoughts quickly dissolved. The frantic, breathless exchange of air left him with zero room to analyze the pros and cons.
The helpless way he melted into the touch made it feel as though this wasn't the first time he had held this joy.
“Wanning,” Mo Weiyu breathed. “Wanning.” The sudden intimacy sent a sharp shiver of panic straight through him, shattering his composure. How could this be? Mo Ran knew his name, and he knew exactly who that name belonged to. He was completely, undeniably sober.
Mo Weiyu stammered, confessing that a part of his real self had always been Chu Wanning’s fiercest defender online. He admitted to being the face behind the notorious Taxian-Jun account. Damn it! Chu Wanning had been told repeatedly that the account was just a dedicated internet troll. It possessed all the hallmarks—never appearing offline, knowing details no outsider should, and throwing tantrums whenever the comments turned against Chu Wanning.
Chu Wanning worried for a second if this was a trap, or if Mo Ran was merely confusing love with a deep fanboy adoration. Someone had mentioned before that Mo Weiyu might be a fan of his, but Chu Wanning had always brushed it off as standard promotional flattery rather than a literal truth.
And thinking about it closely made him feel a bit foolish. It meant the account's obsessive knowledge of him was actually an act of sweet devotion. Mo Ran probably knew that Chu Wanning had secretly kept all sorts of rare, out-of-print merchandise from their last shoot—and since most of it centered on Mo Ran individually, it definitely wasn't out of nostalgia for the show itself. The sheer weight of everything unfolding left his head spinning.
Mo Weiyu looked up at him, his brow furrowed with anxiety, terrified that Chu Wanning would pull back and regret it.
“I know I’ve done things that make no sense to you,” he murmured piteously, offering him a look from those massive, pleading puppy eyes. “I promise I can explain everything. Just... please don’t hate me. I beg you.”
Chu Wanning knew that if he didn't respond now, the window would slam shut forever. He hadn't fully processed the reality of it, but his instincts told him he had to act. He cupped Mo Ran’s head. It looked a bit comical because Mo Ran had crouched down again, looking exactly like a pedigree puppy waiting for a command.
A thousand words swirled in his chest, but in the end, he channeled them into a soft, pressing kiss. He pressed it to Mo Ran’s forehead. He used to touch that forehead as a gesture of parting, but now he left a kiss there. He traced his lips down from the forehead to the bridge of his nose, finally sliding down to meet his mouth. Only to be gently caught by a lone finger.
Mo Weiyu responded with an explosive, ecstatic fervor that nearly swept Chu Wanning off his feet. It felt as though an invisible, fluffy, and powerful tail was wagging furiously behind the boy.
“What are you smiling at?” Chu Wanning asked softly, well aware that his technique was probably lacking—it turned out acting out romances didn't magically grant you real-world seduction skills. “Is there anything else I should know?” “I think,” Mo Ran beamed, “it’s just that I’m the luckiest man in the entire world.” Mo Ran let out a breathtaking smile.
(And following that night, Mo Ran absolutely bought up the legal rights to that unreleased song, quietly sending the demo tracks for Chu Wanning to listen to in secret.)