Chapter 57: He Wants Me To Go Back And Finish Filming “Jiao Si”…

As Lin Lan entered the heat of July, the weather grew increasingly stifling.

The milk tea in Jiang Qi’s hand turned from cold to warm during a long, lingering kiss between the two. By the time the kiss ended and Zhi Qi sleepily bit the straw again, the strawberry milk tea had already become lukewarm.

Even their interlocked fingers were coated in a thin layer of sweat.

Zhi Qi shyly lowered her head and smiled, lips pressed together: “Let’s go home.”

Jiang Qi chuckled softly. The jealousy that had been soothed by the deep kiss vanished completely. His long fingers gently held the girl’s slender shoulders and led her home.

The slanting rays of the setting sun stretched their perfectly matched silhouettes into two long shadows—like a pair of lovers blessed by the heavens.

In quiet corners, there are countless romantic secrets.

Young men and women in their early twenties, in the hottest weather, even their love is unreservedly passionate.

But beneath the surface of tender affection, undercurrents stirred.

For example, the irritability that came with the heat, the dwindling balance in the bank account, the job search that seemed to go nowhere—not even a clear goal. Jiang Qi couldn’t really let himself become a “kept man,” living off Zhi Qi.

Yet the job hunt, with no direction, felt like a bottomless pit. A thick vine seemed to emerge from it, wrapping around his feet and dragging him deeper into the abyss.

Inside was rage, despair, emptiness, and numbness. If he really got pulled in again, he’d be finished.

Jiang Qi, overwhelmed with anxiety, went to the Fifth Hospital and found his former attending physician, Liu Yong, asking him to increase his medication dosage.

He was afraid he’d lose control of his emotions again. He could clearly feel that he hadn’t been doing well lately and could only rely on medication to suppress it.

Even if his bank balance could barely cover the monthly cost of the meds, Jiang Qi had no choice. He couldn’t let Zhi Qi down again.

At one point, Jiang Qi even began to doubt whether rejecting Shen Lei’s offer had been the right decision. He feared that returning to the entertainment industry would make him lose himself again. But now, stuck at home doing nothing—wasn’t that also a kind of loss?

As he left the hospital under the scorching sun, this question consumed his thoughts.

Almost as if his thoughts had summoned it, his phone—tucked in his pocket—began to ring persistently. Jiang Qi, lost in thought, didn’t notice it was an unfamiliar number and answered it unconsciously.

The caller surprised him. The voice on the other end was calm: “Jiang Qi? This is Qu Heng.”

Jiang Qi froze at the entrance of the subway station, his body stiffening—almost as if the cool air from the underground AC numbed his overheated emotions, and a chill slowly crept up his back.

“I got your number from Old Shen,” Qu Heng’s voice was as refined and composed as ever, though perhaps due to past grievances, there was a faint trace of resentment: “Is it convenient to talk for a moment?”

Jiang Qi’s long fingers tightened around the phone. After a pause, he replied in a low voice: “Go ahead.”

However, Qu Heng’s first question was rather blunt: “I want to ask—how much does a car mechanic earn per month?”

“…”

Qu Heng was a well-known director. Surely he hadn’t called just to mock him? Jiang Qi frowned slightly, but still answered truthfully: “Base salary is four thousand.”

“Four thousand?”

The man on the other end laughed. Then he spoke again, his intention now crystal clear: “With that kind of salary, how many years do you think it would take to earn what you’d make from a single film?”

Jiang Qi didn’t respond. His hand at his side clenched unconsciously.

“Come back.”

Qu Heng’s invitation was firm and direct: “Finish filming Jiao Si. I’ll pay you the original agreed amount.”

Back when they signed the contract for Jiao Si, Jiang Qi’s pay was in the seven-figure range.

“Director Qu,” Jiang Qi lowered his gaze, emotions swirling beneath his eyes, “You can find a better male lead.”

“No, I can’t.”

Qu Heng rejected the idea without hesitation and asked: “Do you remember we already filmed half the movie?”

Jiang Qi paused, his thoughts drifting back to the winter half a year ago—The Jiao Si crew had filmed in Jiangwu for over two weeks, completing nearly half the script.

“That footage is a masterpiece,” Qu Heng sighed, “It’s a shame that only I get to admire it. Jiang Qi, I won’t hide it from you—I spent two years refining the script for Jiao Si, and searched nearly the entire entertainment industry before choosing you. I’m submitting this film to compete in the three major film festivals. I can’t replace you.”

Jiao Si carried all of Qu Heng’s hopes and dreams. He truly didn’t want to give up on it. That’s why he made this call today, and why he was willing to invite Jiang Qi again—even after all the resentment.

Because Qu Heng had a strong feeling: If Jiao Si could be completed, it would be the most successful work of his career.

Jiang Qi didn’t speak. He didn’t know what to say.

After all, he did feel guilty about this—Leaving the entertainment industry wasn’t something he regretted, but dragging down the Jiao Si crew and causing the film to be shelved? He was undeniably the one to blame.

Now that Qu Heng had humbled himself to extend the invitation, Jiang Qi couldn’t bring himself to say “no.”

No matter how cold he appeared on the outside, He was someone who repaid kindness.

So all he could say was: “I’ll think about it.”

It wasn’t just that Qu Heng’s invitation was hard to refuse—It was also that Jiang Qi… really did…

His mind was a mess. He stood there in a daze for a long time.

Then he turned and didn’t take the road home.

Instead, he headed in the opposite direction—toward the seafood market.

That evening, when Zhi Qi came home and opened the door, she was greeted by the fragrant aroma of seafood.

Her eyes lit up. While taking off her shoes, she asked: “Jiang Qi? You made seafood?”

The tall, slender young man emerged from the kitchen carrying dishes, and softly replied: “Mm.”

Zhi Qi ran over to the table and saw that Jiang Qi hadn’t just made seafood—He’d prepared a seafood feast.

Marinated crab was cut in half, claws splayed across the plate, the golden crab roe glistened and nearly overflowed. Bright red prawns drenched in garlic and chili sat atop a bed of vermicelli. Thick slices of salmon belly rested on ice in a glass dish, chilled and shimmering,

While the steamed sea urchin egg next to it released warm steam. A few drops of seafood soy sauce glistened on the glossy egg custard, its aroma so rich it made one’s mouth water…

As a picky foodie, Zhi Qi couldn’t help but cradle Jiang Qi’s face, and excitedly gave him a kiss on the cheek.

Like a little bird pecking at its food, delicate and dainty.

With just that soft peck, Jiang Qi felt all the time he had spent that afternoon was instantly worth it.

Truthfully, he wasn’t particular about food—he’d eat whatever was available—but he knew everything Zhi Qi liked and disliked. The girl hated many vegetables: celery, chives, carrots (except for the finely shredded carrots in fish-fragrant pork, which she loved). She enjoyed beef but disliked lamb, finding its gamey taste unbearable unless it was hot pot. And there were countless other little details.

Moreover, Zhi Qi loved seafood but hated shelling it herself—this, too, he knew.

So whenever the two ate seafood, Jiang Qi would naturally take on the role of ‘serving’ her, peeling crabs and shrimp, even picking out fish bones before placing the clean meat on her plate… Some might think Zhi Qi was too pampered, but Jiang Qi cherished every moment of it.

His little girl had been raised being doted on, waited on, and spoiled for over twenty years. Now that she was with him, of course he had to treat her even better.

Unsurprisingly, Zhi Qi ended up overeating.

After dinner, she looked down at her once-flat stomach, now slightly rounded, and pouted, her eyes drooping in dismay. “Jiang Qi, you’ve made me gain weight.”

Since moving in together, she had, for the first time in her life, surpassed ninety pounds! When Zhi Qi had stepped on the scale earlier, she nearly had an existential crisis—after all, no girl was indifferent about her weight.

“A little weight is good,” Jiang Qi replied with a faint smile as he cleared the dishes. “You were too thin before.”

Every time he held her, she felt so fragile in his arms, as if she might break at any moment.

Even now, when Zhi Qi claimed she had ‘gained weight,’ she still felt just as delicate.

That night, lying in bed, Jiang Qi held the girl in his arms, gently patting her back as if soothing a child. But the words he had been trying to say all evening remained stuck in his throat.

His long fingers, which had been rhythmically patting, eventually stilled, gripping her shoulder instead, toying with the strap of her nightgown.

Zhi Qi’s slender shoulders were perfectly balanced between bone and softness, and her entire body was ticklish. Unable to hold back a giggle, she kicked lightly at his calf. “What are you doing?”

Jiang Qi said nothing, leaning down to press against her.

But just before his lips met hers, her small, soft hand covered his mouth.

Under the boy’s questioning gaze, Zhi Qi lay beneath him, her chestnut hair fanned out across the bed, her delicate face bathed in the moonlight, serene and soft.

“Jiang Qi,” she whispered. “Is something on your mind? You’ve seemed a little off tonight.”

…

Of course. No one in the world understood him better than Zhi Qi.

Every restlessness, every hesitation—none of it escaped her notice.

Jiang Qi lowered his eyes, pressing a light kiss to her palm before sitting up and pulling her into his lap, letting the petite girl settle atop him.

“Director Qu Heng called me today,” the boy murmured, his sharp chin resting on Zhi Qi’s shoulder, his voice low and quiet as it brushed against her ear. “He wants me to go back and finish filming Jiao Si.”

Zhi Qi froze, turning her head to study the conflicted shadows in Jiang Qi’s deep-set eyes. She blinked. “And you? What do you want to do?”

Jiang Qi shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“This… I can’t decide for you. I can only support whatever choice you make.” Zhi Qi smiled, her small hand squeezing his long fingers. “But I know you’ve always regretted holding up the film’s production, right? Isn’t this invitation a chance to make up for that?”

True, but… Jiang Qi closed his eyes. “I’m afraid I won’t do it well.”

As Zhi Qi had said, he truly wanted to make up for his past mistakes.  

But every time he remembered his uncontrollable breakdown in Chenkong Alley, that same fear crept back in—what if he failed again?  

What if, this time, he only ended up hurting the crew and Qu Heng all over again? Wouldn’t that just prove him even more irresponsible?  

“Jiang Qi, what are you afraid of? You’re the fearless madman, remember?” Zhi Qi raised a brow, pinching his cheek. “If you set your mind to it, there’s nothing you can’t do.”  

This hesitation, this indecision—it didn’t suit him.  

“Actually, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you,” Zhi Qi leaned in, whispering softly into his ear. “You were born for the camera. When you’re in front of it, you shine.”  

Whether it was films or magazine shoots, Jiang Qi had a natural magnetism that drew people’s eyes.  

Sometimes, Zhi Qi wondered—was it a shame for him to leave the entertainment industry?  

For the audience, for herself, it felt like a loss. But now, he had another chance to choose.  

With his innate talent, Jiang Qi had been given many opportunities before.  

Yet no matter how many chances came his way, he had always refused them.  

Before drifting off to sleep, seeing Jiang Qi still silent and unresolved, Zhi Qi drowsily curled up beside him and left him with one last murmur:  “Do whatever you want. I’ll respect any decision you make.”  

She only thought Jiang Qi belonged on the big screen—she wasn’t forcing him back. The moment the words left her lips, she turned over and succumbed to sleep.  

The curtains by the floor-to-ceiling window were still open, and under the pale moonlight, Jiang Qi quietly studied the serene beauty of her sleeping face before bending down to press a kiss—  

Soft, like moonlight, against the corner of her lips.  

Her words had been a silent vow: *No matter what, I’ll always be your strongest support.*  

The restless storm in his heart suddenly stilled, replaced by a rare clarity.  

Jiang Qi slipped out of bed, phone in hand, and stepped onto the balcony.  

At half past eleven, most people in the entertainment industry would still be awake. He pulled up Qu Heng’s number—saved just that afternoon—and dialed.  

As the dial tone hummed in his ear, Jiang Qi realized something: those people were right. A part of him had always wanted to go back. He just hadn’t been able to break through that final mental barrier—until Zhi Qi shattered it for him.  

Otherwise, why would he have saved Qu Heng’s number at all?  

The ringing stopped abruptly as the call connected. Qu Heng’s voice, restrained yet buzzing with excitement, came through:  

“Jiang Qi?”  

“Director Qu, I owe you an apology for my past irresponsibility. And also…” He paused, then steadied his voice. “I accept your offer. I’ll return to finish Jiao Si.”  

A faint sound of something shattering came from the other end, followed by Qu Heng’s barely contained elation:  

“Seriously? You’re not messing with me this time?”  

“I wouldn’t dare.” Jiang Qi toyed absently with an unlit cigarette between his fingers. “But I have one condition.”  

“Name it.”  

“I’ll finish Jiao Si and participate in all promotional activities, but…” His voice softened.  

“I won’t take a salary.”  

He was returning to fulfill an obligation, to make amends—not for profit.  

Taking payment now would only feel like another betrayal.

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