Liang Xiao took a deep breath, looked around to make sure no one was paying attention, and coughed once: “You—”
Liang Xiao whispered: “You need to bite me anymore right?”
Huo Lan: “…”
Liang Xiao was getting carried away with his words, his legs developed a mind of their own, turning him around to run back.
He ran two steps in slow motion before their President Huo reached out and grabbed his arm.
Liang Xiao let out a long sigh of relief: “President Huo—”
“Take good care of yourself,” Huo Lan said. “Don’t worry about home.”
Liang Xiao was about to say something, but was unexpectedly struck by some word in his sentence, unable to speak.
Liang Xiao held his breath for a moment, looked at Huo Lan, and smiled: “Mm.”
Huo Lan was afraid of saying too much and making Liang Xiao homesick. He originally didn’t want to talk to him, but now he couldn’t help it. He held onto him, unable to let go, his voice low and quick: “Know your limits, be careful with protective measures when doing dangerous actions, don’t take risks.”
Liang Xiao listened quietly as he spoke.
“Eat on time, sleep on time, don’t stay up late playing games.”
Huo Lan: “If you can’t memorize the script, read it a few more times, understand and remember, don’t bang your head against the wall…”
Liang Xiao: “…”
Liang Xiao felt he needed to find time to talk with his manager.
Although sharing little-known details about each other could enhance their relationship and was a harmless little pleasure…
There was no need to be so generous.
Seeing no response from him, Huo Lan fell silent, his gaze falling on him.
“…Alright.”
Liang Xiao nodded obediently: “I won’t bang my head against the wall.”
Huo Lan was somewhat reassured. He looked at Liang Xiao for a while, then raised his arm and gently embraced him from behind.
Liang Xiao had been waiting for this farewell hug. His wish fulfilled, he hugged back and patted him, reminding their President Huo while enduring the heat: “If your pheromones become unstable… remember to find me.”
Huo Lan had been helping him regulate his glands these days, and his own pheromones had stabilized quite a bit. Not wanting Liang Xiao to worry, he honestly shook his head: “They’ve been very stable lately.”
Liang Xiao was left speechless: “…”
Liang Xiao looked up at him for a while, remembering Huo Lan’s mention of “home,” and felt a pang in his heart and lungs, unable to hold back.
Liang Xiao lowered his gaze, and after a while, smiled: “Alright, then there’s nothing else.”
If he didn’t board the plane soon, he’d be called out by name at the airport. Liang Xiao checked the time, preparing to go back and board: “Then I’ll go first, you take care of yourself too—”
Huo Lan: “Liang Xiao.”
Liang Xiao: “Yes.”
“…” Huo Lan was silent for a moment, then took off his trench coat and handed it to him.
Liang Xiao had just been thinking to himself how their President Huo was indeed as straight as steel, when he unexpectedly received the coat. He instinctively hugged it, stunned for a while, then looked up to meet Huo Lan’s gaze.
Huo Lan looked at him for a while, then gripped the trench coat and tugged it slightly.
Liang Xiao held on, not letting go: “Isn’t it for me?!”
“Just let me hold it for a moment? Hug it? Feel this warm sensation?”
Liang Xiao indignantly said: “I’m not saying this, but you’re going to end up alone—”
Huo Lan sighed, took the nearly crumpled trench coat from his arms, held Liang Xiao’s arm, and carefully put it on him.
Liang Xiao was stunned.
Huo Lan: “…If you miss home.”
Huo Lan adjusted his collar: “Just contact me.”
Liang Xiao opened his mouth, suddenly feeling a burning pain in his chest.
Liang Xiao didn’t want to speak anymore. He pursed his lips, then nodded.
Huo Lan nodded: “Go on then.”
Liang Xiao, making the most of the remaining time, quickly hugged their President Huo who was destined not to be alone, shamelessly leaned in and nuzzled against his neck, then turned and ran.
–
“I see,” Duan Ming nodded. “That’s why you boarded the plane wearing a trench coat three sizes too big, looking like a wizard who just ran into an owl.”
“…” Liang Xiao, hugging the coat and reluctant to take it off: “Brother Duan.”
Duan Ming didn’t give him a chance: “Hurry up, this kind of clothing can’t be ironed, can’t be washed with water, can’t be dry cleaned.”
Liang Xiao was stunned for a moment: “Is it disposable?”
Duan Ming: “…No.”
“There are specialized care facilities,” Duan Ming seemed to know a bit about this. “Dry cleaning might cause discoloration, and water washing damages the fabric.”
The film set wasn’t close, they had flown for several hours before landing at the airport here.
The film crew was there to pick them up at the airport, directly sending them to the pre-booked hotel.
Xingguan’s responsible team was liaising, and if they sent the clothes for care now, they could still make it. If they waited any longer, the wrinkles might leave permanent marks.
Duan Ming supervised him taking off the coat, handed it together to the assistant team, thanked them, and turned back: “What did President Huo say to you?”
Liang Xiao, having lost the trench coat, lay dejectedly on the sofa: “Don’t mention it.”
It would have been better if he hadn’t asked, but now that he had, Liang Xiao also remembered the main issue: “Brother Duan, how could you be so disloyal?”
Duan Ming was puzzled: “What did I do?”
“You told President Huo—”
Liang Xiao was too embarrassed to say it himself, he held back for a long time, then let out a sigh, his face heating up: “You shouldn’t tell President Huo everything…”
Duan Ming thought carefully, remembering only mentioning to the butler that Liang Xiao played games late at night, looking at him made him angry: “Didn’t I say it for your own good?”
Originally, working in this industry meant irregular sleep patterns, and when faced with back-to-back shoots, falling asleep right after finishing a scene was common.
Liang Xiao would often play games for half the night, though it didn’t show much, his dark circles weren’t obvious, but the lost sleep couldn’t be made up.
“Why can’t I say it?” Duan Ming couldn’t understand why he couldn’t even mention this: “If you could be less troublesome, would I need to say anything?!”
Liang Xiao was left speechless by his words, opened his mouth, and honestly admitted his mistake: “No need.”
Duan Ming glared at him: “Whose fault is it?”
Liang Xiao: “My fault.”
These days, Duan Ming had been so worried about Liang Xiao that he could hardly eat or sleep. Yet President Huo kept Liang Xiao under tight protection – even the slightest reprimand from their team seemed to make snowflakes swirl ominously above their heads.
After holding back for days, Duan Ming finally seized the chance to vent his frustrations. “If you don’t want us worrying, take better care of yourself!” he scolded, feeling thoroughly relieved after getting it off his chest.
Liang Xiao nodded, rummaged through his pockets, and popped a candy in his mouth.
Duan Ming frowned. “Where’d you get that?”
“President Huo gave it to me.” Liang Xiao carefully folded the candy wrapper, a faint smile appearing. “The medicine’s too bitter.”
The adjuvant medications provided by Feiyang Pharmaceuticals to complement the inhibitors were indeed notoriously bitter. During the flight, he’d searched every pocket of his trench coat only to find these candies.
Sucking on the sweet, Liang Xiao suddenly felt confession might not be so bad. “Brother Duan.”
Duan Ming’s back inexplicably stiffened. “What now?”
“I’m not just afraid of bitter medicine,” Liang Xiao said earnestly. “I’m also scared of being broke.”
“…What?”
Liang Xiao gazed at him hopefully. “I really wish someone would send me ten-yuan red packets every day.”
Duan Ming stared. “And?”
Blushing slightly, Liang Xiao coughed and left the thought unfinished.
The unspoken wish wasn’t really about the money – he just wanted daily excuses to chat with President Huo without the formal thank-you notes or apologies. But the reserved alpha maintained his usual composure, seemingly content without such trivial conversations.
…Even ten-yuan’s worth of chat would do.
As Liang Xiao gathered courage to elaborate on his love for money, a knock on the door interrupted them. A production assistant announced: “Script reading session is starting.”
“Coming.” Liang Xiao stood up, professionalism returning. “Is Director Jin here?”
“He’s waiting,” the staff confirmed respectfully.
Director Jin Zhenbo, known for his strict old-school approach, tolerated no exceptions – not even from Xingguan executives. Having worked as his stunt double in Under the Willow, Liang Xiao remembered the rigorous routines from script readings to incense ceremonies at filming commencements. The closed filming with stringent visitation rules was precisely why he couldn’t finalize meeting plans with Huo Lan.
Duan Ming swiftly packed scripts, coat, hot water bottle and thermos into Liang Xiao’s arms. “Go!”
The conference room already buzzed with A-list actors who’d taken supporting roles for this prestige production. Director Jin nodded at Liang Xiao’s entrance. “Just observe today’s session if needed.”
“No problem.” Liang Xiao smiled. He knew the director remembered him as the bloodied stuntman who never complained, but his Year-End performance had proven his caliber.
“Begin.” The director gestured to the assistant director, who started narrating: “Fade in – dawn mist over battlefield ruins… broken weapons… riderless warhorses…”
The reading commenced with Yun Lang’s desperate flight – the once-pampered young marquis who’d braided old ministers’ beards now reduced to a lone fugitive. As the assistant director described bloodied reins and northern exile, the actor playing the pursuer barked: “Halt! Archers ready!”
Liang Xiao set down the script and raised his head. “Those who stand in my way shall perish.”
“There are ten crossbows in the woods ahead, with tripwires set for horses,” the middle-aged actor intoned. “An inescapable net.”
“Continuing this escape is courting death.”
Liang Xiao: “Death’s path lies ten li ahead of me.”
“Beyond those ten li lies the frontier where we battle the Rongdi barbarians.”
The assistant director continued: “Camera follows the pursuer’s perspective – aerial shot pulling back to reveal corpses strewn across smoke-choked wasteland…”
The middle-aged actor paused. “Young Marquis, even now there might be hope if you turn back.”
Liang Xiao smiled faintly. “I ceased being ‘Young Marquis’ long ago.”
“The old court matters don’t concern you. The late emperor’s final decree pardoned all. Imperial grace still shines—”
“Return now,” the actor pressed, “and with ministers pleading your case, there could still be—”
“The frontier is perilous. Once you cross—”
“Go tell that to the Rongdi.” Liang Xiao’s eyes flashed with familiar arrogance as he tilted his chin up. “Tell them to flee… lest they find themselves at death’s door.”
The middle-aged actor fell silent, closing his script.
With a carefree laugh, Liang Xiao’s clear voice rang out:
“First served as Han’s palace guard,
Followed cavalry to Yuyang’s charge—”
He recited only these two lines before yanking the reins, his horse leaping over barriers to vanish in a dust cloud.
The assistant director’s narration continued: “First served as Han’s palace guard, Followed cavalry to Yuyang’s charge. Who knows not of borderlands’ bitter trials…”
The middle-aged actor murmured the conclusion: “Yet even death preserves heroic bones’ fragrance.”
Yun Lang galloped toward certain doom without looking back.
