Li Xuan checked the gaming forums. The feedback on “Nook” was overwhelmingly positive, and it had already climbed to the top of the simulation game rankings in app stores.
He singled out the rare negative reviews—some were clearly malicious, but others offered constructive criticism. Li Xuan noted these issues, planning to address them in the next update.
Afterward, he reviewed the update materials and wrote some code, but something felt off. Half an hour of work ended up deleted.
The words “proper gratitude” kept echoing in his mind, stirring his thoughts. Though he knew it was a flimsy excuse, he couldn’t shake the thought.
He wanted to see Sheng Min, to hear his voice—not just today, not just now.
It had nothing to do with Sheng Min’s help in promoting the game.
But having an excuse made it easier, especially when he wasn’t yet ready to face him properly.
The ringtone rang for a while, but no one picked up. Li Xuan remembered that Sheng Min had mentioned during the livestream that he had filming to do in the evening. He sighed and was about to hang up when a soft “hello” came from the other end.
“Li Xuan?” Sheng Min tentatively called out.
Li Xuan unconsciously straightened his back, realized how silly that was, and leaned back into his chair. His tongue felt uncooperative, and after a long moment, he finally squeezed out, “It’s me.”
“I know.”
During the wait for the call to connect, Li Xuan had wondered if Sheng Min might deliberately avoid answering. That thought lasted only a brief moment before being dismissed. Sheng Min would never do that. He was always gentle and composed; enduring and maintaining peace was what he did best.
This realization filled Li Xuan with an unprecedented sense of sorrow. He coughed lightly to cover up his emotional lapse. “I thought you were filming.”
“I was, but it suddenly started raining an hour ago, so we wrapped up early,” Sheng Min replied, his voice carrying a slight drowsiness and a touch of warmth.
“Were you just sleeping?” Li Xuan couldn’t stop himself from making small talk.
Sheng Min, as always, was patient. “Just watching the rain.”
“It rained in N City today, too.” Li Xuan stood and walked to the window. He hadn’t noticed before, but the rain that had briefly paused had started falling again. The threads of rain wove together like a net, blurring the moon’s outline.
“Really?” Sheng Min laughed softly. “It’s pouring here, with some wind too… I didn’t even hear your call earlier. Is there something you need?”
Li Xuan hesitated for a moment. “I saw your livestream today.”
Sheng Min let out a light “oh.” When he spoke again, his tone carried a hint of embarrassment, soft and uncertain. “…You saw it.”
Li Xuan should have said thank you; he’d rehearsed those words countless times in his mind. But when he opened his mouth, what came out was, “You’ve lost weight.”
As soon as he said it, he regretted it, but it was too late to take it back. The other end of the line was silent for a moment before Sheng Min replied, “I’ve been controlling my diet for filming… It’s fine, nothing serious.”
Sheng Min’s tone was lighthearted, but Li Xuan couldn’t bring himself to respond in kind. Then he heard Sheng Min carefully ask, “You’re not upset, are you?”
“What?” Li Xuan was taken aback.
“I didn’t tell you beforehand and made the decision on my own.”
“Then why didn’t you ask me?”
“You wouldn’t have agreed.” Sheng Min paused, sounding slightly nervous. “You’re really not upset?”
Li Xuan felt a tightness in his chest, as if something was stuck. “No, of course not… I should thank you. Today, the game’s downloads surpassed a million, and the revenue is far beyond expectations. Qi Boyuan and the others are thrilled.”
“And you? Are you happy?”
“Yes.”
“That’s good.”
The room, cooled by the air conditioning, felt stuffy. Li Xuan opened the window halfway, letting the rain blow inside. “How did you know the game had launched? I don’t think I ever mentioned it to you.”
“I just knew.” Sheng Min’s voice was soft. Then he asked, “Why did you name it ‘Nook’ (A Corner)?”
The rain drummed incessantly on the treetops, threatening to dislodge the tender green leaves. Li Xuan was silent for a moment before replying, “I forgot.”
Sheng Min didn’t mind the evasive answer. “I really like the name.”
“Really?” Li Xuan couldn’t help but smile.
“Of course,” Sheng Min affirmed, then called his name softly, “Li Xuan.”
“I’m here.”
Sheng Min seemed to chuckle before speaking with a gentle tone. “Nook is really well-made. Even without me, it would have been discovered and appreciated by many. All I did was speed up the process a little… You’re truly a genius. I can’t remember if I’ve ever told you that before. The success of Nook or anything else you do is all because of your talent and hard work. It has nothing to do with external factors.”
There were so many unsaid words, like how Sheng Min trusted Li Xuan’s ability but didn’t want to see him wait. Having endured so much himself to find his footing, he didn’t want Li Xuan to experience the same. Though he understood that hardship might be normal for Li Xuan, he selfishly wished for fate to treat him kindly and make success come a little easier.
Li Xuan felt a pang in his heart, and after a moment, he responded with a vague “hmm.” Then he asked, “Will your company give you trouble? Will this affect your ability to take on future game endorsements?”
“Oh, that? It’s fine,” Sheng Min reassured him warmly. “You don’t need to worry…”
The thunder drowned out the last few words. Li Xuan frowned. “Is it raining harder?”
“Yeah, much harder. There was lightning just now. Wait, let me grab a jacket.” There was a rustling sound on the other end, likely from him putting on a coat. After a moment, Sheng Min’s voice came through again, sounding slightly tired beneath the increasingly loud rain. “The weather report says it’ll be showers for the next two weeks… Every time it rains here, it gets colder. It doesn’t feel like summer anymore.”
Li Xuan recalled seeing photos on social media from a fan site showing Sheng Min filming his new drama in a small mountainous city in the south. “How much longer will you be filming there?”
“About ten more days if everything goes smoothly. Then we’ll move to the mountains, where it’ll probably rain even more.”
“The weather’s cold. Take care not to catch a cold.”
Sheng Min chuckled softly. “Okay.”
It seemed like the conversation had naturally come to an end, yet neither of them hung up. The sound of wind and rain intertwined, making it hard to tell where it originated.
The phone grew warm in Li Xuan’s hand. Rain dampened his black T-shirt. After a long silence, he realized that Sheng Min had fallen asleep.
His breathing was light and even, and for a moment, Li Xuan felt as if he’d been swept into a soft dream. He couldn’t bring himself to end the call.
“Ge?” The sound of a door opening came from the other end, followed by footsteps.
“Asleep, huh…” Yang Xu sounded pleased. He muttered something about how Sheng Min was still holding his phone, gently took it from his hand, and there was a faint rustling sound, as if he were covering him with a blanket.
“Who is this…” After finishing his task, he turned to look at the still-lit phone screen. Seeing the name displayed, he instinctively cursed under his breath. Worried about waking Sheng Min, he quickly picked up the phone and ran out.
“Why are you calling him?” he asked Li Xuan, his voice full of anger.
“Did he fall asleep?”
“He’s asleep… That’s not the point! You’re so nosy.” Yang Xu exclaimed, frustrated. “A good ex should act like they’re dead. Do you understand that you two broke up? You’re not together anymore!”
Yang Xu’s shouting made Li Xuan’s eardrums throb. He moved the phone slightly farther away, but Yang Xu’s voice still came through clearly.
“Hey, Li Xuan, you’re really something, huh? Sheng Ge is kind-hearted and patient; does he deserve to be bullied by people like you? Look at Qin Zhengchen—no good ending for him. I’m warning you, it’ll be the same for you. Stay away from him!”
Li Xuan thought to himself, not only did he know, but he was also the one responsible. He stayed silent and didn’t respond.
Yang Xu kept scolding him until he ran out of words, leaving himself short of breath like a boiling kettle.
“I’m begging you, just leave him alone. He doesn’t owe you anything.” Seeing Li Xuan remain silent, Yang Xu, deflated, said, “His family already drains him enough—they’re like vampires he can’t get rid of. He’s finally standing up to them, but when it comes to you, he has no principles whatsoever.”
Li Xuan narrowed his eyes. “His mom asked him for money again?”
“I’m talking about you! Stop changing the subject!” Yang Xu shouted. “I didn’t even want to bring this up… but fine, I will. Sheng Ge suddenly went live streaming this morning—wasn’t that because of you?”
Li Xuan’s Adam’s apple moved slightly. “Yes.”
“I knew it.” Yang Xu’s tone was full of frustration. “He even tried to fool me, saying he was just bored. What a joke… He’s completely lost his mind. And he’s so convincing, I almost believed him. Then I checked Weibo in the afternoon—Yuan Yi Tech. That’s the same place he dragged me to in the middle of the night last time, isn’t it? He said it was a friend’s place. What friend? Boyfriend, that’s what! It’s you, right? I even saw your name on the business license at the door. I thought at the time that you might’ve just lent someone your ID to set up a shell company for some side hustle. I even wanted to lecture you about how that’s illegal, but I forgot after sleeping on it…”
Yang Xu tended to ramble, his tirade sprawling into unrelated points.
“Breaking up with you felt like tearing off a layer of skin. He couldn’t even sleep well. He filmed late-night shoots for three or four consecutive days. He just wrapped up at four this morning—last night’s scenes were all action shots. His costume alone weighed twenty or thirty pounds, and after filming, he could barely stand. And yet, for your nonsense, he wasted several more hours.”
Yang Xu grew emotional as he spoke, his voice filled with faint sobs. “The last time he streamed was for his birthday last year. This morning, he just happened to go live because of you? Sure. His mom came to demand money from him again on his birthday. She barged into the company’s streaming studio and started yelling about how unfilial he was in front of millions of viewers. Can you imagine how humiliating that was? After that, the internet went wild digging into his family’s situation. For over a month, his name was all over Weibo and forums—even his dad’s memorial photo got dragged into it. It gave him such severe anxiety that he refused to accept any streaming-related work afterward. He’d rather spend extra days shooting ads for brands than stream for half an hour. But now, because of you, he’s willing to do anything. You really have a talent for this, don’t you?”
Li Xuan could have denied everything, claiming he didn’t know in advance. But faced with Yang Xu’s accusations, he couldn’t muster a single word of defense.
“I…”
“What? What do you want to say? What exactly is so great about you? Aside from your face and some money, what else do you have? Ge doesn’t need money—what could he possibly see in you?” Yang Xu scolded him righteously before muttering, voice choked with tears, “…He still sees you as some kind of god. But I think you’re just a fox spirit.”
“What?”
Li Xuan didn’t catch the last part clearly, but Yang Xu abruptly hung up the phone with a sharp click.
