The moment the words left his mouth, Bai Qingzhou regretted them. The implication was too obvious—undignified.
But since the words were already said, there was no taking them back. He could only cough lightly, pretending to be nonchalant, though his eyes averted themselves without him realizing.
His indifferent expression fell into Xia Xinghe’s line of sight, leaving him momentarily puzzled.
“What do you mean?”
Xia Xinghe asked.
He had faintly sensed something odd in Bai Qingzhou’s tone, but seeing Bai Qingzhou’s overly calm expression, he immediately suppressed the budding suspicion forming in his heart.
How could Bai Qingzhou possibly be jealous? He didn’t even like him. Xia Xinghe inwardly mocked himself for being delusional and overly sentimental. But then, in a flash, another possibility crossed his mind.
“Wait a second…”
He frowned and asked with some displeasure, “You’re not thinking that I’m cozying up to the editor on purpose to pull strings behind the scenes, are you?”
Some smaller websites did have that kind of situation, where editors held a lot of power and could place authors on ranking lists and give recommendations based on personal relationships. Those who were close to the editors might get promoted every week, while those who weren’t might finish their entire serialization without a single feature.
But Xia Xinghe’s platform was different. He was on Sparks Literature Network, a renowned and well-established site in the industry. It had a wide variety of genres, huge traffic, and its ranking system was famously fair—based strictly on data. Editors would never show favoritism based on personal relationships.
Xia Xinghe curled his lips. “Our site’s always been super fair, okay? If you don’t believe me, look it up online.”
That wasn’t what Bai Qingzhou meant, but he couldn’t bring himself to express his true thoughts either. So he simply replied with a nonchalant “mm” and lowered his eyes, pretending to focus on eating.
“…Forget it, I’m not going to argue with you,” Xia Xinghe muttered. He was used to Bai Qingzhou’s indifference and unreadable expressions by now. “Anyway, I’d never do something that shady,” he added and lowered his head again, continuing to reply to Yanmai’s messages.
Yanmai had just been discussing the physical publishing details of A Dog’s Life Among Humans with Xia Xinghe. After finalizing the authorization documents, Xia Xinghe suddenly remembered the matter of the adaptation rights.
A week had passed—it should’ve been about time for a response. After some hesitation, he decided to ask.
[Little Bamboo: By the way, is there any update on that film/TV adaptation deal?]
Soon, the small text “The other party is typing…” appeared under Yanmai’s name, but it took a long time before a reply actually came through.
[Editor Yanmai: So… they replied to the copyright department yesterday. I just didn’t know how to break the news to you.]
[Editor Yanmai: I’m really sorry, Bamboo. We really tried our best.]
[Editor Yanmai: You know what… I’ll just show you the chat record.]
A moment later, Yanmai sent a screenshot. It was a conversation between the platform’s copyright editor and the other party’s representative.
The copyright editor said: The stats for this piece are excellent across the board. The author already has a solid fan base and consistent popularity. You might want to reconsider.
The other party replied: Sorry, this decision came from our higher-ups. I don’t have the authority to change it.
And then added: Personally, I really like this story and have submitted several requests to our management. But our leadership believes the subject matter is too niche and risky. The commercial value is uncertain, so they ultimately decided to pass.
After reading the chat log, Xia Xinghe fell silent.
It wasn’t his first time encountering this kind of situation—broken copyright deals were common. But being approached so eagerly only to be turned down so firmly afterward… it really stung.
He reread the chat several times. After typing and deleting several drafts, he finally sent:
[Little Bamboo: It’s okay. I know you all did your best.]
[Little Bamboo: Are there any other copyright inquiries about this story?]
[Editor Yanmai: Sigh… there are a few, but most just inquired and never followed up. Or the offers were too low—nothing that could really lead to a deal.]
[Editor Yanmai: Mainly because your theme is quite unique. It’s not the kind of topic that gets adapted into TV easily, so…]
From the other party’s perspective, Xia Xinghe could understand. In today’s fast-paced society, investors tend to prefer short, quick romantic dramas or long, high-stakes adventure epics.
But A Dog’s Life Among Humans had a dog as the main character. It was a slow-paced, emotionally nuanced slice-of-life—not a mainstream theme. Even though the serialization had been well-received, there was no guarantee it would appeal to general TV audiences. The overlap between online readers and TV viewers wasn’t that large.
When there’s risk, capital tends to avoid it—or simply abandon the project altogether. It was a common choice.
Logically, he could understand. Emotionally, though, it was still hard to accept. Xia Xinghe stared blankly at the screen, zoning out completely—so much so that he forgot about everything around him. It wasn’t until Bai Qingzhou gave a few light coughs, as if by chance, that he snapped back to his senses.
Right. They were still eating. He couldn’t just ignore Bai Qingzhou.
[Little Bamboo: Got it. Thanks, Yanmai. You’ve worked hard.]
Yanmai quickly sent back a sticker of someone patting a head. Xia Xinghe sighed softly and put his phone aside.
Bai Qingzhou looked up and asked, “Something wrong?”
“Nothing.”
Xia Xinghe shook his head. His thoughts were a mess. He forced a smile to make his expression look more natural.
His smile was still beautiful—his long lashes cast soft shadows on his lower lids, his lovely peach blossom eyes curved like crescent moons, and the dimples at the corners of his lips were faint but charming. Even the curve of his smile was flawless.
But something still felt off.
That wasn’t his real smile.
Bai Qingzhou lowered his gaze, saying nothing. A dark glint flashed through his eyes.
….
Living alone had made Xia Xinghe a bit carefree—he hadn’t cooked for himself in a long time.
Being on his own, he was too lazy to turn on the stove. Most days, he ordered takeout. Occasionally, if he felt like it, he’d boil some noodles—nothing fancy. Saying he cooked for Bai Qingzhou this time was also partly an excuse to enjoy a good meal himself.
The warmth of the soup and rice filled his stomach, the familiar flavors bringing a genuine sense of satisfaction. His hunger finally quelled, Xia Xinghe let go of his earlier disappointment and enjoyed the rare moment of peace. After finishing the last bite of rice, he contentedly set down his chopsticks.
He’d eaten so much he felt stuffed. Leaning back against the chair, he rested a hand on his belly, blinked, and asked Bai Qingzhou:
“So? How was it? Tasty?”
Bai Qingzhou also finished eating and slowly set down his chopsticks, saying, “Barely acceptable.”
It was indeed quite “barely acceptable.” Out of the four dishes in total, only a few plates remained on the table now, with barely a drop of sauce left. Bai Qingzhou had helped himself to two servings of rice and three bowls of soup, and now his bowl was completely clean—utterly empty.
Xia Xinghe pressed his lips into a smile. For once, he wasn’t fooled by Bai Qingzhou’s surface-level indifference. Full and satisfied, he couldn’t be bothered to argue with him. He just smiled and said, “As long as you liked it.”
That radiant smile fell into Bai Qingzhou’s gaze—it was the same crescent-eyed, dimpled smile, but compared to the one earlier, it carried a bit more sincerity.
Warm and fuzzy, like a glowing little ball of light teasing at the heart. Bai Qingzhou couldn’t help but curl his lips as well, showing a faint, gentle smile.
“Mm,” he said softly, “thanks for the meal.”
The tender atmosphere made Xia Xinghe blush a little. He hurriedly urged Bai Qingzhou to go wash the dishes, quickly clearing the table and handing everything over, practically pushing him into the kitchen.
This had once been their old agreement too: Xia Xinghe cooked, Bai Qingzhou washed the dishes. The ceramic tableware felt heavy in his hands, Xia Xinghe’s flushed earlobes still vivid in front of him, and Bai Qingzhou’s eyes lit up with a clear smile as he turned on the faucet and dutifully began washing up.
By the time everything was cleaned and put away, it was already dark outside.
While Bai Qingzhou was washing the dishes, Xia Xinghe refilled Bamboo’s food bowl. Bamboo munched away noisily and happily. After devouring everything, it elegantly groomed its snow-white fur.
Happy times always flew by fast, and soon it was time to leave. Bamboo didn’t want Xia Xinghe to go and bit at his pant leg in an attempt to make him stay. But Xia Xinghe didn’t really have a reason to remain, so he left under the moonlight and boarded the subway home.
By the time he got home, it was already ten o’clock. He turned on the lights, and the whole place lit up.
He had decorated the apartment himself. It was small but cozy. He had once really enjoyed the feeling of living alone, but after getting used to the warm atmosphere of Bai Qingzhou’s home, his own place now felt a bit empty and cold.
Xia Xinghe would never admit that he wanted to stay with Bai Qingzhou. He simply thought, maybe he should consider getting a pet too?
Back in the quiet, familiar surroundings, the emotions from earlier began to stir again. Xia Xinghe took a shower, lay on his bed, but couldn’t fall asleep no matter how hard he tried.
He kept rereading the messages he exchanged with Yanmai, fingers idly scrolling across the screen. Somehow, he ended up clicking into his chat history with Bai Qingzhou.
They didn’t talk often. Aside from the recent meal invitation, they had barely exchanged a few messages. Scrolling up didn’t take long before he reached the top. Out of boredom, Xia Xinghe scrolled down a few more pages and suddenly saw the message Bai Qingzhou had sent when he forwarded him those reference materials.
He had said:
“I know you’re a very talented author.”
Xia Xinghe didn’t even dare define himself as “talented.” From elementary school until now, he never considered himself a typical good student. Teachers always gave him the same kind of comment: “He’s smart, but way too disobedient.”
It wasn’t that he didn’t want to obey—it was that he hated a life lived by the rules. He was born stubborn, headstrong, and unyielding. He didn’t like following the crowd. Even if he had to fight tooth and nail, he wanted to forge his own path.
That was how he approached relationships too. If he liked someone, he’d go after them. If they remained cold, he’d give up. Even now, though he hadn’t truly let go, he forced himself to stay in control, refusing to fall any deeper.
The same went for his career. His parents wanted him to become a teacher—stable, easy, a lifelong job—but he liked writing. So he resolutely chose to go full-time, determined to make a name for himself through sheer willpower.
That was just who he was—unwilling to settle, and he wouldn’t turn back unless he hit a dead end.
Just like now, staring at Bai Qingzhou’s message still sitting in the chat box, Xia Xinghe suddenly had a bold idea.
He sat up abruptly, gripping his phone in both hands, opened his browser, and typed into the search bar:
“Guihe Film and Television Company address”
He wanted to try again.