Even after being led back to the study by Zhong Yao, Lin Zhu still seemed absentminded. He clutched that key tightly in his hand, turning it over and over, unable to stop playing with it, utterly enamored.
“Careful.”
Zhong Yao stopped him just in time before he walked into the doorframe. Seeing Lin Zhu still fiddling with the key, he couldn’t help but laugh helplessly. “It’s just a key. You can’t even see what’s special about it. Just keep it. What, are you afraid I’ll take it back?”
“If you were going to take it back, you’d at least have kept the keychain… But I have a keychain, so it’s fine.”
Lin Zhu was giddy with happiness, shaking his head in contentment. He slipped the key into his pocket and patted it twice, then thought better of it and moved it to the inner compartment of his backpack.
He had never received such a surprise before. His joy was so overflowing he could hardly contain it; the bright smile at his lips spread unstoppably through his brows and eyes as he circled around Zhong Yao again and again.
Zhong Yao’s heart softened. He pulled Lin Zhu to sit down beside him. “I won’t be taking it back. It’s yours from now on. Did you memorize the way here? Come whenever you want…”
Clutching his backpack tightly, Lin Zhu’s eyes curved with utter satisfaction as he nodded again and again.
Zhong Yao finally felt a weight lift from his heart. Smiling contentedly, he reached out to ruffle Lin Zhu’s hair. “It got dark before we even realized. Do you want to help me cook dinner? I’ve got a bottle of Xiangxue wine ready, and I’m planning to make crab-stuffed oranges for you…”
They’d gotten up close to noon, and had spent the whole afternoon going through Lin Zhu’s suitcase of treasures. With the curtains drawn and the lights on, they hadn’t noticed the time. It wasn’t until they reached the entryway that they realized night had already fallen.
Zhong Yao pulled open the curtains, letting the Mid-Autumn moonlight spill in through the window. He leaned down to grab a few pre-copied recipes and headed toward the kitchen.
Naturally, Lin Zhu was eager to help, following close behind with unconcealed excitement. “Can I help? What do you want me to do? I’ll be careful…”
At lunch, Zhong Yao had already noticed that Lin Zhu especially loved sticking by his side to help. He’d intended to make him rest more but couldn’t bring himself to refuse, so he smiled and seriously assigned him a few simple tasks.
The agent, delighted to play assistant, happily rolled up his sleeves and went to the sink to peel garlic.
With his agent busy at the counter, Zhong Yao focused on steaming the cleaned crabs. Feeling a twinge of conscience, he finally replied to the film crew, who had sent him two unexplained messages.
…
Satisfied that he had handled everything, Zhong Yao set down his phone and devoted himself to cooking the Jiangnan specialty meant to cheer up his little agent.
He hollowed out fresh oranges halfway, replaced the pulp with a mixture of steamed crab meat and diced pork, seasoned it, soaked it in the fine Xiangxue wine, and finally covered it back with the original orange cap.
Lin Zhu watched with fascination, eager to help at every step, sticking so close that Zhong Yao almost stepped on him several times while turning with dishes in hand.
Seeing Lin Zhu so cheerful, Zhong Yao couldn’t bear to chase him out. Instead, he found more small things for him to do.
And Lin Zhu wasn’t at all like a pampered young master—his movements were deft and clean, and he picked up everything quickly. When it came to dicing meat, his cuts were even finer than Zhong Yao’s.
“All right, that’s enough. It just needs to steam now.”
Zhong Yao made four of them, covered the steamer, and washed his hands. Meeting Lin Zhu’s lingering, reluctant gaze, he smiled and tapped his nose. “I left home early, so these are just the few dishes I still remember. The rest I had to look up… Even if it turns out bad, you still have to finish it.”
“It looks delicious,” Lin Zhu said earnestly, eyes fixed on the steamer with faint regret. “It’s just… too few.”
“This is something you taste for fun. Crab is a cold food, so you can’t eat too much of it.”
Zhong Yao smiled, glancing at the pot of chicken soup beside him. He skimmed off the oil and added a handful of goji berries. “After Mid-Autumn, the days will only get colder. This will help you build up some strength…”
Standing close beside him, Lin Zhu’s face was flushed from the steam. “Thank you… Ge.”
The word seemed especially precious to him. Every time he said it, it came out soft and gentle, like it was wrapped in a thin layer of sugar, melting sweetly as it fell.
“What are you thanking me for?”
Zhong Yao chuckled, rubbing his hair as he lowered his head to look more closely at him. “What were you thinking about just now? You’ve been distracted…”
When Lin Zhu’s phone chimed earlier as he was cutting meat, Zhong Yao had noticed his unease. His knife had nearly slipped toward his fingers several times.
Startled, Zhong Yao had taken the knife from him before he could hurt himself. Lin Zhu hadn’t been allowed to finish cutting the last bit of meat, which made the final crab-stuffed orange turn out a little rough.
Zhong Yao, now conditioned by his frequent surprise appearances on trending searches, reflexively assumed he’d done something wrong again. He sighed and said, “Did I mess something up again? Don’t panic, just tell me. I’ll be careful next time…”
“No, no.”
Snapping out of his daze, Lin Zhu shook his head quickly. After a moment’s hesitation, he said softly, “Ge… can I go to the bedroom for a bit?”
Zhong Yao didn’t question him, smiling as he nodded. “There’s nowhere in this house you can’t go. Tired? Go lie down for a while. When you wake up, dinner will be ready…”
Speaking gently, he picked up a freshly fried potato slice, dipped it in pepper salt, and held it up for Lin Zhu to taste. Seeing that the boy still looked like he had something to say, he asked curiously, “What else do you want?”
Lin Zhu clenched his phone and gathered his courage to push his luck. “I still want… a hug.”
Zhong Yao paused for a beat, then, seeing Lin Zhu’s flushed cheeks, gave a soft laugh. He opened his arms and pulled him in. “What’s wrong? Did someone bully you? Tell me, I promise I’ll bully them back for you.”
Lin Zhu shook his head, closed his eyes, and quietly rested against his chest for a while.
Zhong Yao’s embrace was warm and peaceful. Lin Zhu hadn’t dreamt at all the night before. He’d slept soundly until dawn, better than any night he could remember.
As long as he was beside Zhong Yao, as long as he could stay beside him, most things didn’t seem so hard anymore.
He took a deep breath, rubbed his cheek lightly against Zhong Yao’s neck, then turned and hurried out of the kitchen, heading straight into the bedroom.
He burrowed into the bed, wrapping himself again in the familiar scent and warmth, and pulled out his phone.
It was a message from Lin Song.
A few photos from a family gathering, tender reminders to eat and rest well, and notes about gifts his parents had prepared for him. The last few messages were worded cautiously, asking if he could video call his parents for a few minutes, just to talk together for a bit.
Lin Zhu turned on the camera and looked at his own reflection for a moment. Then he slowly clenched his fists, steadied himself, and tapped to accept the call.
A few seconds later, the video connected.
He lifted his head, meeting his parents’ faces on the screen. Their expressions filled with joy and nervous anticipation. Finally, he smiled softly.
Left alone in the kitchen, Zhong Yao stared at the incoming video call from Director Wei, who had changed his WeChat name to [Your Agent Is in Our Hands], and fell into deep contemplation.
……
Once you actually start doing something, it’s never quite as hard as you thought.
Lin Zhu wasn’t capable enough to read minds through a screen, but after wishing his parents a happy Mid-Autumn Festival and quietly listening to their worried reminders, he sat on Zhong Yao’s bed, clutching Zhong Yao’s blanket in his arms. For the first time, he didn’t break into a cold sweat, didn’t go stiff, didn’t feel dizzy or hear the ringing in his ears.
The knots from childhood weren’t impossible to untie. It was just that everyone was afraid of touching that old wound, so they all went out of their way to avoid it. And because no one ever dared to get close, that wound was never properly healed. It was left unattended, without even a dab of medicine.
Lin Zhu had always thought that as long as he kept avoiding it, he could pretend to be fine for the rest of his life. But today, when his brother’s message made him brush up against that old pain again, he realized, almost in disbelief, that the wound that once throbbed so sharply had, somehow, already begun to scab and heal.
He pressed a hand to his chest and smiled softly toward the video screen. “I know… thank you, Dad. You and Mom take care too.”
Mrs. Lin’s voice caught in her throat; Mr. Lin’s eyes grew misty. He nodded over and over, rubbing his eyes roughly with one hand.
Both of them were too emotional, afraid to upset their youngest son again. After a short while, they handed the phone over to Lin Song.
Lin Zhu loosened his hold on the blanket, lifted his gaze, and smiled faintly. “Dage, thank you for all this…”
“It’s nothing, really. Xiao Zhu, how are you feeling? Did it make you uncomfortable just now?”
Lin Song stepped out onto the balcony, making sure their parents couldn’t hear before lowering his voice to apologize. “Mom and Dad miss you too much. I tried to talk them out of it, but they wouldn’t listen. They made me try anyway…”
Whenever Lin Zhu video-called his parents, his brother always had to be present, and he never turned on his own camera. Lin Song had always assumed it was because Lin Zhu couldn’t get over being lost as a child, and when they were younger, he had even tried lecturing his brother to let go of the past and reconcile with their parents.
It wasn’t until years later — when Lin Song saw his now-grown brother trembling, breaking into cold sweat, unable to speak while facing their parents’ faces on-screen — that he became convinced it must have been their parents who had beaten the boy so badly he ran away from home back then. From that point on, he saw Lin Zhu as a traumatized victim and took his side completely.
Righteously indignant, Lin Song had since formed a silent alliance with his brother, always covering for him whenever Lin Zhu didn’t want to appear on video. This time, though, it seemed he’d run out of excuses. He had to message Lin Zhu for help.
“No, I’m fine,” Lin Zhu said quickly. He was just a little nervous, and had sweated a bit, but that was all. He shook his head, slightly embarrassed. “I guess I was just being overly sensitive all this time. Maybe if I’d tried earlier, I would’ve gotten used to it already.”
“No, no,” Lin Song said. “You were having nightmares before, remember? Maybe this is all thanks to Zhong Yao.”
Always quick to see through things, Lin Song hit the mark and grinned with approval. “My little bamboo’s all grown up now. So, how was that rose suite I got you last time? Did you use it to lock Zhong Yao down? Did you make him beg for mercy yet?”
“Dage!”
Lin Zhu froze in horror, realizing for the first time that the infamous hotel room had been his brother’s doing. He shot upright. “I told you to stop watching those trashy dramas! Zhong-laoshi and I are doing perfectly fine—”
“No?” Lin Song looked disappointed. “I thought you’d succeed in one go… So how’s it going this time? How’s your Mid-Autumn Festival together? You two are on the trending topic! Zhong Yao even declined the Mid-Autumn Gala livestream call. Did you tire him out that badly?”
Lin Zhu’s mind went blank. “What… trending topic?”
“#Limited Bandwidth#,” Lin Song said cheerfully. “Shantai TV’s Mid-Autumn Gala. I just watched the online version with Mom and Dad, they’re even running a live poll under it.”
Intent on shipping his brother and Zhong Yao together, Lin Song enthusiastically explained the situation.
The online stream had no ads and aired simultaneously with the TV broadcast. During intermission, to fill airtime, the [No Bridge] production team did a short interview. When asked about absent cast members, the warmhearted director — ever eager to show team unity — personally called Zhong Yao twice for a video connection.
Twice.
And both times, Zhong Yao declined the call.
It was broadcasted live. In front of seven streaming platforms and over ten million viewers.
Then, to top it off, he even replied to the crew with a text message.
Lin Song switched screens and read it aloud, word for word:
“Currently spending Mid-Autumn Festival with my agent. Bandwidth limited, time precious. Call if urgent, otherwise please refrain.”
Lin Song sighed, full of admiration. “My didi is so strict with his artist.”
Lin Zhu: “…”
Without bothering to explain, Lin Zhu hung up the call and immediately contacted the PR team, who had been oddly silent.
“Is this a big deal?” he asked anxiously.
The PR manager, calm and frosty as ever, replied, “It’s just a trending topic, not a scandal. Even state media have shared it, calling it the perfect Mid-Autumn template for politely refusing social obligations. The meme has gone viral. Frankly, your Zhong-laoshi just went mainstream.”
Lin Zhu rubbed at his temples, stunned. “Have I… been overworking you guys lately?”
“Not at all. We’re diligently earning enough for a new HD projector.”
Completely serene, the PR manager started giving a live commentary, “Right now, Zhong-laoshi is accepting the crew’s third call request, wishing the nation a happy Mid-Autumn. He’s wearing pajamas, and it is a vintage style, with a clear 90s aesthetic. Ah… he’s burned his hand. He’s leaving the kitchen now, walking through the living room…”
Lin Zhu: “…”
He dropped the phone, hastily stripped off the matching pajamas he’d been wearing, threw on a random T-shirt, and just as he finished, there was a soft knock at the door.
There was no time to change his pants. Stuffing the pajamas under the blanket, he frantically smoothed the sheets and dashed to the door in his slippers. “Zhong-laoshi—”
Zhong Yao stood there with his phone in hand, smiling lightly. “Is now a good time?”
For a celebrity who constantly traveled for work, spending holidays away from family was nothing unusual, and celebrating with a staff member wasn’t exactly suspicious. Still, Lin Zhu’s heart thudded wildly in his chest as he forced a calm smile. “Yes… of course.”
With gentle eyes, Zhong Yao took his hand and led him through the bedroom, pulling open the curtains so they could stand together on the small balcony.
The sky was cloudless, the moonlight cool and clear, the night breeze soft against their skin. Outside, the city glowed with peaceful lights. The heat in Lin Zhu’s cheeks slowly faded, and his pulse steadied.
Worried the livestream might expose their location, Lin Zhu hesitated, then adjusted the camera angle so that the backdrop showed only the moonlit sky.
“Some of you might just be joining,” Zhong Yao said with a smile. “Let me introduce my agent. This is Lin Zhu.”
He chuckled. “He knew I’d be spending the holiday alone, so he came to keep me company. He’s really sweet, really capable. We just exchanged gifts, made dinner, and we’re about to eat while watching the moon.”
Director Wei coughed meaningfully in the background.
Zhong Yao: “…”
Zhong Yao: “…We wish everyone a happy Mid-Autumn Festival.”
Soft laughter rippled through the audience. The host looked genuinely envious, perhaps reminded of the simple comfort of spending the festival at home. “That’s so lovely, Zhong-laoshi. Staying in, sharing dinner, enjoying a peaceful night with company…”
“All of you work so hard to bring joy to others,” Lin Zhu added, “we also wish the [No Bridge] crew a happy Mid-Autumn, and thank them for taking such good care of us. It’s been a wonderful experience.”
With his fine features, clear eyes, and pure voice, even his polite words came across as sincere.
Zhong Yao held the phone for him, smiling quietly as he watched his agent. The young man looked flustered just mere moments ago, yet now he could speak with ease and poise before millions. His gaze softened with subtle pride.
It was only a brief segment. The production team had squeezed in a few minutes of airtime, but it was enough. After exchanging holiday wishes, they ended the call.
The PR manager’s earlier judgment proved spot-on. The trending buzz this time was completely positive. Shantai TV fanned the flames with official posts, state media joined in the fun, and the [No Bridge] team gained a publicity boost as well.
Aside from Zheng Lingyang, who now wanted to get more popular than Zhong Yao, everyone came out ahead. There’s no reason for panic.
When Zhong Yao led Lin Zhu back to the dining room, Lin Zhu suddenly remembered the PR manager’s play-by-play commentary. His heart jumped. “Did you burn your hand? Let me see. You need ointment, now—”
He fumbled for the burn cream, only to see Zhong Yao pause, smiling faintly. “You—”
Meeting that gentle look, Lin Zhu flushed to the ears and stammered, correcting himself awkwardly, “Let me see… You can’t just leave it untreated.”
Zhong Yao chuckled and held out his hand. “It’s nothing. I just got distracted talking, the steam hit me a little.”
But Lin Zhu wouldn’t listen. He insisted on checking, rinsed the burn under cool water, and carefully applied ointment before he was satisfied. He refused to let Zhong Yao do any more work, bustling back and forth plating the food and pouring out the wine himself.
He moved with such earnest focus that Zhong Yao didn’t have the heart to stop him. Sitting at the table, he watched Lin Zhu quietly, noticing how his brow had finally relaxed, his whole expression softened and calm.
Zhong Yao was just about to look away when Lin Zhu set down the soup bowl and glanced up.
To avoid making him self-conscious, Zhong Yao started to avert his gaze, only for Lin Zhu to suddenly freeze.
“All done?”
Zhong Yao stood, checked the kitchen, and rubbed his head gently before turning off the lights. “Thanks for the hard work. Come on, let’s eat together—”
He didn’t finish before Lin Zhu caught hold of his sleeve.
Those slender fingers had gone pale, yet his grip was light. Zhong Yao could have pulled away easily, if he’d wanted to.
Zhong Yao stilled, watching him quietly.
Before Lin Zhu could recover and pull back, Zhong Yao had already gathered him into his arms, one hand resting gently on his back. “Go on,” he murmured. “I’m listening.”
Lin Zhu trembled slightly, then slowly, hesitantly, wrapped his arms around Zhong Yao in return.
“J-just now,” he began, eyes shut, focusing all his effort on forming the words. “Dage… asked if I could video-call Mom and Dad. I—I’m kind of scared of them. No, I’m not scared, I just—”
Normally, he could speak with calm eloquence, but the moment anything even touched on this subject, it was as though his throat tied itself into knots.
Frustration tightened his chest. He gritted his teeth, forcing the words out in fragments. “I’m… afraid they’ll—afraid of me, I…”
The arm around him tightened suddenly, drawing him close until he was pressed against Zhong Yao’s chest.
“All right, all right… I understand.”
Zhong Yao’s voice was soft, steady. “You did great. Really. I know it’s hard. It’s already amazing that you tried.”
The body in his arms went rigid, trembling faintly as Lin Zhu clutched his shirt again.
“Let’s not talk about that anymore,” Zhong Yao said gently, stroking his back. Then he gave a quiet laugh and dipped his head. “Although… maybe this isn’t the best time to say it, but did you know this T-shirt you’re wearing is actually mine?”
I’m about to die from a sugar overdose this is so sweet!!!!!!