Chi Zhan paused his meal, setting his fork aside as he waited to witness Chu Xingxiao’s self-invented “romantic move.”
He was genuinely curious—he couldn’t recall ever hearing that Chu Xingxiao played the piano. He had always assumed the man was purely a singer.
The ambient music faded without drawing much attention from the other diners.
Then the first note sounded.
There was the briefest pause, and then the melody flowed like water—soft and slow, gliding gently through the air. Chu Xingxiao’s fingers swept across the keys with practiced ease. It was like watching a magician at work. As he played, his eyes half-closed, his face turned slightly to the side, bathed in dim, moody light—his entire demeanor transformed.
The usual Chu Xingxiao was always like a big kid, sunny and playful. But in this moment, he was elegant, restrained, yet impossibly captivating.
As the mellow, subdued notes filled the room, the chatter and clinking of cutlery gradually faded. One by one, the diners stopped what they were doing and fell silent, all ears on the lone piano.
It was the first time Chi Zhan had ever seen Chu Xingxiao perform live. The polished performances on TV didn’t come close to the impact of this moment. And suddenly, Chi Zhan understood why so many people were drawn to Chu Xingxiao—
He had a boyish charm, a haughty coldness when in a bad mood, and an unwavering professionalism when it mattered. It was that contrast, that authenticity, that drew fans in.
Even without a stage or lights, even seated at a piano he’d never touched before, with no sheet music in front of him, the notes danced from his fingertips like little sprites. Even those with no musical background couldn’t help but stop and bask in the beauty of it all.
Humans were born to appreciate art.
And artists… were favored by the gods.
The originally melancholic melody gradually shifted, almost imperceptibly, into something soft and romantic. It painted a vivid image—like standing in a field of blooming flowers, warmed by a gentle spring sun.
The final notes lingered like threads of silk, trailing off with the bittersweet richness of dark coffee, before fading into silence.
It left the audience yearning for more.
The first half of the piece… sounded oddly familiar.
Chi Zhan was sure he’d heard it before, but couldn’t recall the name.
The room was completely silent—then a thunderous applause erupted. Even the server carrying dishes had paused to clap. It felt as if everyone had just returned from a bittersweet, dreamlike journey. The emotions still lingered heavily in the air.
Refusing to fade.
Chu Xingxiao stood and bowed like a gentleman. When he looked up, his gaze found Chi Zhan’s with perfect precision.
Chi Zhan smiled and clapped as well.
And in that moment, he too became one of Chu Xingxiao’s fans.
As Chu Xingxiao walked over, something about his gait struck Chi Zhan as odd. A closer look—and he couldn’t help but laugh.
Chu Xingxiao was walking with synchronized hands and feet. Apparently unaware of his own awkward coordination, he made his way to the table. Chi Zhan was just about to give him an exaggerated compliment when Chu Xingxiao suddenly reached for the rose from the table and turned toward him with surprising seriousness.
“Gege,” he said softly.
His voice hadn’t changed, but there was something new in it—something more mature, something that made Chi Zhan’s heartbeat skip. And when Chu Xingxiao lifted his eyes, that tiny tear mole beneath them paired perfectly with the melancholy romance of his earlier performance.
When someone with a tear mole looked at you like that, their gaze could outshine any love story on screen.
“What is it?” Chi Zhan asked, amused. “Your performance just now was fantastic.”
But Chu Xingxiao didn’t smile. Instead, he said, “I’ve hidden a lot of things from you before. I was afraid you’d get mad, so I didn’t dare tell you.”
“I know. You’re Seven’s cousin. That’s already cleared up, isn’t it?”
“There’s something else,” Chu Xingxiao said, his voice low. “Actually, I…I li—”
The rest of the sentence seemed stuck. Even though it was a simple phrase, facing Chi Zhan directly made all the words he’d rehearsed countless times useless. His heart pounded like never before. What would Chi Zhan say?
If someone had told Chu Xingxiao in the past that he’d fall for someone, go out of his way just to get their attention, act sweet and obedient in front of them, even play piano in a restaurant just to confess his feelings—he would’ve called them insane.
When love hadn’t arrived yet, everyone scoffed at it.
But when it did come, all that arrogance and cynicism melted into uncertainty and careful, trembling hope.
Chu Xingxiao looked too serious—like he was about to reveal something monumental. Chi Zhan, unknowingly infected by the mood, felt a bit nervous too. One sitting, one standing, their eyes locked.
“I like you, Chi Zhan,” Chu Xingxiao said, voice trembling. “I really like you. A lot.”
“……”
Chi Zhan froze.
Faced with such a sudden confession, his mind went completely blank. It was only after several moments that a slow, strange thought floated to the surface:
Didn’t Chu Xingxiao say… he liked his cousin’s boyfriend?
Chi Zhan looked at him. Chu Xingxiao’s ears were beet red, and he was still clutching that single rose. When he noticed Chi Zhan’s gaze, he seemed to remember something and hastily held the flower out toward him.
“If you have feelings for me too… can we stay together?”
Chi Zhan’s eyes dropped to the rose in his hand. Was he still lost in the afterglow of the music? Why would Chu Xingxiao confess to him like this?
“Chi-Chi?”
A surprised voice rang out behind him. Chi Zhan snapped out of his daze and looked up—only to see Tao Ran and Zhou Yanxing standing just behind Chu Xingxiao.
“…?”
“Wow! So this is your little boyfriend?” Tao Ran’s eyes lit up as he looked Chu Xingxiao up and down, nodding in approval. He leaned closer to Chi Zhan and whispered, “I heard someone playing the piano and wanted to see who was so talented. Then I heard his confession to you… That was so romantic!”
“Stop. What are you even doing here—especially with… him?”
