Chapter 39

Chapter 39

Lin Ying passed away on a quiet afternoon, with Ji Qingyu as her sole companion.

He knew the eastern part of the city intimately, having grown up there. The grassy meadows were serene and beautiful. Ascending the mountain path, one could hear the calls of birds amidst the lush vegetation. The air carried the fresh scent of rain, and a quiet morning mist enveloped the entire mountain, verdant and lush, though by autumn, a third of the foliage had already yellowed.

Ji Qingyu raised a hand to shield his eyes from the sun. The hazy, beautiful light cast shafts of white through the mountain. He followed the stone steps upward, turning a corner until he reached a quiet, secluded clearing.

It was a cemetery. Not many people bought plots here, both because it was remote and inconvenient to access.

At the easternmost plot, Ji Qingyu buried Lin Ying beside their first child. The process wasn’t complicated, but the caretaker noticed him and came over to chat.

“Haven’t seen you in a while. Oh, I saw you on TV recently—you won some big award, right?”

“I’ve been swamped lately.” Ji Qingyu glanced to the side. The flowers on the gravestone were beginning to wilt. He looked at the bouquet in the caretaker’s plastic pail. “Are these flowers for sale?”

“Yes, freshly picked from the mountain.”

Ji Qingyu bought all the flowers and placed them in front of the stone. He ran his fingers over the texture of the tombstone. The sky was overcast at the edges, but the air was fresh and comfortable, and it wasn’t too cold today.

He sat by the grave for a while and drifted off to sleep. When he woke, it was already dusk. Ji Qingyu leaned back against the tombstone, watching the sunset. He shifted slightly to make sure he wasn’t blocking Lin Ying’s view.

He stayed like that for a while, keeping vigil with Lin Ying and their first child. When his legs grew numb, he changed positions. When he grew tired, he lay down on the grass nearby. It was disheveled and undignified, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Perhaps because of the pregnancy, he often found himself zoning out, and lately, he had been sleeping more than usual.

Dirt clung to his clothes and hair. Painful memories played through his mind like a film reel.

Ji Qingyu felt a deep sadness. It seemed he couldn’t do anything right, couldn’t hold on to anything. Now, even goodbyes were rushed, without a proper farewell.

When he returned home, Aunt Wang was busy preparing something. The house was decorated, and she was placing newly bought champagne on the table.

“Madam, didn’t you win an award? Mr. Fu Han said we should throw you a celebration party,” Aunt Wang said cheerfully.

“We already celebrated,” Ji Qingyu replied. “We celebrated late into the night that day.”

“It’s not the same! We haven’t congratulated you yet. More importantly, Madam, Mr. Fu Han’s birthday is coming up soon. He suggested combining his birthday and your celebration.”

Really?

What unfortunate timing. He was about to leave.

Ma Yu was going to Jiangcheng, and Ji Qingyu planned to catch a ride with him. He didn’t have many belongings—just one suitcase when packed.

“His birthday is tomorrow, right?” Ji Qingyu picked up a hand mixer and helped Aunt Wang whip the cream. The white foam quickly expanded, and he poured it into a cake pan. He decorated it with raspberries and other ornaments, then helped Aunt Wang with other preparations.

“Yes. You know, he never used to celebrate his birthday. I wonder what’s different this time. I suppose marriage changes a person,” Aunt Wang remarked.

Ji Qingyu glanced at her several times silently.

“What’s wrong? Is there something on my face?” Aunt Wang joked with a smile.

“No,” Ji Qingyu smiled back. “It’s just… thank you for taking care of me all this time.”

“What kind of talk is that?” Aunt Wang brushed it off, thinking Ji Qingyu was just making casual conversation, but she couldn’t help adding, “Madam, you’re too polite. You should start seeing yourself as the mistress of this house sooner. All your things are kept in the secondary bedroom—you never put them anywhere else. Since you arrived, Mr. Fu Han has brought many things into the house too.”

Ji Qingyu gave a sheepish smile.

The cake turned out quite well. Ji Qingyu sampled a bit—it wasn’t too sweet. He knew Fu Han would like it.

That night, he curled up under the blankets and forgot to silence his phone. He was awakened by a vibration in the middle of the night. Opening it, he saw a message from Luo Sheng, who had sent him a photo from the awards ceremony: “Xiao Yu, I’m so happy for you. Congratulations.”

Still in a drowsy haze, Ji Qingyu squinted at the screen and replied: “Uncle, would you like to perform? I might write more stage plays in the future. If you’re interested…”

“Forget it. I can’t show my face,” Luo Sheng replied. “But let’s keep in touch. Come visit me often, Xiao Yu.”

“…” Ji Qingyu didn’t reply. His eyes widened slightly as he suddenly realized he might never perform on the same stage with Luo Sheng again.

He sat up, covering his face, and finally felt a surge of sadness. He had lived in this city for so long, but it held too much pain. The happy memories were growing increasingly hazy.

Though it hurt to let go, he had no choice but to say goodbye.

The joke life had played on him at eighteen would end here. He would go somewhere warmer, sleep well, and live well.

Ji Qingyu blinked, and the cake before him suddenly seemed blurry. He returned to his room and finally crouched down, unable to hold himself up any longer.

Outside the window, the mountains spread out vast and distant, with flocks of birds flying by. Ji Qingyu quietly walked into the study and took down Fu Han’s art portfolio. On the last page, next to the white bird representing Luo Sheng, he drew a smaller white bird—not very pretty, lopsided and awkward.

Fu Han was aloof and proud, but sometimes Ji Qingyu wondered if he, too, needed companionship.

But he couldn’t be that companion anymore. He was leaving. Perhaps they were never fated to be—his place was not by Fu Han’s side.

The next day, everyone gathered—mostly the Fu family’s staff. They sang “Happy Birthday” several times, and after the celebrations, only the two of them remained.

Fu Han leaned against the sofa, sitting with legs crossed. His shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, and he stared down with a slight frown. The posture made him seem even more brooding, as though he might tear his prey apart at any moment.

He seemed uncomfortable, with a sheen of sweat covering his forehead. He lifted a hand impatiently to loosen his collar.

The recent company and legal matters must have been overwhelming.

Ji Qingyu let out a soft sigh and walked over to sit beside him. He curled his knees up and wrapped his arms around himself.

He held a glass of lemon water and gently pushed it toward Fu Han, his voice soft.

“Drink some water to clear your head.”

“…”

Fu Han didn’t take it. Instead, he slid something toward Ji Qingyu. Looking down, Ji Qingyu saw it was their prenuptial agreement. Fu Han’s voice was hoarse: “Ji Qingyu, with this new year of your life, this is void.”

“The music room at home is too small. I renovated a new one for you—it’s spacious. I consulted with experts, and it’s fully equipped. It’s near my company.” The words didn’t sound like something Fu Han would say. His expression remained stoic, but he gripped Ji Qingyu’s hand tightly, nearly spilling the lemon water. “Ji Qingyu, let’s let the past be. Let’s… make our marriage work.”

Ji Qingyu didn’t move or look at Fu Han.

His profile seemed like fragile, porcelain-like in the air, his hair swaying slightly, the corners of his eyes curved. Amid the confetti and champagne bubbles, he managed a bright smile: “Okay.”

“I have a terrible character. Don’t disgust yourself.” Ji Qingyu was still smiling as he spoke. Perhaps because of the pregnancy, his glands produced more pheromones than usual. Maybe that was a good thing.

The scent of rain filled the entire living room, damp and chilly. Ji Qingyu often thought his pheromones were faint, but now they were particularly potent.

“Fu Han, do you remember that photo we took together at the bar when we were eighteen?” Ji Qingyu spoke plainly, as though telling someone else’s story.

“You gave me a takeout meal then. I wanted to repay you, so I picked the largest fish we had at home, made sashimi, and wanted to bring it to you. But when I asked your friends where you were, they pointed me in a direction. I pushed the door open, and guess what I saw?”

Fu Han frowned. How could he remember such a trivial thing?

“I saw you with a male omega. He kissed your cheek, and you were smoking—you didn’t refuse. At that moment, I thought, how deluded I had been. Who did you really like? Later, you came back and took a photo with me as if nothing had happened. I threw away all the fish I prepared that day. I knew there was nothing between us then, and I was just being presumptuous, but it still stung. And that kind of pain… I’ve experienced it many times since.”

Fu Han looked stunned, having no memory of when that had happened. He gripped Ji Qingyu’s hand even tighter, parted his lips as if to speak, but no words came out.

Ji Qingyu said, “Fu Han, it’s your birthday. Let me sing you a song.”

He lowered his head, strumming the guitar in his hands, his voice still somewhat low and no longer as pleasant as it was at eighteen. The night was intoxicating when Fu Han suddenly grabbed Ji Qingyu's hand, said nothing, and leaned in to kiss him.

"Fu Han." Ji Qingyu's hand clutched the hem of Fu Han's shirt, pushing him away amidst a flurry of frantic kisses. "Let me give you some advice: check into Fu Yunsheng and Ji Ran..."

"Shut up, focus."

The alpha's intense pheromones seeped out, as if trying to devour Ji Qingyu entirely. But he had forgotten—Ji Qingyu was a subpar omega with low sensitivity; his pheromones had no effect, and Ji Qingyu wouldn't go into heat because of him.

"Fu Han, I’ve said a lot of harsh things to you these past couple of days... I was just too upset..." Ji Qingyu didn’t continue. Instead, he reciprocated Fu Han’s kisses and embraces, almost granting him everything he desired.

Can birds in the sky and weeds on the ground ever be together? The answer is no—they will always remain like two poles of the world.

Fu Han still held his hand, his palm clammy with sweat, unpleasantly sticky. Ji Qingyu reached out to trace the contour of his brow—such sharp features, devastatingly handsome and aristocratic. Yet, as he looked at that face, he felt too exhausted to muster any strength.

The time agreed upon with Ma Yu was approaching, just after midnight. At least on this birthday, Fu Han had gotten everything he wanted.