When Chu Lai woke up the next day, Cen Wei was no longer beside him.

Lying in bed, Chu Lai checked his phone and saw several unread messages, with Cen Wei’s at the top.

[Cen Wei]: I had to go to the office for something.

[Cen Wei]: I’ve already walked the dog, and I bought breakfast for you. Not sure if it’s to your taste, but let me know if you don’t like it.

[Cen Wei]: Da Cai has eaten as well, and I’ve given him water.

[Cen Wei]: [Picture] The marriage registration is scheduled for Monday at 11 a.m.

It was already noon, and Chu Lai saw that the messages had been sent around 8 a.m.

Cen Wei had slept for less than four hours.

Chu Lai suddenly felt like he was the older one in the relationship, even though Cen Wei clearly had more energy.

But this was the best sleep Chu Lai had had in three months. He had even dreamt about his father, specifically a memory of being hugged tightly by him when he used to drop Chu Lai off at school on his bike.

Perhaps it was because of the comforting way Cen Wei had held him through the night. Chu Lai felt like all the chaotic disruptions to his life had disappeared.

He found himself looking forward to the hugs that were to come.

Chu Lai sent a quick emoji in reply to Cen Wei.

On weekends, if he didn’t have work, Chu Lai would usually spend his time live-streaming on a website.

He wasn’t a big UP master (content creator), and the games he played were niche and had a small, loyal following. His voice, with its lazy, laid-back tone, gave the impression that he wasn’t particularly into the games. He never showed his face, but the glimpses of him he did show were enough to spark the imagination of his followers, and his fan base grew quickly.

Recently, one of his game replays had surpassed a million views, where he played an old-school version of Fireboy and Watergirl after his breakup.

Unlike other content creators who were diligent about updates, Chu Lai wasn’t particularly motivated, attracting fans who were more focused on their own work or studies. His inbox was flooded with messages urging him to post more content, which made Chu Lai rebel a bit—he hadn’t logged into the platform for a while.

When he wasn’t playing multiplayer games, he played cartridge games to pass the time.

Logging into his account for the first time in a while, he found his inbox filled with messages, and a notification that one of his videos had gone viral.

The top comment was from one of his more dedicated fans:

[Fan]: Is it true that the UP master broke up?

The comment thread had already reached 99+ replies below.

—Wasn’t this just a game replay? How did they figure that out?

—He wasn’t playing a multiplayer game, was he?

—He posted an unboxing video but took it down quickly. His last post, though, still remains. [Picture]

The picture was a screenshot of Chu Lai’s post from half a month ago when he bought the limited edition keyboard: [Hope he likes it.]

Looking at it now, it felt like a lifetime ago. His ex was like a ghost from his past. Chu Lai could think about him without any emotional turmoil.

Liu Yuan had been wrong. Chu Lai had had feelings for his ex, Shen Quanzhang, back when they were college sweethearts. But most of it had turned into sunk costs over time, with the good memories buried under all the effort he had put in.

Chu Lai’s plans for the future had once included Shen Quanzhang, but all of that had been scrapped.

It would’ve been nice to throw Shen Quanzhang away like trash, but Chu Lai hated drama. Ignoring him entirely felt like the best way to handle the breakup.

Scrolling through the comments, Chu Lai saw some gems.

[@Laic has a boyfriend? I always thought he was asexual.]

[Isn’t the UP master a guy? Boyfriend??]

[Why are you surprised? Even same-sex couples can get married now!]

[What I’m curious about is, does someone like him even have passion when dating? Last time there was a fan event where he was asked to play a dating simulation game, and his lack of emotion made him seem like an AI.]

[So is he a top or a bottom?]

[Laic has never shown his face, right? From his build, I’d say definitely not a top…]

[But if he’s a bottom, he’s probably not very passionate… I just can’t picture it.]

[Is he not updating because of heartbreak? So many UP masters, but he’s like a breath of fresh air… a lazy one.]

…

The conversation went off on a tangent under the video, with thousands of likes piling up. Chu Lai couldn’t help but be amused, especially since they had pretty much guessed right.

Not a top, and definitely no passion.

Without responding to any of the comments, Chu Lai looked for a horror game that fans had recommended and started playing.

The platform had an automatic notification for live-streams, and while most UP masters would schedule their streams, Chu Lai was unpredictable. He didn’t care much for tips and rarely even acknowledged the top tippers, often encouraging his fans to save their money instead.

At first, people thought he was a rich kid. When asked why he didn’t just turn off tips, Chu Lai admitted he wasn’t that rich.

His tone was always calm and detached, unlike other UP masters who exaggerated their reactions for entertainment. Chu Lai’s style, distant and aloof, made him a perfect fit for live-streaming horror games.

Having stayed up late, Chu Lai started his stream in the afternoon, playing a Chinese horror puzzle game.

Meanwhile, when Cen Wei received Chu Lai’s reply, he was just arriving at the studio.

The Cen family had been in the umbrella business for generations, from oil-paper umbrellas to folding umbrellas, and it was during his grandfather’s time that the brand had reached its peak.

However, in the modern world, without innovation, even a legacy brand could be left behind. While studying abroad, Cen Wei had already opened a handmade umbrella workshop, which later became a subsidiary of the main brand, Lianxin, when he returned to China and opened another branch near the headquarters.

With his prior experience, managing this level of a workshop was well within his control. This weekend, he was at the company to hold a meeting with the core members who would soon be heading overseas.

Before the meeting, Cen Wei asked his secretary to check on the legal procedures for marriage registration. The secretary stared in shock, taking a moment to process the information.

Marriage registration?!

Is this really happening?

Isn’t he single? Didn’t he just break up recently?

As the head of a subsidiary brand, Cen Wei wasn’t one to act pretentious. His meetings often felt more like casual chats.

The workshop had moved past its early days of disorganized responsibilities, and the higher-ups were now functioning much more efficiently.

During a break, Cen Wei glanced at his phone. Chu Lai had replied with an emoji and mentioned that he wasn’t really into spicy snacks.

Cen Wei responded with an “OK.”

Scrolling down his phone’s notifications, he saw that the UP master he followed, @Laic, had started live-streaming an hour ago.

He clicked into the stream, where the UP master was playing a horror puzzle game.

Since the workshop had both domestic and overseas operations, focusing mainly on traditional oil-paper umbrellas in China, Cen Wei followed many craft UP masters. His other interests included various game streamers.

He couldn’t even remember when he had followed this particular UP master, who had fewer than a million followers at the time.

But the stream was popular, with comments flying by quickly. In the bottom-right corner of the screen was a live cam of the UP master’s setup.

The camera didn’t show his full face, just a side view of him in a hoodie, the long sleeves covering half his hands. His pale, slender fingers wrapped around the mouse.

The streamer hadn’t spoken in a while, and the comments were mostly off-topic.

[UP, can you explain why you ghosted us for half a month?]

[Is it true you’re heartbroken after a breakup?]

[Still those magical hands. If only those sleeves were rolled up a little more.]

[This game is scary… say something, please.]

[Why isn’t he talking? Is the mic on?]

[For those who came late, he ate a spicy snack like ten minutes ago and coughed like crazy…]

[What a weakling…]

[But I saw half of UP’s face. He’s actually pretty good-looking.]

[Notice he deleted that old post. Guess the breakup is real.]

The comments were moving too fast, and with the streamer still silent, they quickly scrolled past.

Something felt vaguely familiar to Cen Wei, though he wasn’t sure if it was the hand in the video or the brief description of the UP master’s appearance that sparked it.

For the rest of the weekend, Chu Lai and Cen Wei exchanged messages on WeChat.

Neither of them were particularly chatty, so the conversation felt more like a business exchange.

By Sunday evening, Cen Wei was still working overtime, sending off his colleagues who were headed abroad. Shen Yangxu, a high school classmate and business partner, saw some gossip in the group chat and asked, “Hey, is it true you’re getting married?”

The group, who had been planning to grab dinner together, immediately gathered around him.

Without looking up from his computer, Cen Wei nodded.

A chorus of “Whoa!” erupted from the group.

Despite his refined appearance, Cen Wei wasn’t the type to shy away from eating at cheap local places with colleagues.

Shen Yangxu had known Cen Wei since high school. He was the one who had dragged him to the street vendor near the school gates for barbecue back in the day. They had also studied abroad in the same area, and unlike Jiang Liyong, who had grown up with Cen Wei, Shen had been a witness to the relationship between Cen Wei and Shen Ke.

To Shen, their relationship was like a TV drama: an up-and-coming fashion designer and a supplier delivering umbrellas for a fashion show. On the surface, they seemed like a perfect match, dating for half a year but barely feeling like a couple because Cen Wei was about to return to China.

With his overseas studio gaining recognition, Cen Wei returned home to start a new workshop and to promote the family’s oil-paper umbrella brand, adding value and transforming it into a luxury item.

Compared to his peers, many of whom studied abroad just to get by, Cen Wei always had clear goals. Most people saw him as a workaholic—focused first and foremost on his career, with love seeming like an afterthought, if that.

These days, even same-sex couples could get married, and many of their old classmates already had kids. Compared to that, Cen Wei’s love life seemed pitifully barren.

When a rare blossom finally bloomed, it wilted just as quickly, and rather miserably at that. The whole office had learned about the breakup through Shen Ke’s social media posts.

It wasn’t that Cen Wei was unapproachable, but he was hard to pin down when it came to anything resembling “romantic longing.” It was as if he could possess everything except love.

Shen Ke’s new boyfriend was actually Cen Wei’s childhood friend, who also happened to be the son of a real estate mogul. The guy’s office was even in the same complex as Cen Wei’s company.

Though the two companies didn’t have any direct business dealings, it wasn’t uncommon to bump into each other while grabbing coffee, which was painfully awkward.

“When did this start? How old is he?”

“Is it a guy again?”

“How did you two meet? Where does he work? What’s his family like?”

…

Cen Wei’s eyes never left his screen, unfazed by their teasing.

But since this was how he’d acted in his last relationship too, no one was particularly surprised.

Having known Cen Wei since their student days, Shen Yangxu always thought he had the air of a monk. At first, he thought Shen Ke might be the one to tempt the “monk” but in the end, the “temptress” went elsewhere.

Curious, Shen Yangxu moved closer. “Got any pictures?”

Cen Wei was surprised at how quickly news of his impending marriage had spread, then glanced at his sheepish-looking secretary.

The secretary immediately felt guilty. “It was Xu Ge who saw me looking something up and asked…”

“I’m the one who asked,” Shen Yangxu cut in, unbothered by the tension. “Is the boss going to dock my pay?”

Cen Wei nodded. “There goes your year-end bonus.”

Shen Yangxu gasped. “Do you have to be so ruthless? I was going to give you a wedding gift, you know.”

Though same-sex marriage had only been legalized for two years, the customs surrounding it hadn’t really changed—people still followed the usual traditions.

“No wedding,” Cen Wei said, shaking his head.

“Did he say that?” Shen Yangxu asked, referring to Chu Lai as “he.”

It was hard for Cen Wei to associate the term “he” with Chu Lai. After a brief moment, he replied, “Neither of us wants the hassle.”

That sounded more in line with Shen Yangxu’s impression of Cen Wei.

“Getting the paperwork done on Monday?”

Cen Wei nodded, and Shen Yangxu grinned. “How about we have a team dinner tomorrow to celebrate your marriage?”

The groom-to-be looked mildly exasperated. “No.”

“I have a meeting at eight in the morning,” Cen Wei explained, “and we’re getting our license at ten. I’ll be taking him home afterward.”

By “home” he meant his family’s house.

Everyone’s eyes lit up, clearly intrigued by who this mystery spouse was.

Since the marriage was happening anyway, Cen Wei sent a message to Chu Lai about it.

Chu Lai had no objections and took the whole day off on Monday.

The Civil Affairs Bureau was closer to Cen Wei’s company, and since he had a meeting in the morning, Chu Lai took the subway to meet him at his office.

The brand Cen Wei was currently managing was a subsidiary of a long-established domestic umbrella company, and the workshop was essentially part of the main headquarters.

Today’s weather was nice, though it was bitterly cold. Chu Lai followed the navigation to find Cen Wei’s office building.

Blending into the rush hour crowd, Chu Lai didn’t stand out much.

The building had two towers, A and B, with a shared lobby.

Unable to enter, Chu Lai sent a message to Cen Wei, only to hear a hesitant voice behind him.

“Lei Lei?”