Shen Qingzhu was painting.

He sat at the edge of the wheat field, on a low stack of straw, with paper spread across his lap, carefully sketching the busy harvest scene before him. Back when he was in the capital, he had painted the most vibrant plum blossoms in winter, the most beautiful peach blossoms in spring, towering buildings, and bustling street scenes. All of these had appeared on his paper. However, the scene in front of him now was something he had never seen before. Although it lacked the elegance of those landscapes, it had a raw vitality that was unique and compelling.

“Big brother, what are you doing?”

A bold little boy ran over, his footsteps light as he approached, peeking at the paper on Shen Qingzhu’s lap.

Shen Qingzhu paused his brush and looked at him, smiling. “I’m painting the harvest.”

“Big brother, you’re amazing!” The little boy, whether he understood or not, complimented him enthusiastically and then stared at his face, adding, “You’re also really good-looking!”

Shen Qingzhu chuckled, reaching out to pinch the boy’s cheek. “You’re a cheeky little one.”

“Tiger, why are you running around like that?”

A simply dressed woman came over, grabbing her son by the arm, and apologized to Shen Qingzhu with an embarrassed smile before scolding her child, “Don’t bother people!”

“But big brother looks so nice,” the little boy pouted in dissatisfaction.

Shen Qingzhu looked at the boy’s scrunched-up face and smiled, shaking his head. “It’s alright, Auntie. Kids are just curious.”

The woman smiled again, but she still took her son away. Paper was expensive after all, and she didn’t want her rambunctious child ruining it.

Shen Qingzhu watched them leave and then, after a moment’s thought, bent down and added a few strokes in the corner of his painting. The image of a mother pulling along her mischievous child now blended seamlessly into the lively scene, adding a touch of humor.

He gazed at the drawing for a while, a small smile on his face. But then, as if remembering something, his smile faded, and a trace of sadness flickered in his eyes.

When he was a child, he had also been mischievous, but his mother had never scolded him. She would gently clean his face and remind him to be careful, to avoid getting hurt. Thinking back now, those memories felt so distant.

“Wheat husks stick to you; they’re hard to wash off.”

A shadow appeared beside him along with a voice. Shen Qingzhu looked up. “Zhou Song?”

Before he could respond further, he suddenly felt an itch at the tip of his nose. Without thinking, he turned his head to the side and sneezed.

Blinking in surprise, Shen Qingzhu rubbed his nose with the back of his hand, realizing that a wheat husk had stuck to the tip of his nose.

Zhou Song glanced at him and said, “It’s itchy, isn’t it?”

Shen Qingzhu sniffed once, and feeling no more irritation, replied, “It’s nothing.”

Zhou Song glanced at his slightly reddened nose and pressed his lips together.

Actually, when Lin Erzhu first spotted Shen Qingzhu, Zhou Song hadn’t planned on coming over to bother him. After all, it wouldn’t look good for a Qian Yuan like him to keep hanging around a Kun Ze. But once he knew Shen Qingzhu was there, he couldn’t help but keep glancing over, watching him more than he should.

He had seen Shen Qingzhu talking with the little boy and then, after the child had left with his mother, he saw what Shen Qingzhu added to his drawing. But then… he saw Shen Qingzhu’s expression turn sad, as if he was about to cry, and the light in his eyes dimmed.

Unable to hold back, Zhou Song eventually walked over.

He glanced at the sun above and then looked down, saying, “Why didn’t you find some shade? It’s hot here in the sun.”

Shen Qingzhu shook the wheat husks off his drawing. “It’s closer here. I can see everything more clearly.”

Since the wheat field was for threshing and drying, naturally there was no tree in the middle to provide shade. If Shen Qingzhu wanted to watch up close, he had no choice but to endure the sun.

With that, Zhou Song didn’t know what else to say. It wouldn’t be right to suggest Shen Qingzhu go back home, either.

“Zhou Song!”

Aunt Qian’s voice called from a distance, waving to him. “Let Shen Xiaolang come over and have some water!”

Zhou Song turned back to look at Shen Qingzhu.

“Sounds good,” Shen Qingzhu nodded, not refusing the kind offer. He stood up and began gathering his things.

Zhou Song stepped forward, picking up the paper tube and inkstone without saying a word, and turned to lead the way.

Shen Qingzhu paused, then followed behind, holding only the unfinished drawing and a brush in his hand.

“It’s so hot, and with all the wheat husks flying around, why did you come here, Shen Xiaolang?” Aunt Qian smiled as she poured water from a clay pot. “Come, drink some water. You’re sweating already.”

Shen Qingzhu thanked her and took the bowl. The liquid wasn’t clear; it had a slight yellowish tint. He took a sip and tasted the fresh, herbal flavor, with a faint hint of flowers and a touch of bitterness.

Noticing his puzzled expression, Aunt Qian smiled and explained, “It’s some wild chrysanthemum we picked from the mountain. Drinking it helps cool you down. Do you like it?”

The flavor wasn’t strange at all to Shen Qingzhu, so he nodded. “It’s good. Thank you, Auntie.”

“That’s great,” Aunt Qian beamed, clearly pleased. “By the way, why don’t you sit over there afterward? It’s less sunny.”

Shen Qingzhu followed her gaze and saw two stacks of wheat stalks, one high and one low. If he sat on the lower one, it would be in the shadow of the taller stack, providing shade from the sun.

Zhou Song had already gone over, placing his belongings there and even arranging the straw a bit to make it more comfortable. Lastly, he spread out a folded cloth.

The cloth was intended for covering oneself at night while watching over the wheat, which needed to dry for several days and couldn’t be left unattended. Zhou Song silently thanked his foresight—it was freshly washed and smelled only of soap.

“Shen Xiaolang, go sit over there. We still have work to do, so we won’t disturb you while you paint,” Aunt Qian said with a broad smile. Despite Zhou Song’s usual stern demeanor, it seemed that when faced with someone he cared about, he could be quite thoughtful.

Shen Qingzhu, having been directed this way and that without much say, could only comply. He went to sit in the spot Zhou Song had prepared. He had to admit it was much more comfortable than before—the sun wasn’t hitting him, and the seat was soft.

However, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Aunt Qian was treating him with far more warmth than the last time they met. She had been kind before, but there was always a bit of polite distance since they were strangers. But now… her gaze toward him felt strangely familial, almost as if she were looking at her own child.

Watching this from a distance, Lin Erzhu shook his head helplessly. His mother and Zhou Song’s obvious attentiveness toward Shen Qingzhu was so blatant that even an oblivious person would notice.

Now that Shen Qingzhu was settled, Zhou Song could finally get back to work with peace of mind. His movements became even more vigorous and efficient.

Shen Qingzhu’s gaze rested on Zhou Song. He watched as Zhou Song’s every action exuded strength—his lean waist, broad shoulders, sturdy long legs, and the wheat-colored forearms with their beautiful, powerful lines.

Though Zhou Song was just a rural farmer, he was an outstanding Qian Yuan.

Shen Qingzhu thought that if Zhou Song had been born in the capital and raised in a wealthy family, he would undoubtedly have become a remarkable man, one who couldn’t hide his brilliance.

Then again, after thinking it over, Shen Qingzhu realized that perhaps it wasn’t such a bad thing that Zhou Song lived this simple life. The capital was a place full of intrigue and power struggles. Had Zhou Song grown up in such an environment, he might not have retained this pure-hearted nature.

Lowering his eyes, Shen Qingzhu noticed that while thinking about these things, he had unconsciously sketched Zhou Song’s laboring figure. He had captured the moment Zhou Song raised the flail, his balanced and solid physique standing out against the backdrop of the harvest scene.

Shen Qingzhu’s brush paused slightly. He mused that no matter where Zhou Song was, his radiance could never be hidden.

Zhou Song could feel Kun Ze’s gaze falling on him from time to time, making his heart pound like a drum. He worked even harder to cover up his nervousness.

He had no idea what Shen Qingzhu was looking at, but his mind raced. Was there something wrong with his appearance? Had he forgotten to roll down his sleeves? Would Shen Qingzhu find him impolite?

He was sweating profusely, and the back of his shirt was damp. Did he look too messy?

He had specifically chosen an old set of clothes for working, but they were so worn that they had faded. There were even a few patches, and one pant leg had a tear he hadn’t had time to mend. Did he appear too sloppy?

The more he thought about it, the more self-conscious he became.

“Zhou Song? Zhou Song?!”

A louder voice snapped Zhou Song out of his thoughts. He turned to see Lin Erzhu giving him a bemused look. “What’s wrong?”

Lin Erzhu pointed to the ground. “The wheat is over-threshed. If you keep going, it’ll be crushed.”

Lin Erzhu sighed inwardly. Zhou Song was clearly distracted, his mind completely focused on Shen Xiaolang. Who would have thought that when his stoic friend finally started to notice someone, he’d become so absent-minded?

Zhou Song, oblivious to Lin Erzhu’s knowing look, bent down to clean up the empty wheat stalks and gather the grains in one place before bringing over another bundle of wheat.

While Zhou Song and Lin Erzhu worked, Shen Qingzhu quietly continued his drawing. Though working on his lap wasn’t as comfortable as a desk, he wasn’t in a rush. After all, life in the village was leisurely, and he had plenty of time.

When the painting was finally completed, he signed his name in the lower left corner. Smoothing out the paper, he admired it for a moment. Even without color, the black-and-white ink drawing had its own unique charm.

Zhou Song, after gathering another stack of wheat stalks, noticed Shen Qingzhu’s actions and asked, “Finished?”

“Yes,” Shen Qingzhu nodded, turning the paper around and handing it to Zhou Song.

Zhou Song hadn’t expected him to offer it so openly. He quickly put down the wheat stalks, wiped his hands on his shirt to remove the sweat from his palms, and carefully took the painting with both hands.

The scene depicted the villagers at work, surrounded by piles of wheat stalks, playful children, and wheat husks floating through the air—a lively and down-to-earth image.

But what surprised Zhou Song the most was seeing himself in the painting. Unsure, he looked at Shen Qingzhu and hesitantly asked, “You… drew me?”

Shen Qingzhu nodded openly. “I also included Aunt Qian and Little Brother Lin.”

Zhou Song looked closely again. Sure enough, the three of them were there. Aunt Qian, as an elder, seemed fitting in the scene. But…

He glanced back at Lin Erzhu, who was still working. The sight of him was somewhat annoying.

Lin Erzhu, feeling a sudden chill on the back of his neck, instinctively rubbed it and glanced over at Zhou Song, only to see him engrossed in Shen Xiaolang’s painting. Shrugging, Lin Erzhu went back to threshing.

Zhou Song, after admiring the painting, noticed the three characters written in the corner. He didn’t recognize the characters but had a guess. “Is this…?”

Shen Qingzhu glanced at the characters and then paused, realizing that in this remote village, most people hadn’t learned to read. Naturally, Zhou Song wouldn’t recognize his name.

Thinking for a moment, Shen Qingzhu pulled out a smaller piece of paper from his tube, picked up the brush resting on the inkstone, and neatly wrote the characters for “Zhou Song” in a graceful script.

After gently blowing on the ink to dry it, he handed the paper to Zhou Song. “This is your name.”

Zhou Song took it, looked at the characters, and thought to himself that he would much prefer the characters for “Shen Qingzhu.”

Seeing how intently Zhou Song studied the paper, Shen Qingzhu assumed he liked the way his name was written. “I’ll give this to you. You can practice writing it when you have free time.”

Zhou Song, upon hearing this, thanked him and carefully folded the paper, tucking it into his pocket. This was, after all, a name written personally by Kun Ze.