When Zhu Wenhai finally woke up, the first thing he felt was heat.
Not the gentle warmth of sunlight, but the oppressive kind that pressed down on his face as if someone had forgotten to draw the curtains. His brows knitted instinctively, and he let out a low groan, his throat dry and his head pounding as though a small army had taken turns knocking on it.
He opened his eyes.
What greeted him was a roof—plain, slightly yellowed with age, with faint cracks running like thin veins across the wooden beams. It was not the kind of ceiling he was used to seeing. No chandeliers. No recessed lights. No minimalist design magazines would ever feature this place.
Zhu Wenhai blinked slowly.
He turned his head.
The room was small and simple. The furniture was sparse, clean but clearly old, arranged more for practicality than aesthetics. A wooden table sat by the window. A kettle rested quietly on a low stove. Everything looked… lived in.
Then he felt it.
Two gazes.
He turned his head again.
One was elderly, sharp despite the years, filled with cautious concern.
The other was young, alert, and unmistakably wary.
They were standing a short distance away from the bed, whispering to each other in voices that were not nearly as quiet as they thought.
"Do you think he's okay?" the younger one whispered, eyes fixed on him. "He won't suddenly die, right?"
The older one frowned. "How could he die when he just opened his eyes?"
"…Then what if he's a ghost?"
The younger one stiffened visibly. "A ghost?"
"Well, he fainted right at our doorstep," the older one continued seriously. "What if he followed us back?"
The younger one shuddered. "We… we let a ghost into the house?"
Their whispered conversation went back and forth, each theory more unsettling than the last.
Zhu Wenhai listened for a few seconds.
Then he had enough.
He pushed himself upright far too quickly, immediately regretting it as pain exploded behind his eyes.
"I'm fine!" he blurted out hoarsely. "Very fine! Alive! Human! Definitely not a ghost!"
The two figures jumped back in unison.
Lin Che nearly dropped the bowl she had been holding, while her grandmother clutched the edge of the table, staring at him as though he might suddenly float.
Zhu Wenhai pressed a hand to his temple and took a slow breath. The headache was splitting—sharp, relentless, the kind that made even breathing feel like work. He had traveled far, farther than he should have on foot, and exhaustion clung to him like a second skin.
He opened his eyes again and looked at them properly this time.
The young woman standing in front of him was exactly who he thought she was.
Lin Che.
Even dressed simply, hair loosely tied back, her expression stripped of any polish or pretense, she looked the same as she had that night—quiet, composed, and oddly striking in a way that didn't demand attention but captured it anyway.
A few days ago, at the Gong family's banquet, he had seen her from afar.
Among all the glamorous women in designer gowns and carefully practiced smiles, she had stood out without trying. Simple, elegant, unassuming. There had been something about her presence that lingered in his mind long after the night ended.
That was why he was here.
Finding her, however, had been much harder than expected.
He hadn't known which village she came from. He had asked around, followed vague directions, and when he finally reached this place, a villager had casually pointed up the hill and said, "She lives up there."
Walking up that slope had nearly killed him.
He had slipped more than once, scraped his hands, inhaled far too much dust, and by the time he reached the house, he was running on pure stubbornness.
Which explained why he now looked like a half-collapsed fugitive.
As he sat up, Lin Che and her grandmother instinctively stepped back, their movements cautious and synchronized. Zhu Wenhai noticed—and felt oddly embarrassed.
He rubbed his forehead and spoke quickly, afraid they might actually chase him out.
"Miss Lin, please don't misunderstand. I'm not here to cause trouble," he said. "We… we were at the same place a few days ago. The Gong family's banquet."
The moment those words left his mouth, Lin Che's expression changed.
It was subtle, but unmistakable.
The lightness vanished, replaced by a guarded stillness.
Zhu Wenhai didn't know the details of her relationship with the Gong family, and he certainly didn't know how deeply that night had cut her. Oblivious to all of it, he continued speaking.
"I'm Zhu Wenhai," he said, straightening a little despite the headache. "I'm a director. I came because I have a proposal for you."
Lin Che blinked.
"A… director?"
Zhu Wenhai nodded, waiting.
Her brows furrowed slightly. "What kind of director?"
For the first time since waking up, Zhu Wenhai hesitated.
He stared at her.
Surely she was joking.
"…You don't know who I am?" he asked cautiously.
Lin Che met his gaze honestly. "Should I?"
The question landed like an arrow straight through his chest.
Zhu Wenhai felt as though several invisible arrows had pierced him at once—his pride wobbling dangerously. In the entertainment industry, his name carried weight. His films were critically acclaimed, commercially successful, and often discussed. Being recognized was something he had long taken for granted.
And yet this girl was looking at him with pure confusion.
"How could you not have heard of me?" he asked, genuinely wounded.
Lin Che tilted her head slightly. "You're the one who ran into my house and fainted. How would I know who you are?"