At five thirty in the afternoon, Cheng Zhirang finished reading the first script and was ready to think about dinner.
"Qiu..."
Before he could say Qiuqiu, he looked up to see her eyes red, the small desk of the writing chair she was sitting on piled with tissues.
His expression changed, and he set down what he was holding and walked over to her.
"Why are you crying?"
Mu Qiu's choked voice trembled, her eyelashes damp and still with tears.
"Can a man's care and thoughtfulness be faked too?" she asked faintly, looking up.
Cheng Zhirang: "..."
Having experienced such situations before, Cheng Zhirang calmly discussed it with her, adhering to a neutral perspective.
"It's difficult. It's hard to pretend for a long period without slipping up, and sometimes it's the woman who doesn't want to see the truth."
Mu Qiu: "What did the female lead do wrong?!"
"...Maybe she did nothing wrong."
