So he could only silently hold Wang Yuyan.
Wang Yuyan's outpouring crashed onto Jiang Cheng's heart, just as she'd wished.
But he was a good man.
And what made a good man good was this extreme clarity and honesty.
"I won't lie to you, but I won't change the rules for you either."
Wang Yuyan could feel the arms around her tighten—a gesture of tenderness and understanding.
Yet the gentle comfort and sweet promises she expected never came.
Jiang Cheng's voice was lower than before, stripped of desire's rasp, carrying a near-icy clarity.
Unlike the tender gaze moments ago, Jiang Cheng wasn't looking at her now.
His eyes seemed fixed on some distant nothingness, as though stating an unalterable law to her—or to the air itself.
"I know you're hurting. Alone in a place so far from home, with no one to turn to—it's unbearable." After all, Wang Yuyan's favorability value toward him had reached 99 points, so Jiang Cheng didn't make it too harsh; he first acknowledged the truth of her feelings, which eased her heart a little.
Wang Yuyan was about to ride that warm wave of being understood and pour out more.
But Jiang Cheng's next words were a ladle of ice water, dousing every impractical fantasy she had.
"However,"—his tone, after a pause, was steady to the point of cruelty—"I can't promise that every time you feel lonely, every moment you miss me, I'll appear at once or keep you tethered by my side. You should have understood this from your very first day with me."
When he finished, Jiang Cheng's gaze finally returned to Wang Yuyan's face.
In those deep eyes were tenderness and understanding, yet clearer still was an unchallengeable sense of reality.
"The greater the ability, the heavier the burdens. Being pulled in every direction is normal. Stay with me, gain something, and you must endure something else—long waits and solitude. These are the rules of the game. Brutal, but fair."
Wang Yuyan's heart sank; panic surged like a tide.
She knew all this.
But having it laid bare so bluntly still filled her with shame and fear.
She was afraid Jiang Cheng would think her too greedy.
Afraid he'd feel she was using tears to demand what she shouldn't.
Afraid this rare time alone would be shadowed, even ruining her image of being "sensible" in his eyes.
After so long beside Jiang Cheng, this was the first time he'd stated the rules so plainly.
There were no perfunctory sweet nothings, no false blueprints of the future.
Direct, candid, even cruel, he set the unspoken "rules" of this uneven power dynamic right on the table.
This wasn't comfort; it was notification.
Notification that he had received her feelings.
But he could not—would not—alter his course or write bad checks just to soothe her.
The embrace was warm, yet his words chilled her heart.
In an instant Wang Yuyan realized she had "over-acted," trespassing Jiang Cheng's boundary.
But her real confession hadn't even been spoken.
Panic flooded in again.
"No, that's not it, Jiang Cheng!" She refuted almost instantly, clutching the fabric at his chest, shaking her head desperately; this time her tears fell from genuine alarm.
Wang Yuyan knew she had to pull the conversation back—back to safe, proper ground that showed how "good" she could be.
Her life had been turned upside down by Jiang Cheng.
Materially and emotionally.
She couldn't leave him in either respect.
"Hubby, I never… never expected a promise from you! Really! Hear me out!"
"I'm not saying this to put you on the spot, much less to demand anything!" she rushed, voice trembling with urgency. "I mean… though I'm lonely, though I get scared sometimes—"
She stressed the word "but," eyes refocusing, forcing a smile even while tear-streaked and heart-tugging.
"—it's because in those days when the world seemed to forget me, your messages became my only hope. Even a random photo, a 'Have you eaten?', or a midnight 'Mm' would make me happy for ages, telling me I wasn't cast out of your world."
Quietly, Wang Yuyan shifted the narrative's focus.
Instead of "I'm hurting—comfort me," it became "I'm hurting, which shows how precious your gifts are."
"And I'm grateful you text me every day. Sometimes I wake to your note, sometimes late at night you reply, 'Just finished work.'" Her words sped up, anxious to prove something. "I know you're surrounded by people, I know you're busy. I don't expect instant replies… but you always answer. Even hours later, even a few words. I've done the time zones—when you wake, it's my midnight—but you always remember…"
Her voice dropped to an incredulous softness: "That tiny bit of 'being remembered' is my only light in the dark. It tells me I haven't been completely abandoned—that thread is still in your hand."
Wang Yuyan was clever; those words carried far more weight than any blunt "I love you" or "I miss you."
They affirmed how vital those intermittent messages from Jiang Cheng were to her.
Wrapped in the shell of "understanding," they revealed the careful hope inside—words no man could resist.