Chapter 1: "The Handsome Background Prop at Jiao Tong University Library"

Besides the lab, the library at Jiaotong University was Yu Tu’s second home—where he’d spend hours digging through research papers, scribbling notes, and wrestling with thesis drafts.

After more than two years in the Aerospace Research Institute’s direct PhD program, he’d become so regular a fixture that he was practically eligible for a dedicated seat.

In the corner by the floor-to-ceiling window, the leaves of a Brazilian cedar gently swayed, half-hiding the view. On sunny days, the light would glint just enough to sting your eyes; on overcast afternoons, it felt like being wrapped in soft silence.

Even in a campus full of bright-eyed, sun-kissed STEM boys, Yu Tu stood out—not because he was loud or flashy, but because something always seemed to go slightly sideways whenever he showed up. A dropped coffee cup. A sudden power outage. A misplaced book that turned out to be a rare first edition. It was like life had a running gag about him.

But here’s the thing: Yu Tu was famously cold. Unsmiling. Unbothered. His expression never changed, not even when someone tripped into his stack of journals. Over time, this earned him a legendary status among students—“The Background Guy in the JiaoDa Library,” a ghostly figure who appeared only in blurry photos and whispered rumors.

Shanghai’s spring is short—just a fleeting breath between winter’s chill and summer’s heat.

Today, the library felt off. People were rushing around dragging extension cords and lighting rigs. Voices rose and fell—some hushed, some not. Yu Tu glanced at the commotion from a safe distance.

Good. He could get back to work.

This scene was supposed to be a classic rom-com setup: Qiao Jingjing as a wide-eyed freshman who loses her ID card in the library, and the stoic male lead finds it. Cue slow-motion eye contact, a shared umbrella in the rain, and a love story that would make fans weep into their popcorn.

Jingjing was one of the top-tier rising stars in the industry—nicknamed “Princess Escaping Jinjiang” by fans for her ethereal charm. Wherever she went, even without her loyal “crystal buns” crowd, people still gathered just to catch a glimpse. After all, watching a sweet, adorable princess walk by? That kind of magic could brighten anyone’s day.

And today, she was actually grateful the shoot was at JiaoDa. The smartest kids here wouldn’t waste time judging looks—unless they were distracted for exactly… two minutes.

The scenes rolled smoothly. No delays. No fan chaos. When she left, no one blocked her chauffeur-driven car. Just a few distant fingers pointing, maybe a whisper: *That’s her.*

By noon, no sightings had hit social media. Lingjie sighed dramatically. “Jingjing, are you *that* cold now?”

Jingjing turned, grinning. “That’s normal, isn’t it? My fans are too classy to do anything stupid.”

At night, Director Zhi followed his usual routine—watching the raw footage. Jingjing joined the team again, chatting casually with the assistant director, offering thoughtful input every now and then.

In past projects, no leading lady had ever been this sharp, this intuitive. Her focus made the assistant directors sweat double shifts just to keep up—fearful of being replaced by a girl who could quote astrophysics while wearing heels.

The camera panned from the heroine’s POV: towering bookshelves, golden sunlight drifting through the glass, and the perfect profile of the male lead…

“Cut! Stop!” Jingjing’s voice cut through the quiet.

On the farthest edge of the screen, behind the male lead’s shoulder, nestled in the shadow between green leaves—there he was. Cold. Still. Utterly unimpressed.

Jingjing leaned closer, squinting. The face was blurred, indistinct—but she knew. It was him. Yu Tu.

“Still as icy as ever,” she muttered under her breath, waving a hand dismissively.

“Alright, alright—move on!”

By May, Shanghai Astronomy Museum was in its final stretch before opening. Everything was set—promotions rolling out, buzz building, logistics locked down.

Three official ambassadors had been announced: China’s first space explorer, a revered international astronautics academician, and… Qiao Jingjing.

Online, the reaction was instant and fierce.

“Seriously? Jingjing gets to stand beside legends like that?”

“She’s just riding science’s coattails. Can’t hide the fact she’s still just a sugar-coated dreamer.”

Lingjie, who’d been relaxed for months, suddenly started pacing again. “I told you—why did you *have* to push for this ambassador role? Sure, it’s public service. Of course it is. But—this is *not* a fit! Look at the internet! The backlash is already flying!”

“You’re trying to pivot too fast. Blame me—I gave in too easily. Now I’m cleaning up your mess.”

Jingjing sat curled in her favorite hanging chair, clutching a bunny plushie, watching her agent pace like a caged tiger.

From the balcony, the view was breathtaking—Shanghai’s most luxurious riverscape. But not toward the museum.

She tilted her head, watching the sun dip lower. “Only an hour left… We’ll see Mercury soon.”

Later, during the recording of the museum’s opening narration, Jingjing stood in the grand hall, eyes fixed on the dome above.

“One imagines our civilization growing beneath a single star—our sun—among the countless lights of the Milky Way.”

“One imagines the universe, forged through endless cycles of destruction and rebirth, revealing such astonishing complexity and harmony.”

“How can we not feel awe… and wonder… when we gaze into the infinite cosmos?”

Her voice carried something extra—something deeper. Not just her usual sweetness, but a quiet solemnity.

She couldn’t quite name it. But she thought: *Maybe it’s because when I think of space… I really do want to go there.*

There was another reason she’d come today. The museum’s science outreach channel was launching live broadcasts. They wanted a big splash. And Jingjing? She brought the audience.

After chatting with the PR director—a small, energetic man whose eyes lit up like fireworks—she found herself invited to lunch in the staff dining hall.

A table full of directors, deputy directors, researchers—all laughing, debating, sharing stories. The mood was electric.

Back in the car, Xiao Zhu looked at Jingjing flipping through her notes, smiling. “Hey, Jingjing… does this count as dad-fan, mom-fan stuff?”

“No way,” she said. “It’s the other way around. *I’m* the fan.”

The livestream launch exploded.

Within ten minutes, the platform crashed.

Normally, the museum could handle 300,000 viewers with ease. But this wasn’t just any stream—it was *Jingjing*. Her five million fans hadn’t even finished forming their formation when the feed froze on her hand pointing skyward—eyes sparkling, smile radiant.

#QiaoJingjingAstronomy
#QiaoJingjingAndromeda

Looking at the trending topics, Jingjing grinned. She was officially a real astronomy educator. And the prettiest one at that. Didn’t she have a new nickname now? “Andromeda.”

Lingjie grabbed her by the shoulders. “When did you learn all this? How do you draw constellations on the spot? What’s going on?!”

“People say she’s memorized entire textbooks.”

The haters were speechless.

“Oh, you know,” Jingjing shrugged, tossing her dark hair over her shoulder. “Just stuff I liked in school. Read a bit, remembered a few things. Standard stuff.”

“Standard stuff?”

Lingjie stared.

“What kind of phrase is that?”

“It’s just… standard stuff,” Jingjing said, wiggling her nose playfully.