Chapter 16: A Dip in Stamina

Zhou Chun had no intention of staying long. She had booked a flight to Suzhou for that very day and needed to stick to her schedule.

The artist she represented was Yu Maidong, who had debuted at quite a high level—leading actress in an arthouse film that earned a spot at an international film festival. She turned down olive branches from two of the biggest entertainment companies in the country and instead signed with Xie Yingnian Studio, which had only been around for a short while. In interview after interview, she openly declared Xie Yingnian to be her idol.

After Xie Yingnian stepped back from the spotlight, every signed artist who could leave did just that, leaving behind only a handful with middling talent. Surprisingly, Yu Maidong—the one who had the most reason to go—stayed on.

Zhou Chun’s ears had practically grown calluses from hearing all that idol-fan talk. Some people cozied up to seniors for connections, while others were genuine but would still put their careers first.

Yu Maidong was neither. Zhou Chun couldn’t be bothered to ask. As a married woman, she had a clear read on things—this girl was simply smitten with Xie Yingnian. Unfortunately, it was a classic case of flowers wilting with no reciprocation. Yu Maidong had been signed for years now, dropping hints or going full throttle, but she hadn’t made a dent in that unyielding rock. Xie Yingnian wasn’t nearly as casual about romance as the rumors made her out to be.

One day, Yu Maidong treated Zhou Chun to dinner. She said she’d gotten over it and wanted to focus on her career. She asked this gold-standard agent—who was now kicking back at home—to lend a hand.

Zhou Chun figured it was a shame for someone with Yu Maidong’s potential to be stuck in limbo, so she agreed.

“Right, that doll you had me pick up last time? I checked several stores—nothing. In the end, Maidong found one for you. It’s at your place.” Zhou Chun wrapped her scarf around her neck, grumbling about how southern winters were somehow colder inside than out. At least there was air conditioning.

“You bought it, or did she?” Xie Yingnian asked.

She stepped up behind Zhou Chun. Motherhood hadn’t made this woman any more refined. That elite-looking face was pure deception; her education topped out at vocational college, supposedly because she’d cracked under the pressure during gaokao. These days, she video-called every few days to supervise her elementary-school son’s calligraphy practice, building his patience.

Xie Yingnian carefully straightened the lumpy, expensive fabric into something presentable.

“I bought it. Enough with the charm offensive—she’s long moved on. And haven’t you looked out for her plenty as her boss?” Zhou Chun stopped fussing, savoring the attention while still ribbing her.

The scarf was back on properly now—no drafts, and it looked sharp. Xie Yingnian took half a step back, arms crossed, and grinned. “What exactly have I done for her?”

Everything she did for Yu Maidong, she did for every other artist at the studio. No special favors.

Zhou Chun, with her wealth of romantic experience, paused for two beats before replying. “When you like someone, you read into everything. Even the most ordinary gesture turns into hard candy you savor, tasting sweeter than anything.”

“Then by your logic, whether I’m good to her or not, it’ll always feel special.”

As much as she hated to admit it, Xie Yingnian had a point. Unreturned affection so easily spiraled into self-delusion, piling on filter after filter until you were in love with your own feelings. Deep devotion had always been praised through the ages; looking back later, you might just feel foolish, but never ashamed.

“Because it’s you,” Zhou Chun said. “That makes it especially different.”

Back when Zhou Chun had first started managing Xie Yingnian, the industry wasn’t nearly as open. A few bold souls who came out got blacklisted one after another. People talked about actors’ orientations in the vaguest terms, terrified of accidentally tanking someone’s career.

The huge blowup with Qiao Yingqiu was pure media frenzy—the two had never confirmed a thing. No admission, no problem. But Zhou Chun hadn’t slept soundly since. Handling a die-hard lesbian in those days had worn her out.

It wasn’t Xie Yingnian’s flashy private life or promiscuity that bothered her. No, it was how irresistible she was to women. The internet’s top pick in the yuri scene, and her exes before and after were all well-known actresses who swung both ways or fully that direction.

Zhou Chun was straight as an arrow and hadn’t delved into lesbian dynamics, but looking over those lists, she could spot the patterns. This crowd seemed way more into big-sister types than little sisters.

And Xie Yingnian had big-sis energy in spades. She could make someone as much older as Qiao Yingqiu look like the baby sister—not to mention the actual spoiled little sister she had at home.

As they reached the door, Zhou Chun remembered Zhong Jia and couldn’t resist nagging. “Seriously, I’m a little worried that kid will get lost in the role like you did back in the day.”

Xie Yingnian chuckled. “These things have a way of happening right when you’re dreading them.”

Zhou Chun shot her a look. Xie Yingnian leaned lazily against the prop cabinet, the picture of innocence. “Director Nong’s a total film obsessive. You know how she pushes her actors.”

Ai Yilan had been utterly terrified that day. On the monitor, two women were kissing; she clapped her hands over her eyes in embarrassment. But Nong Siqing couldn’t have cared less about traumatizing the kid. She pried Ai Yilan’s hands away, wouldn’t let her turn her head, and forced the pale-faced girl to stare at the screen. She even asked what Yuan Yuan would think if she saw it.

After wrapping the scene, Ai Yilan sobbed nonstop, clinging to her onscreen mom like glue. Xie Yingnian skipped dinner and spent her precious break time holding her and walking her around until her shoulder was soaked through. Her arm ached the next day.

“From the sound of it, you’re just letting things play out?” Zhou Chun knew Xie Yingnian’s type all too well. “If she really falls hard and you can’t give her what she wants, it’ll hurt you too.”

Zhou Chun pushed the door open. A blast of cold, damp wind hit her; she shivered and turned her face to continue. “After all, she’s the girl you raised for four years. How could any mom not ache for her?”

Xie Yingnian sighed. “…Stop flipping between ‘goldfinch’ and ‘daughter.’ I’ve sponsored plenty of others.”

“Like you do with Zhong Jia? Checking if she ate enough, if she drank her milk, if she went to the hospital, if she bought roses?”

Zhou Chun unleashed a barrage of sarcasm. Xie Yingnian’s head throbbed; she rubbed her brow and fell silent, her expression icy.

Years of close friendship had taught Zhou Chun her limits. Xie Yingnian just had that distant aura about her, but she was the type who loved courting trouble. Enough trouble, and she started feeling more human.

Big or small, old or young—if someone shared even a sliver of goodwill with Xie Yingnian, they became her responsibility. Zhong Jia fell squarely in that category.

“You say love’s not all that,” Zhou Chun went on. “You’ve been there. But Zhong Jia hasn’t.”

Love really wasn’t all that. As for having “been there”… Xie Yingnian figured those flings probably didn’t count.

The sky looked like it had been dusted with lead powder—heavy and overcast, the air thick with moisture. Chongxiang was either raining or on the verge.

Xie Yingnian glanced across at Xingfa Supermarket down below, the biggest convenience store on Chunhe Alley. The couple who ran it were savvy and hardworking, opening early and closing late. When Ruan Ting pulled late nights at work, Kong Can would take Yuan Yuan over for snacks.

Her gaze grew distant as she murmured softly, “I won’t fall for anyone. And Zhong Jia isn’t like her mom, so stop worrying over nothing.”

They reached the stairwell. “What are you delivering anyway?” Zhou Chun asked. “Head back—the director’s waiting.”

“Oh, forget about transferring money for the doll. Isn’t it Shi Cainran’s birthday soon? Consider it my gift to her.”

The hallway was piled high with stuff: jars of pickled veggies big and small, leaky basins repurposed as flowerpots, coal stoves cracked and on their last legs.

The props team had borrowed, built, and scavenged from flea markets to achieve a high level of realism.

Even without the bustling crew, Ruan Ting’s place stood out. Her doorway was bare—she hadn’t been in Chongxiang long enough for her belongings to spill into shared space. Her custom blue floral curtains looked downright upscale amid the patchwork of old bedsheets. A round hole in the glass window let the chimney pipe poke out from inside.

No smoke billowing now. The next scene was set in spring, after the new year.

Xie Yingnian spotted Zhong Jia right away. She was dressed in Kong Can’s clothes, made up like her, script in hand. Nong Siqing was gesturing wildly; Zhong Jia nodded along, listening intently.

The script supervisor was clearly being used as a stand-in. Zhong Jia ran through some intimate gestures with her, then bowed in apology if it felt intrusive—her face stayed perfectly natural, ears unflushed.

Maybe the atmosphere was working its magic. Even in rehearsal, Xie Yingnian could already see hints of Kong Can in her—quiet and withdrawn, less like Zhong Jia herself.

Had she noticed the shift? Kong Can’s personality and emotions were bleeding into real life, exactly the effect Nong Siqing wanted. Xie Yingnian watched her, her brows knitting ever so slightly for a few seconds.

“Teacher Xie’s here!” the sharp-eyed script supervisor announced before slipping away.

Nong Siqing called out to the approaching Xie Yingnian. “Perfect timing. You two run your blocking, test the lights and all that.”

This sequence was pinned to the bed and the door—Zhong Jia had just been asking if they had to stick to those spots.

You’ve never eaten pork, but you’ve seen pigs run around. Chen Kuang had gotten on Ju Zai’s bad side before, ending up hauled onto the piano for a makeout session. The thud was crystal clear from outside. The door that had just swung open slammed shut again. Wa Si’s mind was still stuck on the image of Chen Kuang’s head thrown back, Ju Zai devouring her neck. She looked utterly ashen, like a monk who’d shattered his vow of chastity, and stammered to Zhong Jia, “Sh-She’s… they’re inside…”

Zhong Jia squatted against the door, glancing left and right like a lookout, then nodded calmly. “Humans are animals too, and animals go into heat.”

“It’s not even spring,” Wa Si grumbled. As a modern college student who turned red at the mere mention of sex, she still had the nerve to complain. “Your choice of words is wild. I’m the only normal one in our band.”

Zhong Jia was no stranger to the concept of love, though she couldn’t claim to be intimately familiar with it. After all, she’d either seen it with her own eyes or heard about it from others.

The pair she’d witnessed firsthand were her nominal parents—the absolute worst example, the ceiling of counterexamples. Her mother was foolish and lovesick, her father selfish and heartless. As a result, Zhong Jia had been averse to love since birth, in all its varied and subjective forms.

Even during the puberty of others, when hormones ran wild and hearts first stirred, she had felt only a vague curiosity prompted by her own excess secretions. She’d asked Qian Peiqing how she had ended up with Grandpa.

The answer held no romance, only compromise. Qian Peiqing had stroked the back of Zhong Jia’s neck and said that she was of age, introduced by a matchmaker. Without Grandpa, there would have been someone else. It was just making do.

From that, three different understandings had branched out. Qiao Yingqiu was a cup of scalding boiling water. Zhong Kefei had frozen solid into an ice cube. Qian Peiqing’s cup was lukewarm—pleasant to drink, quenching thirst without much flavor, certainly not addictive.

And what about Kong Can’s feelings for Ruan Ting? The gap in their ages, the disparity in their statuses, the sense of taboo that loomed over her heart like a shadow. Yet Kong Can had still taken that step for Ruan Ting, losing all reason.

So the love in this story should be like dry grass set ablaze—rain pouring relentlessly couldn’t extinguish it. It was fated to make them throw themselves into danger for each other.

Zhong Jia didn’t think this scene could be rigidly confined to certain spots. When the mood struck two people, they wouldn’t care about anything else.

Nong Siqing asked, “Where else do you want it?”

Xie Yingnian, who had just sprayed some breath freshener into her mouth, let out a chuckle.

Zhong Jia was so innocent on this front that she actually thought Nong Siqing was asking seriously. She glanced around, her gaze drawn to the vintage green desk lamp on the table. Her old bedroom had had a similar one—Qian Peiqing was nostalgic and frugal, still keeping something from the last century.

“You young people do have some bold ideas,” Nong Siqing said thoughtfully, nodding.

The laughter around them sounded oddly teasing. Zhong Jia finally snapped back to reality. Unfortunately, the table was right by the window. Imagining that scene, she flushed with embarrassment and stammered, “No, I mean…”

Halfway through her words, Nong Siqing—struck by sudden inspiration—cut her off. She eyed the height of the square table. “Xiao Xie, pick up Tiantian and set her on there. There’s a camera here too. Let me see the effect.”

Zhong Jia covered her face with her palm, mortified at yet another instance of digging her own grave.

Xie Yingnian shrugged off her outer clothes and handed them to Jujiu. She stared at the mortified Zhong Jia until the girl sensed it and moved her hand away. Xie Yingnian gave her a wistful sigh. “Stop staring at me like that.”

“I’m curious,” Xie Yingnian said calmly, under Zhong Jia’s expectant gaze. “How do you turn into such a goofball every time we film one of these scenes?”

Stuck with that lukewarm assessment, Zhong Jia was at a loss for words. She couldn’t exactly explain the reasons behind it.

The one delivering the judgment took half a step toward her. Xie Yingnian ruffled her hair with a gentle touch.

Zhong Jia couldn’t help but lower her head submissively, yielding to the petting as if she were some animal. Xie Yingnian’s breathing seemed to grow a little heavier. For a fleeting moment, Zhong Jia thought she was about to say something—something to follow up on that “goofball” comment, something that would seal the evaluation with a word so glowing it would make her heart soar.

But Xie Yingnian said nothing.

It must have just been her imagination.

The director, who had been holding an unlit cigarette between her fingers, turned and sat down behind the equipment. The crew began adjusting the machines.

Nong Siqing had only told Xie Yingnian to pick her up, without specifying how—as if she trusted her to deliver the exact visual she wanted.

Yet the image on the monitor seemed frozen. The two actors faced each other. Xie Yingnian bent down, her hands sliding around Zhong Jia’s waist from behind. And that was it.

The so-called “hug” merely lifted Zhong Jia’s feet off the ground for a few seconds. Once she was back down, she had to stand on tiptoe, kindly glossing over the obvious truth that anyone with eyes could see.

A Cha hesitated. “Uh…”

My artist is only 168 cm tall and barely over ninety jin—not fat at all. Teacher Xie, have you been skipping the gym?

Jujiu said nothing.

She was starting to wonder if Xie Yingnian had truly been possessed back on Xin Ting Mountain. Where had all that strength gone—the kind that let her spin Qiao Yingqiu in circles in Reed Shoal Moon? She wasn’t even thirty yet. Her stamina couldn’t have declined that much already, could it?

The atmosphere grew painfully awkward. The assistant director coughed a few times. Nong Siqing seemed surprised too, taking a moment before asking, “Xiao Xie, can’t you lift her?”

As soon as the words landed, Zhong Jia leaped onto Xie Yingnian herself. She looped her arms around her neck, her legs wrapping around her waist. Xie Yingnian reacted quickly, catching her buttocks and steadying herself after a slight wobble. It barely qualified as completing the hug.

Eager to save Xie Yingnian’s face, Zhong Jia turned her head toward the others and declared, “She can lift me just fine.”

Several people burst out laughing. Jujiu doubled over, telling A Cha, “I won’t watch the next season of that comedy show without Zhong Jia.”

Shi Heng was utterly numb, with no idea what persona to build for this girl anymore.

Zhong Jia turned back and stared at Xie Yingnian for a few seconds, meeting a pair of deep brown eyes. Their bodies were pressed close. She focused on calming her racing heart, too preoccupied to analyze the emotions hidden in those profound depths.

“Do you think that actually comforted me?” Xie Yingnian asked the girl who had just jumped to her defense, a hint of helplessness in her voice.

Even an idiot would know the answer, hearing everyone’s laughter.

Because she was being held, Zhong Jia had the rare vantage of looking down at Xie Yingnian. It had been a desperate move on her part, and it had backfired. Drooping her eyelids, she murmured, “I was hoping it did.”

Xie Yingnian met her gaze, sensing her dejection. After a moment of silence, she softly hummed in acknowledgment.

Everyone naturally took that hum as an affirmative to the earlier question. Zhong Jia smiled. A bead of sweat on Xie Yingnian’s nose tip caught her eye, and she couldn’t resist saying, “Xie Yingnian, you really should work out more.”

Xie Yingnian’s lips curved slightly. She accepted the advice calmly. “Sure.”

For some reason, Zhong Jia found Xie Yingnian’s smile a bit off. She racked her memory and finally recalled: on the first day of filming, she’d labeled her as the vengeful type.

Nothing had even happened yet, but a sudden chill prickled her skin.