The commotion from the stumble and the steadying hand wasn’t particularly loud, but Kong Liyuan’s presence still drew a fair amount of attention their way.
Right on the heels of Kong Liyuan’s question, the sunlight seemed to shift slightly toward them, casting a brilliant white veil that enveloped the two women completely.
It felt as though the entire world had narrowed to just these two, both of them lying in wait, coiled in silence. Whoever spoke first would shatter that fragile layer.
And then something would spill out, flooding the ground.
Li Weili recovered first. She started to answer Kong Liyuan’s question, but Fu Tingli spoke up ahead of her.
“Hello, Teacher Kong. I’m Fu Tingli.”
Her voice was soft and clear, as if the tense silence and standoff had never happened.
“This is my high school classmate, here as the on-site advisor for the sculpture team,” Li Weili added smoothly. “Teacher Kong, you’ve already met the team leader, Teacher Wen. Teacher Wen’s swamped with an exhibition and working on movie sculptures in the studio, so Tingli will handle most of the on-site duties.”
“I’ve heard Teacher Kong has an interest in sculpture. Tingli may be young, but she’s been studying it for over a decade, with plenty of creative work and exhibitions under her belt in recent years. Teacher Kong, feel free to reach out to Tingli with any questions on the subject.”
“Right, Teacher Wen?”
Her words were impeccable. She first handed the floor to Wen Yingxiu, clearly defining Fu Tingli’s primary role on set without uttering the word “hand double,” ensuring Kong Liyuan wouldn’t feel slighted in her expertise.
Wen Yingxiu glanced at Fu Tingli. “Of course. My old bones can’t make it to the site often, but Little Fu will give it her all and keep a close eye on every shot involving technical details.”
In some instinctive urge to defend one of their own from any perceived slight, the “young whippersnapper” Fu Tingli of moments ago had become simply “Little Fu.”
“I see.”
Kong Liyuan nodded slightly. “Then I must thank all the teachers in advance for their guidance and help.”
With unhurried grace, she slipped the hand that had just steadied Fu Tingli into her coat pocket.
Her other hand still dangled the horsewhip.
Those unfamiliar “Little Fu”s and “Tingli”s—even Fu Tingli hadn’t heard them before—seemed to serve as the answer to Kong Liyuan’s question: “Who is this teacher?”
Fu Tingli drifted for a moment.
The reunion she’d imagined unfolding differently had veered off script. After the clumsy, almost theatrical tumble came this polished, distant politeness.
She ought to say something—something airtight like Li Weili’s response, or bluntly direct like Wen Yingxiu’s.
But just as she opened her mouth to speak, Kong Liyuan looked her way again. Her wrist emerged once more from the coat pocket, hovering right in front of Fu Tingli, close enough to interrupt her breath.
“It looks like Teacher Fu and I will need to talk more.”
Or perhaps something as polished and thoughtful as Kong Liyuan’s own words. Fu Tingli brushed lightly against her hand from a careful distance, then pulled back with a relaxed smile.
“I’m just a student, not even two years out of school. Teacher Kong, please don’t saddle me with the ‘teacher’ title.”
“You’re so young, Teacher Fu,” Kong Liyuan replied, apparently deaf to the very point Fu Tingli was making.
Yet somehow, it felt like she’d snatched hold of Fu Tingli’s heart, just when it had finally settled.
—With a pair of brown fleece gloves, and that smile that seemed affectionate yet impossibly distant.
“Your hands are so cold.”
She placed the glove directly into Fu Tingli’s palm, her warm, soft fingers grazing the hypersensitive skin there.
“A sculptor’s hands are precious. They shouldn’t suffer the cold.”
With those words, she offered them a leisurely smile, then turned back to the tall, shadowy horse. She mounted up, immersed once more in the brighter, more dazzling sunlight, and rode off under her assistant’s guidance to a clearer spot for filming.
In the lingering daze, Li Weili was swept away by the shuffle of footsteps to somewhere else. That left Wen Yingxiu and Fu Tingli staring at each other.
Beneath Wen Yingxiu’s narrowed gaze, Fu Tingli’s wandering thoughts finally drifted back—from the distant horseback figure, slipping through gaps in the woman’s wind-tossed long hair.
She snapped to attention, clenching one hand around the brown fleece gloves while tugging off her face mask with the other. She’d left it on this whole time.
The snow had melted, but the wind was brutally cold, like a faceful of thick porridge frozen solid overnight in the fridge—dazing, blinding.
Peeling off the mask froze her through completely. She clutched the gloves tighter, the warm fleece pressing against her palm and warming that patch of skin more than the rest.
Kong Liyuan, now far away, was like a burst of sparks—crackling into existence, crackling out just as fast.
But even after they faded, Fu Tingli’s world still crackled around her.
She zoned out again, beyond her control. Until Wen Yingxiu’s voice yanked her back.
“I’ve already vetted all the technical details in the script before principal photography. Our studio rushed out some of the protagonist’s pieces. All that’s left is the key plot’s final creation.”
“Your job is straightforward: oversee the on-site shots. When the director calls for last-minute changes… or the lead actress needs close-ups, step in with professional input. And if required, serve as the female lead’s hand double.”
Wen Yingxiu paused mid-stride, shooting her a look. “Don’t think it’s a cakewalk, or that it means just hanging around doing nothing. I brought you on for the site.”
“If anything goes wrong with the shots, it’s on you.”
Fu Tingli’s eyes crinkled in a slight smile. “Got it, Teacher Wen. I won’t let over a decade of training go to waste.”
Wen Yingxiu grunted in acknowledgment and fell silent. She led the way a few more steps before glancing back, noticing Fu Tingli still clutching those fleece gloves. Her face was deathly pale from the cold, her fingers bright red—yet she hadn’t put them on.
“What, too good to wear the superstar’s gift?”
Fu Tingli blinked, caught off guard, then slipped them on and shoved her gloved hands into her pockets.
“Not exactly. I’m just not used to wearing gloves.”
She didn’t know the industry well, but she was aware of one ironclad rule: starry-eyed overenthusiasm or boundary-pushing chasing was a fast track to being blacklisted on set.
“Good.”
Wen Yingxiu studied her.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Don’t go thinking a pair of gloves, a coffee, or one sympathetic smile and comforting word means you’re special—and start eagerly wagging your tail after her. Be grateful when it’s due, sure. But never kid yourself that ‘this celebrity sees something special in you.'”
“For any performer with real drive, public image management is just part of the job.”
“Especially Kong Liyuan,” Wen Yingxiu stressed.
“Why her specifically?”
“Because her whole family’s in the business,” Wen Yingxiu said flatly. “From the moment she was born—whatever her profession—she’s been a performer.”
Fu Tingli got it. Kong Liyuan had grown up under the glare of flashbulbs and cameras. Every public move she made carried the weight of scrutiny inherited from her celebrity parents.
“Mm, I understand,” Fu Tingli said with a relaxed smile.
She trailed slowly behind Wen Yingxiu. After a few steps, into the shadow of some structure, she felt suddenly shrouded again, as if by an invisible weight.
She turned.
The distance was considerable now, but she spotted the woman on the distant horse at a glance—horsewhip dangling from her hand. The sunlight danced and swayed; the slender belt at her waist fluttered in the wind, like trumpet creeper vines clinging perilously to her hips.
It seemed like she was watching Fu Tingli. Or maybe not.
Fu Tingli’s hand clenched in her pocket, the pressure digging painfully into her palm and fingers.
The set buzzed with people coming and going. Now and then, someone passed by, eyes lingering on her—this obscure “sculpture advisor” who’d just received gloves from Kong Liyuan. Whispers floated through the crowd:
“Those gloves look pricey. Teacher Kong just handed them over like that?”
“It’s not about the price. Teacher Kong pulled them straight from her own pocket—they must be her personal pair!! And she just gave them away?”
The hubbub swirled around her, but only Fu Tingli knew the secret tucked inside one of those fleece gloves—the pair Kong Liyuan had handed her publicly, back when Fu Tingli’s face mask hid everything but her eyes.
A thin, hard card lurked there, its sharp edges nicking her fingers enough to sting. The surface felt sleek, yet it carried a lingering body heat, as if warmed from too long in the glove.
She couldn’t tell if that warmth came from her own touch… or from Kong Liyuan.
Or if their combined temperatures had simply mingled on the card, inseparable.
The instant Fu Tingli gripped the card tighter, Kong Liyuan’s gaze from afar pinned her precisely, wrapping her up entirely once more.
Hadn’t this cold, distant reunion already ended? What else do you have to give me?
Kong Liyuan.
