Chapter 10: However Long It Takes

In the distance, A Cha and Jujiu stood under the eaves, chatting up a storm. Most of the crew had dispersed by now. Shi Heng had followed Nong Siqing inside, leaving only the behind-the-scenes footage guy with his tripod set up. He occasionally glanced at the monitor, eavesdropping on the two girls’ conversation.

A Cha had arrived early too. Her little artist probably hadn’t slept a wink all night, and she hadn’t wanted to disturb her. There were no messages on WeChat either. When A Cha went to wake her, the door had swung open with a whoosh. A Cha didn’t know how long Zhong Jia had been waiting. As Zhong Jia slipped a down jacket over her sweater, A Cha handed over a sandwich. “I’ve got milk too. What flavor do you want?”

For a moment, the assistant felt like she was the actual star.

“Too much pressure, huh?” Jujiu took a bite of an autumn pear that she’d washed using the set designer’s hose. She’d been handing them out to everyone on site, and now only a few were left.

The remaining half bag was in A Cha’s hands—Xie Yingnian’s special instructions.

“So is that why your Teacher Xie is always hands-on, to help our Tiantian adjust?”

Jujiu paused mid-chew for a few seconds. “I’m wondering about that too. Why is she like that with Zhong Jia?”

She called it strange, but her eyes were practically disappearing into slits from grinning. A Cha remembered Jujiu’s shipping obsession and thought, You don’t fool me—you’re just devouring the sweets again. True fans ate up the candy when it was there, manufactured it when it wasn’t. Even if the plot twisted the knife, they’d sob through it, praising the pain while crying and laughing in delicious agony.

A Cha lowered her voice. “I bet in your head, they’ve already slept together.”

“You’re welcome,” Jujiu said. She tossed the pear core at the rusty prop trash can and nailed it. Glancing back, she sighed. “Nah, not really. Our Teacher Xie… sigh, she just doesn’t have the stamina.”

The footage guy got called away. Once he was out of earshot, A Cha asked, “Lesbians can get erectile dysfunction too?”

Jujiu nearly choked. “I meant stamina, you straight girl. Stop fixating on that useless two ounces of meat.”

“Stamina?” A Cha thought she’d misheard, her eyes going wide. “Didn’t Teacher Xie used to be super athletic? Did you guys fake her bio back then?”

It was one of those long stories. Xie Yingnian had legs that anyone would envy. In elementary school, she’d been drafted onto the special training team because they were short-handed, turning her into half an athlete. Though she hadn’t kept it up, the exercise habit stuck, leaving her with great physical condition.

But that was then.

As for now… Jujiu had no idea what had happened to Xie Yingnian. These past few years, she’d slimmed down to a paper-thin waif that looked like a stiff breeze could knock her over. Jujiu had never dared voice it—other people saw through the red dust to pursue the Dao or Buddha, but Xie Yingnian seemed more like someone self-destructing after repentance, devoid of any will to live. The Qing hairpin in her hair and the Daoist robes clashed with Breezy Temple. Jujiu had even overheard Sanhua Daoleng muttering something about “intolerable, intolerable.”

The two of them sat in the Carefree Pavilion on the back mountain of Breezy Temple. It wasn’t really a pavilion—open to the sky, letting in wind, rain, and sun. It lived up to its name in carefree freedom.

A few peach blossoms had drifted onto Xie Yingnian’s robes. An old, threadbare scroll lay beside her hand. Stripped of her actress aura, her presence blended into the misty Xin Ting Mountain, still as stagnant water.

“Buddhism won’t tolerate it. Daoism won’t either.”

A ripple finally stirred in her emotionless eyes, but it vanished in an instant.

Sanhua Daoleng had met Xie Yingnian while hiking. Their friendship was casual, neither deep nor shallow. His cat, however, adored this woman. The little thing couldn’t smell the churning karma in her blood. It leaped from its master’s lap onto the stone table, padding over to lick the back of her cold hand.

It rubbed its round head against her. When Xie Yingnian didn’t react, it flopped onto its side, exposing the plump belly that Sanhua had fed so well, and meowed a few times.

Xie Yingnian gazed at it and managed a faint smile.

The little cat scrambled up, rolled over, then collapsed again, burying its head in its meaty paws. It wagged its fluffy tail at Xie Yingnian in a bid for pets. Someone obliged, scritching from tail to neck scruff. It squinted in bliss.

The cat had its own Dao name: Huazi, courtesy of Sanhua. He’d named it after finding it at the mountain’s base, shamelessly rubbing against strangers for food scraps—disgracing all felines in the process.

Xie Yingnian’s dressing room was private. She sat in the chair, letting the makeup artist work. Perhaps the earlier rain dodge had flipped a switch in her memories. She recalled those Breezy Temple days, a unknowing smile curving her lips.

Huazi, Meichuan Kuzi—they were fleeting sparks of joy for her.

Zhong Jia, all you need is a tail.

Today’s kiss scene was Kong Can’s first kiss—and her first boundary-cross with Ruan Ting.

It was set at night, but that didn’t matter. Indoor sets made for easy post-production. Nong Siqing’s scenes were grueling; starting at night would mean pulling an all-nighter.

Zhong Jia showered off the rain, opting for natural bare-faced makeup. Kong Can was two years younger than her real age—no need for fake lashes that could crush flies or lipstick shades fit for devouring children.

Nong Siqing wanted a no-makeup look for the essentials. The script didn’t specify, but during blocking, she’d been firm: Kong Can hated makeup.

For this risqué scene, Nong Siqing had even called Ai Yilan over. She settled the young girl on her lap and grabbed the walkie-talkie. “All departments, stand by.”

Kong Can had just passed her eighteenth birthday, still emerging from that age where she believed her life was destined for greatness. Then, that winter, she met the woman most likely to make it extraordinary.

Even the kind of extraordinary scorned by the world counted.

Ruan Ting came from the big city. She filled the fridge with imported foods, blasted foreign songs on surround-sound speakers, and shopped at the supermarket in low-cut dresses…

She brought a kaleidoscope of glamour to bumpkin Kong Can, who couldn’t help drawing closer—only to pull back when the girl who called her “sister” turned and called Ruan Ting “mommy.”

“Avoiding me for days?” Ruan Ting was tall, looming over her. A heavy shadow fell across Kong Can as she climbed the stairs.

The pear-shaped bulb in the hallway buzzed behind her. Since the meters were linked, some deadbeats skipped bills, leaving power company repairs neglected—and honest payers suffering.

Kong Can: “I haven’t.”

Head down, she tried to slip past. But as their shoulders brushed, Ruan Ting seized her wrist and pinned her to the wall.

“Mm…” Zhong Jia let out a soft hum.

It was her own reaction. Xie Yingnian had gripped a bit hard; her wrist stung.

Zhong Jia’s voice was lovely—lightly metallic in tone, never thin. Her vocal range was wide; she handled most high notes in the band.

Lowered unconsciously, it turned fragile, defenseless. Just like now.

A crowd gathered around the monitors for live sound. Jujiu couldn’t help blurting, “Your artist’s voice is just too…”

A Cha felt it too, melting. “What?”

Jujiu held back, scared of sounding like a perv.

Too perfect for getting railed. Saying that in public? Instant social suicide.

On screen, Zhong Jia looked different from usual. Near-bare makeup on her pale skin deepened her lip color. She glowed with natural youth—no acting required. In the hazy light, her startled expression tugged at the heart.

She knew her role: first love blooming in the wrong garden. Someone’s wife. Someone’s mom.

Her damp eyes brewed a storm. Kong Can couldn’t spit venom at Ruan Ting; she understood the trap—that man chaining Ruan Ting’s future with child and marriage. Red-eyed, she held back forever… until “We can’t do this.”

Xie Yingnian descended the stairs, their feet aligning on the same step.

She was already taller, plus heeled shoes. Each footfall made Zhong Jia’s heart pound, relighting the dim hallway bulb. Xie Yingnian looked down at her. Immersion took seconds—emotions flooded in, her gaze scorching hot, forcing Zhong Jia to turn away.

Then Xie Yingnian’s tone softened, her eyes gentle. She’d slipped into Ruan Ting long ago—the tender, caring Ruan Ting for Kong Can:

“Scaredy-cat. Days without coming home? Where’d you sleep? At Miao Miao’s?”

Zhong Jia’s cheek was caressed. Her heart raced wildly. She fought for calm, only sensing Xie Yingnian’s warmth more sharply.

Never this close before. Years ago, it’d been back-to-back. Driven by inexplicable feelings, she’d turned despite her turmoil, seeing herself reflected in Xie Yingnian’s pupils.

The lines flowed smoothly after that. It didn’t hit Nong Siqing’s mark, but she let it run—no first-take perfection. Zhong Jia was still green; her acting showed.

Rain pattered on the plastic carport below. Zhong Jia’s prop umbrella clattered to her feet. Xie Yingnian pulled her close, kissed her. Eyes open or shut? Zhong Jia had no clue.

The moment softness brushed her lip corner, Xie Yingnian reined in hard, keeping the kiss achingly gentle, unhurried. Ruan Ting had waited lifetimes for this.

Zhong Jia felt electricity surge through her, knees buckling.

Worse, she made a sound not her own—raw atmosphere bleeding through. Even the flickering bulb seemed to ignite the rundown building. Shi Heng, big guy that he was, flushed beet-red, coughed, and turned away.

Many seconds passed. No lines from Zhong Jia, no moves. The assistant director stomped in regret.

The director’s dissatisfaction crackled through the machine like a bucket of ice water dumped over her head. Zhong Jia snapped fully awake. Nong Siqing said, “Zhong Jia, why are you so lost in it? Where are Kong Can’s emotions?”

Laughter exploded around the room, drowning out whatever else Nong Siqing had to say.

“I…”

As her eyes fluttered open and light poured in, Zhong Jia finally realized she had closed them just moments before. Xie Yingnian, right there in front of her, let out a soft chuckle. She caught Zhong Jia’s resentful glare and quickly bit back her laughter, her lips pressing into a straight line—as if the sound had been nothing more than an illusion.

“No problem,” Xie Yingnian said. “Let’s take it again.”

She reached out and ruffled Zhong Jia’s hair.

“Is the camera still rolling?” Zhong Jia asked, her voice glum.

“It’s rolling,” Xie Yingnian replied. “What’s up?”

The girl standing before her ducked her head to unbutton Xie Yingnian’s overcoat. Ruan Ting had a touch of bourgeois flair; her clothes were all high-end, nothing like Kong Can’s costumes, which ran the gamut from plain and simple to downright frumpy.

“Hey, does one little kiss mean you have to cop a feel?” Xie Yingnian teased. She stood there passively, letting Zhong Jia do as she pleased. With a quick glance at the camera in the corner to her right—its red light blinking steadily—she looked back, her smile tinged with helplessness.

Zhong Jia parted the woolen coat and buried her head inside it like an ostrich, her voice coming out muffled. “My face is burning red. It’s so embarrassing. Let me hide in here.”

The problem was, the microphone was still live too. What a ditz.

Xie Yingnian drew the coat fully around her, her palm gently stroking Zhong Jia’s head through the fabric. “Hide away, then. As long as you want.”