Zhong Jia’s hand was gripped in Xie Yingnian’s, and she smiled faintly. She felt her soul floating up in the cold wind, her body going light and airy, like a sticky piece of taffy. When Xie Yingnian tugged just a little, Zhong Jia staggered forward until she stood right in front of the woman she’d teased into wanting to give her a taste of her own medicine. She even considered faking a full stumble and just landing in her lap—after all, it felt plenty solid.
But there were people around, and with her pipa slung conspicuously on her back, she didn’t dare be that bold.
Xie Yingnian, seated in her chair, gave her hand a casual flick. The gesture proved that all of Zhong Jia’s talk about missing her was just that—talk. Her voice was soft, and beneath the taut resistance of her jeans, the sensation in Xie Yingnian’s palm felt even more vivid.
Xie Yingnian smiled. “Miss me enough?”
The words sounded the same either way—did Zhong Jia hear “miss” or “ring”? Either way, there was a hint of it in the air.
It had been days without Zhong Jia bobbing around under her nose, and Xie Yingnian wasn’t used to it. Exam week really lived up to its name.
She’d never gone to university herself. She had the talent for it, but circumstances wouldn’t allow it. Everyone had opposed the idea, but fate had sided with her in a rare twist—an accident that felt more like cruel mockery in its tragedy.
That year, when the Shi Ji Restaurant in San’an Li went up in flames, Xie Yingnian no longer had to argue with her foster mother about college. The woman who had taken over her life and had every right to dictate how she lived it—wanting only the best for her—had died beyond recognition. The fence of her borrowed home burned to ash, leaving Xie Yingnian to care for Liang Sufen’s sole surviving daughter, who was just twelve years old.
With both parents gone one after the other, the family shattered overnight. She herself was still so young and fragile, her burns damaging some organs too. To put it bluntly, at that time, Shi Cainran’s life force might not have exceeded that of an ant. She had only one person to cling to—if that person refused, even scraping by would be a luxury.
Shi Cainran never begged for anything. Her older sister, barely stepping into adulthood herself, walked straight into the ruins, gathered the remnants, and built herself into a fragile shelter against the wind and rain.
The younger sister living inside might have been too young, or suffering from trauma, or perhaps she simply saw Xie Yingnian as merely repaying a debt or atoning for sins. If she got hurt or sick, it was her due; if her demands weren’t met, it was only right.
But to say Shi Cainran didn’t cherish those days when all the girls her age envied her for having a big sister… well, in her nightmares, she still cried out for her sister. Xie Yingnian would sit by the bedside, only to get the cold shoulder from the sweat-drenched girl once she woke.
It was a total contradiction, but Xie Yingnian had no time to dwell on it. She was swamped from dawn till dusk, sometimes skipping sleep altogether—eyes closed just to tally accounts.
Tutoring, food delivery, kitchen help at restaurants, handing out flyers… she took any job that paid, no matter how undignified. The wildest was that time at the underground boxing arena.
Xie Yingnian had been to those bars plenty of times with friends. By day, legitimate business; by night, illicit fights with big bets and fat payouts for the fighters.
People’s tastes run wild—some crave even matches, others love a bully beating down the weak. Throw in some spice, and it’s perfect.
The manager sized her up for a good while before slotting her onto the most special stage of all. Her opponent was a man.
An inexperienced, pretty female fighter against a ripped, familiar-faced male brawler—the combo ignited the crowd the moment they stepped out. Whistles and catcalls erupted everywhere.
By the time it wrapped up, the bar was nearly closing, but the rare spectacle drew even the off-duty staff to crowd around, chattering away.
The ref started the countdown. The girl sprawled on the mat had only her eyes still beautiful in that moment—bright and brimming with light. Against the mottled purple bruises, the upward tilt of her eye corners seemed to defy sinking into the dirt, vibrant in a way that took the breath away.
With great effort, she turned her head, coughing harshly as blood trickled from her mouth. She fixed her gaze on the impressive number glowing on the electronic screen—the pot for this fight.
Xie Yingnian silently multiplied that figure by the manager’s promised cut. Everyone held their breath, counting down three, two, one along with the ref. The man who’d landed a solid counter on her hopped side to side, bracing himself, expecting her stubborn grit to pull her up again.
The arena screens mirrored the action. Xie Yingnian didn’t rise, didn’t move at all. She simply closed her heavy eyelids, seizing the chance for a brief shut-eye.
That money got Shi Cainran transferred to a hospital as she’d hoped. Through Cui Ming’s connections, it saved time too—the top burn unit in the country.
And so Xie Yingnian followed her to this city. Her wounds had mostly healed, but the burns on the back of her hands lingered, and with jobs demanding constant hand use, they healed slowest.
Even with gloves, the sharp edges of lobster shells still stung. Xie Yingnian focused intently. Across the street, a busker sang originals over blaring outdoor speakers that rattled her skull, applause ringing out. She didn’t hear a thing.
Nong Siqing cranked the volume and asked again, “Interested in chatting?”
That’s how Nong Siqing pulled her into the film world. Years later, recounting the tale with accolades piled high, the renowned director chuckled: she’d had no confidence back then, thinking Xie Yingnian would turn her down.
Poor as she was—seemingly the type to crash under a bridge—Xie Yingnian wore her poverty with such straightforward dignity that it disarmed any urge to pity or scorn her.
Her hair in a loose ponytail, the girl squatted on the ground, brush in one hand, tongs gripping a lobster in the other—quick and efficient. The stainless-steel basin filled with spotless lobsters.
A grease-smeared pear-shaped bulb hung behind her from the colorful plastic awning’s frame. Service staff bustling for orders intermittently blocked the light, casting her in flickers of brightness and shadow. Nothing exotic about it, yet the eyes couldn’t look away.
Dressed plainly—a white tee under a black waterproof work apron like a butcher’s, washed to shapelessness. The collar hung loose and wrinkled; peering down that gap revealed little—just skin stretched too thin over bones.
Nong Siqing was drawn to the heavy aura of story clinging to her. A stranger, yet one glance pulled you into a shroud of misty rain. No audition needed; contract on the spot, if she’d agree.
Agree or not, Xie Yingnian had little choice—unless she struck it rich overnight and quit worrying about survival.
But there was a knot she hesitated to untie. The moment Nong Siqing stated her business, inescapable fate crashed over her. She didn’t want this path, yet no better options existed.
Shi Cainran’s reconstructive surgeries needed to continue. There’d been some disaster relief after the fire, friends helping too, but it fell far short. Ultimately, it was her burden alone—how could she drag others down with it?
When things got toughest, she’d even thought of selling herself. The bar manager had approached privately with a decent offer.
No turning back once you loose the arrow. If she did, Liang Sufen would probably claw out of her grave in rage. Better not—Xie Yingnian hoped that couple, who’d never tasted real ease in life, could rest in peace.
“I’ll give it a shot,” Xie Yingnian said.
Hard to cross didn’t mean impossible—just painful. She was already scraping by in misery anyway.
The two films were eerily similar beyond one being summer and the other winter; even the casting mirrored each other.
Open auditions failed, frantic scouting unearthed a perfect fit.
This time’s perfect fit got her ass smacked by the previous one’s.
“Ow, that hurts,” Zhong Jia whined flawlessly, eyes shimmering with faux tears.
She’d never known this side of herself existed—or if it had, it was from long ago, tiny and buried. A two- or three-year-old kid, not spoiled but clingy, hesitant to cling too hard. She’d tug Qiao Yingqiu’s hand and call “Mama”; no matter the anger, it’d douse a bit of the fire. Post-drink slaps grew lighter, curses fading as she let the little punching bag off the hook.
In the eyes of the two assistants nearby—especially Jujiu, who might’ve bet on the wrong dynamic—it was cringe-inducing.
The girl stood ramrod straight, pipa slung across her back in a black case that looked more like a sword than an instrument. Zhong Jia’s whole vibe was crisp and bold; these moments of seeming putty in someone’s hands hit with stark contrast.
Couldn’t help thinking she made a perfect bottom—and only that.
Xie Yingnian: “Quit faking.”
“Oh.”
So obedient it gave her a headache—that “oh” dripping with grievance.
Knowing it didn’t hurt, Xie Yingnian still rubbed it anyway, sighing inwardly at the sinfully good feel.
Zhong Jia tucked her chin, stifling a triumphant grin. “Teacher Xie, your professionalism is slipping.”
“You offered it up. Professionalism? Never had much of that.” Spotting the crew signal, Xie Yingnian stood, handing the slipped blanket to the girl whose eyes crinkled in laughter. “Sit tight. Cold? Cover up. Almost done. Jujiu has red bean and barley water over there—drink it, clears the damp.”
Southern damp was brutal; locals in Chongxiang scarfed spice to fight it off, though Zhong Jia couldn’t handle heat.
With that, Xie Yingnian dashed toward the camphor tree. Jiang Fuwen stood there in his suit, posture screaming old money. Up next: Ruan Ting and her husband’s scene.
An argument with no middle ground, talking past each other like chickens to ducks. The gloom scattered only to pile up again. Ruan Ting turned away in frustration, but then Gou Jiaxun uttered a name.
There were so many questions she ought to have asked. The coordinator had specially cleared a whole day for her to rest and readjust, so why rush back overnight? Fine, she had returned, but with nothing for her to do, why come to the set just to sit idle? She had not even gone back to the hotel first to drop off her luggage—she was in such a hurry?
Xie Yingnian did not ask a single one. Pretending not to know was just playing dumb. With Zhong Jia’s straightforward personality, the fact that she had held back was likely thanks to the advice from that two-faced Mr. Xie. She feared that one more question would tear through the fragile veil.
Though it was already teetering on the edge.
It was hard to hide when you liked someone. She had played so many roles, yet she could not perform her own part convincingly. The slightest slip, and Zhong Jia caught it immediately. She had never lacked boldness to begin with, and now she was growing even more audacious.
The scene did not take long; they nailed it in one take. Jiang Fuwen had solid skills, and paired with the heaven-sent talent of Xie Yingnian, the two of them sparked that electric chemistry—Nong Siqing could not stop raving about how exhilarating it was.
By the time they finished packing up and returned to the resting area, the person slumped in the chair was sleeping soundly, curled into a tight ball in that vulnerable posture. Zhong Jia had drunk every last drop of the barley water she had been told to finish.
Xie Yingnian asked, “Did she not sleep on the way back?”
A Cha replied, “No, there were sasaeng fans on the plane; she could not sleep.”
“What about the high-speed train?”
“She was writing something the whole time, full of energy.”
Zhong Jia’s jacket was smooth-surfaced, so the blanket kept slipping down, though it had not fallen off completely. Xie Yingnian’s own scarf, which she had planned to wear, was now wrapped around Zhong Jia’s bare neck.
“What could she have been writing to stay so spirited?” Xie Yingnian asked, puzzled.
Her hand was suddenly gripped. She looked down. Zhong Jia’s eyes remained closed—no telling if she was truly awake. Her cheek nuzzled into Xie Yingnian’s palm, her voice a mosquito-like murmur: “I signed the IOU note. I have to sing for you.”
Xie Yingnian said, “Isn’t that already done?”
The girl wore a blue knit hat with two pom-poms dangling in front, looking utterly comical. She was like a cat kneading biscuits, rubbing against the palm with the same blissful effect—one nuzzle after another, eyes squinting in comfort. “Others have heard the original version. I changed it—for you to hear.”
It was like being force-fed dog food right to their faces. Jujiu was so thrilled she nearly passed out, while A Cha broke out in goosebumps all over, sensing that the vibe between these two had truly changed.
Should she give Shi Heng a heads-up?
Her mind was sharp as ever. Xie Yingnian could not help smiling. “So, are you awake or not?”
What a special person. She heard it clearly—a barren wasteland where clouds had chosen to linger. So pure, so direct: she simply liked her, and that was all. What was she to do? It was too hard to hold back, yet she had no confidence that any close relationship of hers could ever turn out normal.
Zhong Jia rubbed her eyes, her voice still thick and husky. “Does it make a difference?”
“If you’re awake, get up. It’s time to head back to the hotel.”
Even a fool would wonder about the second part. Zhong Jia seemed slow on the uptake. As she hesitated, Xie Yingnian pulled her hand away. With nothing left to nuzzle, Zhong Jia lowered her head to rub against the white scarf, which still carried the other’s scent, her chin moving in little motions.
“And if I’m not awake?” she asked.
Xie Yingnian smiled. Apart from her slightly aloof features, she was actually quite approachable. She had never had a single scandal about diva behavior since her debut. But approachability was not the same as gentleness—and this smile was utterly gentle, drawing the eyes irresistibly to savor it.
“If you’re not awake, I’ll carry you back.”
Zhong Jia gave no reply. Her eyes snapped shut, her long lashes fluttering like a heart that could not resist the temptation. Less than ten seconds passed before she worried the other might not catch on. She lowered her voice to a whisper, light as sleep-talk: “I’m really asleep, you know.”
Xie Yingnian: “…”
A moment of silence, then a soft chuckle. She felt she was probably not far from total ruin. She could not recall the last time her heart had pounded like this.
The trouble was, this girl was up to no good—deceiving her, and straight into her heart.
“Teacher Xie, can you even carry her?” A Cha whispered to Jujiu, who had finally recovered after chugging several gulps of cold water.
It was a fair question. Jujiu glanced into her bag, where a resistance band for workouts lay ready.
“When did you buy that?”
“Last time—when your artist jumped up there herself.”
Jujiu sighed. “Our Teacher Xie might lack professional ethics, but she’s got top-tier energy.”
Thanks to Jujiu’s relentless crash courses, A Cha now understood certain numbers and letters. She choked out, “…Already at that stage?”
Zhong Jia, cradled in her arms, wondered the same thing herself—though hers ended in a question mark. What stage were they at?
She rarely allowed anyone this close. Chen Kuang turned feral around her period, desperate to plaster herself to Ju Zai like a bandage. Zhong Jia did not get it. Summer meant sweat, did it not? And winter? Hugging Ju Zai was hardly like getting warmed up.
Xie Yingnian was not especially warm, either. Her wrist still bore that string of prayer beads, the blood-red agate a touch duller than it had been during her cold. Zhong Jia always figured she wore them due to poor health.
Was it a congenital weakness, or something else? How could she nourish her back to strength?
None of that stopped Zhong Jia from adoring her embrace—unfamiliar, yet reassuring. A few more times, and the unfamiliarity would vanish, leaving pure comfort.
Enveloped tightly in Xie Yingnian’s scent, she felt blissfully dizzy, as if they had drawn even closer—though she feared it might be her imagination.
“You can open your eyes while asleep?” Xie Yingnian had only recently resumed her workouts; carrying her was a strain, but thankfully the car was not far away.
Zhong Jia nuzzled her chest, thinking she ought to insure her own backside—this was one hell of a deal.
“I’m awake,” Zhong Jia said, gazing up at her. “You know that.”
Her neck encircled by an arm, streetlights casting slanted beams, their shadows twisted together on the ground like two souls sustaining each other. Xie Yingnian heard Zhong Jia murmur: “If you keep treating me this well, I’ll really start thinking too much.”
