Wen Chaosheng’s gaze flickered as the words of explanation caught in his throat. “Do you even know what you’re saying?”
“…”
The corners of the other man’s eyes reddened slightly, a sight that sent Xi Zhui’s already churning emotions surging even higher.
Before Xi Zhui could answer, Wen Chaosheng spoke again. “Xi Zhui, do you see the filming of our movie as some kid’s game that you can just yell ‘cut’ on and recast whenever you feel like it?”
Gone was his usual gentle tone. Instead, it carried a rare edge of seriousness and reproach.
Lin Keyang and Sun Xuan exchanged a glance, both inwardly groaning at the trouble.
Wen Chaosheng might seem easygoing, but when it came to shooting, he was uncompromising—a strictness that hid beneath his soft exterior.
He wasn’t erupting in rage just yet, but the heavy, suppressed tension made everyone uneasy, like the low rumble of thunder before a storm, with no telling when the skies might crack open.
Wen Chaosheng’s pointed question plunged the set’s atmosphere into a deep freeze. The crew exchanged uneasy looks, no one daring to make a sound at such a pivotal moment.
To be honest, clashes between directors and actors weren’t unheard of on set. But the star and the director butting heads on the very first day of principal photography? That was rare indeed!
—Rumble!
The weather in Gannan lived up to its reputation for turning on a dime.
Just minutes ago, the setting sun had bathed everything in a warm glow. Now, fierce winds drove in thick banks of inky clouds, draping the distant mountains in a gloomy shroud as a muffled peal of thunder rolled faintly in the distance.
“Alright, everyone’s on edge when shots don’t land. Hasty words don’t count.”
Lin Keyang jumped in first to smooth things over, shooting glances at those nearby. “The weather’s turning anyway—not ideal for filming. Let’s wrap for today, folks. Great work, everyone.”
Sun Xuan and Liao Qi, as core team members, were quick on the uptake, chiming right in. “Yeah! That’s a wrap!”
“Looks like rain any second—better not risk the gear!”
“…”
Wen Chaosheng fell silent, his expression still shadowed by disappointment.
Xi Zhui’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, then relaxed. In the end, he turned and strode off set without a word.
Sun Xuan called after him. “Hey, Xi Zhui! How’re you heading back?”
Xi Zhui didn’t reply. His retreating figure radiated that innate, icy arrogance.
Sun Xuan muttered under his breath, sidling up to the other key player. “Chaosheng, what now? We knew you run a tight ship on shoots, but the young master clearly wasn’t ready for it.”
They hadn’t known each other long, but he could see it plain as day: Xi Zhui was a pampered scion from a wealthy family, unused to setbacks. A touch of arrogance came with the territory.
Not even from film school, roped into movies midway—that was challenge enough. And on day one, getting slapped with ten NGs from Wen Chaosheng?
No surprise his pride had taken a hit.
“…”
Wen Chaosheng stared after Xi Zhui’s departing figure, his initial frustration slowly giving way to a swell of grievance.
He lowered his eyes to conceal the faint mist gathering there, then said dully, “We’ll sort it out back at the hotel. Thanks for the hard work, everyone.”
…
The moment they returned to the hotel, Wen Chaosheng headed straight upstairs.
The room was pitch-black, with no sign of Xi Zhui. When he flicked on the lights, everything sat untouched—he clearly hadn’t been back.
“…”
Night had already fallen. Why hasn’t he returned?
Was he so angry he didn’t want to see him that he was hiding out somewhere?
Wen Chaosheng stood frozen in the room, his mind racing through every grim possibility.
He pulled out his phone to send a message, but his fingers hovered over the WeChat chat window. After agonizing back and forth, he still couldn’t figure out how to shatter the standoff.
From childhood onward, Wen Chaosheng had always struggled most with keeping friendships alive. He knew his slow-to-warm, introverted nature rubbed people the wrong way, so he’d grown accustomed to holding everyone at a careful distance.
That he’d become nominal friends with Xi Zhui—and reconnected years later—was already more than he could’ve hoped for.
“…”
Maybe he never should’ve invited Xi Zhui to star in the film. Then there’d be no clash on set, no helpless limbo like this.
In the end, Wen Chaosheng fell back on his time-honored escape tactic: retreat.
He dragged his suitcase from the closet and began packing his scant belongings.
The oppressive night pressed in, fraying his nerves in silence.
Wen Chaosheng packed swiftly and wheeled the suitcase toward the door.
Beep.
The locked door clicked alive. A second later, Xi Zhui pushed it open—
Their eyes met, and both men froze.
Xi Zhui spotted the suitcase in Wen Chaosheng’s hand. His grip tightened on the keycard, knuckles paling. “What is this?”
Gone was the stubborn edge Wen Chaosheng had shown on set. He instinctively averted his gaze. “I’m moving out. You can have the room.”
Xi Zhui pressed. “Moving out? Where to?”
Wen Chaosheng murmured, “I’ll see if the hotel has any vacancies. If not, I’ll crash with Sun Xuan and the others.”
They could squeeze in somehow.
“…”
Xi Zhui said nothing, his eyes darkening.
Wen Chaosheng took the silence for assent. A pang of sadness hit him as he pushed the suitcase toward the door.
The instant they were about to brush past each other—
Bang!
Xi Zhui slammed the half-open door shut behind him.
Wen Chaosheng had no time to react before Xi Zhui pinned him against the edge of the tea bar. The cold marble bit into his lower back through his clothes, making his breath hitch.
“You…”
“Don’t go yet.”
Though Xi Zhui’s hold was firm, his voice stayed even. “Wen Chaosheng, can we talk?”
With nowhere to retreat, their eyes met—then skittered away. “Talk about what?”
“…”
“I’m sorry.”
The heavy silence shattered under Xi Zhui’s sudden apology.
Wen Chaosheng blinked in surprise, caught off guard.
Xi Zhui had cooled off by now. He met Wen Chaosheng’s gaze without flinching. “I get that we needed permits to shoot at the temple and that everyone’s time is valuable. But I’m green when it comes to filming—the later takes today, I just couldn’t lock in.”
“I felt like I was holding everyone up and got antsy about it. Truth is, I’ve never been bad at much growing up; success came easy, failure rare.”
“Then you kept calling NG, and it bruised my ego hard enough that I lashed out with those words.”
Xi Zhui rarely laid out such a lengthy explanation.
He loved teasing Wen Chaosheng on the daily, but when real issues cropped up, he met them head-on with sincerity.
“…”
Wen Chaosheng read the earnestness in his eyes, and the tension coiled tight inside him began to unwind.
“But… you can’t say things like that.” He zeroed in on what had hurt most, all his bottled-up feelings finding an outlet at last.
“I’ve poured everything into this movie. Senior Sister Lin and the others have too—and so have the crew, hustling nonstop.”
“You’re the lead. You’re crucial to the whole production. You can’t just toss out words like that; they kill morale. You have to own your role.”
The turtle poked its head from its shell at last, and the taciturn gourd finally spoke up.
Xi Zhui let out a quiet breath of relief and owned it outright. “You’re right—I was out of line. I apologize.”
He pressed gently. “Anything else?”
Wen Chaosheng thought it over, then corrected him with obvious displeasure. “You kept checking your phone back there. It throws off your focus.”
Even if each take only ran seconds or minutes, most actors needed time to sink into character beforehand.
Wen Chaosheng offered an example. “Do you know Elder Zheng Dongqing?”
A veteran like him would ditch his phone—and anything else that could distract—before stepping in front of the camera, all to immerse fully in the role.
As a film-school dropout with zero prior experience, Xi Zhui was especially prone to outside interference.
Pulling his attention back to his phone every NG break?
Zipping between character and reality like that? The results spoke for themselves.
“Got it.”
Xi Zhui had figured this was coming. He promised, “From now on during shoots, I’ll chuck my phone as far as it goes—or hand it to you for safekeeping.”
“I won’t touch it unless we’re fully wrapped for the day. That work?”
“…”
Wen Chaosheng mulled it over, then softened a touch. “You can check it on proper breaks. Just not during back-to-back takes.”
Hearing the full thaw in his voice, Xi Zhui chuckled. “Understood, Director.”
Seeing such ready cooperation, Wen Chaosheng offered his own polite mea culpa. “Actually… I owe you an apology too. It’s not all on you.”
Xi Zhui arched a brow. “Oh?”
Wen Chaosheng came clean. “I never told you—when I’m directing, I’m strict, obsessive even. Not like my usual self.”
Xi Zhui nodded. “I got a front-row seat to that today.”
Wen Chaosheng believed only ruthless attention to every detail could yield a great film.
“You’re not trained, so getting into character takes buildup. I shouldn’t have thrown such a tough emotional scene at you right off the bat.”
As director, failing to guide his lead into peak form from the start was negligence on his part.
The crew should’ve had Xi Zhui and Yang Jin run a few scenes together first—let him truly feel Tang Yu’s emotional arc—before tackling this one.
Wen Chaosheng had already pieced together why Xi Zhui had snapped on the drive back. He explained now, “When I called wrap, it wasn’t me writing you off. Your head just wasn’t in it, and the weather and light were shifting fast.”
“Xi Zhui… can you promise never to bring up quitting the role again?”
He tamped down the lingering hurt and mustered his courage to lay his heart bare. “Tang Yu only exists because of you. You’re the one—the only one—I see as this film’s leading man.”
“…”
His temperament was as mild-mannered as they came, but when he got direct like this, it hit like a tidal wave.
A hard-to-name ripple stirred deep in Xi Zhui’s chest. He reined it in for several long seconds before replying. “I’m sorry—that was just anger talking. I swear it won’t happen again.”
Then, unable to resist, he leaned in a fraction closer. “Don’t let it get to you. Fresh start?”
Perhaps because they stood so close, their breaths began to mingle.
Wen Chaosheng inexplicably felt a strange palpitation in his chest. Without thinking, he leaned back. “Mm.”
“Don’t be mad—” Xi Zhui leaned in right after him, his tone carrying an uncharacteristic softness and a touch of coquettish pleading. “Brother.”
