Xu Linlin pouted, sulking for all of three seconds before snapping out of it and heading back to prepare for take two.
The earlier shot of the dog chase had turned out great and could be used as-is. Take two picked up from Lin Ye shooing away the stray dog.
Having spotted the issue, Jing Li’s acting in this take was leagues better than the first. He started with the awkward fidgeting of not knowing where to put his hands and feet, then shifted to gratitude, puzzlement at why Lin Ye would be at the unfinished building at this hour, and finally curiosity about what he was doing there. The emotions built in perfect layers, fully capturing how the two men knew each other but remained strangers.
Cut. Approved.
During the break, Jing Li cradled the ginseng tea Le Xiaoxiao had handed him, script flipped upside down on his lap, muttering lines under his breath as he ran them.
He already knew them cold, but to dodge any NGs from flubbing dialogue, he reviewed them twice more before rolling camera, locking the words in deep.
Sensing eyes on him, Jing Li glanced over and spotted Shen Chenshu. No scenes for him this morning—he had no idea why he’d shown up.
Jing Li flashed him a smile.
Shen Chenshu went rigid for a beat. Several seconds later, he managed a smile in return before whipping his head away, breaking eye contact.
“…”
Jing Li had nothing to say.
Fine. Lines it was.
Take two on the next scene fired up fast.
Pei Yingxing finally pieced it together: Lin Ye and his little sister were crashing in the unfinished building for now. He didn’t press for why.
They weren’t tight enough for prying into personal business.
Lin Ye’s sister, Lin Ying, had just started third year of junior high. She didn’t go to their school’s junior high division but to No. 7 Middle School, clear across town, a good half-city detour. Mistaking Pei Yingxing for one of her brother’s friends, she invited him upstairs to their makeshift “home.”
She wore hearing aids but carried no shame about it, her personality sunny and bold. She peppered him with questions the whole way up, dying to know what Lin Ye was like at school.
Pei Yingxing shot Lin Ye a look. He sure as hell wasn’t going to say their teachers chewed him out daily.
So he spun it golden:
“Handsome as hell, cool as ice. Everyone’s crushing on him.”
“Girls loiter by the classroom door every day just for a peek.”
“He’s the hottest guy in our class—half the heartthrob king of the whole school.”
“Half?” Lin Ying frowned, indignant. Her brother was way hotter than that!
“The other’s Yu Anjing from next door.”
Lin Ye’s eyes flickered at the name. He cracked his knuckles and called out, “Lin Ying, come eat your breakfast.”
Obedient as ever, she told Pei Yingxing, “Hold that thought,” and scampered to the little table, plopping down to dig in.
Pei Yingxing dumped his backpack on his lap and perched on the wobbly plastic stool, whipping out his phone to savage Fu Bo over WeChat. But drilled from boyhood to be a gentleman sans foul mouth, his arsenal was pathetic: jerk, bastard, creep, on repeat.
Still fuming, he hacked the contact name to 【Jerk】.
Fu Bo stared at the barrage, utterly baffled.
He fired back: 【……】
Two seconds later: 【No way you actually biked, right?】
“Bicycle” alone set Pei Yingxing off anew. He hammered out a slashing row of knife emojis.
Fu Bo: 【Yup, you did.】
Fu Bo: 【Lost?】
Pei Yingxing’s reply: a longer knife barrage, topped with a minefield row.
Lin Ying polished off breakfast and slung on her backpack. Lin Ye bundled his stuff, trash bag in hand, glanced Pei Yingxing’s way, and drawled, “Let’s roll.”
Pei Yingxing bolted up, phone dark, hustling after him at a polite meter-plus gap.
…
Every setup nailed it. The trio flowed seamless, completion sky-high—four, five NGs tops per shot.
Film’s a different beast from TV.
Big screen spotlights every speck, so standards ratchet up. One glance, one gesture: hours of grind.
Teens of takes? Routine. Dozens? Happens.
Xie Jun’s personal best—or worst—was a single shot reworked for a week, budget hemorrhaging. The general coordinator and the producer damn near clung to his legs sobbing.
So yeah, Xie Jun beamed at their work.
He’d banked on grinding till lunch.
Ten o’clock now—the surplus wasn’t for slacking. He signaled Cheng Qinxuan to prep: Yu Anjing, hearing from Pei Yingxing about Lin Ye squatting in the unfinished building, shows up, spots the injury, patches him up.
Jing Li had no calls that morning but stuck around to observe.
Xie Jun waved him over to monitor-watch together.
Xie Jun’s nicotine craving struck, and noticing that the wind wasn’t blowing toward Jing Li, he no longer held back. He tapped a cigarette out from the pack and lit it up.
With the cigarette between his lips, he asked Jing Li, “What does it feel like?”
“Feels great.”
“Where’s great?”
“Very relaxed, very at ease. They don’t seem like they’re acting—they seem like the characters from the play.”
Xie Jun said, “They’re fully immersed.”
“You’re pretty good yourself.” He glanced at Jing Li. “Last time you guest-starred on Yixiang’s set, I watched the rough cut of the plot. There was a clear improvement from the first half to the second, and now, compared to back then, your progress is even greater.”
Jing Li hadn’t expected the sudden praise. After a moment of stunned surprise, his eyes curved into happy crescents. “Thank you.”
As usual, Director Xie didn’t call cut on the first take. Only after they wrapped did he summon the two actors over. Jing Li listened for a moment, then spotted Le Xiaoxiao gesturing at him with his phone from a short distance away. He rose and walked over.
“What’s up?”
“Ji Yunzhang just called.”
Jing Li’s eyes lit up at once. He snatched the phone and hurried to a quiet spot, quickly calling back.
The ringtone chimed for three seconds before Ji Yunzhang picked up.
“Good morning, Teacher Ji.” His voice lifted lightly at the end, full of cheer.
Ji Yunzhang’s tone carried a smile. “Good morning.”
Hearing Custard Bun’s bark from the other end of the line, Jing Li asked, “Are you still at your parents’ place?”
“Mm,” Ji Yunzhang murmured softly. “Without you here, the house feels so empty. I’m not used to it.”
Joy fluttered in Jing Li’s heart, and the corners of his mouth curved up. He said happily, “You miss me.”
Ji Yunzhang admitted, “Yes.”
“Baby, I miss you.” The low, tender voice filtered through the receiver, as if Ji Yunzhang were murmuring right in his ear. That single “Baby” set Jing Li’s ears and cheeks ablaze.
His heart jolted like it had been zapped by electricity, a tingling current racing through his limbs and leaving his whole body numb and shivery.
His legs went weak, and he squatted down. Plucking a foxtail grass at random, he shook it in his hand, a smile dancing at the corners of his eyes. “Me too.”
He corrected himself. “I miss you too.”
Ji Yunzhang let out a soft chuckle and told him, “I’ll be in X City next Monday for a brand event. I’ll come find you once it’s over.”
Jing Li’s eyes sparkled with instant delight, his surprise spilling over. “Really? You’re coming?”
“Really,” Ji Yunzhang said warmly. “But it’ll be late—after The Banquet wraps.”
“I’ve got night shoots that day until ten. I’ll get back to the hotel around eleven. Will I see you then?” Jing Li asked, brimming with anticipation.
Ji Yunzhang’s tone was certain. “Yes.”
Jing Li was thrilled.
“Four more days.” He said it with utter seriousness.
Ji Yunzhang laughed, amused. “Mm.”
They chatted for another ten or so minutes before Jing Li reluctantly hung up. In high spirits, he stood and started back toward the resting area. But as he turned, he came face-to-face with Shen Chenshu.
Shen Chenshu stood just a short distance away. Their eyes met, and he immediately stammered an awkward explanation. “I just got here. I didn’t hear anything. I just wanted to find you…”
He paused, drawing in a deep breath and letting it out slowly. His expression grew composed and serious. “I’m here to apologize.”
Jing Li blinked in surprise, his mind filling with question marks.
“Apologize?”
“Yes.” Shen Chenshu’s face was etched with remorse. “I’m Teacher Ji’s fan. When you two went public, I couldn’t accept it at first and ended up cursing you out.”
Jing Li understood in an instant. “So that’s why you’ve been avoiding me these past couple days? You were scared of me?”
“…Yes.”
Jing Li truly hadn’t expected Shen Chenshu’s avoidance to stem from this.
Shen Chenshu bowed deeply, his apology solemn. “I’m sorry.”
Jing Li blinked again, snapping out of it. He asked, “You don’t hate me anymore?”
Shen Chenshu straightened, shaking his head vigorously like a rattle. “No, I don’t.”
He started to defend himself on instinct. “Back then, I didn’t realize you were so…” He caught himself—that explanation still sounded like he was shoving off blame. Swallowing the rest, he reflected instead. “I lost all reason at the time. My head wasn’t clear. Now it is.”
Jing Li arched a brow with a half-smile, laying it out plainly. “Did the movie snap you out of it, so you came to apologize? Worried I’d find out later that you trashed me online, tattle to Teacher Ji, and since he’s friends with Director Xie, they’d stop casting you?”
Shen Chenshu’s face flushed red, a mix of embarrassment and discomfort washing over him.
He couldn’t deny that this face-to-face apology was partly motivated by that fear. There was a world of difference between owning up proactively and being called out reactively—taking the initiative at least improved his odds of sticking around.
But his newfound lack of dislike for Jing Li had nothing to do with the movie. After cooling off later, he’d realized he had no grounds or right to judge Jing Li, let alone the qualifications to scrutinize whether Teacher Ji’s partner measured up or matched him.
On top of that, he’d actually taken the time to learn about Jing Li.
Videos of Jing Li competing in dance and piano contests were easy enough to find online. Even if someone nitpicked them with a magnifying glass, they wouldn’t spot a single flaw.
When the official announcement dropped, some folks on their side had tried digging up dirt on Jing Li, desperate to prove he wasn’t good enough for Ji Yunzhang. But after pouring in a ton of effort, they came up empty-handed. Worse, it all backfired, laying bare every one of Jing Li’s accomplishments right in their faces. Those shining examples acted like mirrors, reflecting just how ugly and pathetic they truly were.
He felt ashamed of himself on the spot, realizing he was an even bigger clown than any clown. He fired off a private message apology to Jing Li right then and there.
He figured that was the end of it. But to his surprise, Xie Jun took notice of him and invited him to join the cast of Joys of the Human World—and the actor he’d be starring opposite was none other than Jing Li.
Once he learned Jing Li would be his scene partner, he’d been fretting nonstop about getting found out. So when they finally met on set, he hadn’t dared interact with Jing Li at all.
Still, after wrestling with it, he decided to apologize face-to-face one more time and clear the air. Even if it meant no forgiveness and losing the role for good, that would be the consequence he had coming.
Shen Chenshu licked his lips and apologized again. “I’m sorry.”
Jing Li arched a brow. “No explanation?”
“I really was worried you’d tell on me,” he admitted. “That I’d lose this chance.”
“Not anymore?”
“I still am.” He owned up to it honestly, then laid it all out. “But if I don’t get this off my chest, I won’t ever dare talk to you. It’ll mess up filming, hold up the crew, and if you find out later anyway, I’ll have zero shot at sticking around.”
Jing Li stayed quiet, watching him steadily. Shame etched across Shen Chenshu’s face; he looked utterly deflated, his posture rigid with barely concealed nerves.
Jing Li suddenly recalled the private messages still trickling into his Weibo from fans who’d posted inflammatory comments back then, all apologizing even now. “Before signing on for Joys of the Human World, did you ever think about saying sorry to me?”
“I did apologize,” Shen Chenshu said, embarrassed. “I sent you a private message.”
Jing Li blinked in surprise. He pulled out his phone, logged into Weibo, and asked, “Which one’s you?”
Shen Chenshu gave him the username.
Jing Li scrolled through his DMs and found the exact ID. The message had come three days after he and Ji Yunzhang registered their marriage.
He read through the heartfelt apology, then tapped into the profile via the avatar. The account was wiped clean, save for a single post—a reminder to himself: Be strict with yourself.
Since the apology had come long ago, any lingering grudge in Jing Li’s heart melted away. He smiled. “I forgive you.”
Shen Chenshu’s head snapped up. He stared at Jing Li in disbelief, shame flooding him anew. Words failed him; he stammered “sorry” several more times before managing, “Thank you.”
Jing Li shook his head and stuck out his hand. “Let’s just act natural from here on out. Happy working together.”
Flattered beyond belief, Shen Chenshu grasped it. “I will.”
Jing Li headed back to the resting area and sank into a chair. Le Xiaoxiao looked up. “Did Shen Chenshu come find you? He asked me where you were earlier, and I told him.”
Jing Li grabbed his water cup from the table and took a sip, humming in affirmation. “Yeah, he did.”
“What for?”
“An apology.”
Le Xiaoxiao blinked, baffled. “?”
Jing Li gave him the short version, then showed him the DM in question.
Le Xiaoxiao mulled it over in silence for a beat, at a loss for words. All he could do was sigh. “Ji Yunzhang’s got way too many fans. Who even runs into one like that?”
A moment later, curiosity got the better of him. “You gonna tell Ji Yunzhang?”
Jing Li considered it. “Yeah, probably.”
He propped his cheeks in his palms, eyes crinkling with mirth, a sweet smile tugging at his lips. “Gotta tattle a little if I want Teacher Ji to sweet-talk me.”
Le Xiaoxiao nearly choked on the unexpected PDA. “…”
