“Alright, take a ten-minute break, you all.” Wang Shilin watched Yu Junqing and the others finally finish a scene. His mood improved, and he generously let everyone rest for a while.
“Looks like things are going well today. Why not take advantage of it and film the next scene as well?” Lin Qing, wearing Wang Shilin’s coat, sat on the floor nearby. He found the chairs too hard, so he brought a pillow to sit on. Because his relationship with Wang Jin and Wang Shilin looked noticeably different, people found it odd but didn’t comment.
Yu Junqing had just walked over to check on the scene when he heard Lin Qing’s suggestion and couldn’t help but mutter under his breath, “Tsk, petty.”
Lin Qing didn’t even lift an eyelid. He knew Yu Junqing was talking about him—and he didn’t deny it. So what if he was petty? His temper had never been good, and with his current status, why shouldn’t he get back at someone who mocked him?
Yu Junqing fell silent after that. Sure, he shouldn’t have quipped about Lin Qing having hemorrhoid issues just because he was sitting on a pillow in the dead of winter—anyone could read that the wrong way.
And really, looking at the few who were clearly guilty and avoided coming near them—the ones spreading rumors about Lin Qing and Wang Shilin—they were the unforgivable ones.
Lin Qing didn’t bother thinking about it at all, keeping his head down over his notebook.
Yu Junqing glanced at the cameras. It had become a habit. Back when he was struggling, he’d worry a scene wasn’t good enough and beg the director to let him check. Now, it was just routine.
Satisfied that nothing had gone wrong, a faint, relieved smile appeared on Yu Junqing’s face—completely unlike the despair and exhaustion everyone had grown used to seeing. His makeup was light today, and the smile had a warm, spring-like feel—a charming contrast that caught many off guard.
The makeup artist, a devoted fan of handsome actors, had been waiting nearby. Unable to resist, she secretly snapped a photo with her phone.
The bright flash betrayed her instantly. Her face nearly split with panic! She had forgotten she left the flash on from an earlier nighttime shot!
Wang Jin and Wang Shilin both saw it at the same time, their expressions eerily similar—furrowed brows, disapproval, and a hint of reprimand.
Wang Shilin, younger, showed more anger. Having established authority on set, the makeup artist nearly burst into tears seeing his expression. She knew she had done wrong—sneaking photos to keep the production under wraps—but she had been caught red-handed.
Wang Jin, more seasoned, noticed her panic, then glanced at the slightly surprised Yu Junqing. He managed to restrain his initial irritation, motioning to her, “Hand me your phone.”
Reluctantly, she shuffled over. She feared what was on her phone—beyond this single photo, she had many others, mostly of cast members post-makeup. Though the director forbade private photos, she never shared them publicly; it was just for personal appreciation.
Still, the phone ended up in Wang Jin’s hands. Opening the gallery, his expression told the whole story: alongside most of the cast’s production photos were many clear private shots, some taken surreptitiously—even pictures of people dozing off.
Yu Junqing stepped closer, surprised. Being so openly photographed without permission was new to him. Seeing the number of photos, he realized the trouble this could cause—after a month hiding on set, a leak could undo all that effort.
Wang Jin thought similarly but chose leniency. The makeup artist was a veteran in his team, someone he trusted. However, he needed to set boundaries:
“I’ll move all these production-related images to a card. Once the official promotion starts, you can get them back,” he said, checking with Yu Junqing, the person involved.
Yu Junqing agreed. Even if leaked, these photos wouldn’t harm him much; the main concern was the crew’s confidentiality. He smiled and nodded at Wang Jin, adding, “It’s fine—I trust Yuan isn’t doing this intentionally. She’s probably just proud of her work and wanted to keep a memory.”
Yuan Qingqing, the makeup artist, though slightly older than Yu Junqing, felt overwhelmed. Hearing him vouch for her, she quickly accepted it.
“Yes, the director chose such photogenic leads, and my phone is offline! Just keep it until filming finishes,” she said, tears welling with gratitude.
Though she had secretly kept photos before, using flash to take one visible to the whole crew was a different matter. Yu Junqing’s support had saved her from embarrassment and preserved her reputation.
Afterward, filming continued smoothly, and Yu Junqing became the set’s charm. His minimal need for retakes made everyone’s work easier, earning him admiration. Yuan Qingqing gradually became a devoted fan, especially after seeing how meticulous he was, even during simple routines like removing makeup—his skin remained smooth, and he seemed far younger than thirty.
As filming progressed, she discovered an ally: Yu Junqing’s assistant, Xiao Yitong, a long-time fan who now managed his daily schedule. Living with him, he knew all his routines and even his sleeping hours, gradually becoming a loyal fan.
Xiao Yitong’s identity as a secret fan came to light through a minor social media slip: he commented on Yu Junqing’s previous project under his real account, revealing his devotion. Yuan Qingqing immediately noticed, and the two quietly bonded, forming a clandestine duo on set.
During a rare day off due to a power outage, the cast and crew relaxed. Yuan Qingqing, eating noodles while scrolling her phone, spotted Xiao Yitong delivering meals to Yu Junqing, who was still absorbed in rehearsing his scenes.
“Xiao-didi, come here, I need to tell you something,” she called.
Despite internally grumbling about the nickname, Xiao Yitong obediently approached. Yuan Qingqing pointed out a news article, warning him about a potentially dangerous executive, but Xiao Yitong, after careful scrutiny, reassured her it wasn’t someone new, just a familiar figure in the entertainment circle.
Back in his room, Yu Junqing collapsed on the sofa, utterly drained. “Food~,” he murmured weakly, having pushed himself so hard the past few days that even the small gains he made physically seemed lost.
Xiao Yitong brought him his meal and relayed Yuan Qingqing’s message, enlarging the image for clarity. Yu Junqing recognized the man in the photo immediately—though only half the face was visible, it was clearly Bo Rui. Seeing the close proximity of a certain pale-faced young man to Bo Rui, Yu Junqing clenched his teeth, trying to convince himself it was coincidence.
“Bo Rui…” he whispered softly when the door closed, his expression a rare mixture of confusion and nostalgia, reminiscent of the first time he had met him.