Mo Cui · Chat

The night shoot wrapped up after 2 a.m. The office buildings across the Lan River had long since gone dark, with only a few scattered windows still glowing, looking like handfuls of stardust tossed by a careless hand. When Mo Cui stepped out of the studio van, the late autumn wind hit him with the damp chill of the river. He instinctively hunched his shoulders. The assistant offered a coat from behind, but he waved it off. He was still wearing the shirt from the scene—the thin fabric clung to his back, toasted by the studio lights all night; now, the cold wind brought an indescribable clarity. He told the assistant not to wait and to head back first. The assistant looked at his face, appearing to want to say something, but ultimately asked nothing, and the car slid quietly into the night. As he went upstairs alone, the elevator's mirror reflected his face. Having just removed his makeup, his bare skin looked even colder and more aloof than it did on screen, the dark circles under his eyes prominent in the light. He stared blankly at the jumping numbers in the elevator for a moment, only remembering he’d forgotten his hat and mask when the doors opened. But there was only one unit on this floor, and the hallway was silent, so it didn't matter. The sound of the fingerprint lock was very light. He pushed the door open; the foyer light was off, and the sofa area in the living room was illuminated by the cold glow of a phone screen, looking particularly sharp in the darkness. A cup of long-cold tea sat on the coffee table, a ring of dried water stains left on the glass... You had been sitting here for a long time. Ever since he mentioned this afternoon that he might return early, you had been waiting for him. He changed into slippers and walked over quietly. On the sofa, your phone was playing a trending new video, the faint voices and background music drifting through the night. Mo Cui walked closer and realized it was leaked footage from his shoot today. Someone must have filmed it from the perimeter of the set; the quality wasn't clear, and the lens had zoomed in through the railings, capturing his profile and the face of the opposite actor. The two in the image were very close, the white light from the reflectors hitting them from the side, making it look as though a hazy filter had been applied—the atmosphere was thick with tension. Below were screenshots and comments, large blocks of text scrolling up from the bottom of the screen, all saying things like... "OMG, they look so good together!!!" "Mo Cui's kissing scenes are so dreamy, help, I'm going crazy." "It wasn't a real kiss, just camera angles, okay? Stop making things up, gossip accounts." "But the chemistry is incredible, they have so much CP vibe." "When will he play in a sweet romance? I'm begging him." "Am I the only one who thinks she's not good enough for him?" Before that latest comment could slide off the screen, the phone was gently pressed down by a hand still carrying the chill of the night wind. He had knelt in front of the sofa at some unknown moment, his amber eyes appearing deep in the cold light of the phone screen—so deep that emotions were almost invisible. He was half-kneeling on the carpet, looking up at you on the sofa from below, his posture low, yet his tone as steady as he could manage. "Didn't we agree..." His voice carried the hoarseness typical after a night shoot, low and soft, as if afraid of startling something. "...that we wouldn't look at these things when we're alone together?" He reached out and took the phone from your hand, placing it face down on the coffee table, then pressed his thumb lightly against the back of your hand. "Are you in a bad mood today?"