Chapter 57

*Crush: A Glimpse of Dawnlight*
Although she hadn’t officially gone public, the hints Qin Sang let slip during interviews for her new movie were already enough for everyone to grasp a terrifying fact.
That is—
She was in a relationship.
The first person to start acting strange was He Chengyu. Although he only treated Qin Sang like a goddess, and he hadn’t been in the fandom for that long, Qin Sang was still the first female celebrity he’d ever stanned with real feeling.
He was acting like he’d been dumped—absent-minded all day. Song Ziyue tried to talk him down: “Think it through. Even if she weren’t dating, it still wouldn’t be your turn.”
He Chengyu was sullen. “Is that how you comfort someone?”
Song Ziyue looked shocked, even especially pitiful as he glanced at him. “Looks like you really got hit so hard you went stupid. You actually think I’m comforting you.”
He Chengyu cursed, “Oh I’m really thanking you. Get lost.”
“I don’t get it—who’s so damn lucky? If I find out who’s stealing my wife, I’ll kill him.”
He Chengyu spoke through clenched teeth, furious and indignant. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Xie Yuncheng coming over and immediately fell silent, not daring to act too brazen.
Xie Yuncheng glanced at him. It was hard to tell whether he was sizing him up or scrutinizing him. In the end, he only raised a brow and asked, “Your wife?”
He Chengyu didn’t know why, but he suddenly felt a chill crawl up his spine, even his scalp going numb.
Fortunately, Xie Yuncheng had only come to get a data sheet and didn’t stay. Before leaving, he said flatly, “You might not have that capability.”
He Chengyu was instantly stabbed in the heart. “Boss, you’ve changed. Why are you, just like Song Ziyue, always aiming straight at my sore spot?”
Song Ziyue held in his laughter on the side. Xie Yuncheng ignored him and only said coldly, “Drawing conclusions based on facts. Any problem?”
He Chengyu was about to go crazy. He couldn’t find any resonance in real life, but online he could grab a whole bunch with one hand.
The fan super-topic had also split into two camps. Most long-time fans were relieved—some were even happy about her already dating. But a small portion of career fans felt it wouldn’t do: she’d just won Best Actress and already started dating, clearly not career-driven enough. In the entertainment industry, weren’t there plenty of female stars who’d turned their lives into a mess because of romance, even ruining their careers and playing a great hand into garbage? They didn’t want to see Qin Sang follow that path.
So in the past few days, the online discussion about Qin Sang became extremely interesting. Netizens dug for the man’s identity while also wailing, crying like they were mourning at a graveside every day on the internet.
“Who the hell is it! Which damn dog stole my wife!”
“Ahhh I don’t accept it! Wife is mine!”
“Give me a knife and I’ll personally butcher the enemy. The hatred of having my wife taken is irreconcilable!”
Occasionally, you could even see career fans trying to dissuade her. It wasn’t that they opposed her dating—they were basically teaching her not to take it too seriously, and to focus on being a “player.”
“Listen to me, there are plenty of men. If this one won’t do, there’s the next. One little brother falls—thousands and tens of thousands of little brothers will stand up.”
“Upstairs, don’t be so funny. How can you be sure it’s a little brother? What if it’s an uncle?”
“Whether older or younger, male or female, it doesn’t matter. Babe, remember—we’re about doing whatever we want. Don’t force it, and definitely don’t become love-brained.”
The discussion around Qin Sang’s relationship had already far surpassed other tabloid gossip. There were even people who were just here for the spectacle, screenshotting the outrageous things Qin Sang’s fans were doing.
“First time I’ve ever seen fans telling their own idol to be a player, lol.”
“Sorry, this is kind of hilarious. I was heartbroken that Wife Sang-sang is dating, but why did the vibe suddenly get this bizarre?”
“So is it an uncle or a little brother? Which side is it? I’m really curious!”
Even with netizens’ all-seeing eyes and far-reaching hands, they still couldn’t dig up anything concrete. After all, Qin Sang’s confidentiality work was genuinely solid, and she had no intention of revealing more. Fans didn’t need to worry, either—her career drive was even stronger than theirs. She stayed stationed with the crew, deaf to outside noise, focused on filming every day.
What she said in interviews wasn’t just empty PR—it was heartfelt. The initial reason she’d been willing to trust Zhou Yihong, that “three-nothings” director, really was because the charm of the role of General Ye convinced her.
Of course, with sci-fi, besides the plot, the biggest thing people worry about is the visual effects—the main disaster zone for complaints. They didn’t have money to hire an overseas professional team, so post-production was basically a patchwork group scraped together on the spot. Zhou Yihong was bold and highly skilled; in order to spend money where it mattered, he took unconventional shortcuts in many things.
So the outside world didn’t think highly of the project: first, because the domestic sci-fi market had always been niche; second, because Zhou Yihong was a self-taught, off-the-beaten-path director whose team looked messy and unprofessional. Even with Qin Sang anchoring it, it was hard to convince people. In the end, those who would pay for tickets would probably only be fans, so outsiders were certain it was a fan-only cash-grab.
But no matter how outsiders guessed, the atmosphere during filming was still good. Besides Qin Sang, the movie didn’t really hire any especially big-name actors. Some friendly cameos were also done purely out of respect for Qin Sang, just to show their faces and help撑场. From the moment the crew formed, the project screamed “unprofessional” everywhere—barely even counting as an ensemble film.
Qin Sang’s tasks were heavy. The role had a lot of action scenes and a lot of green-screen scenes, which tested an actor’s on-the-spot performance and imagination. Professionally she was impeccable: her action scenes were smooth and sharp without losing power. She was rare—one of the few actresses today whose fight scenes could still rank near the top.
The reason Qin Sang could stay popular for so long—and even after lying low for however long, still cause a huge stir when she returned—wasn’t only because that god-tier face had no substitute; more importantly, her professional skill was rock-solid.
These days, it isn’t easy to find a female star who has the looks and can also act.
Not much about the movie’s details was revealed, but somehow Qin Sang’s costume test photos leaked. In them, Qin Sang wore a military uniform, valiant and striking. Her hair had been cut short. Her cold-white jawline looked slim and narrow. Even those eyes that were usually soft and affectionate had turned sharp in line—you could even feel a faint pressure and chill.
Qin Sang had almost never tried a short-haired look. She’d grown that long hair for a long time—black, glossy, and with great texture. Now she’d cut it the moment she decided. Wen-jie and Xiaoxiao were more heartbroken than she, the person involved, was.
But Qin Sang didn’t care. She touched the short hair by her ears and felt a little happy. “Short hair feels pretty good. I should’ve tried it earlier—maybe it’ll broaden my acting path.”
She even took a photo and sent it to Xie Yuncheng, but Xie Yuncheng didn’t reply. She didn’t mind. Every day on set, aside from filming, she also liked going to tease that myna bird.
Now everyone on the crew called that myna “Grandpa Zhou.” Zhou Yihong was annoyed but had no choice—after one iconic line, it became famous, more famous than he, the director, was.
When he had time, Zhou Yihong also probed her, openly and covertly. “Teacher Qin, with our relationship, we’re ironclad. Just tell me—who are you dating? Don’t worry, I absolutely won’t tell anyone.”
Qin Sang fell silent for a long while. Feeling it wasn’t appropriate, she only reminded him tactfully, “There’ll be a chance to meet. Don’t rush. Once you meet them, you’ll know who it is.”
Zhou Yihong was curious, but she wouldn’t say, so he couldn’t find out. And with the heavy workload and tight schedule, there really wasn’t time to waste on gossip.
On the day the crew moved locations, they arrived at the hotel in batches. The lead cast and Camera Unit A stayed behind; everyone else headed to the northwest. Only after the scenes here were settled would they strike camp.
Qin Sang arrived late. She’d also gone to run a gig in the middle—something she’d accepted earlier and couldn’t easily refuse—so her flight missed the crew’s. She landed close to midnight. At that time the crew was still pulling an all-nighter to catch up, because a few night scenes were shot in the desert.
When Qin Sang rushed over, the whole set was still filming. The northwest has a huge day-night temperature difference: it’s surprisingly hot in the daytime, but at night the temperature drops sharply, wild winds rise, and it’s freezing.
Qin Sang wrapped herself in a thick military overcoat, with no image to speak of. After she finished a few scenes, she squatted behind the monitor to watch playback. Zhou Yihong was very professional: “I think your emotion here should be more restrained. Too outward and it won’t stand. And here, the force of your strike is wrong—you’re holding back too much. You should hit harder.”
“Okay. I’ll try again.”
Qin Sang was a perfectionist—picky to an even greater degree than Zhou Yihong, striving for absolute best. The last action scene tested technique and was relatively dangerous. Zhou Yihong wanted to use a stunt double, but Qin Sang insisted on doing it herself.
When she made the final jump down, her body hit the shipping container and rolled off. Because the wire rigging deviated, her arm was badly scraped. She fell into the sand; grit got into her eyes. But she didn’t cry out—she insisted on finishing the whole take.
“Cut,” Zhou Yihong called, hurrying over to check. Qin Sang was helped up; half her face was sand, and she couldn’t open her eyes. The worst was her arm—through the dark coat you could still see a clear trace of blood.
“Teacher Qin, are you okay? Do you need to go to the hospital?”
Zhou Yihong’s worry was genuine.
Qin Sang waved her hand. “It’s fine. Not serious. Probably just scraped a bit of skin. I’ll disinfect it and put on some ointment when I get back.”
Xiaoxiao brought clean bottled water and helped her rinse her eyes. The arm really wasn’t too bad—she’d had worse while filming before. The only truly uncomfortable thing was her eye. Even after rinsing out the sand and grit, it still felt wrong. Her right eye was completely red.
After wrap, Qin Sang sat in the car back to the hotel and opened her phone. The screen stayed on her chat with Xie Yuncheng. After a long while, she dismissed the urge and said nothing—only sent a photo she’d taken on the way there.
It was stars.
A boundless sky full of stars—brilliant and bright, exceptionally clean.
“I don’t know what you’re doing, or whether you can see the same sky I’m seeing. But it’s okay—if you can’t, then I’ll share it with you.”
“Look, how beautiful the sky is tonight. You can’t see scenery this bright and dazzling in the city.”
“Such beautiful scenery—if you were here, that would be even better.”
“I mean…”
“I miss you, Classmate Xie.”
She really did miss him a little.
Before, she didn’t think she’d ever be pulled by longing for someone, or that time could become so long that every second felt like it dragged on endlessly, unbearable.
A small injury wasn’t worth mentioning. She used to think she could grit her teeth and get through it. Now, she found it hard to bear: her arm was cold, her eye hurt, and it felt like her whole body was uncomfortable.
She also wanted to act spoiled. She wanted to tell him about the grievances and sadness she’d suffered today.
But she couldn’t. Such a simple thing, and yet she couldn’t do it. She didn’t want to disturb his work, and she didn’t want to turn an on-the-job accident into a melodramatic outpouring.
Love can make people fragile, and it can also make people learn to push forward with toughness.
Qin Sang turned off her phone. She knew he wouldn’t reply. Recently, the institute seemed to be running some kind of test at a critical stage—otherwise they wouldn’t have urgently called him back.
“Sang-sang, we’re here.”
The car stopped at the hotel entrance. Xiaoxiao reminded her and handed her the keycard. “The room is 3301, remember? Your luggage has already been delivered. Rest early.”
“Mm. Got it.”
The moment Qin Sang got out of the car, her phone rang.
On the other end was a familiar voice—clear and warm, like clean spring rain in the desert. “Sang-sang.”
Hearing his voice, Qin Sang’s nose stung. Her eyes moistened. She replied in a muffled voice, her nasal tone heavy, her mood low. “Mm.”
“Look up.”
Qin Sang froze. Then she suddenly lifted her head.
Not far away, a familiar figure appeared in the night. The man’s frame was slender, his bones sharp. He wore a black windbreaker and work pants, looking crisp and clean. Those clear eyes held a gentle smile, as if he’d been waiting for her on purpose.
Qin Sang’s eyes suddenly warmed. An indescribable sourness overflowed from her chest. After a whole day of being tossed around—flight changes, car rides, drifting and rushing nonstop—she’d ended up injured all over.
Wretched, exhausted—yet in that moment, all the physical pain seemed to vanish. She only felt wronged, like someone displaced at last finding a harbor from the wind.
At first she only stared blankly, shuffling forward. Then she threw caution aside and rushed up, burying herself deep in his arms.
The mint scent on him was still familiar, and everywhere it spoke of safety. His embrace also seemed especially warm, making her tighten her arms around him without restraint.
Her voice was muffled; she tried not to let him notice anything unusual. “Why did you come?”
He had clearly said he might be busy these days. The project he was responsible for had run into some issues and needed more time. And his vacation had been a bit long—he’d already fallen behind schedule—so he needed to spend even more energy revising.
Qin Sang understood, and she also restrained her urge to share. Even if she really missed him, she only sent one or two filming photos occasionally, cautiously.
Xie Yuncheng tightened his hold, hugging her close. His voice, slightly hoarse from the long journey, sounded a bit tired. “I wanted to see you.”
“Sang-sang, I miss you too.”