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Psst! We're moving!
Under this user “WhyShoulILikeAnyoneElse,” everyone seemed to share the same opinion.
Perhaps because she was used to making bold statements herself, Yan Man had grown accustomed to such comments.
Scrolling further down, the discussion hadn’t stayed unserious for long; the topic shifted back to praise:
[Manman’s acting has improved so much—it feels much more natural now! The rhythm of her lines is also better!]
[What? Is that really her original voice?]
[Yes, all characters are recorded with live sound. In an era where dubbing is rampant, this is truly rare… Everyone, type #SlushieCrewSkillsOnPoint on the screen!]
[Also, let me rave about my husband’s lines! Ah, he’s truly versatile no matter what role he plays! 555 No matter the genre, our Ye Lin always gives 100%!]
[True, he’s mostly done serious dramas and films these past few years. Actually, there’s quite a hierarchy in the entertainment industry, but even though he could probably get away with coasting, I noticed when rewatching that he still added so many details.]
[Yan Man is also super perfect for this role! Daughter in school uniform and twin tails is too adorable 555]
[Even if they’re just sitting in the same frame doing nothing, I could watch them eat sunflower seeds all day.]
[Yep, eye candy springtime.]
[Possibly the best idol drama in the last decade...]
[Be confident—remove “possibly.”]
[I won’t allow you to define it like that! Not just the last decade! Spanning five thousand years of Chinese history!!! This is my number one idol drama ever!!!]
Later, the screenwriter hurriedly replied: [No, no, no, it’s only episode one. Everyone should try to stay calm. The creators will keep working hard!]
[Calm?!! With Yanye as the leads, how am I supposed to stay calm?! I’m literally kneeling right now, begging all my friends to start watching this drama immediately!]
…
While discussions on Weibo were lively, Simon was also reading through the posts.
Seeing the top comment, he couldn’t help but chuckle and turned to Yan Man: “So, what’s your current stance on CP fans?”
Yan Man played with her phone: “I’ve accepted it.”
“Really accepted it?”
She thought for a moment: “Can you control them?”
“...No.”
Yan Man nodded: “Then what other choice do I have besides accepting it?”
“…”
She took it lightly, shrugging: “You can’t fight against yourself, right?”
Moreover, while she initially wanted to untangle the association, her focus had always been on her own connection with Ye Lin. She had personally typed in the first associated keyword herself, and later decided to undo it, wanting to resolve it personally.
It was more like an obsession, and now that it was complete, she didn’t care anymore.
At that time, she thought the surge of CP fans was due to her, but when she cleared the keywords every month, she realized that people would ship anything. Many artists who had never collaborated had CP fans, so she let go of her concerns.
Yan Man continued, “Besides, my relationship with Ye Lin is different now compared to before.”
When she wanted to untangle it, she mostly felt that they weren’t close enough to be paired together.
Simon leaned over curiously: “So, what kind of relationship do you have now?”
Yan Man thought briefly: “A great senior, a mentor who provides advice, and a bit of a friend.”
“You’ve made progress,” Simon said. “Before, you considered him just a colleague, but now you’ve finally become good mentors and friends?”
“In the past, I didn’t have a choice in collaborations, but this time, I chose him, which proves I don’t mind anymore.” Yan Man said, “People aren’t static.”
Simon nodded: “That’s true. With the audience’s expectations here, you can’t forcefully untangle things. Otherwise, it could get ugly.”
“This morning, didn’t I show you that trending topic? There were two artists who hyped their CP to death for a drama, but now that the drama’s over, they’re trying to distance themselves and officially untangle. The solo fans are tearing each other apart, and the CP fans are caught in the middle, feeling miserable and saying they’ll never ship a CP again.”
“Yeah,” Yan Man said, “I really don’t want things to end up like that.”
Everyone came because they liked her. The essence of being online was to relieve stress and have fun. If it ended up unpleasant for everyone, it’d be pretty meaningless.
Yan Man: “Entertainers exist to provide emotional value to the audience. Otherwise, why should they pay us? The audience isn’t stupid.”
Simon thought her level of awareness was exceptionally high. No wonder she became famous so quickly. With such understanding, how could she not be famous?
Yan Man had always been lively and had an entertainment spirit. After scrolling through Weibo a couple more times, she asked, “Isn’t Heartbeat Rhythm about to drop?”
Heartbeat Rhythm was the MV she agreed to shoot for Xiang Jingming. It was filmed in a storytelling style with a touch of manga aesthetics. Unlike the typical fragmented MVs, it told a full-fledged unrequited love story with a beginning, middle, and end, even featuring dialogue during the climax.
She had listened to the song—it was quite good.
As expected, within a couple of days, the song premiered, and she politely reposted it for promotion.
At the time, she thought it was decent, but she didn’t expect such a huge response.
The other day, she saw the song at the top of the charts and thought it was just a normal achievement for a top-tier artist. But after a week, the probability of hearing the song during her commute increased significantly.
The MV’s view count skyrocketed, reaching the highest clicks for an MV this year in just five days.
Many described the song as, “If there’s any regret, it’s that Yan Man didn’t sing a line or two in it.”
It was unclear whether she made the song or the song made her—or if it was mutual—but her follower count on Weibo grew rapidly. She received offers for other MV collaborations and even requests from studios to release a single—
However, given her busy schedule, Simon declined them all.
In the end, looking at the song’s achievements, Simon marveled: “You’re such a lucky charm. Xiang Jingming has released so many songs since his debut, and this is the only one that went viral.”
“He’s leveled up thanks to this song. His commercial performance fees have increased, and concert plans are underway.”
“Good timing,” Yan Man said. “He happened to have a song with breakout potential.”
“If he wasn’t satisfied, he probably wouldn’t dare ask you,” Simon laughed. “I saw him on a variety show promoting the song, proudly saying he managed to cast Yan Man as the lead. The live comments were filled with people saying they pre-ordered to listen.”
Simon: “But this also fully proves that you genuinely have audience appeal.”
Cherry Smoothiesie entered a smooth filming process. Early in the morning, Ye Lin’s RV turned out from the road corner, passing through the busiest part of the commercial district.
Ye Lin leaned back in his seat, as if he heard something, and rolled down the window halfway.
The familiar melody drifted in. On the large screen, the MV of Heartbeat Rhythm was playing. Through the music classroom window, she was bathed in light, sitting next to a cello, wearing a black dress that trailed gracefully to the floor, arms suspended as she gently drew the bow.
“You know what,” Bi Tan followed the scene, “this MV’s success is justified. This shot of hers truly captures the feeling of a boy’s first love.”
As the MV played, more and more viewers gathered under the digital screen. Bi Tan exclaimed, “How long has it been since it aired? Why are people still watching it under the screen?”
Ye Lin: “It’s the first time it’s been broadcast here.”
Bi Tan: “Have you seen it?”
“Yes.”
After a moment’s thought, Bi Tan leaned closer: “Was it good?”
The man lowered the curtain and replied in a low voice.
“It was good.”
Yan Man arrived at the set, ready to start filming today’s scenes.
After shooting some urban scenes, the next segment involved campus scenes—
Walking into a high school campus brought back memories. She took a deep breath, feeling as if she had returned to sixteen.
Carefree sixteen, the age she most wanted to revisit.
She stood under the tree for a while before being called by the staff to get her makeup done.
This scene involved the male lead playing basketball, with the female lead cheering him on as part of the cheerleading team.
After finishing her makeup and hair, Yan Man received her outfit for this scene. It resembled her old high school uniform—a shirt on top and a dark pleated skirt below.
Thankfully, it wasn’t one of those overly bright colors. The production team’s aesthetic sense was on point.
After changing, she pushed open the door, and the staff called out: “Manman, just head outside! The field is already warming up!”
On the lush green grass, Ye Lin had already changed into his jersey and was leaning by the hoop, dribbling the ball. When he looked up and saw her, he paused momentarily, missing a beat. The ball rolled toward her feet.
Yan Man picked it up and threw it to him from a few steps away. As soon as her wrist loosened, she heard a whistle behind her.
They were filming in the old campus of a school, where there were no students, but the new campus was next door. It was just after class ended, so many boys were leaning on the railings looking over here. Some even took out their phones to film.
Zhou Xuan also mouthed to her: “So pretty.”
Yan Man glanced down.
She had worn this uniform so often that she hadn’t even looked at herself after changing into it before coming out.
When she looked up, Ye Lin was already standing in front of her.
The group of boys who had been blocked from their view lost interest and dispersed.
Yan Man pointed to the ball in his hand and asked curiously, “Do you know how to play?”
“Barely,” the man replied, “It’s been too long since I last played.”
Then he raised his arm and made a steady three-point shot.
Yan Man: “...”
She suspected this was Ye Lin’s old trick of using words cleverly.
Beside them, Bi Tan hissed, “You last week—”
Hadn’t he sweated for an hour and a half in the indoor basketball court because Yan Man had taken a photo of Bian He playing basketball?
Ye Lin turned his head: “Shut up.”
Bi Tan: “...”
“Alright then.”
Soon, the filming began. This scene had no dialogue; the director said they would pair it with background music (BGM) later, so they could just treat it like a regular basketball game.
Soon, a whistle blew, and the game began.
The director mentioned that, to capture the feeling of the script, they had specially invited students from the school’s basketball team to participate. At first, Yan Man wondered if the score gap would be particularly large, but to her surprise, the first basket was scored by Ye Lin.
A slam dunk.
Cheers erupted from the staff nearby. Under the sunlight, he looked over at her. Yan Man remembered she was supposed to keep score and, carried away by everyone’s excitement, flipped a card.
She raised her eyebrows slightly, “First point, impressive.”
The environment was noisy, and he didn’t actually hear what she was saying.
But seeing her lip movements and expression, his mind reflexively replayed her tone in his head — the intonation should have risen slightly at the end, stretched out for a few seconds.
His lips curved slightly, and he turned sideways, seizing another ball.
Someone shouted from the side: “Who said the top star couldn’t play basketball?! Who?!”
As the game neared its halfway point, a sudden commotion arose on the court. The boys in blue uniforms started pushing their forward player: “Hurry up, rise up! The girl you like has come over!”
The forward suddenly blushed and pushed his teammate’s hand away: “Who said I liked her? Stop talking nonsense, alright!”
But he really started playing more seriously than before, his lips tightening and his gaze firmly locked on the basketball.
Other students heckled from the sidelines: “What was that phrase again? If you see a guy suddenly start performing well in a basketball game, it means the person he likes is here, hahaha!”
Out of the corner of his eye, Ye Lin caught a glimpse of Yan Man. Her skirt was fluttering in the wind, her arm resting on the table as she watched him.
Suddenly, a tremor somewhere, and the ball he had just let go of was seized back by him.
That forward got anxious: “Teacher Ye!! Let me have one!!”
The man moved swiftly, but his speech was slow and deliberate: “Didn’t you say you don’t like her?”
“...”
The boy paused for a moment before saying reluctantly, “We guys are all like this, love is hard to express.”
He lowered his head, seemingly chuckling softly, though it wasn’t clear for whom. After scoring his second basket, he passed it to the boy.
Finally, a cool shot went in, and the boy instantly became triumphant, not knowing where exactly he was looking at under the stands, his gaze lingering for a few seconds.
Cheers erupted, and halftime arrived.
The boy panted as he walked, asking, “Teacher Ye, why did you really let me have that ball?”
Men sometimes share emotions. Ye Lin turned his body slightly and curved his lips upward.
“To show off in front of the girl you like.”
...
Soon, Yan Man saw Ye Lin walk up to her.
She was tired of standing, so she sat on a small stool, pointing to the clothes on her knees: “I’ll sit for a while and use your clothes to cover myself.”
“Mm.” He responded, extending his hand to her.
The boys who had gone to fetch water scattered. Yan Man pulled a bottle of mineral water from the box at her feet and handed it to him.
The man lowered his head to unscrew the cap, paused for a moment, then handed the bottle to her.
Yan Man: “Ah?”
He pointed to the sun above his head, “Not thirsty?”
At his words, she realized she was indeed a bit thirsty.
Yan Man took it, thanked him, and handed him another bottle of water. Only then did the man start drinking.
Basketball was indeed physically demanding. Before long, a pile of empty mineral water bottles appeared on the court.
Fifteen minutes later, the second half began.
Everyone performed quite steadily. In the end, Ye Lin led the team to a narrow victory. Yan Man looked at the scoreboard and sighed: “I didn’t expect you to beat high school students.”
Ye Lin fell silent for two seconds, “I’m not much older than them.”
“Seven years!” Yan Man exclaimed, “Although you look about the same age.”
“Just seven years,” he frowned slightly, turning to her, “Do you think I’m halfway to being buried in your heart?”
Yan Man was successfully amused by his words, momentarily feeling a bit dazed.
People always recognized his achievements and regarded him as a senior and mentor, causing her to often forget that just a few years ago, he was almost the same as these students. He had achieved success too young and had stood on a pedestal for many years.
“Besides...” Ye Lin glanced at the court below, “I let them win.”
“Let them win?” Yan Man tilted her head, “You mean you let them? Why?”
Ye Lin: “There’s a girl they like watching. It’s not good to let them lose too badly.”
Yan Man digested this for a moment, somewhat shocked.
“I didn’t expect you to be such a…” She pondered for a long time before choosing a word, “Sentimental person?”
Facing her evaluation, Ye Lin fell into an even longer silence: “Am I a cold-blooded animal in your eyes?”
She thought about it, “A little.”
“...”
Not long after the game ended, the man’s chest still rose and fell. Yan Man glanced at it, as if wanting to say something, but the first thing she did was lower her head and touch her waist.
Realizing she was wearing a dress without pockets, she bent down, picked up a small bag beside her, and pulled out a tissue, handing it to him.
Ye Lin paused: “What?”
She pointed to his jaw: “You have sweat. Wipe it.”
To make sure he could see it, Yan Man took a picture with her phone and showed it to him.
The man folded the tissue and wiped it twice before asking: “What app did you use to take this photo?”
“This picture? Just randomly picked one,” Yan Man asked, “Do you want it? I’ll send it to you.”
She had taken the photo casually, but her aesthetic sense was evident, and his face was photogenic no matter how the camera framed it, so the picture came out quite well.
His Adam’s apple rolled, and another drop of sweat slid down his neck, winding its way into his collar.
“Okay.”
He hadn’t posted on Weibo for over two months. His 90 million followers anxiously awaited, and finally, this single post sent comments skyrocketing.
[Is this the fairy appearing to answer my prayers? My husband finally posted on Weibo /tears]
[AHHHH THIS PHOTO IS AMAZING!!!]
[I’ve already started following updates of Cherry Smoothies ! Super addictive!]
The photo was square-framed, focusing on the man’s chin. A droplet of sweat, perfectly reflecting the sunlight behind him, hung suspended. His Adam’s apple was clearly captured.
The topic gradually veered—
[Who took this photo?!?! Who took this photo?!?!]
[If there’s no source mentioned, assume it’s taken by his wife (p≧w≦q)]
[Some people are at it again? How can this be related to Yan Man?]
[What do you mean? There’s no name mentioned. Do you think Yan Man is his wife too?]
[Hahahaha you guys are shameless!]
[I wasn’t shipping them before, but now I feel awkward if I don’t.]
Thus, the discussion of the Adam’s apple photo concluded with everyone indulging in a light shipping craze, paying their respects.
The filming of Cherry Smoothies proceeded smoothly. Many of the early scenes were completed in one take, saving the crew a lot of time.
Filming was restricted by location, so when the director saw some free time and realized they were in the same setting, he decided they could shoot a reconciliation scene early, avoiding the need to reset the stage later.
This screenwriter had the flair of certain great directors. Many slow-paced directors wrote scripts as they filmed, often leaving actors unaware of their lines until the day of shooting while they waited for the director to wake up and leisurely write.
Similarly, this screenwriter needed a deadline to spark inspiration, only finalizing the script when there was no more time to refine it.
The next day, when Yan Man arrived at the set, she received a few printed A4 pages.
The screenwriter said: “I arranged a cave scene. Can you handle it?”
Yan Man looked at the busy staff and realized something: “Are you asking me if I can handle it after the set is almost ready?”
“...”
Screenwriter: “If... if you can’t handle it, I’ll rewrite it. We can cancel it too.”
“The main reason is that earlier, during their student days, there was a scene where they argued here. After making up, returning here creates a呼应 (correspondence) and an emotional升华 (elevation).”
Yan Man had seen this scene in the initial draft; it was indeed indispensable, a crucial part of the emotional arc.
“Let’s shoot it. It’s fine,” she said, “I’ve done Republican-era dramas before, so what’s there to fear?”
As the saying goes, everything is difficult at the beginning. Once you’ve done it once or twice, doing it three or four times becomes routine.
She initially thought this scene would be like the previous ones, but only realized something was off when she lay down.
The crew was setting up lights at the entrance of the cave. The director let the two actors get accustomed to the environment. Deep inside, it was just the two of them, and even the sound of their breathing was clear.
Yan Man shifted her body.
Ye Lin looked down at her: “What?”
“The rocks underneath... they’re so hard,” she shifted again, feeling pricked everywhere, “They’re poking me.”
The man was kneeling between her legs, and upon hearing this, his eyes darkened slightly.
“Are you the Princess and the Pea?”
Yan Man, unable to bear it, twisted while saying, “Possibly.”
She tried twisting into a comfortable position, trying to find relief among the gaps in the rocks, but before finding a suitable spot, the man pressed down on her: “Stop wriggling.”
Feeling drained, she simply laid flat: “It’s uncomfortable.”
The man reached out to pull her up: “Get up first.”
She shifted slightly, watching him rise slightly and take off his outer shirt, folding it twice and placing it under her.
“Try again,” Ye Lin gently placed her down, “Is it better?”
“It seems a bit better.”
The crew’s fabric padding was limited, only enough for one area. Yan Man bent her elbow and demonstrated: “But my arms are still directly on the rocks.”
Ye Lin thought for a moment, turned his palm up, and placed it where her elbow joint would rest.
“On my hand?”
Yan Man finally rested her hand, her elbow completely cushioned by the warmth of his palm, no longer feeling discomfort.
She said, “Won’t you feel uncomfortable?”
“Not really.”
He said, “Then let’s do this.”
After adjusting to a suitable angle, there was no extra space further inside the cave, just enough for a camera. The director sat outside monitoring through the screen.
“Let’s try a scene first. This location is a bit limiting, so you’ll probably need to adjust. Just try casually. Alright, action.”
She felt someone supporting her neck, slowly lowering her onto the stone bricks. The man’s warm breath trailed down, spreading from her earlobe to her neck…
“Wait a minute!” Yan Man called out to stop.
Ye Lin withdrew but didn’t stand up, only gazing down at her.
Backlit, his eyes were unclear, shrouded in a misty haze of black.
Their noses were barely ten centimeters apart as Yan Man searched for a suitable way.
“I still feel like I can’t get into it,” she said, “Everything feels off.”
He remained still, his voice slightly hoarse: “...Then what do you want to do?”
Yan Man thought for a moment, deciding to switch from passive to active. Lying down here was too distracting, and she couldn’t focus at all.
She said, “Let me try being on top.”
Ye Lin paused for two seconds, “What?”
She extended a finger, slowly pushing his shoulder, commanding:
“You get down, I want to be on top.”
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