Lin Mian sat at one end of the long white conference table, hands clasped lightly in her lap. The afternoon light poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, washing the room in a pale glow. Across from her, executives murmured indistinctly; their voices were muffled by her own turbulent thoughts. Keep calm, she told herself, pressing her nails into her palm. On the surface, her expression was serene – almost detached – but beneath the table her fingers trembled against her skirt. Each tick of the clock on the wall rang loud in her ears, a reminder of the precarious balance she had to maintain .
Qin Zhao'an's seat was directly opposite hers. The polished tabletop reflected his face in a ghostly white blur, making it hard for her to meet his eyes. Still, Lin Mian could feel his gaze on her, cool and assessing. He lounged in his chair with an ease that bordered on indifference, one arm resting on the chairback, the other tapping a slow rhythm on the table. To any observer, he appeared bored, even distracted, as if this meeting were nothing more than a formality. Yet Lin Mian detected a tension rippling under his nonchalance – a slight tightening of his jaw whenever someone mentioned her. A file lay open before him, filled with production schedules and scripts, but he hadn't glanced at it once. Instead, Qin Zhao'an watched her, silent and unreadable, the conference room's harsh light carving out the elegant, impassive lines of his profile .
"As our final agenda item, we will discuss the added scene in Border Town," one of the producers announced, breaking the hush. A faint rustle passed through the room. Lin Mian's heart thumped. Border Town was the film she had been cast in – and the "added scene" could only mean the one Qin Zhao'an had insisted on at the last minute. She dared a glance at him. His expression hadn't changed; he still looked almost disinterested, fingers drumming lazily on the table. But she knew better. This was his proposal. It hung in the air between them like a drawn blade.
"Our lead actress," the producer continued, clearing his throat, "would need to film a new climactic sequence… a, ah, pool scene." He offered Lin Mian an apologetic smile, as if acknowledging the burden being placed on her. "Full immersion, intimate choreography. It is quite challenging, but we believe it will heighten the emotional impact."
A heaviness pressed on Lin Mian's chest. So it was decided after all – the scene where she must shed both clothing and inhibition, baring herself in front of cameras and colleagues. She had heard the whispers before this meeting: that it was Qin Zhao'an's idea, that the investors demanded something "memorable." Now, hearing it confirmed, she felt a wave of heat climb her neck. Was it humiliation? Fear? Or the sting of betrayal that he, of all people, would put her in this position?
Her mind flashed back to two years ago, to the last time she and Qin Zhao'an had spoken outside of professional courtesies. Back then, there were no conference tables or contracts – only raw emotion and words that could never be taken back. Now here he was, forcing her into a corner under the guise of business. Lin Mian lifted her chin and managed a curt nod. "I understand. I'll do it," she said softly. Her voice did not waver. In that moment, an observer might think her simply dedicated to her craft. Only Qin Zhao'an seemed to notice the slight catch in her breath as she spoke.
Across the table, Qin Zhao'an finally looked down at the open file, breaking eye contact. "Good," he murmured, the single word cutting through the air. Good. Lin Mian couldn't tell if he was praising her professionalism or taunting her compliance. His tone was flat, devoid of triumph or relief. He offered no further comment – no personal reassurance, no private plea. Just that one word and a silence that spoke volumes.
The meeting moved on briskly after that. Figures were discussed, timetables set. Lin Mian answered questions when required, her demeanor calm and courteous. Inside, she felt as if she were made of glass – one wrong touch and she might shatter. When it was Qin Zhao'an's turn to speak, her heart gave a treacherous leap. But he merely authorized the budget for the new scene, his voice cool and businesslike. Not once did he address her directly. Not once did he acknowledge the personal enormity of what he was asking.
By the time the meeting adjourned, Lin Mian's nerves were frayed. Chairs scraped against the floor as people stood to leave. Polite farewells echoed in the airy conference room. Lin Mian gathered her notebook and stood as well, smoothing her skirt to give her hands something to do. She felt Qin Zhao'an's presence before she saw him – a tall, immovable figure lingering as others filed out.
"Miss Lin," he said, using the same impersonal title he'd used ever since that falling-out. The distance in his voice was like ice on her skin. Lin Mian paused, fingertips on the back of her chair. Slowly, she raised her eyes to meet his. In the empty conference room, Qin Zhao'an's dark gaze pinned her in place. For a moment, neither spoke. The air hummed with everything they did not say. Then he inclined his head a fraction – a gesture that might have been courtesy, or simply a dismissal. "We expect your best performance," Qin Zhao'an added quietly. The words were formal, but something in his tone – a faint rasp at the edges – betrayed the tension between them. Before she could reply, he was already walking away, the echo of his footsteps stark against marble floors.
Lin Mian stood there alone by the white conference table, the afterimage of Qin Zhao'an's silhouette burned into her mind. Sunlight glinted off the polished surface, blurring her reflection with his that had been there moments before. She closed her eyes, drawing a slow breath. So it will be like this, she thought. If it was a game of wills he wanted, she would play it. Even if it breaks me, she vowed silently, I won't let him see me break. When she opened her eyes, they were clear, determined. Gathering the last shred of her composure, Lin Mian turned and left the conference room, the afternoon light casting her slender shadow long across the threshold.
(二) 游泳池
Cool blue water stretched out before her like a shimmering mirror. That evening, the indoor pool was silent except for the gentle lap of water against the tiles. The set had been cleared for this closed shoot – only essential crew remained, their hushed whispers echoing in the cavernous space. High above, studio lights glared down, turning the water's surface a crystalline turquoise. Lin Mian stood at the pool's edge in a thin silk robe, the fabric clinging to her damp skin. Beneath it, she wore only the prescribed costume for the scene – a flesh-toned slip that left her feeling nearly naked. A flush crept up her neck, and she wasn't sure if it was from the warm humidity or the prickle of eyes upon her.
From the shadows beyond the lights, she felt Qin Zhao'an watching. He stood at a distance with the director and a few others, arms folded across his chest. In the diffuse glow, his features were obscured, but Lin Mian could feel the intensity of his focus. He had barely spoken to her since the meeting; now, during the preparations, he had kept to the periphery, saying nothing as the makeup artist painted faux bruises along her collarbone and the stylist tousled her hair into damp locks for authenticity. Yet he was here, overseeing everything in silence. Ensuring I go through with it, she thought bitterly. Or was it something else? His face gave no clues – impassive as ever, a marble statue of a man while she stood exposed under the lights.
"Ready, Lin Mian?" Director Chen called gently. He offered her an encouraging nod from his seat behind the monitor. He was a kindly man, mid-fifties, looking visibly uneasy about the demands of this scene. If even the director is uncomfortable, what about me? Lin Mian wondered. But she mustered a small, brave smile and slipped the silk robe from her shoulders. A collective stillness greeted her action – the crew respectfully averted their eyes as the robe fell to the floor, revealing the pale form of her body beneath the flimsy slip. Only Qin Zhao'an did not look away. Lin Mian could feel his gaze sharpen, like a physical touch tracing the curve of her bare arms, the slight tremble of her fingers. Her pulse thundered in her ears. Summoning every ounce of will, she stepped forward and descended the pool ladder into the water.
The pool's warmth enveloped her, water lapping up to her midriff. Across the water, her co-actor – a tall, courteous man named Gu Yan – offered a reassuring smile. He was playing the film's male lead. This scene, inserted at Qin Zhao'an's behest, would depict the heroine (herself) pushed to emotional extremes. She was to wade into the pool at night, shed her clothes, and beg the indifferent king (Gu Yan's character) to show a sign of love. It was the story's tragic climax. In the script, the king remains cold, and the heroine, humiliated and heartbroken, disappears under the water – leaving it ambiguous whether in despair or search of solace.
Lin Mian had run these lines in her head a thousand times, but now her mind was blank. The weight of what she was about to do – not just feign vulnerability but expose herself so completely – threatened to crush her resolve. She caught Qin Zhao'an's silhouette at the corner of her vision. He had created this moment. Was he enjoying his triumph? The thought burned in her, strangely fueling her determination. If he wanted to watch her suffer, she would show him a performance he could never fault.
"Action," came the director's voice.
Lin Mian crossed the pool slowly, the water caressing her like a heavy silk. Each movement was languid, intentional – the sultry desperation of a woman who has cast aside pride. She could hardly recognize herself; it was as if she had become someone else entirely, someone mesmerizing and broken. When she reached Gu Yan, she placed trembling hands on his broad chest and looked up, tears already welling in her eyes on cue.
"My king," she whispered, voice choked with pleading, "won't you even look at me? Must I drown in your indifference before you care?" The line left her lips laden with genuine ache. In that moment, she wasn't merely acting – she was exorcising her own pain. Who was she truly speaking to? Gu Yan's character, or the man standing beyond the lights?
Gu Yan's jaw tightened; in character, he pushed her hands away with cruel resolve. Stung, Lin Mian gave a small sob – a sound that echoed truth from deep within her. The script demanded she go further: with shaking fingers, she began to peel the thin strap off her shoulder, the slip threatening to glide down and bare her completely. Her heart pounded so violently she felt dizzy. The world telescoped to this single point: her shame offered up under blistering lights, and an unbearable anguish that wasn't entirely the heroine's.
Suddenly, something went wrong. One of the overhead lights exploded with a shower of sparks – a blown fuse. Startled, Lin Mian slipped; her foot lost purchase on the pool's smooth tiles. In an instant, water closed over her head. The shock of submersion stole the air from her lungs. Panic seized her – she couldn't swim. The role's one requirement she hadn't had time to fully train for, not in the intense rush of filming. Or perhaps, in her turmoil, she had simply forgotten how to kick, how to surface. The weight of the silk slip tangled around her legs as she sank, arms flailing uselessly. Overhead, distorted by water, lights and faces blurred. Her chest burned; instinctively she tried to cry out but inhaled only chlorine and silence.
For a brief, eternal moment, Lin Mian felt a calm clarity: So this is how it ends – a thought both surreal and oddly accepting. The water was cool and dark, and her limbs were so heavy…
A pair of arms seized her, strong and urgent. In the haze of her fading consciousness, she felt herself being yanked upward. Suddenly, air and light exploded around her as her head broke the surface. Coughing and gasping, she clung to the solid warmth that had wrapped around her. That warmth was moving, dragging her swiftly to the pool's edge. Blinking water from her eyes, Lin Mian realized it was Qin Zhao'an. He had plunged in after her, still fully clothed in his suit, now plastered to his body. The fierce, panicked set of his features shocked her – she had never seen his composure so completely shattered.
She wasn't the only one stunned. The crew stood frozen, uncertain whether to rush forward. The director's shouts to cut rang dimly in the background. All Lin Mian could focus on was Qin Zhao'an. He hoisted her up against the pool wall, holding her steady as she coughed up water. "Breathe," he was saying, voice raw and commanding. One large hand cradled the back of her head, the other gripped her arm as if afraid she'd slip away. Lin Mian coughed again, sucking in a ragged breath that tasted of chlorine and tears. She realized she was trembling – from cold, from shock – and that Qin Zhao'an's hands were trembling too.
For an instant, their eyes met. Gone was the mask of indifference he'd worn so well. In its place was terror and relief, a storm of emotions laid bare in his dark eyes. Lin Mian opened her mouth to speak, but no words came. In that moment, suspended between the blue water and the watching world, something fragile and unspoken passed between them.
(三) 边界
The pool incident wrapped up in a blur. Crew members hurried to fetch towels and robes while Director Chen declared a break. Gu Yan, shaken and apologetic, hovered until someone assured him Lin Mian was safe. Within minutes, the set was mostly cleared. Medics had been called as a precaution, and they insisted on examining Lin Mian in the dressing room nearby. Now she sat wrapped in layers of towels on a small sofa, warm air from a space heater blowing over her to chase away the chill. A paramedic gently pressed a hot mug of ginger water into her hands. She sipped it, gaze unfocused, heart still rattling in her chest.
At the doorway, Qin Zhao'an stood like a sentinel, drenched from head to toe. Water dripped from his sleeves, pooling at his feet, but he didn't seem to notice. His tie was gone, the top buttons of his shirt torn open for air. Lin Mian's throat tightened at the sight – this disheveled, drenched man was a far cry from the impeccably controlled executive who had lorded over the meeting table hours earlier. There was an almost savage intensity in the way he watched her, as if verifying she was truly alive and safe with each passing second.
One of the medics approached Qin Zhao'an tentatively. "Sir, you should change into something dry, or you'll catch cold."
He nodded absently, accepting a towel but not using it. Only when Lin Mian finished the ginger water and managed to say "I'm okay" to the medic did Qin Zhao'an move from the doorway. He stepped inside, closing the door softly behind him. In the quiet that followed, Lin Mian became acutely aware that they were alone. Outside, muffled voices of staff kept a respectful distance. Here in the dressing room, only the humming heater filled the silence.
Qin Zhao'an opened his mouth, then shut it, as if unsure where to begin. Lin Mian had never seen uncertainty in him – it was disarming. He raked a hand through his soaked hair, droplets flicking onto the floor. Finally, he spoke, voice low and rough: "How do you feel?"
It was such a simple question, yet his tone made it profound. How did she feel? Lin Mian hardly knew. Frightened. Exposed. Furious. Relieved. All of them swirled inside her, too tangled to separate. So she answered the one thing she was sure of: "Cold."
In truth, the heater was making the small room almost stifling, but a chill persisted in her bones. Qin Zhao'an reacted immediately. He crossed to a rack of wardrobe costumes in the corner, where a dry crew jacket hung. Shaking off his wet dress jacket, he pulled the warm garment free and brought it to her. He held it out, but when her fingers were too numb to grasp the sleeve, he knelt and draped it carefully around her shoulders himself. His hands lingered a second longer than necessary, as if to impart his own warmth. Lin Mian's breath caught – the proximity, the care in his gesture, all of it so at odds with the man she thought she knew.
"You gave everyone a scare out there," he said quietly. His eyes flickered away, unable to meet hers, and she realized with astonishment that he was afraid. Not of her, but perhaps of what he'd almost lost. His gaze fell to her hands clutching the jacket closed. Gently, he reached out and took the empty mug from her grip, setting it aside. In doing so, his fingers brushed hers – they were still shaking.
A tear slid down Lin Mian's cheek before she could stop it. The adrenaline was ebbing, leaving raw emotion in its wake. She hastily wiped the tear with the back of her hand and tried to summon anger to shield herself. "Is this what you wanted, Qin Zhao'an?" she whispered, voice trembling despite her efforts to steady it. "To push me past my limit? To watch me break?" Another tear escaped, betraying her. She hated herself in that moment for crying in front of him, for exposing yet another layer of hurt.
Qin Zhao'an flinched as if struck. "No," he said, and for once, the cool mask of composure fell completely away. No. The word was almost a breath, raw with emotion. He rose, pacing a short, agitated line across the room. "That was never my intention."
Lin Mian let out a brittle laugh, choking on a sob. "Wasn't it? You've been intent on punishing me all along – making me do this," she gestured at the towels, the damp costume beneath, "all for what? Your investment? Your pride?" The words spilled out, each one laced with the pain she had held in so tightly. "If you wanted me to suffer, you succeeded. Congratulations." She didn't hide the bitterness in her tone. There was no point now – nearly drowning had a way of stripping pretenses.
He stopped pacing. "Punish you…?" he echoed, turning to face her fully. Water still trickled from his clothes, and his eyes were dark with anguish. "Lin Mian, is that truly what you think?" He took a step toward her, then another, as though approaching a frightened animal that might bolt. "That I wanted to hurt you?"
She met his gaze, her own eyes shining with tears. "What else am I supposed to think?" Her voice was soft but accusatory. "Ever since I came back—ever since you…" She faltered, remembering that day: how he had looked at her with such coldness after years apart, how he'd agreed to fund the film she desperately needed on the condition that she star in it under his terms. "You've controlled everything. You barely speak to me except to issue orders. And now this scene—" Her voice broke. "You almost watched me die tonight, and that finally made you talk to me."
Her words hung in the air like a challenge, and for a long moment Qin Zhao'an said nothing. When he finally spoke, each word trembled with restraint. "I never wanted you to get hurt. Not tonight, not… ever." He knelt before her, startling Lin Mian as he took one of her hands in both of his. The gesture was gentle yet urgent; she felt the warmth of his palms, rough and trembling, enveloping her cold fingers. "It's true I pushed for that scene," he admitted, his voice hoarse. "I told myself it was for the film's success. For realism. But…" He bowed his head, jaw clenched. "Perhaps it was also because I wanted to see if I still had any effect on you. If I could reach you behind the role, beyond the distance between us."
Lin Mian stared at him, unblinking. She could scarcely believe what she was hearing. Qin Zhao'an kept his head lowered, as though he didn't dare look at her while confessing. "It was foolish and cruel," he continued, bitterness twisting his lips. "I was so sure you'd handle it. You've always been so strong. Stronger than… than me." His voice dropped. "When I saw you go under, I realized how terribly I'd miscalculated. I'd risked your life for my pride. If you hadn't…" He broke off, unable to say if you hadn't survived. The very idea visibly shook him; his hands tightened around hers.
The room had fallen into complete silence. Lin Mian could hear her own heartbeat and the faint hum of the heater. She looked at Qin Zhao'an – really looked at him – and in his eyes she saw a man unraveling at the seams. A man who had nearly lost something infinitely precious. Me, she realized with a start. He was afraid of losing me.
Tentatively, she reached out with her free hand and touched his cheek. His skin was cool from the water, and beneath her fingertips she felt the slight stubble of a long day, the muscle tensing as he pressed his teeth together. At her touch, Qin Zhao'an finally lifted his face. The guarded wall was gone; pain and regret lay naked in his expression. And woven through it, a fierce tenderness she remembered from long ago, before everything went wrong.
"Why?" she asked softly, the single word carrying years of hurt. Why did you let me go? Why did you come back into my life only to torment me? Why do you still care now?
Qin Zhao'an closed his eyes briefly, as if the weight of her question threatened to crush him. When he opened them, they glistened. "Because, Lin Mian… I never stopped—" His voice caught, and he exhaled shakily. "You were always just beyond my reach, across a border I drew myself. I thought if I stayed on my side, I could protect us both. Instead, I've done nothing but cause you pain."
He released her hand only to brush a damp strand of hair from her forehead, his touch feather-light, reverent. "I'm sorry," he whispered. Two simple words, yet in them Lin Mian heard the echo of every unspoken apology from the past two years. Her vision blurred with fresh tears, but these were different – softer, born of relief more than sorrow.
Outside, a gust of wind rattled the studio doors, bringing with it the scent of rain. A summer storm had begun, fat raindrops drumming on the roof – a gentle percussion that underscored the hush between them. Lin Mian realized that the boundaries they had so carefully maintained were crumbling. Here they were, on the other side of fear and pretense, laid bare as their truest selves.
She managed a trembling smile through her tears. "You really are a fool, Qin Zhao'an," she said, voice catching on a half-laugh, half-sob. Before he could protest, she continued, "We both are." Summoning courage from some newly unearthed reserve, Lin Mian slid forward on the sofa, closing the remaining space between them. The jacket slipped from her shoulder, but she didn't care. All she cared about was the man in front of her, the anguish in his eyes and the hope tentatively blooming there as she raised her hands to cup his face.
"For someone so brilliant, you were blind to the simplest truth," she whispered. Qin Zhao'an's breath hitched; he was utterly still, gazing up at her as if she were something holy. "You say I was beyond your reach, but did you never think… maybe I was waiting for you to cross that border?" Lin Mian's thumbs gently brushed the corners of his eyes, wiping away a wetness that might have been her tears or his. "Every day I waited," she confessed, her voice barely more than a breath. "Even when you acted as if I meant nothing… I was just waiting for the moment you'd step across and take me in your arms."
A low groan escaped him – a sound of regret and longing colliding. Qin Zhao'an surged upward, wrapping his arms around her in a tight, engulfing embrace. Lin Mian gasped softly as he buried his face against her neck, his entire frame shaking. She held him just as fiercely, the thin damp fabric between them no barrier to the warmth that spread from where their bodies met. It felt like coming home after a long, harrowing journey.
They stayed like that for a timeless moment, clinging to each other while the rain drummed its gentle fingers above. Qin Zhao'an was the first to pull back slightly. He studied her face intently, as if memorizing every line and tear and freckle anew. His thumb caressed her cheek. "Lin Mian," he murmured, her name laden with so much love and sorrow that it brought a fresh tear to her eye. He hesitated, perhaps searching for the right words, but then abandoned words altogether.
Qin Zhao'an kissed her. It was not the fevered, punishing kiss of their characters in the script, nor the false, staged intimacy the scene had called for. It was achingly tender – a question and a promise all at once. Lin Mian felt her world tilt; she answered him with a soft sigh against his lips, granting forgiveness, granting acceptance. The taste of salt and sweetness mingled between them – tears and ginger and the unmistakable flavor of hope reborn.
When they finally parted, Lin Mian rested her forehead against his, eyes closed, their breaths mingling in the inch of space between. She could feel Qin Zhao'an's heart pounding against her, matching the rhythm of her own. The border that had separated them – built from pride, fear, misunderstandings – had dissolved like mist in sunlight. What lay beyond it was uncertain, yes, but it was theirs to face together.
In the quiet aftermath, Qin Zhao'an let out a breath that sounded like release. He cradled her face in his hands, gently this time, as if she were something precious and fragile. "I'm here," he whispered, a vow threaded in those two words. I won't leave you again. Though unspoken, Lin Mian heard it clearly in the way he held her, steady and protective.
Outside, the summer rain continued to fall, but inside that small dressing room a new warmth blossomed, bright and unwavering. Lin Mian realized she was no longer cold. Wrapped in Qin Zhao'an's arms, she felt safe and warm and profoundly alive.
She allowed herself to lean into him, closing her eyes. Whatever storms awaited them beyond this moment, whatever challenges their world would yet throw their way – it didn't matter. They had crossed to the same side of the boundary at last, south of the border where the sun was beginning to rise.
And in that dawning light, nothing would ever push them apart again.