The lobby of Yuelin Entertainment smelled faintly of coffee and disinfectant, scents Mo Jing had come to associate with late nights and early mornings. The space was always kept clean, with mostly traces of coffee in the air during the mornings. He swiped his badge, nodded to the security guard who always called him “kid,” and took the elevator up to the seventh floor. His eyes still held the soft grit of dust and a day on set from the night before; he’d wrapped the finale scene just yesterday, changed in the van, qent out to the wrap up dinner, fell asleep in the van afterwards and now came straight here.

Manager Chen was waiting by the glass conference room with a paper cup and a look that said, "we need to talk." He was early-forties, with his hair combed carefully, a careful tone in his voice, careful everything. It was the kind of careful that had carried Mo Jing from B-list promise to A-list inevitability in under three years.

“Drink,” Chen said, pressing the coffee into his hand. “And sit.”

“Is this the kind of ‘sit’ I’ll regret?” Mo Jing asked, sinking into a chair and stretching his neck until it cracked.

“Depends on whether you like strangers telling stories about your life.”

Mo Jing grimaced. “So… what did I do this time?”

Chen slid a tablet across the table. “You didn’t do anything. You hugged your sister.”

On the screen: grainy zoom-lens photos. The park bench. The soft dusk. His head tipped toward a woman with long black hair. Her back to the camera in every shot, face turned away or hidden by hair. A hug. A laugh. A close conversation that, at that distance, could be painted however a caption wanted.

Underneath, the headlines:

"Superstar Li Mo Jing seen getting cozy with a mystery visitor on set. Girlfriend? Secret relationship? Who is this elegant beauty?"

Fans speculated heavily on the “New Girlfriend” aspect.

He exhaled through his nose and scrolled. The comments were worse than the headlines. Most were curious, some playful, and then the ones that always showed up... territorial, insulting, and obsessive. He read enough to feel a flash of red behind his eyes.

“She’s not even visible,” he said quietly. “They can’t see her face.”

“Doesn’t matter to clicks,” Chen said. “Mystery is the meal. But there’s good news: your fandom core is asking for clarity, and they’re policing the worst comments already. They just want something official to point at.”

“Then we tell them,” Mo Jing said. He set the coffee down, leaned forward, and pushed the tablet back. “We say it’s my sister. We don’t need to prove it. Just say it. Please respect her privacy.”

Chen’s mouth tilted. He had prepped a flowchart in his head for at least five different PR paths. He’d expected bargaining. He’d expected evasive phrases like “close friend” or “family matter” or “private life.” He hadn’t expected the simplest one.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.” His voice was steady now. “I know how this goes. Most of my fans are reasonable. Give them truth and a line to respect. The ones who aren’t, fine. But I trust my fans. They’re not broken.”

Chen nodded, then motioned to his assistant through the glass. “Fine. Draft it. Keep it in your voice.”

Mo Jing opened his phone, thumbs hovering for a second. He felt, suddenly, the weight his time working hard to get to where he is now, of people who had raised him up and could just as quickly sand his edges off until he fit a box with branding on the lid. He chose not to be sanded today.

He typed out;

Li Mo Jing (verified):

Last night before we wrapped, a family member came by to cheer me on. Some zoomed photos are circulating.

The “mystery woman” is my sister.

She isn’t in the public eye, and we hope you’ll respect her privacy.

Thank you for caring about me and my work. Please don’t speculate about people you don’t know. Let’s focus on the upcoming airing coming in the next few months, I’m proud of what our whole team has built.

—Jing

He showed it to Chen.

Chen read it twice, then slid the phone back. “No edits.”

“Post?”

“Post.”

Mo Jing hit send. A pulse of relief went through him, oddly physical, like stepping off a moving walkway to solid ground.

Notifications lit the screen instantly.

Top comment (fanclub mod): We’ve got you. Please don’t repost paparazzi shots. Respect his family.

Another: Sister!! So pretty even from the back lol. Protect her!

Another: Report gossip pages. Focus on the upcoming drama!

Another: If you love him, love his boundaries.

A longer comment string formed beneath a repost from a major entertainment account. At first, the tone was mixed. Then his official fan unions pinned his post, and a swell of protectiveness rolled across feeds. The ugliest comments were drowned in a tide of “report and move on.” His chest loosened another notch.

“Good,” Chen said, watching a dashboard he’d built for sentiment analysis. “It’ll spike for a few hours. Then it’ll calm. You’ll have a few stray headlines tomorrow. Nothing you can’t surf.”

Mo Jing nodded, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Told you. They’re not broken.”

“Don’t get sentimental,” Chen warned, but he was smiling despite himself. He reached into his bag and pulled out a bound script with a white tab on top. The paper was heavy, the kind that meant serious budget. “Speaking of surfing—here’s your next wave.”

Mo Jing accepted the script with a small bow. “The rumored big one?”

“The rumored biggest one,” Chen said. “Working title River North. It’s already pre-sold to three platforms. International interest brewing.”

He flipped it open, scanning scene headings: river docks, hospital corridors, winter streets lit by cold neon. Two male leads, opposites in every trope that mattered; quiet strategist and reckless heart, duty and desire, a bond built in crisis. He knew it was a BL, or BL-adjacent. The director had marketed it as “emotional intimacy” for mainstream audiences. All subtext, longing looks, shoulder touches, a hug or two. He’d been ready for that. He’d even looked forward to proving he could hold a gaze and tell a story with nothing but breath.

Then his eyes caught on a line of action:

> INT. ROOFTOP — NIGHT

> They stop speaking. A long look. He steps forward, then closes the distance.

> They kiss.

...

Mo Jing blinked. He rubbed the page with his thumb as if the words might come off. He flipped ahead.

> INT. TRAIN CARRIAGE — DAWN

> The city blurs. Silence fills the car. A hand finds a hand. He turns.

> They kiss again. Different this time. Certain. Passionate.

He looked up slowly. “There’s a… kiss scene.”

Chen’s wince was microscopic. “Yes.”

Mo Jing flipped back to the cover, then forward again, as if the pages might reorder themselves out of mercy. “There are two kiss scenes.”

“Also yes.”

“Two!?” His voice rose half an octave before he reeled it back. “When did this happen? The pitch was ‘no explicit romance, just allusion.’ That’s why I said yes. I mean- I’m not backing out; I’m just… I need to know what I’m walking into. I'm not prepared to kiss another man!“

Chen clasped his hands. “Director revised a few nights ago after test reads. He believed you had the talent to have chemistry with whoever you work with. They want to commit. They also secured an intimacy coordinator from film, not just TV. That was a condition from legal before we’d even show you the draft.”

Mo Jing stared at the page again. His feelings were not disgust, not even close. He believed in the story. He believed in love between men as cleanly as he believed in love between anyone. Ke Xin liked women; this was normal to him, family-normal. What rattled him wasn’t the idea. It was his mouth, his body, his hands, all of it choreographed into a thing he had promised he could imply but hadn’t yet promised he could do.

“I support the community,” he said quietly. “You know that.”

“I do,” Chen said.

“I’m not squeamish.” He tapped the page. “I’m… inexperienced. With this. I said yes to the long looks. I didn’t say yes to this because it wasn’t here.”

“That’s why we talk,” Chen said. “The production wants you. They will move mountains to keep you comfortable. We negotiate. Options include: close-frame staging where contact reads as a kiss without full contact, selective angles, or a real kiss with choreography, safety protocols, and consent stages. You are not a prop. You’re a person. We do this right, or we don’t do it.”

Mo Jing let out a breath he hadn’t noticed he was holding. “Who’s the other lead?”

“Zhou Da Feng,” Chen said. “You’ve met him.”

“The theater guy with the unfair cheekbones.” Mo Jing mumbled.

“That one,” Chen said dryly. “He already asked for the intimacy coordinator. He’s done romantic stage work during theater, he knows the drill. He also said he’ll follow your lead.”

Mo Jing pictured Zhou Da Feng. He was precise, steady, and practiced while reading for his audition. It helped. Mo Jing looked back down at the line in the script about the rooftop. The words did not shrink. They stayed there, simple and stubborn.

“What happens if I say no?” Mo Jing asked.

Chen shrugged lightly. “If you say ‘no kiss,’ they’ll either rework the scenes to a near-kiss and a head-on-shoulder, or they’ll recast you. And then a different actor will kiss him, and the show will still be big. That is the calculation.”

“And if I say maybe?”

“Then we workshop,” Chen said. “We set a meeting with the director and the intimacy coordinator. You talk about boundaries plainly. You test blocking fully clothed, no cameras. You can still say no. You can also surprise yourself and say yes. What you will not do is improvise on the day with twenty people watching. You will be prepared.”

Preparedness was soothing. Preparedness was a blanket he could pull over his head. He nodded slowly. “Okay. Set the meeting.”

Chen relaxed into his seat finally. “I’ll do it. And about the post? Good call. Sentiment’s swinging your way. Your sister won’t be hunted in the future.”

Mo Jing’s mouth softened. “Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me,” Chen said. “You chose direct clarity. That helps everyone.”

Mo Jing thumbed back to his socials while Chen typed an email. His post had been reposted by three major outlets as-is. No editorial twist, just the facts. His fanclub had stamped a graphic over the paparazzi shots that read Do Not Share Family Photos. He felt that little throb of gratitude again, the one that made his voice go stupid onstage during thank-yous.

He typed a reply to a top fan:

[ Tell everyone thank you for listening. Let’s enjoy the finale together when it goes live. ]

A knock sounded at the door. Chen’s assistant poked her head in. “Wardrobe sent lookbooks for River North. Director wants input on whether you lean softer or sharper in silhouette.”

“Sharp,” Chen and Mo Jing said at the same time, then glanced at each other and laughed.

“Sharp,” Mo Jing repeated, flipping a page in the script. “Let me be the knife to his velvet.”

“That’s quotable,” Chen said. “Don’t post it. You'll have another controversy on your hands.”

Mo Jing smirked. He went back to the rooftop scene and read the lines again, slower. He tried to imagine it not as a hurdle but as a beat in the music, a place the melody wanted to go. He let his breath even out. He pictured the coordinator; marks on the floor, consent language, the choreography. He pictured his own hands not as strangers but as tools he could learn to use.

“Okay,” he said again, more certain. “We’ll see if the music fits.”

Chen gathered a few papers, then paused as his phone buzzed with a news alert. “Also... heads up. The rumor pages are now pushing a counter-narrative: ‘Mystery woman isn't sister. Coverup for Romantic Affair.’ Your post worked, so I wouldn't worry about it. Some jokers are still stirring. Ignore it.”

“I’m good,” Mo Jing said. “I’ve got lines to learn and a few kisses to survive.”

“Attaboy.” Chen stood. “Go home. Sleep. I’ll send tomorrow’s call sheet.”

Mo Jing rose, hugging the script to his chest for a beat before tucking it under his arm. As he left the conference room, he caught his reflection in the dark glass of the hallway. He appeared to be exhausted. Sleeping in the van all night did horrors for his skin. He still had set makeup on.

In the elevator, his phone buzzed again. A message from Ke Xin:

[ Almost forgot, Jiejie had said hi. Dinner was good. I'm cooking again tonight. Come over if you have time. ]

He smiled at the screen, thumb hovering. Contemplating if he should tell her about the online turmoil. Maybe she already knows... if she didn't, he rather keep her out of the stress.

[ I'll be there. ]

Three dots. Then:

[ Good Job, Gēge ]

Odd reply. Maybe she did see the post. Didn't matter. Those three small words made his face bloom into a smile.

He pocketed the phone, closed his eyes, and let the elevator hum carry him down.

Thinking back to the script again. If they wanted a kiss? He would meet it with open eyes, with boundaries, with craft. With respect! For the story, for his new acting partner, for himself.

The doors slid open to the lobby. Coffee and disinfectant again. He stepped out, shoulders a touch lighter, headlines behind him, heartlines ahead.