All the Cubs I Raised Became Big Shots – CH54

Chapter 54

At the same moment Lin Shengyun called “Action,” the door to the set was gently pushed open.

A man, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit, stepped inside. His gaze landed on the young man sitting in the center of the scene.

A script supervisor casually glanced to the side and greeted him. Ye Yuyuan gave a slight nod in return.

The supervisor turned back, thinking, Oh, it’s President Ye.

Two seconds later, her brain finally caught up—And then her movements froze, bit by bit.

She turned her head back to look at him, rubbed her eyes, then rubbed them again.

Am I seeing things?!

But on the other side, the camera had already begun rolling.

The lens focused on Fang Huai’s eyes.

It was a nearly three-second close-up, capturing the light hues of his irises.

This was one of Lin Shengyun’s signature filming habits—or, one could say, an obsession. He didn’t strictly demand masterful body language or impeccable line delivery from his actors. This was precisely why he had dared to cast the completely inexperienced Fang Huai in the first place—

Because in Lin Shengyun’s films, the eyes mattered most.

As a result, many actors who frequently collaborated with him tended to have striking eyes—ones that could convey emotions directly. Joy and sorrow, love and loss, all condensed into a single shift in gaze.

The camera focused on Fang Huai’s eyes.

Barely half a second had passed when Lin Shengyun suddenly tightened his grip on the armrest and sat up straight.

His sensitivity to expressions was unmatched. Almost no one else noticed the shift, but he felt it immediately.

If Fang Huai’s previous eye close-ups had barely scraped by at a passing level, this time…He had completely exceeded expectations.

Those light brown eyes were open, seemingly calm and indifferent at first glance. But beneath that surface, there was something incredibly soft—an unspoken, indescribable depth that, in an instant, ignited into brilliance.

It was the awakening of a young heart.

Like a vibrant flower breaking through frozen soil, coming to life.

Excellent. Absolutely excellent.

But just as quickly as that warm, flickering emotion surfaced, it was suppressed again—gone within a single second.

And yet, that fleeting moment had already burned itself into the viewer’s retinas, leaving an itch that begged to be scratched, a mystery that demanded to be unraveled.

The camera pulled back. Multiple angles began recording simultaneously, officially starting the scene.

A knock sounded at the door.

Then, Liang Tao—playing Lin Shuheng’s secret crush—stepped in quietly.

Fang Huai held a paintbrush, his gaze lingering on the canvas for a long moment. His expression remained neutral as he dipped the brush into oil paint and outlined the contours of his work, occasionally glancing at the vase and apple placed on the table.

It had to be said—after days of training and practice, Fang Huai’s performance had become much more natural on camera.

Under the lens, the seventeen or eighteen-year-old boy wore a linen shirt and Western-style suspenders. His slightly upturned hair caught the light.

He held a palette in one hand, his pale, slender fingers gripping the paintbrush. His eyes were downcast in silence as he painted, his posture impeccably upright—perfectly embodying the well-mannered son of a wealthy family.

Under the carefully adjusted lighting, the scene needed no post-production touch-ups.

The entire frame already carried the air of an old, poignant story.

Liang Tao clasped his hands behind his back, holding a single rose. His Adam’s apple bobbed slightly, as if he were a little nervous. After a brief pause, he nonchalantly leaned closer to Fang Huai and asked, “What are you painting? Can I take a look?”

In the frame, the boy’s eyes flickered for a split second—then, almost immediately, his expression turned twice as cold. Before the man behind him could even catch a glimpse of the canvas, he raised his hand, tore the painting from the easel, and crumpled it into a ball.

“Please don’t disturb me,” he said icily.

Anyone watching would have no doubt—the boy despised the person standing in front of him. His gaze was filled with impatience, even outright rejection, a stark contrast to the fleeting moment of budding emotions captured at the beginning of the scene.

Yet, it wasn’t pure anger. He had concealed his emotions well, but at the end of the day, he liked this person. Beneath the mask of irritation, traces of bashfulness and surprise leaked through in the tiniest of details—his fingers clenched tightly around the paper.

…Not bad at all!

This time, it wasn’t just Lin Shengyun who noticed. Many others did too. The assistant director couldn’t help but stand up, leaning in to examine the viewfinder closely. Even Liang Tao’s assistant, who had just been complaining about Fang Huai earlier, widened his eyes in disbelief.

Unlike before, this wasn’t just stiff acting or robotic line delivery.

Looking at Fang Huai’s expression, one could truly feel it—he, or rather, Lin Shuheng, was awkwardly yet undeniably harboring feelings for the person in front of him.

Even Liang Tao, acting opposite Fang Huai, was slightly taken aback. But he didn’t let it show. He stuck to the script, delivering his lines and following the cues. Yet, this time, Fang Huai was the one driving the scene—

In previous takes, Liang Tao had carried the performance while Fang Huai merely followed along.

But now, Fang Huai was leading the moment, using his emotions and presence to pull the scene forward!

The furrow of his brows, the widening of his eyes, the barely suppressed smile at the corner of his lips—every flicker of emotion on his face told a story. He showed just enough to intrigue, yet concealed even more, drawing the audience in, making them want to see deeper.

The scene wasn’t long, and soon it would come to an end. As it neared its conclusion, many on set started to relax. The camera assistant, even a little excited, leaned in to whisper to a colleague, “I didn’t expect him to improve this much.”

“Yeah… It’s really good. Maybe not mind-blowing, but already really impressive.”

“I think I’m becoming a fan.”

The assistant director and script supervisor both nodded in agreement.

Lin Shengyun remained unfazed, still focused on the viewfinder—but from the way his once-stiff shoulders had finally eased, it was clear he was in a good mood.

However, the scene wasn’t over yet. And as a director, no matter how much everyone else relaxed, he couldn’t afford to.

And it was at this moment that everything changed.

At this point in the script, the political situation had already become dire. Moreover, given the societal prejudices against homosexuality at the time, Lin Shuheng deliberately acted cold toward the person he loved. The scene was supposed to end with the young master finally losing his internal battle against his overwhelming emotions—during their argument, he was meant to embrace the other man and kiss his chin.

It was this intimate embrace and fleeting kiss that would leave the other man with a lasting memory. Yet, until the very end of the film, neither of them would ever voice their feelings. One would sacrifice himself for his country, while the other would live out his life alone, carrying the regret forever.

As the scene neared its conclusion, Liang Tao had already turned to leave. According to the script, Fang Huai was supposed to step forward, embrace him, and kiss him.

But Fang Huai didn’t.

Even as sweat formed in Liang Tao’s palms and he nervously extended the rose toward him, the expression on the boy’s face remained indifferent—if not outright cold.

He didn’t reach out to accept the flower. He simply let it fall to the ground, its petals scattering in the dust.

This isn’t right.

According to the script, the moment the rose left Liang Tao’s fingers, Fang Huai was supposed to catch it—then stand up, embrace him, and pull him into that final moment of vulnerability.

So what the hell was going on?!

Everyone was stunned. This take wasn’t necessarily perfect, but as long as Fang Huai followed the plan, it would have been enough to meet Lin Shengyun’s expectations.

Why did he change things at the last second?

The set fell into a brief silence. Since they were recording live sound, absolute quiet had to be maintained. No one could voice their confusion, but their eyes and lips exchanged silent conversations, “Did he just change the script? How reckless can he be?”

“What’s going on? This take is definitely ruined now—what a waste.”

“Why is he doing this again? Does he think he’s some kind of genius who can act however he wants?” Liang Tao’s assistant, who had already criticized Fang Huai earlier, whispered with a self-satisfied smirk. “Well, look at that—he screwed up, just like I expected.”

Lin Shengyun’s brows furrowed deeply.

He didn’t believe Fang Huai was the kind of person to be this reckless.

But this time, Fang Huai had made a mistake—he had just wasted his last chance.

Lin Shengyun’s grip tightened. He hesitated, reluctant, but ultimately raised his hand, preparing to call out the dreaded word—

“Cut.”

He knew this was their final opportunity. They had another scene scheduled that afternoon, and there wasn’t time to keep redoing this one.

And this scene should have worked.

Now, because of Fang Huai, it was all ruined—But in the center of the frame, Fang Huai was already lost in the moment, completely drawn into the emotions of the character.

He understood what Lin Shuheng was feeling.

He hadn’t deliberately tried to change the script—he had wanted to follow it. But when the moment came, his body resisted. It urged him not to embrace the other man.

And suddenly, a thought surfaced in his mind—No. This isn’t right.

If Lin Shuheng were truly here, he would never have done that.

He wouldn’t have hugged him.

He wouldn’t have kissed him.

Fang Huai had tried to follow the script. He had wanted to do it right. But his body and mind had betrayed him.

Now, frustration gripped his chest.

I messed up again.

Then, suddenly—His gaze lifted, cutting through the chaos of the set, the silent criticisms, and the weight of his own disappointment—

And he locked eyes with him.

A pair of deep, obsidian-black eyes.

All around the man, people were whispering, exchanging glances, silently voicing their doubts and judgments.

But he—he alone—stood still. His expression never wavered.

There was no disappointment in his gaze.

His eyes were warm. Trusting.

Amidst the dull, gray backdrop of the set, he was the only light.

In an instant, all the noise faded into silence.

Everything happened within a fleeting half-second—so brief that no one noticed. And yet, in that moment, Fang Huai’s wavering emotions settled almost immediately.

In that infinitely stretched-out second, he heard nothing but his own breath, his own heartbeat, and then—

Fang Huai saw Ye Yuyuan looking at him, steady and unwavering. There was no particular expression on his face, but his gaze was soft.

Silently, Ye Yuyuan mouthed to him, “You’re doing well.”

— You’re doing well.

The moment passed in the blink of an eye. Fang Huai’s eyelashes trembled slightly before he lowered his gaze.

And it was at that very second that his emotions surged, clearer than ever before. He discarded all the doubts, the sneers, the whispers of derision. He could hear only his own heartbeat—

It was pounding.

Again and again, thundering in his chest, pulsing through his veins with each sharp breath. For the first time, he could feel it so vividly, the rush of blood, the force of his own pulse.

By now, Liang Tao had already turned and walked out the door. The rose petals lay scattered across the floor, mingling with the dust. The light caught on them, casting faint shadows. The boy’s eyelashes lowered as he looked down, his back straight, his face devoid of any discernible emotion as he stared at the fallen petals.

Around him, hushed whispers grew louder, impossible to suppress any longer.

And yet—for reasons unknown—Lin Shengyun did not call “cut.”

Amidst all the skeptical and mocking gazes, Fang Huai slowly sank to his knees.

The murmurs and doubts that had filled the room suddenly came to an abrupt halt.

The camera zoomed in on those light amber eyes, capturing the moment perfectly.

And at that moment, everyone watching could see it—the emotions the boy had suppressed for so long, buried deep within, tangled in silent agony—his love, so intense it nearly consumed him, finally broke free.

There was no need for exaggerated actions, no need for words or overt expressions.

Just that single glance alone was enough to make hearts tighten, enough to pull every person witnessing it into his sorrow.

In that brief flicker of emotion, many suddenly understood Lin Shuheng.

He… would never say it.

No matter how deeply he loved, down to the marrow of his bones, he would never say it.

Because not knowing meant there would be no burden. It meant that even after his death, the other person could still live a peaceful, happy life. He could marry, have children, and only occasionally think of him on certain holidays, in passing.

It sounded cruel.

But for them, this was the best possible ending.

In the frame, the boy knelt on the ground, his posture defeated. His fingers trembled as he reached for the fallen rose. The light reflected in his eyes, and at last, all the emotions he had held back—emotions that had been bleeding inside him all along—were laid bare, raw and unspoken.

A love buried within the long river of time, a love no one would ever know.

He lowered his eyes, his rims reddened, and gently kissed the rose that had fallen into the dust.

The entire room was silent.