Dating the Heartthrob Superstar-Chapter 29: Got on the Wrong Number

Chapter 29: Logged into the Wrong Account frёewebnoѵēl.com

Without a doubt, Lin Qin’s words demonstrated absolute respect for supporting roles. In Lin Qin’s eyes, the so-called supporting roles and leading roles are the same—they all have their own lives and are equally deserving of respect.

Every character in a script is full of life and flesh in Lin Qin’s eyes. The only difference is how much screen time they occupy in a show or a movie.

From Lin Qin’s words, Dai Hong and Zhu Ling also saw his attitude. He didn’t care whether he was the leading actor or not; what he cared about was whether he could faithfully embody the role he was given.

In that instant, the couple suddenly understood why Lin Qin, at such a young age, could win the Best Actor award at the Cannes Film Festival. Sure, he’d had access to good resources, but the other half of his success came from himself—his diligence and dedication to his craft.

In today’s industry, where impulsiveness and shortcuts abound, how many young actors are willing to put in the effort like Lin Qin to explore their characters and hone their skills? Most settle for stand-ins and green-screen effects. A TV series with dozens of episodes often wraps up in three or four months, resulting in a low-quality product. Even so, with popular idols in the cast, there’s still an audience willing to watch, yelling about how "handsome" or "beautiful" they are, while overlooking the skilled performers delivering actual acting within those shows.

As a result, in such productions, supporting roles become a joke. The audience, with no sense of guilt, say justifiably, "I’m not here for the plot; as long as they’re good-looking, that’s enough."

But is it really enough? Shows and movies with no logic, no acting, and scripts nobody even bothers to memorize, relying entirely on post-production dubbing—do they even deserve the title of shows or movies anymore?

Veterans like Dai Hong and Zhu Ling can’t change such a climate. Yet, bowing to social pressures, they still end up joining such production teams. They dance with shackles on, yet strive to present the best of the characters they portray.

Still, all their effort, in the eyes of others, can’t compare to one leading actor’s handsome face.

Which is why, hearing Lin Qin’s words today, Dai Hong and Zhu Ling felt as if someone had poured warm water into their hearts. At the very least, in Lin Qin, they saw the responsibility and integrity of a young actor.

"Exactly. Whether leading or supporting, every character has a brilliant life and deserves respect," Dai Hong sighed, wanting to pat Lin Qin on the shoulder. But considering Lin Qin’s shy and reserved personality, he withdrew his hand and simply said, "The future belongs to young people like you. Seeing this in you makes me very happy."

Zhu Ling nodded approvingly. "Even the green leaves have their charm. If everyone competed to be the red flower, it would feel monotonous and dull."

To create a brilliant performance, many veteran actors, true masters of their craft, care little about their billing in a show. They’re willing to play supporting roles, even at the expense of their image, all in service of the character.

No matter how restless and profit-driven the outside world becomes, they remain steadfast in their original intention as filmmakers and TV professionals—artists of both virtue and skill, holding onto a sense of purity in an increasingly impatient industry.

After expressing these sentiments, Dai Hong glanced at the time and said, "It’s getting late. Everyone should get some rest."

With that, he took Zhu Ling’s hand, and the two ambled back to the villa along the cobblestone path.

"We should head back too," Meng Chao said, gathering up Lin Qin’s notebook as he spoke.

"Mm," Lin Qin replied.

The two walked side by side toward the villa. The moonlight spilled down on them, stretching their shadows long and thin.

Meng Chao reached out and tentatively hooked his pinky finger around Lin Qin’s. Seeing that Lin Qin didn’t pull away, he gently took Lin Qin’s hand into his own.

Lin Qin’s face turned red, but he didn’t try to pull away.

At the corner, their shadows overlapped, weaving into a tangled, intimate silhouette.

Once inside the villa, Lin Qin and Meng Chao went upstairs. At Lin Qin’s bedroom door, they stopped.

Lin Qin withdrew his hand, his face still burning, and he avoided Meng Chao’s eyes as he looked down and said, "Goodnight, Brother Chao."

Before Meng Chao could reply, Lin Qin turned quickly, opened the door, and stepped inside. But Meng Chao caught his hand, leaned in suddenly, and planted a kiss on Lin Qin’s forehead.

Lin Qin’s eyes widened in shock, his expression a mix of confusion and delight. Something fluttered in his chest, making him feel as though he might just float away.

After the kiss, Meng Chao didn’t leave immediately. Still leaning forward, he spoke softly into Lin Qin’s ear, "When I asked the couple for advice on relationships, I wasn’t just talking. I intend to put it into practice, and with only one person—the only person."

Lin Qin stood frozen, wide-eyed and utterly dazed. He could hear the sound of his own heartbeat, loud and steady, reverberating in the otherwise silent night.

But Meng Chao didn’t push him too hard. He ruffled Lin Qin’s hair gently and nudged him back into the room, smiling warmly. "Go get some rest. See you in the morning." With that, he even kindly closed the door for Lin Qin.

Lin Qin stood in his room blankly for a while before finally regaining his senses. Meng Chao’s words echoed in his ears over and over. His heart bubbled with elation.

"I feel like I’m about to float away," Lin Qin murmured, leaping onto his bed and burying his face in the blanket. He giggled uncontrollably, his eyes crinkling in sheer delight. He looked utterly foolish but overjoyed.

That night, Lin Qin couldn’t sleep. Eventually, he pulled out his phone, which they were allowed to use evenings only, and posted a Weibo update.

Using his alternate account, Lin Qin didn’t hold back his emotions, and his post read—

"Ahhhhhhhhhhhh, I think someone just confessed to me!!! I’m flying with joy!!! I’m so excited; I can’t sleep!!"

After posting the update, Lin Qin placed the phone on his chest and rolled around in bed restlessly.

Meanwhile, in the room next door, Meng Chao had just stepped out of the shower when his phone chimed. It was a special notification he’d set up; whenever someone on his "special follows" list posted on Weibo, he would get an instant alert.

And the only person on Meng Chao’s "special follows" list was Lin Qin.

Picking up his phone, Meng Chao opened Weibo and saw Lin Qin’s latest post.

Reading the post, which was drastically different from Lin Qin’s usual style, Meng Chao’s first thought was that Lin Qin must have logged into the wrong account. He likely mistook his main account for his alternate one, which was why he had so unreservedly shared his feelings.

Still such a little scatterbrain.

Unable to hold back a laugh, Meng Chao unconsciously gave the post a "like."

Both Lin Qin’s main and alternate accounts had Meng Chao marked as a special follow, meaning any movement on Meng Chao’s account instantly reached Lin Qin. So, Lin Qin soon noticed that Meng Chao had liked a Weibo post, and as he read it more carefully, he realized with growing panic that the post was awfully familiar. After a moment of delayed realization, he understood—it was his own post from just moments ago. In a panic, his eyes darted to the account nickname...

Lin Qin: !!!!!

He had logged into the wrong account. Crying face emojis all over.