◎Measured by Hand◎
“Thank you… you…”
Song Chan didn’t know how to respond to him, so she simply nodded and expressed her thanks.
Her heart pounded like a startled deer on the verge of leaping out. Her mumbled gratitude was drowned out by the surrounding noisy chatter.
Fortunately, with Fat Uncle around, the atmosphere never cooled off. He led everyone in casual conversation, so no one noticed her current state.
The fork was stuck into the confit duck on the plate. Su Yicen had cut it to the perfect size—deboned and just right for one bite per piece.
As the duck meat entered her mouth, Song Chan found the taste pretty good. But even better than the duck was Su Yicen’s concern, which sent a gentle warm current flowing through her heart.
She hadn’t finished the confit duck on her plate when Zhou Chiyu beside her sent over two French baked snails.
She was truly startled by the sudden appearance of that shelled mollusk. Song Chan’s body instinctively jerked backward.
In her panic, she forgot the log stool had no backrest. Her leaning body lost its balance and tilted uncontrollably backward.
“Careful!”
Su Yicen and Zhou Chiyu called out almost simultaneously, but Zhou Chiyu was a step too late. He didn’t even brush the hem of Song Chan’s clothes before watching her fall straight into Su Yicen’s arms.
Her body was firmly caught by him. The moment their gazes met, she saw clear tension ripple through his usually calm, placid eyes.
“Are you okay?”
He asked softly, suppressing the worry in his tone. Yet his dark eyes searched hers for the real answer.
Such a commotion was impossible to ignore. Everyone’s gazes turned toward them.
“I’m fine.”
Seeing the eyes gathering around her, Song Chan didn’t know where she summoned the strength from. She hated sit-ups, but she relied purely on her not-so-powerful core to struggle upright without any help, quickly putting distance between herself and Su Yicen.
She continued her polite thanks. “Thank you, thank you Teacher Su.”
Her agile movements alone confirmed she was unharmed. Su Yicen knew exactly why Song Chan was panicking. He took a deep breath, lips twitching as he played along with her act.
“Teacher Song, be more careful. Don’t let any weird things scare you again. If someone with bad intentions snaps a photo and it gets out, I’m afraid I’ll be dragged down too.”
His tone was icy and stiff, his face expressionless as he delivered the line. It seemed aimed at Song Chan, but it was really a sarcastic jab at Zhou Chiyu for his unnecessary meddling.
At the same time, it was a subtle threat to everyone present—if this got out, someone would ‘suffer.’
But they all knew that if Su Yicen said it, the one paying the price would be whoever ran their mouth.
A double-edged hint, executed crystal clear.
Su Yicen swept a cold gaze across the crowd. He didn’t say another word, but everyone wisely looked away.
After the scare, Song Chan had no appetite left. She planned to zone out until it wrapped up when Zhou Chiyu beside her suddenly spoke.
His voice brimmed with apology. “Sorry, Chanchan. I didn’t know you were scared of that…”
“No… it’s fine…”
Song Chan waved it off. Only then did she notice that the baked snails from her plate—and the large platter on the table—had been moved far away at some point.
She hated troubling near-strangers the most. Now she felt a bit embarrassed. “I actually don’t mind them. It was just so sudden earlier; I didn’t react in time…”
Before she could finish, Director Chen’s hearty laugh cut her off.
“Looks like Little Song is our crew’s group favorite!”
Director Chen’s words made Song Chan panic. She’d been too much in the spotlight today—first the producer swapping seats with her, then getting pampered in turns by two top idols.
Afraid of misunderstandings, she rushed to explain. “I’ve worked with them before. Everyone just takes good care of me…”
Everyone in the crew knew Song Chan was a ZE Fashion editor. ZE Fashion’s clout in the Entertainment Circle was no secret.
With the connections of ZE’s star editor, plus Song Chan’s own buzz, her familiarity with these folks wasn’t surprising.
Not to mention the Chan Yi Mian Mian CP had exploded beyond the circle. Especially when these two leads personally dove in to dismantle it—that had been an Entertainment Circle spectacle for the ages.
Director Chen had downed a few extra glasses of fruit wine and was feeling a pleasant buzz. He waved her off.
“Little Song, relax. I’m just messing with you. Actually, I wanted to consult you on something.”
“What is it?” Song Chan asked quickly.
“We’ve got a scene coming up. To match the set, we had suits custom-made for our two leads.”
“The costume designer sent over sketches yesterday, but something feels off to me.”
With that, he pulled a sketchbook from the bag behind him.
“Here are the designs. Take a look? I think they could use some polishing, but I can’t put my finger on it.”
Having taken the fashion consultant gig with that fat paycheck, styling was squarely Song Chan’s wheelhouse.
She took it without hesitation. “I’ll check it out.”
Glancing at the sketches, Song Chan spotted the issue right away.
Director Chen wanted a vibe that synced with the set. The suits were on track, but the details needed tweaking toward sleek, minimalist opulence.
She laid it out straight. “Yeah, there’s a problem. I can revise it hands-on.”
“I’ll have it back to you tomorrow morning. That work?”
Song Chan’s crisp professionalism blew past Director Chen’s expectations. He’d pegged her as a producer plant—a pretty face there to cash in. But two sentences in, and he was sold on her talent.
“Perfect. That’s great. Do it just like Little Teacher Song says.”
As she handed back the sketches, Song Chan noticed another issue. “Director Chen, these two outfits don’t have measurements listed. There must be detailed spec sheets, right?”
Her question left Director Chen stumped. He dug through his bag forever but came up empty.
The air turned awkwardly thick. Fat Uncle jumped in to smooth it over.
He jabbed a thumb at the two silent top idols. “It’s just sizes. These guys are right here.”
“Little Song, measure ’em yourself.”
Fat Uncle was the impatient type. No sooner had he spoken than he hollered for someone to fetch a tape measure. But they were at the Estate Campground in Paris—good luck finding one.
Song Chan hastily gathered the sketches from the table, racking her brain for a dodge, when the long-silent Su top idol beside her perked up.
Su Yicen arched a brow and looked her way, offering a solution.
“Why hunt for a tape measure? Teacher Song, why not just use your hands?”