The set was quiet, almost eerie in the early dusk, most of the crew already gone, their laughter and shouts replaced by the steady hum of the distant generator. Mirae let the trailer door click shut behind her, sagging back against it, her bag slipping from her shoulder. Rumors were everywhere—about the production, about her, about what would happen next. Her phone buzzed with group chat messages, news links, clickbait headlines. All of it felt heavy, coiling around her chest until every breath was effort.
Joon-ho sat at the little fold-out table, a thermos of leftover coffee in his hand, hair messy, shirt half-unbuttoned. He didn't say anything as she crossed the cramped space and, wordless, climbed into his lap, straddling him in the small chair. Her arms looped around his neck, face pressed to his shoulder. For a moment, she just breathed him in—his warmth, the faint scent of sweat and shampoo, a balm against the chaos outside.
