Morning on set feels… softer.
Not quieter… the studio is never quiet. There are still headsets crackling, assistants calling out time stamps, the hum of lights and cords and people moving like a living machine.
But the air is different.
The whispers don't stop when I walk past anymore… or maybe they do and I just don't catch them.
Either way, the pressure sits lighter on my shoulders today, like the world realized I didn't evaporate overnight.
Internal monologue:
I didn't disappear like I usually do.
The world didn't collapse.
I'm still standing.
I sip my matcha slower than usual, letting the warmth settle.
Hot. Oatmilk. Two pumps of vanilla.
It tastes like routine… like control… like a small, safe yes.
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Jingyi is already here.
He's in his emerald jacket, sunglasses hooked at the collar for once instead of hiding his eyes. He's laughing with the camera director like he's known him for years, not months. His smile is bright… easy… the kind that makes strangers forgive him for existing.
And then his gaze finds me.
Not dramatic. Not obvious.
Just… automatic.
His smile shifts… mine and private.
I hate that my mouth tries to do the same thing back.
I take another sip as if it's going to save me.
It doesn't.
He doesn't come over immediately. He finishes the conversation first. Says something charming. Makes someone laugh again. Then he drifts toward me like it's the most natural thing in the world to choose my gravity.
He stops beside me, close enough that his sleeve brushes my arm for half a second.
"Morning," he says.
"Morning," I answer, trying to sound normal. It comes out normal… which is suspicious.
Then he leans closer, voice low.
"You're early."
"I'm punctual," I say.
"You're… smug," he counters.
"I'm… hydrated," I counter back, lifting my cup.
He lets out a soft laugh like he's trying not to.
This is the sparkle.
Not loud. Not performative. Not fanservice.
Just him… comfortable again.
And it hits me, suddenly, how much that matters.
Internal monologue:
He didn't turn into a different person after the kiss.
He just… stopped holding his breath.
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The day moves quickly.
Scene notes. Blocking adjustments. A small rewrite the director requests last minute because the emotional beat needs to land sooner.
Normal chaos.
I'm standing near the script table when Jingyi slides my aqua pen toward me without looking.
Like he sensed it drifted.
Click.
The sound is tiny… satisfying… ridiculous.
I tuck it back into the script and pretend my chest didn't tighten.
Internal monologue:
He's not hovering…
He's orbiting.
And somehow that feels safer than any grand gesture.
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Later, I'm reviewing a scene change with the assistant director in a side room when Jingyi steps in, holding a printed copy of the revised lines. He looks annoyingly effortless doing something as simple as carrying paper.
We work. Quietly. Efficiently.
It's so normal it almost tricks me into forgetting what happened in the rehearsal room.
Until he leans over the table to point at a line.
His shoulder brushes mine.
Not an accident.
Not a big deal.
Just… a reminder.
My breath catches anyway.
He notices.
Of course he does.
He smiles like he's pleased with himself, then clears his throat and pretends to be professional.
"Here," he says, tapping the page. "This line… it's better if she doesn't soften too soon."
I glance at him. "You have opinions."
"I have lived experience," he says solemnly.
I narrow my eyes. "You're twenty-eight."
He nods. "Aged by emotional labor."
I snort before I can stop myself.
He looks delighted, like he just won something.
Then he leans back against the table, casual.
"If anyone asks," he says lightly, "we're just arguing about dialogue."
I blink.
"What."
He lifts an eyebrow. That one eyebrow. The one that makes me want to throw my matcha at him.
He continues, calm as if he's discussing weather.
"People will ask," he says. "They already are… with their eyes."
My throat tightens slightly.
"And if they don't believe us," I say, keeping my voice dry.
He smiles… soft, knowing.
"Then they're free to be wrong."
The words land in me like a warm blanket.
Not because it's bold.
Because it's steady.
Then his expression shifts, just a fraction… seriousness threading through the charm.
"Tell me if that makes you uncomfortable," he adds quietly.
There it is.
Choice.
Consent.
The thing he always gives me… even when he's teasing.
My heart tugs.
"No," I admit, surprising myself with how easy it comes out. "It actually makes me feel… covered."
His eyes soften.
"Good," he says.
One word.
Devastating.
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So-ah appears around midday.
She glides onto set like she owns the lighting, white blouse crisp, hair flawless, expression sweet enough to fool anyone who wants to be fooled.
She doesn't come directly at me today.
She doesn't need to.
She hovers near Jingyi during a break, laughing a little too brightly at something he says to someone else. She angles her body toward him like she's trying to reclaim a familiar pose… a familiar frame.
But Jingyi's attention… it always returns to me.
Not in a way that announces anything.
In a way that reveals everything.
So-ah notices.
I can see it in the tiny crack of her smile. The micro-stiffness. The way she pretends not to look while looking anyway.
Then someone mentions a scheduling overlap.
A producer says it casually, flipping through a tablet.
"Oh, and Lee Hyun-woo is confirmed for the brand event tie-in next week. He'll be on-site for the photo segment."
The name hits like an old bruise pressed too hard.
My shoulders tense before I can stop them.
Not because I miss him.
Because my body remembers what it was like to shrink.
To be reminded I was lucky anyone chose me at all.
Internal monologue:
It still hurts…
but it doesn't own me anymore.
I stare at the script like it can absorb the feeling.
I take a slow sip of matcha, swallowing down the reflex to vanish.
Across the room, Jingyi's gaze flicks to me.
He doesn't react publicly.
He doesn't storm over.
He doesn't ask in front of anyone.
He just shifts slightly… and somehow ends up closer, like a quiet shield without making a scene.
Not hiding me.
Making space.
My chest loosens a fraction.
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There's a lull in the afternoon… the kind that never lasts but always pretends it might.
We're waiting on lighting adjustments. People are scattered, half-working, half-resting.
I sit at a small table with my script and pen, tapping the edge absently while my brain sorts through a scene.
Click.
Click.
Click.
I don't realize I'm doing it until Jingyi speaks.
"You do that when you're thinking," he says.
I freeze mid-click.
"I do?"
He nods, sitting across from me like it's normal to share a table now.
"When you're deciding something important," he adds, voice calm.
My throat tightens.
I glance down at my pen like it betrayed me.
Click.
I stop. Force my fingers still.
He watches me with an expression that isn't teasing… not exactly.
More like fond amusement
As if he's seen the most adorable action he wants to cherish.
Internal monologue:
He's learning me…
carefully.
I swallow.
"Then stop watching me," I mutter.
He smiles. "No."
"That's not an option," I say.
He leans back slightly, amused.
"Correct," he says. "It's not."
I stare at him.
He stares back.
The silence stretches, soft and strange.
My heart feels as if it's too big for my chest.
He isn't pushing.
He's just… present.
And that might be the most dangerous thing he does.
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Toward the end of the day, there's a small moment that could have made me retreat.
A quick meeting with producers. A conversation about tone. About what the audience wants.
Old instincts whisper at the edge of my mind.
Be agreeable.
Be small.
Don't take up space… it's safer.
I don't.
I speak calmly. I make my point clearly. I don't apologize for the emotional core of the story like it's an inconvenience.
Light doesn't mean empty.
Romance doesn't mean shallow.
When the meeting ends, I walk out with my script held against my chest, pulse steady.
Jingyi is waiting in the hallway.
Not leaning. Not lurking.
Just there… like he knew I'd come out and didn't want me to come out alone.
He doesn't praise me loudly.
He doesn't make it a moment.
He just nods once, eyes warm.
And quietly… like it's only for me…
"You were good," he says.
My chest aches.
I try to deflect.
"I'm always good."
His mouth curves.
"I know," he replies.
Of course he does.
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Night falls outside the studio by the time we're done.
The exit doors open to cool air and a darkening sky. Crew members filter out in clusters. People wave, distracted. Someone calls Jingyi's name. He answers easily, smile on, charm effortless.
Then he turns back to me.
And the smile shifts again.
Private.
Mine.
We walk toward my car light brushing of arms… just close enough that it would be natural if anyone saw it.
I stop at my door.
He stops too.
For a beat, neither of us speaks.
There's something in his expression… like a near-confession hovering at the edge of his mouth.
He almost says something.
Instead, he reaches out and taps my script lightly with two fingers… like he's grounding himself.
"Don't overwork," he murmurs.
Not romantic on the surface.
Devastatingly so underneath.
Because I hear everything he didn't say.
And he knows I heard it.
I nod once, throat tight.
"I won't," I promise.
He watches me for a second longer, then steps back to let me go.
As I slide into the driver's seat, I catch my reflection in the mirror.
Aqua blouse. Soft waves. Pen tucked into the script. Matcha cup empty in the holder.
I look… grounded.
Not smaller.
Not sharper.
Just myself.
Internal monologue:
He didn't rush me.
He didn't retreat.
He stayed.
And the thought that follows is quiet… terrifying… inevitable.
If anyone asks…
I think I'm already choosing him.