Morning on set always smells like two things… stale coffee and mild panic.
I walk in with my matcha steaming in my hand like it's a talisman. Hot, oatmilk, two pumps of vanilla. The foam is a little uneven because my whisking was rushed, but it's still green and sweet and steady… which is more than I can say for my brain.
The studio is already awake. Lights humming, assistants calling names, someone arguing about cables like it's life or death.
I slip through it all quietly, script tucked under my arm, aqua pen clipped to the top like a promise.
Internal monologue:
Today will be normal.
Normal is good.
Normal means I don't have to think about lips and walls and the way his voice sounded last night.
Professional composure… intact.
Mostly.
I'm halfway to the craft services table when I spot him.
Jingyi is standing near the pastries, hair a little messier than usual… the kind of messy that looks deliberate but is probably just exhaustion. His emerald jacket is on, of course. It always is. Like it's part of his identity, stitched into his skin.
He's holding a cup of coffee like he doesn't trust it.
He looks up and sees me.
And the smile that hits his face is not for the room.
It's for me.
My heart does the stupidest little flip.
Internal monologue:
No.
Not at 7:14 a.m.
Have some dignity.
He walks over like it's normal. Like I didn't spend half the night replaying the memory of his hand on my cheek.
"Morning," he says.
"Morning," I reply, too calm. Suspiciously calm.
His eyes flick to my cup.
"Matcha," he says, approving, like he's checking that I'm still myself.
"It's still my entire personality," I tell him.
His mouth twitches.
"Good," he murmurs. "I was worried you'd become unpredictable."
"Me," I say flatly. "Unpredictable."
He nods solemnly. "It would ruin your brand."
I should roll my eyes.
I do roll my eyes.
But it doesn't land the way it used to… not sharp, not defensive.
More like… a shared joke.
He picks up a small pastry from the table, glances at it like it might be poisonous, then holds it out to me.
I stare.
"What is this," I ask.
"A croissant," he says.
"Yes, I can see that," I reply. "Why are you giving it to me."
He shrugs, casual.
"You didn't eat," he says.
My chest tightens. Not from offense. From the fact that he noticed.
"I did eat," I lie immediately.
His expression doesn't change. He just lifts an eyebrow.
"You did not."
I take a sip of matcha to avoid answering.
He waits.
I glare over the rim of my cup.
"What," I demand.
He leans in slightly, voice low.
"You make that face when you're lying," he says.
"I don't make a face," I whisper.
"You do," he replies. "It's cute."
Heat crawls up my neck.
I hate him.
I take the croissant.
Not because I'm hungry… which I am… but because I refuse to let him win.
He watches me tuck it under my script like it's evidence.
Satisfied.
Internal monologue:
This is how people end up domestic by accident.
You blink and suddenly someone's feeding you pastry at dawn.
We end up sitting at the edge of the craft services area, not at a table, just on two stools that happened to be empty. It's too casual to be suspicious… too ordinary to be romantic… which is probably why it feels like both.
He stirs his coffee, frowning at it.
"You don't like it," I observe.
He glances at me. "I like coffee."
"You don't," I say. "You like the idea of coffee. There's a difference."
He pauses, then smiles.
"That's rude," he says.
"It's accurate," I correct.
He takes a sip of his coffee and grimaces.
I don't even get to gloat. He does it for me.
"You're right," he admits.
I blink, offended.
"You admitted it," I say.
He sighs. "Don't make a big deal out of it. It's early."
I take a bite of croissant and hide my smile behind the script.
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The morning moves in fragments.
A few minutes of talking. Then work. Then more talking while waiting for someone to fix something. Then work again.
It's like we keep finding each other in the cracks between the day.
During a short break, we end up standing side-by-side near the hallway, both pretending to scroll on our phones.
He doesn't face me when he speaks. His voice is low, casual.
"Did you sleep okay," he asks.
It's a simple question.
It lands like a hand on my chest.
Because the honest answer is…
No.
I slept the way you sleep when you're trying not to hope too hard.
I keep my gaze on my phone.
"Not great," I admit quietly.
He hums.
"Me neither."
No teasing. No jokes. No "why."
Just… agreement.
It makes the air between us feel gentle.
Our shoulders touch lightly. A brush. Warm through fabric.
Neither of us moves away.
Internal monologue:
This is how people fall in love when no one is watching.
Not with fireworks… with quiet.
I glance at him out of the corner of my eye.
He's staring forward, expression calm, but his fingers flex once like he's holding back the instinct to reach for me.
I swallow.
And then someone calls his name from across the room and the moment breaks.
But it doesn't vanish.
It stays in my body like a low, steady hum.
⋆ ˚｡♡｡˚ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡♡｡˚ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡♡｡˚ ⋆
Lunch is loud.
It always is.
People crowd around tables, talking too fast, eating too quickly. Someone plays a video on their phone and everyone laughs too loudly at it like they're trying to pretend they're not tired.
I carry my tray and scan the room, intending to sit alone.
It's a habit.
It's safer.
Then Jingyi appears beside me like he materializes from the air.
"You're going to sit alone," he says.
It's not a question.
"I like sitting alone," I reply.
He nods.
"You also like being dramatic," he says.
I glare. "I'm not dramatic."
He pauses.
"Writer Yoon," he says gently, "you once threatened to sue a man for breathing near your pen."
"That was reasonable," I say.
He smiles like he's proud of me.
We end up at a table near the corner. Not hidden… just slightly away from the center.
He eats more than I expect him to. Still not much, but enough that it makes me realize he's not as careless with his body as his image suggests.
We talk about nothing.
The best kind of talking.
He asks me what food I miss the most.
I tell him about a street in China where I used to buy skewers late at night, the air full of smoke and spice and neon lights. I mention it casually, like it's not a part of me I'm handing him.
But the moment the words leave my mouth, I realize…
It is.
He listens like it matters. Like he's storing it somewhere.
"You said it was near that bookstore," he says suddenly.
I blink. "What."
He looks at me calmly.
"The place you told me about," he says. "The one you used to go to when you couldn't sleep."
My throat tightens.
I did tell him that.
Once.
And I didn't expect him to remember.
Internal monologue:
He remembers the version of me that existed before him.
It's terrifying.
And comforting.
I force my voice to stay normal.
"You have a weird memory," I tell him.
He smiles.
"Only for important things," he says.
I look down at my food because my eyes suddenly feel too hot.
⋆ ˚｡♡｡˚ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡♡｡˚ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡♡｡˚ ⋆
By late afternoon, my energy is low.
It's the kind of tired that sits behind your eyes and makes everything slightly too bright.
I'm standing near the monitors staring at nothing when Jingyi appears beside me, quiet as a shadow.
He doesn't make a joke.
He doesn't poke at me.
He just asks softly…
"Too much today."
I exhale.
"A little," I admit.
He nods once.
"Want company or space," he asks.
The question hits me harder than it should.
Company or space.
Not "tell me what's wrong." Not "I'll fix it." Not "you're fine."
Just… choice.
I hesitate. Old instincts rising.
Don't be needy. Don't ask. Don't make someone responsible for you.
Then I remember what I wanted, in the middle of all this mess.
I wanted someone to see me.
I wanted him to see me.
I swallow.
"Company," I say.
He nods like it's the most natural answer in the world.
"Okay," he replies.
And then he stays.
No conversation needed.
Just presence.
Just… not leaving.
Internal monologue:
This is what I meant.
This is what I was craving.
Someone staying without making me beg.
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When the day finally wraps, the studio empties in slow waves.
Lights dim. Staff members stretch. People gather their bags and complain about tomorrow's call time like it's a shared religion.
I walk out with my script held close, matcha cup empty, pen clipped tight.
Jingyi falls into step beside me like it's normal now.
We talk lightly, like we've been doing it for years.
He complains about the air conditioning. I tell him he's dramatic. He says I'm the dramatic one. I threaten to sue him again. He laughs.
The sky outside is dusky and blue, cool air brushing my cheeks.
We reach my car.
I stop.
He stops too.
For a second, we just stand there, the parking lot lights buzzing faintly overhead.
He looks at me like he's weighing something.
Not fear.
Care.
He clears his throat lightly.
"Hey," he says.
My heart jumps.
"What," I ask, automatically defensive.
He smiles, small.
"Would you want to… do something," he asks.
I blink.
"What do you mean," I manage.
He rubs the back of his neck once, a rare gesture that looks almost like nerves.
"Not here," he says. "Not work."
"Just… dinner. Or a walk. Or something simple."
My chest tightens.
He adds quickly, like he doesn't want to trap me.
"Only if you want," he says.
Silence floods the space between us.
My brain screams.
Internal monologue:
This is the line.
If I cross it, things change.
If I say yes, it becomes real in a way I can't pretend is just set life.
I stare at him.
He doesn't push.
He doesn't fill the silence.
He just waits… eyes warm… steady.
I swallow.
And then I do the scariest thing in the world.
I say yes.
"Okay," I whisper.
His relief is immediate… quiet but obvious, like his body unclenches.
"Okay," he echoes softly, smiling.
We stand there for a second longer than necessary.
Not touching.
Everything charged anyway.
Then he steps back to let me go, like he's still giving me space even while he's asking for closeness.
I open my car door, hands slightly unsteady.
He murmurs, "Tomorrow."
I nod once.
"Tomorrow," I repeat.
As I slide into the seat and close the door, I catch my reflection in the mirror.
Aqua blouse. Soft hair. Script on my lap. Pen clipped like a secret.
I look like someone who is about to change her life…
just by showing up.
Internal monologue:
Okay.
Tomorrow.
Don't panic.
Don't ruin it.
Then I start the car…
and realize my hands are shaking.
Not from fear.
From hope.