The morning after the date doesn't feel like morning.
It feels like I'm waking up inside a soft echo… like the air itself remembers.
I lie still for a moment with my eyes half-open, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the familiar panic to arrive and start shouting instructions.
Don't get your hopes up.
Don't make this bigger than it is.
Don't embarrass yourself.
But the panic doesn't rush in today.
What rushes in instead are fragments.
His pause when he saw me.
The way he said "comfortable" like it mattered more than pretty.
The warmth of the streetlight.
The fact that he waited until I was inside… like my safety mattered even when no one was watching.
My chest tightens, not painfully… just meaningfully.
Internal monologue:
Nothing bad happened.
So why do I feel like I'm standing in the open.
I force myself out of bed and shuffle to the kitchen like I'm pretending this is a normal on-set morning. It isn't… but it's close enough to fool my hands.
Matcha first.
Hot. Oatmilk. Two pumps of vanilla.
The whisking steadies me. The green turns glossy, calm.
The first sip tastes sweeter today… which is annoying, because now my own drink is romanticizing my life.
I stare out the window while the city hums quietly outside.
Internal monologue:
Okay.
It happened.
It was real.
And I didn't ruin it.
The thought which should just make me happy.
Also makes me feel… exposed.
Like I've been walking around with my ribcage open and no one told me.
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Set is louder than usual when I arrive.
Or maybe it just feels louder because I'm carrying something fragile inside my chest.
I tuck my script tighter under my arm. My aqua pen is clipped at the top like always… bright, playful, the one part of me that doesn't pretend to be sharp and polished.
I try to move through the studio like I always do… quiet, focused, unbothered.
But my eyes keep flicking forward, scanning without permission.
For him.
Internal monologue:
Stop looking.
You're going to look like you're looking.
This is not a romance drama. This is your life.
The worst part is… my body doesn't feel tense today.
My shoulders aren't up around my ears.
My jaw isn't clenched.
I keep catching myself almost smiling at nothing.
And every time it happens, I stop it like it's a crime.
Crew members move around me with their usual chaos. Someone calls out a time check. Another person jogs by holding a rack of costumes.
Everything is the same.
I'm the one who isn't.
Internal monologue:
We're carrying something new.
And we're both pretending it's weightless.
He arrives later than me.
I don't notice him because I'm looking.
I notice him because the room shifts.
It's subtle… but I feel it.
The atmosphere leans.
Someone laughs a little louder.
Someone straightens their posture.
Then I turn and there he is… stepping into the studio like he belongs to the light itself.
Emerald jacket on. Sunglasses hooked at the collar.
Idol mode… but softened around the edges, like he didn't zip the mask all the way up.
His gaze finds mine almost immediately.
He doesn't grin. He doesn't flirt.
He just nods once… small… like a private agreement.
We're okay.
My chest warms.
I nod back.
My face stays neutral.
My heart does not.
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The day moves in fragments again… but different than usual.
Not because we're glued to each other.
Because we're aware.
We pass each other in hallways and our eyes catch, hold a beat too long, then drift away like we're both pretending that didn't happen.
We stand in the same circle during a director briefing and somehow I can feel where he is without looking.
At one point, he walks past me and murmurs, barely audible…
"Did you sleep okay?"
The words hit like a fingertip to the center of my chest.
I keep my gaze on my notes.
"Yes," I answer softly.
Then, because my honesty is apparently on strike today, I add…
"Did you?"
A pause.
His voice comes warm, quiet.
"A little better," he says.
Not because sleep improved.
Because something did.
I swallow.
Internal monologue:
This is ridiculous.
We're talking about sleep like it's code for… everything.
It is.
And we both know it.
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By midday, the set is running behind schedule.
People are tired. Tempers are shorter. The director is trying to keep energy up with jokes that don't land.
Someone hands me a new prop list and I groan under my breath.
Then I realize Jingyi is standing next to me, close enough that his sleeve brushes my arm.
"Bad," he says, glancing at the paper.
"Very bad," I confirm.
He peers over my shoulder.
"What is it," he asks.
"An emotional support umbrella," I mutter. "And it's apparently the wrong color."
He makes a thoughtful sound.
"Devastating," he says.
I look up, deadpan.
"Tell the audience. They deserve to know."
His mouth twitches like he's trying not to smile.
Then a crew member walks by with a ridiculous prop—something glittery and dramatic—and I can't help it.
I laugh.
It's not polite. It's not controlled.
It slips out of me like the sound belongs to someone else… someone lighter.
And because I'm not braced, I lean into Jingyi for half a second without thinking.
Just a brief tilt of my shoulder into his arm.
A reflex.
A comfort.
The world blurs for that tiny moment… like my body forgot we're not supposed to do that in public.
I realize what I've done a fraction too late.
My breath catches.
I start to pull away—
And Jingyi, without slowing it down, without making it romantic, without making it a thing…
reaches up and brushes a loose strand of hair away from my face.
Not slow.
Not dramatic.
Just… gentle. Comfortable. Like we've done it a thousand times.
Like he's taking care of something small for someone he's used to taking care of.
His fingertips barely graze my temple.
Then his hand drops immediately, like his body realizes where we are.
The moment is over in one heartbeat.
I blink, suddenly too aware of my own skin.
Internal monologue:
Oh. Oh no.
I straighten fully, clearing my throat like that will erase the last three seconds.
He doesn't look at me like he's embarrassed.
He doesn't tease.
He just murmurs, almost under his breath…
"You had hair in your eyes."
"Thank you," I whisper back, voice a little too thin.
He nods once, as if nothing happened.
But his gaze flicks to mine for half a beat… soft… steady…
and it says everything his words refuse to.
I look away first.
Because if I don't, I might lose my ability to function as a professional adult.
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The rest of the afternoon is normal.
Almost.
But I catch people glancing.
Not full stares… just quick looks that linger a beat too long.
I tell myself I'm imagining it.
I tell myself I'm paranoid.
Internal monologue:
No one saw anything.
It was nothing.
It was a strand of hair.
But the feeling doesn't leave.
Like the air remembers.
Like the world noticed.
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It isn't until later, when the day is winding down, when the studio lights have shifted warmer and the crew is running on fumes… that my phone buzzes.
I'm standing by the prop table, scanning a list, when the notification pops up.
A message from a junior assistant… someone I've only spoken to a handful of times.
Assistant: Um… Writer Yoon. Have you seen this?
My stomach drops before I even open it.
My thumb hovers.
Internal monologue:
No.
Please no.
I tap.
A link loads.
And there it is.
A short video clip… shaky, slightly zoomed, the kind filmed casually and uploaded without thought.
Me laughing.
Me leaning into him for half a second.
Him brushing a strand of hair from my face like it's instinct.
Nothing scandalous.
No kiss.
No embrace.
No hand on my waist.
Just…
Intimacy.
Real.
Unmistakable.
My mouth goes dry.
My ears ring.
Internal monologue:
That wasn't supposed to belong to anyone else.
The caption underneath is already spreading, comments multiplying like ants.
"IS THAT WRITER-NIM???"
"WAIT THEY'RE SO CUTE HELP"
"THAT'S NOT FAN SERVICE… THAT'S SOFT"
"JINGYI LOOKED AT HER LIKE HE'S IN LOVE"
"WHO IS SHE???"
"she's pretty omg"
"she's not idol type though"
"don't be weird"
"THIS IS A REAL COUPLE MOMENT"
My throat tightens sharply.
My fingers go cold around the phone.
The room feels too bright.
Too loud.
Too open.
I'm standing in the middle of the studio and suddenly I feel like I'm standing in the middle of the internet.
I force myself to breathe.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
Then I hear his voice.
Low. Close.
"Su-bin."
I look up.
Jingyi is right there.
His expression is calm… but his eyes are sharp in a way I rarely see.
Not angry.
Focused.
Protective.
He doesn't take my phone.
He doesn't crowd me.
He just steps close enough that the rest of the world fades slightly… like he's creating a barrier with nothing but presence.
He glances down at the screen.
I watch the moment play again in his reflection.
His jaw tightens.
Then he looks back at me.
"I'm sorry," he says immediately.
The words hit hard.
Because he's not apologizing for me.
He's apologizing for what happened to me.
I swallow.
"It's not your fault," I manage, even though my voice sounds distant… like it belongs to someone else.
He shakes his head slightly.
"It shouldn't have been taken," he says quietly. "And it shouldn't have been posted."
My chest aches.
He watches my face carefully.
"Are you okay," he asks.
Not "what are we going to say."
Not "PR is going to kill me."
Not "this could ruin everything."
Just… you.
The simplicity makes my eyes burn.
I blink fast.
"I'm fine," I say automatically.
The lie is instinct.
He doesn't call me out.
But his gaze holds mine a second longer… like he sees right through it and is choosing gentleness anyway.
Internal monologue:
I wanted him to see me.
Not like this.
Around us, the studio hum changes.
Whispers ripple like wind.
Phones buzz.
People pretend not to stare while staring anyway.
And somewhere across the room… I see So-ah.
She's standing with her assistant, face composed.
But her eyes are bright.
And the corner of her mouth lifts just slightly.
Not a smile.
A signal.
She saw it.
And she likes what it might become.
My stomach sinks.
Jingyi's hand doesn't touch me… but he shifts, subtly, placing himself half a step closer… enough that if anyone looks, they'll look at him first.
Like he's silently saying:
Don't.
His voice stays low.
"We can leave," he murmurs.
I swallow hard, staring at the clip again.
Me… laughing.
Me… leaning into him like I forgot the world.
Him… brushing my hair away like I belong to his instinct.
It looks like us.
And that's what makes it devastating.
Internal monologue:
It wasn't dramatic.
It wasn't reckless.
It was just… ours.
And now it isn't.
I lift my gaze to him again, throat tight.
"I don't regret it," I whisper.
His eyes soften immediately… like he heard the real meaning.
"I know," he says gently.
Then, quieter… like he's promising something without saying it out loud…
"I won't let them make you regret it."
My chest tightens, and for the first time since I opened that link…
I can breathe again.
Not because the danger is gone.
Because he's here.
And he's steady.