The world doesn't end after a moment goes public.
It just gets louder.
I learn this as I walk through the studio the next morning, script pressed to my chest like a shield, my name no longer something I can carry quietly.
Phones buzz.
Whispers ripple.
Not cruel… not exactly.
Just curious. Hungry.
I keep my head down and tell myself to breathe normally, to walk like I always do, to not suddenly look like someone who has something to hide.
Internal monologue:
I didn't choose to be seen like that.
But I didn't fake it either.
That distinction matters to me… even if it doesn't matter to anyone else.
People glance at my hands.
My face.
My body.
Like they're searching for proof of something they think they already know.
I straighten my shoulders.
Aqua pen in hand.
Professional composure… intact.
Or at least rehearsed.
I feel him before I see him.
Not in a dramatic way.
In the way you feel someone step closer into your gravity.
Jingyi walks beside me without announcement, matching my pace like he's always been there. No sunglasses today. No idol armor.
Just him.
He doesn't speak at first.
Neither do I.
The silence isn't awkward.
It's careful.
Like we're both handling something fragile and unnamed.
We pass a group of assistants who suddenly find the floor fascinating. One of them smiles too quickly. Another looks away like they've been caught witnessing something intimate.
My shoulders tense without permission.
He notices immediately.
His presence shifts just slightly… not blocking, not claiming… just aligning himself so the stares hit him first.
It's subtle.
It's everything.
We turn down a quieter hallway that leads toward the stairwell, the noise of the main set dulling behind us.
My breath steadies.
The click of my shoes echoes.
Our arms brush.
I don't move away fast enough.
My fingers graze his.
The contact is accidental.
The pause after is not.
We both stop walking.
For half a second, my instinct screams to pull back… to laugh it off… to say something clever that turns this into nothing.
I don't.
Neither does he.
His pinky hooks around mine.
Not dramatic.
Not possessive.
Almost shy.
The smallest question.
I freeze… heart pounding… the world narrowing down to that one point of contact.
Then I answer.
I lace my fingers through his.
The choice lands solidly in my chest.
Internal monologue, sharp and sudden:
This is louder than any kiss.
His hand is warm.
Steady.
The way his thumb rests against my knuckle feels intentional… grounding.
We start walking again like this… fingers intertwined, arms relaxed, steps unhurried.
No announcement.
No explanation.
Just forward motion together.
I can feel my pulse in my palm.
I wonder if he can feel it too.
The hallway opens into a small landing near a window, afternoon light slanting in and softening everything it touches.
We stop again.
This time, he turns to face me.
Really face me.
His expression isn't playful. Isn't charming.
It's open.
Serious.
Undone in a way that makes my chest ache.
He doesn't tighten his grip.
Doesn't pull me closer.
He just… stays.
"I don't want you to feel like you have to explain yourself," he says quietly.
The words settle between us like something carefully placed.
I swallow.
"I didn't plan for that moment," I admit. "I didn't think about… cameras."
"I know," he says immediately.
Not dismissive.
Certain.
"And I'm sorry that something real got taken without permission."
My throat tightens.
I squeeze his hand once.
"Thank you," I say. "For not making it feel small."
His thumb brushes my hand… once.
"I wouldn't," he says. "Not ever."
The look he gives me then… steady, warm, unwavering… does something irreversible to the space inside my chest.
I realize something dangerous.
He isn't holding my hand to reassure himself.
He's holding it to reassure me.
The thought sinks slowly… like warmth spreading through cold fingers.
We stand there longer than necessary.
No one interrupts.
No one clears their throat.
It feels like the world has stepped politely back.
Eventually, footsteps echo at the far end of the hall.
Reality creeps in.
We don't drop hands immediately.
Neither of us rushes.
When we finally let go, it's deliberate… like we're acknowledging that the moment matters enough to be closed gently.
As we separate, I catch movement out of the corner of my eye.
So-ah stands across the open space near the rehearsal rooms, posture elegant, white blouse pristine.
Her gaze flicks from my face… to his… to the place where our hands were.
She doesn't frown.
She doesn't smile.
Her expression tightens… just a fraction.
Recognition.
This isn't fanservice.
This isn't confusion.
This is choice.
She turns away without a word.
The air shifts again.
Jingyi exhales slowly.
"We don't have to decide anything today," he says softly. "Or explain anything."
I nod.
That feels right.
That feels safe.
As we part for the evening, he walks me to the exit without comment.
No cameras.
No crew.
Just the quiet hum of the building winding down.
At the door, he pauses.
His gaze drops to my face, searching gently.
"You okay?" he asks.
I open my mouth.
The lie rises automatically.
"I'm fine."
The words feel thinner than usual.
He doesn't challenge them.
But his eyes soften… like he sees past them and is choosing patience anyway.
That almost undoes me.
We stand there… close but not touching… the absence of his hand louder than the presence had been.
"I'll see you tomorrow," he says.
"Tomorrow," I echo.
He waits until I step outside.
Until the door closes behind me.
Until I'm safe.
Only then does he turn away.
I lean against the cool glass for a moment, breathing slowly, grounding myself.
My phone buzzes.
A new comment notification from somewhere I forgot I was tagged.
I don't open it.
Internal monologue, quiet and steady:
He didn't say he loves me.
But he stayed.
And somehow… that feels louder.
I push off the glass and head home, my fingers still remembering the shape of his hand.