Premiere morning arrives with a different kind of calm.
Not nerves… not fear… not the brittle adrenaline that usually comes with being watched.
A steady sense of arrival.
Like I've been walking toward this day for months… and now the door is finally here, waiting to be opened.
I get ready slowly.
Not because I'm stalling… because I want to feel every step.
Hair first… curled into soft waves that fall where they want to fall, not pinned into submission. Makeup next… clean and luminous, the kind that makes me look awake and intentional instead of disguised. My dress hangs in its garment bag like a quiet promise.
When I slide it on, the fabric settles against me like it already knows me.
Aqua… not sharp… not rigid… just silk organza that moves when I breathe.
I stand in front of the mirror and study my reflection for a long moment.
Curves held with ease, not shame.
Posture relaxed… shoulders dropped, chin lifted, eyes steady.
Not smaller. Not hidden. Just… here.
Internal monologue:
This story didn't end when filming wrapped…
It just changed rooms.
My clutch waits on the dresser. I slip my phone inside, press my fingers lightly against the clasp, then pause.
The old pen… the one with the tiny aqua diamond-like gems in the barrel… is tucked safely at home.
Not because I'm leaving it behind.
Because I don't need it as armor tonight.
Tonight I walk out as myself.
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The red carpet is already alive when we arrive.
Lights… cameras… voices calling names like confetti thrown into the air.
I step out of the car and the sound hits me first… the roar of attention, the click-click-click of lenses, the ripple of movement as people turn to see who has arrived.
I keep my breathing slow.
Grounded.
Su-bin… I remind myself. Writer-nim. You belong here.
I stay slightly behind at first, letting the cast flow forward, letting the familiar faces take their places in front of the cameras. My role has always been close enough to matter… far enough to avoid being touched by the spotlight.
That's how I've survived.
But tonight feels different.
Like the spotlight has already found me… and I'm no longer pretending it hasn't.
Then a new wave of noise rises.
Not for me.
For him.
Jingyi arrives separately.
Composed, luminous, unmistakably himself.
Emerald jacket, gold accents catching light with each step, sunglasses perched like a signature even indoors… as if he has learned how to be seen without flinching.
He pauses for a heartbeat at the edge of the carpet.
Scans the crowd instinctively.
Not for the cameras… for something else.
For someone.
And then his gaze lands on me.
Everything in his face softens.
That look…
Soft.
Certain.
Anchoring.
The noise becomes distant for a moment.
A choice is about to be made.
My pulse steadies instead of spikes.
Not fear.
Expectation.
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We fall into the flow of the carpet in our separate lanes… him fielding questions, smiling when required, offering the practiced charm the world expects.
Me moving with quieter purpose, greeting the director, nodding politely at producers, answering small questions about the script with professional brevity.
But I feel it… the way the room is aware.
People glance at me then at him.
People glance at him then at me.
Like a thread has been spotted, and everyone is curious how far it runs.
The host calls Jingyi forward for a main interview spot.
He steps into the brighter light.
A semicircle of cameras shifts.
A reporter smiles too widely, the kind of smile that isn't for him… it's for the clip.
"Liu Jingyi-ssi," she says brightly, "everyone is talking about the chemistry in this film. Some people are even saying it feels… a little too real."
A ripple of laughter moves through the press line.
Another reporter adds, "There were rumors during filming about the set 분위기… the atmosphere. Is it true you and Writer Yoon became very close?"
The air tightens.
Not tense… just sharpened.
I see So-ah nearby, dressed in white and immaculate, her posture poised like she's waiting for the right cue to smile. Her expression is pleasant, innocent… but her eyes are watching, calculating where the moment might bend in her favor.
My chest goes still.
Jingyi doesn't flinch.
He doesn't laugh it off.
He doesn't dodge.
He looks toward the cameras calmly, then back to the reporter with a quiet steadiness that makes the room lower its volume without realizing.
"I don't like misunderstandings," he says.
His voice is warm… but firm.
"And I don't like letting important people feel invisible."
A beat.
He doesn't name So-ah.
He doesn't deny emotion.
He doesn't feed the rumor machine with labels.
He reframes the entire narrative with one sentence.
Then he turns.
Not to the cameras.
To me.
His sunglasses are off now… and his eyes find mine like they already know where I am in every room.
He extends his hand.
Not rushed.
Not dramatic.
Clear.
The silent question lives in the space between us.
Are you ready?
My throat tightens.
Not with fear.
With something like… completion.
I step forward.
Place my hand in his.
His thumb brushes once over my knuckles… familiar, grounding… the smallest reassurance.
Cameras explode.
Gasps ripple.
The press line erupts into movement, voices rising, flashes going off like fireworks.
But the moment itself stays quiet between us.
Grounded.
Internal monologue:
This isn't a declaration…
It's an alignment.
He doesn't pull me in for show.
He simply stands with me… as if it is the most natural thing in the world.
As if the world has been wrong for ever thinking otherwise.
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We move through the rest of the carpet like that… hand in hand, not clinging, not performing… just present.
Questions are asked.
Answers are given.
The noise swells and recedes like waves.
Somewhere in the chaos, I catch So-ah's gaze again. Her smile is still there… but thinner now, edges strained. Hyun-woo is farther back, half-hidden in the crowd, watching with the kind of expression that looks like disbelief dressed up as disdain.
For a second, something old tries to tug at me.
A reflex. A sting.
Then Jingyi's thumb brushes my hand again, almost absentminded.
And the old feeling loosens… then falls away entirely.
They don't matter in this frame.
Not anymore.
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The pre-dinner party is quieter than the carpet.
Still elegant… still polished… but softened. Candlelight instead of flashes. Linen and glassware instead of shouting. The kind of space where people finally exhale after performing.
We sit at a long table dressed in white and gold. Conversation hums around us… industry talk, polite laughter, a server refilling glasses.
I listen without really listening.
My hand rests easily near Jingyi's on the table, not hiding, not reaching… simply existing in the open.
He glances at me once… his gaze softening in that private way that makes the room dim everywhere else.
Then he leans closer, voice low enough that only I can hear.
"Su-bin."
I turn.
"I wanted to give you something," he says quietly. "Before things get loud again."
From the inside pocket of his jacket, he pulls out a small navy box and sets it on the table between us.
My heartbeat slows… then deepens.
I lift the lid carefully.
Inside is a pen.
Not just any pen.
Sleek. Weighted. The barrel, an subtle aqua blue that catches candlelight with subtle flashes… tiny gemstones set inside the glass section just above the twist mechanism. Elegant. Understated. Ridiculously expensive in a way that doesn't need to announce itself.
I inhale softly.
"It's beautiful," I say.
"I know," he replies… watching me, not the pen.
I lift it, surprised by its weight. Solid. Balanced. Real.
I turn it once between my fingers.
Click.
The sound is familiar… grounding.
"I remembered what you said," he murmurs. "That the only thing about you that isn't sharp is your pen."
I let out a quiet laugh, heat touching my cheeks.
"You're quoting me like I'm dramatic."
"You are dramatic," he says, deadpan.
I narrow my eyes.
He smiles… soft, real.
"I wanted you to have one that lasts," he continues. "One that matches you now."
My throat tightens.
This isn't a grand gesture.
It isn't a spectacle.
It's a continuation.
I turn the pen again, watching the gemstones catch the light.
He didn't give me something to claim me…
He gave me something to remind me who I am.
I click it once more.
Then I look up at him.
"I like things that write forward," I say quietly.
His laugh is soft… breathy… relieved.
"I was hoping you would."
I slide the pen into my clutch gently… like tucking away a promise that doesn't need words.
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When dinner ends and the lights begin to shift toward the screening, we stand together near the entrance to the theater.
The crowd moves around us, but the space between us feels calm.
His hand finds mine again.
Easy.
Natural.
The doors open.
People file in.
The room darkens.
As we step inside, I feel the weight of the pen in my clutch… solid and sure.
The screen flickers to life.
Her hand rests easily in his.
The line I was afraid to cross didn't disappear…
It widened.
And this time… I stepped into it willingly.