Twenty minutes before call time and the studio already feels too awake.
I slip inside with my matcha, hoping to hide in the makeup room corner… but the makeup assistant spots me immediately, eyes widening like I've walked in wearing a wedding dress.
"Writer-nim," she says, stepping closer. "You're glowing today."
"I am… what?"
"You know… glowing."
She fans herself dramatically.
"New skincare? Or… someone?"
I nearly inhale my matcha.
"I'm early because I like being early," I lie, coughing.
She doesn't believe a syllable and "Mmhmms" suspiciously as she floats away.
My cheeks are absolutely not warm.
I find an empty seat in the makeup room and sit, pretending to scroll notes. Two minutes later:
"Morning."
His voice.
I close my eyes briefly. Maybe if I don't look, he'll disappear.
I look.
He does not disappear.
Jingyi steps into the room as if the lighting is contractually obligated to flatter him. Hair half-styled, shirt half-buttoned, smile half-asleep… unfair on every axis.
He takes the empty chair beside me even though there are seven other chairs.
"Hi," I manage.
"Did you sleep at all?"
His voice is soft. Concern tucked into every syllable.
"I slept…"
I search for a word that sounds normal.
"…adequately."
He laughs under his breath. "So… no."
Great.
He knows my blink speed. Now he knows my lie vocabulary.
Before I can redirect the conversation, a stylist passes by, dropping a metal clip.
Both Jingyi and I bend down to grab it… and bump heads.
"Ow!"
We spring upright.
My hair falls out of its clip and lands across my face like seaweed.
"Sorry," I sputter. "You okay?"
He reaches without thinking… and very gently brushes a curl from my cheek.
His fingertips graze my skin.
The entire makeup room stops breathing.
A hairdryer cuts off mid-blast.
Someone drops a powder puff.
I hear a quiet "oh my god" from a corner.
And I… freeze.
Jingyi blinks like he just realized what he did.
His hand retreats slowly.
"S… sorry," he says quietly.
"It's fine," I lie. "It didn't mean anything."
A makeup artist gasps dramatically enough to qualify as performance art.
Jingyi's expression flickers—
just for a moment…
like the words hit him somewhere he wasn't braced for.
My chest tightens.
I didn't mean it like that. I meant "don't let the gossip start again," not "your touch is meaningless."
But he nods, face slipping back into calm.
"We should head to set," he says softly.
I grab my things before I say anything stupid.
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Rehearsal is emotional murder.
The scene is a confrontation-turned-softness, which is already dangerous territory… then the director decides to make it worse.
"Let's add more closeness," he says. "The audience needs to feel the tension."
Fantastic. Let the audience enjoy losing circulation. What about my lungs.
They begin rehearsing. So-ah delivers her lines beautifully, she always does, but Jingyi keeps drifting out of the scene.
Because his eyes keep landing on me.
Every time.
The director snaps his fingers.
"Use HER energy," he says, pointing at me. "Look at her instead. You two always spark."
My entire soul leaves my body.
Jingyi turns toward me a little too fast… like his body moved before he thought.
Our eyes meet.
And suddenly the scene has weight.
Gravity.
Heat.
He swallows, Adam's apple bobbing slightly… he can't remember the next line.
So-ah notices.
Of course she does.
The director beams.
"There it is! THAT. That's the chemistry I want."
I try not to die on the spot.
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I flee to the script tent after rehearsal to regain feeling in my limbs. The tent is quiet, lit by warm lamps, script pages clipped neatly to corkboards. I tell myself I'm here to work.
I am lying to myself again.
I sit at the table and start adjusting a line of dialogue I've already rewritten twice. My eyebrows move the way they always do when I'm rewriting emotional beats.
Someone slips inside the tent.
"Hey."
Jingyi.
Why does he always appear when my oxygen levels are low.
He sits beside me… close, but not too close.
"You're writing something different," he says.
"How did you know?" I look down at the page as if it'll protect me.
"Your eyebrows," he says simply.
"My… eyebrows?"
"They move a certain way. When you change an emotion."
I stare at him.
He looks immediately flustered.
"I mean, not like I study your face, I just… when I'm reading your—"
He stops himself before the last word betrays him.
He almost said "when I'm watching you."
I look away fast.
"You don't have to pretend everything's fine with me," he says gently.
My heart stutters.
"I'm not pretending," I say.
I am absolutely pretending.
He gives me a soft smile.
"You're a very bad liar."
My throat tightens. I look down at the page before anything cracks through my composure.
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A cold wind hits once we move outside for the location shoot. I hold my tablet close, pretending I'm not freezing. Before I can shiver, something drops onto my shoulders.
Emerald green.
Warm.
Familiar.
His jacket.
I look up, startled.
"Jingyi—"
"You're cold," he says simply.
"That doesn't mean you have to—"
"It means I want to."
Why does he say things like that.
Why is he allowed to say things like that.
"I'll give it back when we're done," I mumble.
"Keep it tonight," he says. "It… suits you."
I stop breathing.
He walks away before I can combust.
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The van ride back to the studio is torture in the shape of a bench seat.
He ends up next to me.
Because why not.
Every bump in the road makes our shoulders brush, and every brush makes my heart do dangerous gymnastics.
I pretend to read my script.
I read the same sentence eight times.
He notices.
"You haven't scrolled in ten minutes," he murmurs.
My spine turns to static.
"I'm… thinking," I say.
"About… work?" he asks.
"Obviously," I lie.
He smiles like he can see every unspoken word.
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When we get back to the studio, I move to hand him his jacket.
He stops me with a light touch on my wrist, not grabbing, just guiding.
"Keep it," he says softly.
"For tonight."
I stare at him.
He stares back with warm, steady eyes that feel like a secret.
"You do this for everyone," My thoughts, my denial, betrays me and speaks aloud.
He tilts his head, stepping closer in that slow, deliberate way that makes the world go quiet.
"No, Sian-Sian," he says. "Only you."
My heart collapses into itself.
He walks away before I can form a single coherent thought.
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That night I sit on my couch wearing his jacket like a blanket and staring at my ceiling like it personally offended me.
His scent is still on the fabric.
Warm. Clean.
A little dramatic.
Professional composure: absolutely not intact.
I bury my face in the collar.
I am going to die.
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