The coffee truck arrives at nine in the morning, which is roughly the same time my soul leaves my body.
It parks outside the main gate in a burst of pastel colors and K-pop music, complete with fairy lights and a menu that looks like it was designed by someone who thinks sugar is a lifestyle.
The crew swarms it.
I hang back with my tablet, trying to look like an adult who has outgrown excitement over free caffeine.
A PA waves a hand.
"Writer-nim, did you see the banner?"
I look up.
The banner is enormous. You can probably see it from space.
To our visual king Liu Jingyi & the stunning leading lady Han So-ah!
Fighting! From your biggest fans ♡
There is no mention of the writer who conjured the entire story.
Of course.
Something in my chest pinches, small and sharp. Not unexpected… but still annoying, like a papercut you keep forgetting about until you bump it again.
"It's pretty," I say.
What I mean is:
Great. I am background code at my own party.
So-ah covers her mouth delicately, pretending to be shy while she poses under the banner.
"Ah… I didn't know they would write that," she says in a voice that absolutely knew they would write that.
Stylists rush her for pictures.
The truck staff ask if they can post the photos on their social media.
Jingyi stands beside her for a second, reading the words.
His smile barely twitches.
Then he steps out of frame.
"I'll order inside," he tells the staff.
"Jingyi-ssi, a photo together would be so nice," one of them says.
"Later," he answers calmly. "I should let the others go first."
It sounds polite, but it's actually a refusal.
Nobody seems to notice.
He walks straight past So-ah and stops near me instead.
"You're not getting anything?" he asks.
"I'm fine," I say. "Lines don't spark joy."
He glances back at the truck. The banner flaps cheerfully in the wind.
"I'll bring you something," he says.
"I said I'm—"
He is already walking away.
I stare at his back, then at the banner again. My stomach does a slow, sour turn. I am being ridiculous. Banners are for faces. Scripts are for hard drives.
Still… it would have been nice. Just one line in a tiny font.
To the writer who gave them something to fall in love with.
Too late now.
⋆ ˚｡♡｡˚ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡♡｡˚ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡♡｡˚ ⋆
By the time he returns, I am deeply engaged in pretending my tablet needs urgent attention.
"Matcha, hot, oatmilk, two pumps vanilla," he says.
I look up.
He is holding out my drink like a peace offering.
There is no sticky note this time. He has upgraded to direct eye contact.
"You didn't give me a chance to say no," I tell him.
"You always say no," he says easily. "I decided to skip that part."
My chest does an unhelpful flutter.
I take the cup. His fingers brush mine for half a second. The warmth sinks into my skin.
"Thank you," I say.
He smiles a little, like that word was what he was actually waiting for.
"Anytime, Writer Yoon," he answers.
⋆ ˚｡♡｡˚ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡♡｡˚ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡♡｡˚ ⋆
The coffee truck is still causing chaos when the photos start.
"Jingyi-ssi, So-ah-ssi, one pose together, please?"
The publicist is practically begging.
I stand off to the side and sip my matcha.
This doesn't concern me.
It also absolutely concerns me.
They pose near the banner. So-ah steps close, tilting her face up toward him, eyes wide and soft. The angle is practiced. She knows exactly how to look like a fairy who wandered into a romantic comedy by mistake.
Jingyi's posture is polite.
His smile is polite.
But he is not leaning in.
"Closer," the staff member says. "Just a little closer. Couple vibe."
So-ah laughs lightly and moves into his space.
There is a tiny, ugly spark in the center of my chest.
Jealousy…
Oh no. Absolutely not.
We are not doing this.
I focus on my straw. He shifts at the last second, just enough that the distance between them remains formal.
Most people will not see the difference.
I do.
My chest tightens anyway.
One of the PAs sidles up to me, whispering behind their cup.
"Writer-nim, do you think the ship name Green Jacket × Aqua Pen is too obvious?"
"What?" I say.
"Nothing," they say quickly, skittering away like a gossip crab.
I inhale slowly, count to five, and remind myself that I am an adult and this is work.
I take another sip of matcha.
It tastes like sugar and denial.
⋆ ˚｡♡｡˚ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡♡｡˚ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡♡｡˚ ⋆
Rehearsal goes smoothly. The scene is light, romantic, almost silly. On the monitor, Jingyi and So-ah look like the perfect drama couple.
Off the monitor, he keeps glancing past the lens to where I'm standing.
I ignore it.
Or try to.
When we break, the director gathers us near the monitors.
"I'm thinking of adding a moment," he says. "Something to increase chemistry between the leads."
So-ah tilts her head.
"What kind of moment?" she asks.
"Maybe a hand touch," the director muses. "Or a line where she admits she's flustered."
"I think it would be cute if she almost trips and he catches her," So-ah says, brightening. "Fans like that kind of thing."
"Ah, yes, that's good," the director says. "Writer Yoon, what do you think?"
Everyone looks at me.
I smile, professional.
"I can see if it fits," I say. "We need to make sure we're still following her emotional growth."
"What if she's already grown?" So-ah says sweetly. "I mean… she has him now."
Her tone is airy, but the words land like a needle.
My palms itch.
"The character isn't a prize," I say pleasantly. "He's a person."
The director laughs awkwardly. "Of course, of course. Well, think about it. We can test it in rehearsal."
He walks off with the AD.
So-ah turns to me with a soft, apologetic smile.
"Sorry if I overstepped," she says. "I just wanted to help."
"It's fine," I answer.
What I mean is: You are trying to rewrite my script in real time and I would like to unsubscribe.
She glides away, perfectly innocent.
I turn back to the monitor.
"Hey."
Jingyi has come up beside me, close enough that our sleeves almost touch.
"I like it as you wrote it," he says quietly.
I glance at him.
"That's flattering," I say, and then with a half laugh, "But you're biased."
"I am," he says without hesitation.
The words hit me harder than they should.
"Biased toward good writing," he adds quickly. "Obviously."
"Obviously," I echo.
My heartbeat eventually remembers how to function.
⋆ ˚｡♡｡˚ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡♡｡˚ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡♡｡˚ ⋆
At lunch, the coffee truck staff ask if they can get more photos with Jingyi.
"So-ah-ssi too," one of them adds. "The banner looks so good with you two."
Jingyi opens his mouth, then sees me walking past with my tray.
He closes it again.
"I'll do it later," he says. "I promised to run lines."
"With So-ah-ssi?" the staff member asks.
He shakes his head.
"With Writer Yoon."
I nearly trip.
The staff blinks in confusion.
"Oh… of course," they say.
So-ah's smile wavers for a fraction of a second.
I pretend I didn't hear anything and keep walking.
Inside, my lungs are in a full tizzy, frantically re-learning how to work properly.
⋆ ˚｡♡｡˚ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡♡｡˚ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡♡｡˚ ⋆
The rooftop behind Stage B is my secret hideout.
It is technically not secret. Security knows. The AD probably knows. But nobody comes up here unless they want to smoke or cry.
I am not here to smoke.
The city stretches out beyond the low wall, a wash of concrete and glass under a pale sky. I sit on an overturned crate, matcha in hand, tablet on my lap.
I'm not working.
I'm sulking.
It is… not my most mature moment.
"You're getting a reputation."
The voice interrupts my sulking.
I look over my shoulder.
Jingyi stands by the door, hair mussed from the wind, hands in his pockets.
"What reputation?" I ask.
He walks over, sitting on the crate beside mine.
"Disappearing when there's free food," he says.
"I'm here," I point out. "I exist."
He hums.
"You didn't get anything from the coffee truck," he says.
"I had matcha," I tell him.
"Not the point."
I stare at the city.
"I didn't feel like standing under that banner," I admit.
The words slip out before I can stop them. I make a face, and scold my mouth.
He is quiet for a beat.
"You should have," he says gently.
"Why?" I ask.
"Because you wrote this whole world," he says. "Fans just don't see the credits yet."
Something inside me loosens and aches at the same time.
"That's very poetic for someone who eats instant ramen out of the pot," I say.
He laughs, shoulders shaking.
"I'm a man of layers," he says, still mid chuckle.
Silence falls, but it's softer now.
The wind tugs at his hair. For a moment, he looks younger, or maybe just less guarded.
"When I lived in China," he says quietly, "I used to hide on rooftops too."
My head turns.
He rarely starts sentences that way.
"Oh?" I ask carefully.
"It was… noisy," he says. "Down there."
He nods toward the invisible ground. The streets, the people, the past.
"Too many voices. Too many… stories about us that weren't true."
"Gossip?" I guess.
He smiles without humor.
"Gossip. Rumors. Assumptions," he says. "You know how people like to imagine things when they don't know the facts."
My chest tightens.
"Rooftops were quiet," he continues. "No reporters. No neighbors listening at the door."
No parents fighting.
No fear.
He doesn't say those parts. I hear them anyway.
"I'm sorry," I say.
He shakes his head.
"It's just… the first time I saw you up here," he says, "it felt familiar."
I swallow.
That is a dangerous sentence.
"Do you still hide?" I ask, the words soft.
"Yes," he says, looking straight at me. "But for different reasons."
My heart stumbles.
I look away first.
"Maybe we should go back down," I say lightly. "Before someone writes a scandal about the secret rooftop cult."
His mouth curves.
"We can't have that," he agrees.
We stand.
For a second, our shoulders brush.
Warmth spreads down my arm.
I do not move away.
He doesn't either.
⋆ ˚｡♡｡˚ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡♡｡˚ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡♡｡˚ ⋆
On the way back, a coordinator intercepts him near the stairwell.
"Jingyi-ssi, the coffee truck owner is asking if you can take one more photo with So-ah-ssi," she says. "They want to post on their story."
He glances at me, just for a heartbeat.
Then he answers.
"Not right now," he says. "I'm busy."
"With what?" she asks.
He looks at me again, then at the coordinator.
"Work," he says simply.
He falls into step beside me.
I keep my gaze forward, pretending this is all normal.
Inside, something warm and complicated is curling around my ribs.
⋆ ˚｡♡｡˚ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡♡｡˚ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡♡｡˚ ⋆
We stop in front of the writing tent.
He holds the flap open for me like it's the entrance to some grand premiere.
"You know," he says, "if you ever feel pushed aside… or overlooked…"
His voice is very gentle now.
"Tell me," he finishes. "I don't want you carrying that alone."
The sentence lands in the center of my chest and just… stays there.
I grip my tablet a little tighter.
"I'm fine," I say.
He looks at me like he can see every knot and bruise I am hiding.
"Really," I add.
His smile is small and soft, the kind that hurts more than it should.
"If you say so… Sian-Sian," he murmurs.
He lets the flap fall as I step inside.
I stand there alone for a moment, breathing in the quiet.
On the page in front of me, a character is about to admit she's in love.
My hand hovers over the keys.
I type:
She has no idea when safety started to sound like his voice.
Then I delete it immediately.
Absolutely not.
We are not doing this.
I pick up my aqua pen instead, flip to the margin of the script and write:
heartbeat: under review
I underline it twice.
Then three times.
Outside, I can hear his laugh through the tent wall.
My heart answers anyway.