I wake up to the sound of my alarm and the memory of his voice.
If you ever feel overlooked... tell me.
I stare at the ceiling.
I do not need this kind of surround-sound replay first thing in the morning. I need toothpaste, caffeine and preferably emotional amnesia.
My phone buzzes again with a second alarm I forgot I set: "work, not feelings"
Past me was annoyingly wise.
I drag myself up, shuffle to the wardrobe and pull the first blouse that makes sense.
Aqua silk.
Of course.
I hang it on the door and step back.
It looks... nice. A little too nice. Like someone who might stand on a rooftop with a famous actor and talk about loneliness without making a joke.
Nope.
I grab a safer option, a cream shirt that screams responsible adult. I switch hangers.
Then I switch back.
Then I switch again.
"Absolutely not dressing up for a man," I mutter, jabbing the cream shirt over my head.
The aqua blouse stares at me, offended.
"It's not about him," I tell it. "It's about laundry rotation."
The blouse does not believe me.
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On set, everything feels slightly louder than usual.
Lights flash. Staff shout. Someone drops a stack of prop folders and apologizes to the universe. The coffee truck from yesterday is gone, but the ghost of that banner still flaps in my memory.
I slip into the soundstage, script and tablet hugged to my chest, trying to look like a woman who slept perfectly well and definitely did not dream about rooftop scenes.
Jingyi is already there.
Of course he is.
He's on the far side of the set, listening to the director. Green jacket, dark tee, hair that looks like expensive chaos. From here I can't hear what they're saying... but every few seconds his gaze flicks toward my side of the stage, like he's checking if I'm real.
My heartbeat pretends it is absolutely calm.
So-ah reaches him first.
"Oppa," she says, smile delicate. "Did you get the new script pages? I thought we should rehearse together... just to sync our emotions."
She lifts her copy of the script, the pages edged in pastel sticky notes. It looks like a weapon disguised as stationery.
Jingyi answers with the polite tone he uses for interviews.
"Sure," he says.
He hesitates... just a fraction of a second... then follows her toward the rehearsal marks.
I exhale.
"This is good," I tell myself quietly. "Normal. Professional. Healthy. Logical. We like logical."
My chest feels anything but logical.
I move to my usual spot near the monitor, the one that lets me look busy and invisible at the same time.
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The scene they're blocking is a light one. Banter, mild pining, a near hand-touch that doesn't quite happen.
On the monitor, they look perfect.
In real life, he keeps glancing past So-ah's shoulder toward where I'm standing.
The director notices once and laughs.
"Jingyi-ya, the girl you like is over here, not next to the writer," he teases.
Everyone laughs.
I stare very hard at my tablet.
Jingyi gives a small, embarrassed smile and redirects his gaze to So-ah. But the next time they run the scene, his eyes wander back to me anyway.
I pretend not to see.
The director calls a short break.
"Writer Yoon," he says, motioning me over. "I want to adjust the end of this scene. Maybe one more beat where she softens."
"Softens how?" I ask.
"More romantic," he says. "Maybe she admits she was jealous."
Of course.
Before I can answer, So-ah steps closer, all shiny hair and charming concern.
"I thought maybe she could stumble a little?" she offers. "Not clumsy, but... caught off guard by how handsome he is. It would be cute."
The director nods, considering.
"Hmm. That could work."
I keep my face neutral.
"The character has resisted him for eight episodes," I say gently. "If she stumbles over how handsome he is right now, it might feel out of character."
"People fall all at once," So-ah says with a soft laugh. "Sometimes you just... realize."
Her gaze slides to Jingyi, then back to the director.
He is too far to hear us, but I feel his attention like warmth on my skin.
"The stumbling could be internal," I say. "We can show it in her hesitation instead of physical comedy. Otherwise we risk turning her into a trope."
The director thinks again.
"You're right," he says finally. "Let's keep it your way, but maybe add one extra line of fluster."
He claps me lightly on the shoulder and walks off.
So-ah's smile stays glued in place.
"Of course, Writer-nim," she says sweetly. "You know the character best."
I smile back.
"Thank you for the suggestion," I answer.
What I mean is:
You will not trip my girl into fanservice just because you want more slow motion.
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I retreat to the side table, pull a fresh page and start scribbling.
The extra line comes easy.
"I never said I didn't like you. I just didn't plan on it."
Honest, a little vulnerable, still in character.
I adjust the cues and make two quick copies. When I look up, Jingyi is already approaching, script in hand.
"New lines?" he asks.
"Yes," I say. "Last beat of the scene."
He reaches for the page.
Our fingers brush when I pass it over.
"The director wanted you to catch her when she trips," I add.
His mouth quirks.
"He did?"
"So-ah suggested it."
"Ah."
Just that. One syllable, packed.
"He decided to keep it closer to the original," I say casually.
"Good," he says quietly.
He scans the new line.
His face softens, almost fond.
"This version feels right," he says. "Thank you."
Heat blooms under my skin.
"You're welcome," I reply.
He walks back toward his mark, reading the words I just wrote. For a strange second, the whole room narrows to him and the piece of paper in his hand.
I look away first.
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Lunch is a circle of plastic chairs in the courtyard, the sun too bright for how tired everyone looks.
Someone brings rice bowls, someone else brings the gossip. Between bites, the crew scroll through photos on their phones.
"Look at this one," one PA says. "From yesterday."
They pass their screen around. It lands near me.
It's a picture from the coffee truck. The banner, the truck, the lights... and on the ground, Jingyi stepping just slightly away from So-ah at the exact moment she leaned in.
It is a tiny movement. Barely noticeable.
The kind of thing people like me notice too much.
"Maybe they fought," another PA whispers.
"I heard he refused a photo this morning too," someone else adds.
"Maybe he's dating secretly," a third says in a sing-song voice.
"Maybe he's just tired," I mutter.
They laugh.
Across the circle, So-ah eats neatly, back straight, smiling at whoever speaks to her. She looks like she was born with public posture.
Beside me, Jingyi sits with his bowl in his lap, shoulders relaxed. He seems to sense the ripple of whispers, because his gaze lifts and drifts over the group.
For one suspended second, it lands on So-ah.
Then moves past her and settles on me.
I freeze, chopsticks halfway to my mouth.
His eyes crinkle just a little, like he's checking if I'm alright.
I look down immediately, pretending that my kimchi has become very interesting.
My heart, meanwhile, has melted into something warm and ridiculous.
It hits me then, quietly, like a delayed echo.
He cares more about how I see him than how anyone else does.
It shouldn't matter.
But it does.
I hide behind another bite of rice.
Across from me, the PAs are whispering again.
"Green Jacket seems... distracted," one says.
"Maybe it's the writer," another whispers.
"Stop it," I hiss.
They grin and move on to talking about weekend plans as if they didn't just light a small fire in my chest.
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After lunch, I escape.
Rooftop, again.
It is becoming a problem.
The air is cooler up here. The city stretches in every direction, busy and distant. I lean against the low wall, cradling a fresh cup of matcha from the cafeteria, and watch my breath fog in faint clouds.
I'm not hiding, I tell myself. I am practising advanced script supervision from a higher vantage point.
Footsteps sound behind me.
So much for vantage points.
"You know..." Jingyi says, "you are going to ruin the mystery of this place if you keep inviting me up here."
"I didn't invite you," I say, with a slight playful scoff.
"I took the initiative," he says. "Very proactive of me."
I sigh and face him.
He looks the same, and also not the same. Same jacket, same hair, same dimple. Different air. Softer, careful.
He doesn't come too close this time. He stops with a respectful amount of space between us, like the line of yesterday's moment is still visible on the ground.
Silence settles, not as easy as before.
I sip my drink.
He watches the skyline.
The awkwardness scratches at my skin.
"Yesterday..." I say finally, "you were unusually sentimental."
He huffs a small laugh.
"Sorry," he says. "Long workday. Low blood sugar. Side effects."
Something in my stomach drops.
So it was just... a low-sugar confession? A temporary bout of sincerity?
"Ah," I say lightly. "So rooftop thoughts are not legally binding, understood."
His eyes flick to mine, sharp in an instant.
"That's not what I meant," he says quietly.
I look away.
"You don't have to clarify," I say. "We were both tired."
"Su-bin."
The way he says my name makes the air feel thicker.
I keep my gaze on the building across the alley.
"I meant," he says slowly, "that I don't usually talk about those things. With anyone."
My defenses hesitate.
"I still don't want you to feel alone here," he goes on. "That part wasn't from low blood sugar."
My throat feels suddenly tight.
This is dangerous territory.
"So I was... special guest rooftop audience?" I ask, trying to make it light.
He exhales, half a laugh, half something else.
"You make everything sound like a joke," he says.
"It's a coping mechanism," I reply. "Very trendy these days."
He smiles without looking away from me.
"I know," he says.
The words are simple, but they land deep.
A breeze passes, tugging at my hair. He reaches up automatically as if to push a strand back behind my ear... then stops himself and lets his hand fall.
"I don't want to cross any lines you don't want crossed," he says.
Heat blooms under my skin.
"Good," I say, too quickly. "Lines are... important."
He nods, serious.
"They are…" he agrees. "But some of them are not where people think."
I frown.
"What does that even mean?" I ask.
He just smiles and looks up at the sky.
He is infuriating.
He is also unfairly gentle.
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We head back down together.
Near the stairwell, a lighting tech passes us, doing a double take.
"Secret rooftop meeting again?" he jokes.
"Production strategy," I say.
"New couple cut," he grins.
My brain short-circuits.
Before I can sputter a denial, Jingyi answers.
"We should charge admission," he says calmly.
The tech laughs and moves on.
I elbow Jingyi lightly.
"Please stop giving people material," I mutter.
He looks down at me, amusement soft around his eyes.
"You started it," he says.
"When?"
"You keep escaping up there," he says. "I am simply following the writer's blocking."
I roll my eyes.
We reach the entrance to the stage. The door is propped open, the noise from inside spilling out.
I hesitate in the doorway.
"We should probably stop," I say.
"Stop what?" he asks.
"Rooftops, exits, things that look like... something," I say, gesturing vaguely between us. "People will talk."
He studies my face for a long moment, expression unreadable.
Then he says, very softly,
"Let them talk."
My heart stumbles.
"That's easy for you," I manage. "You're used to being the center of attention."
He shakes his head.
"This is not about attention," he says. "It's about..."
He stops, like he caught himself on the edge of something dangerous.
"About what?" I ask, before I can stop myself.
His gaze drops briefly to my mouth, then back to my eyes.
"About doing what feels right," he says finally. "Even if people misunderstand."
The silence between us hums.
I look away first, fingers tightening on my tablet.
"You should go run lines with So-ah," I say.
"I already know mine," he answers.
"It's not all about you," I mutter.
He laughs quietly.
"I know," he says again.
He steps aside, letting me pass through the doorway first.
As I walk past, the slightest brush of his shoulder against mine sends a bright little spark down my arm.
I pretend my heart is not still echoing his words.
Let them talk.
Back at my desk, I set my aqua pen on the script, tap it once against the margin and scribble:
rooftop rule: unstable
Then I underline it... once.
Only once.
Because I am already afraid to admit how much I want it to be real.