The worst thing about almost kissing someone you are absolutely not supposed to almost kiss, is that the next morning you still have to see them.
Under fluorescent lights.
Before coffee.
With witnesses.
I arrive earlier than usual, which is saying something because I already have a reputation for showing up like a ghost who lives here.
The studio is half awake. A few PAs are yawning over clipboards, a lighting tech messes with rigs, someone is already fighting with a rolling rack of costumes.
I stand just inside the soundstage doors, clutching my tablet, telling myself I am calm.
We are adults.
We are professionals.
We did not almost do something that would ruin both our lives.
We are... breathing. Barely.
I head toward my desk, eyes down, pretending to reread notes. I am so focused on not thinking about yesterday that I walk into a very solid person.
"Careful."
His voice.
I stop.
Jingyi is right there, just inside my peripheral vision, wearing a simple black hoodie and cap, hair pushed back casually. No makeup yet, no stage clothes... just him.
Our eyes meet.
For half a second, the entire near-kiss replays in my head like someone hit instant replay.
His hand bracing my head.
His breath against my mouth.
The way the world had gone silent.
My heart misfires.
He looks at me as if he is checking for damage.
"Did you get home safe?" he asks.
"Yes," I say, maybe a little too fast. "Why wouldn't I?"
He shrugs lightly.
"Late wrap, big day... I just wanted to be sure."
"Oh," I say. "I took a taxi. Not very dramatic."
His mouth curves.
"Sometimes 'not dramatic' is good," he says.
I focus on my tablet so I don't focus on his face.
"Did you sleep?" he asks.
My brain flashes: me wide awake at two in the morning, staring at the ceiling, feeling phantom warmth where his hand had hovered above my arm.
"Yes," I lie. "You?"
"A little," he says. "I kept thinking about..."
He trails off, studying my expression, then switches lanes.
"...today's scene," he finishes. "It is important."
I nod quickly.
"Very important," I echo. "Lots of... words."
He watches me for a beat too long.
"Do you want a matcha?" he asks. "I came early to grab coffee but they were out, so I bullied them into opening the tea bar."
I hear the question under the question.
Are we okay...?
"I can get my own," I say, too polite. Too cool.
Something in his face flickers, like a light dimming.
"Right," he says softly. "Of course."
He steps back, giving me space. Too much space.
I walk past him toward my corner of the set, pretending not to notice how careful he has become.
The distance sits between us like an invisible piece of tape on the floor.
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I manage to avoid him for the next hour.
It is a full time job.
I take the long way around the props area. I suddenly need to reorganize my annotation system. I become intensely interested in the angle of a fake lamp.
The crew, unfortunately, has nothing better to do than notice.
"Writer-nim is in stealth mode," one PA whispers.
"Is that different from her usual mode?" another asks.
"Yes," the first says. "Today she is stealthier."
I ignore them.
From the corner of my eye, I see So-ah arrive, a swirl of soft beige coat and carefully curled hair. She greets everyone with the same perfectly calibrated warmth, like an idol fan meeting.
Her gaze scans the stage until it lands on Jingyi.
She walks straight toward him.
"Oppa," she says, voice soft. "Good morning."
"Morning," he answers, polite.
"Did you have time to look over the intimacy direction for the reconciliation scene?" she asks. "I thought we could rehearse it together before camera rehearsal, to build chemistry."
Her tone is pure professionalism, but the words curl around my spine like smoke.
He glances toward me. It is quick, almost nothing... but I feel it.
"I should review the final script with Writer Yoon first," he says. "We changed some beats yesterday."
So-ah's smile tightens by two millimeters.
"Of course," she says. "I only meant, as partners."
"I know," he says. "We will have time."
He leaves it at that and steps away, in my direction, leaving her standing there in a halo of polite frustration.
I look down at my notes like they suddenly contain international secrets.
He approaches slowly, like he is making sure I can see him coming.
"Can we run through the lines together," he asks, "before we go on camera?"
He is asking as an actor.
It sounds like something else.
I swallow.
"Here?" I ask.
"We can use the couch set," he suggests. "Less pressure."
Less pressure.
As if that exists.
"Sure," I say.
My voice almost cracks on the word.
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We sit on the prop couch for the reconciliation follow-up scene. Not the almost-kiss. Just the softer conversation that comes after, where both characters pretend they're almost fine.
Art imitates life with a petty sense of humor.
He sits at one end, I sit at the other. The space between us is small, but it feels like a canyon.
"Can we sit closer," he asks quietly. "For framing."
"Right," I say. "Framing."
I shuffle a bit closer. Our knees are not touching, but they could if either of us breathed too ambitiously.
He turns slightly toward me, script in hand.
"Okay," he says. "From the middle... where they stop avoiding each other."
"How convenient," I murmur, barely audible.
He smiles, eyes flickering with amusement. Then he drops into character.
"You keep pretending nothing is wrong," he reads, voice low.
I answer as the heroine, but the words fit too well.
"And you keep looking at me like you're waiting for something," I say.
His eyes lift from the script.
He stops reading.
He looks at me.
Not the page. Not the imaginary heroine.
Me.
"For once," he says, still in character, "I am."
My chest tightens.
The line was written to be honest, but buried beneath context. On his tongue, it feels naked.
There is a long, humming silence.
He doesn't look away.
The director, watching from a few paces away, looks delighted.
"That," he says. "Hold that. Whatever that is... keep it."
Whatever that is...
Right. Sure.
My heart misinterprets it as a personal recommendation.
We finish the scene. The last lines blur together, my focus split between the page and the steady warmth of him beside me.
When we finish, the director claps his hands.
"Good," he says. "We are ready for camera. After lighting adjusts, we'll jump straight in."
The crew scatters.
I stand too quickly, scripts sliding slightly.
I need air.
"Su-bin."
His voice catches me before I can flee.
I look down at my notes, not at him.
"That felt better, right?" he asks.
He means the scene.
It sounds like he means the distance between us.
"It was... fine," I say.
He tilts his head, studying me.
"You are... different today," he says.
"I am always like this," I reply.
"Not with me," he says softly.
I freeze.
Before I can answer, someone calls him from across the set.
"Jingyi-ssi, wardrobe needs you for a quick check," a stylist yells.
He still watches me for one more heartbeat.
"Later," he says quietly.
Then he walks away.
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.
The distance is still there. It just hurts more now.
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I am alone in the makeup corridor when So-ah finds me.
I should have known. The universe loves symmetry.
She appears in the mirror behind me as I wash my hands, her reflection perfectly composed. Lip tint, soft blush, not a hair out of place.
"Writer-nim," she says, smiling. "Do you have a minute?"
I do not.
"Yes," I say.
She steps beside me, close but not quite touching.
"I watched your rehearsal on the monitor earlier," she says. "The reconciliation scene."
"Ah," I say. "Hope it was acceptable."
"It was very... real," she says.
Her tone is light, but there is something sharp underneath.
She tilts her head, looking at her own reflection as she continues.
"It must be hard," she says softly. "Seeing him act so romantically with me every day."
The words land like small, precise knives.
I keep my eyes on the sink.
"It is my job to write romance," I say quietly. "Seeing it... is part of the package."
"Of course," she says sweetly. "I only meant... you are very observant. You must notice everything."
She pats my arm, gentle, sisterly.
"I would find it difficult," she adds. "If I were in your position."
Then she smiles, a little sharper, and walks away before I can reply.
The air she leaves behind feels sticky.
I dry my hands slowly, pressing the paper towel into my palms.
My reflection looks almost calm.
My chest is not.
I have been swallowing her jabs for days. For the sake of professionalism. For the sake of peace. For the sake of not starting something I can't control.
A part of me is tired. Another part is... waking up.
Not yet, I tell myself.
Not now.
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Later, between takes, I find a quiet hallway near the props room. It smells like wood polish and fabric dust. The noise from set, a muffled hum.
I stand there, leaning against the cool wall, massaging the bridge of my nose with ink-stained fingers.
"Sian-Sian."
He always manages to find me when I try to evaporate.
I look up.
Jingyi walks toward me from the far end of the hallway, his expression hesitant, almost shy. His hair is styled for the scene now, slightly messy, perfectly dramatic. The emerald jacket is back in rotation.
He stops a few steps away, leaving that same careful space between us.
"Are you hiding," he asks softly, "or resting?"
"Is there a right answer," I ask.
He smiles a little.
"No," he says. "I just wanted to find you."
The words land too deeply.
I look at the floor, at the tape marks, anywhere but his eyes.
"About yesterday," he begins.
My heart leaps to my throat.
"I need to make this clear," he says.
My stomach drops.
This is it.
The speech.
The "you are important to me as a colleague, please don't misunderstand, I value our working relationship and the almost-kiss meant nothing" talk.
I brace myself.
He looks... scared.
"Did I..." he says quietly, "make things uncomfortable for you?"
My brain short circuits.
"What?" I ask.
"Yesterday," he goes on. "The blocking. The almost..."
He doesn't finish the word. He doesn't need to.
"I know it got... intense," he says. "I lost myself a little, and I... I don't want you to feel pressured. Or like I crossed a line."
The relief that slams into me is so strong it makes me dizzy.
He is not trying to erase it... he is afraid he hurt me.
I grip my script a little tighter.
"You didn't," I say quickly. "It was... acting. We were doing our jobs. That's all."
His eyes search my face, like he is measuring every breath.
"That's all," I repeat, because I am a coward.
Something about his expression closes. Not completely... just a quiet shutting of a door inside.
"Right," he says.
He nods slowly.
"Acting," he echoes.
The word tastes wrong in the air.
I try to fix it and make it worse.
"You worry too much," I add, forcing a smile. "If anything, I should be apologizing for breaking character. I am not used to being in front of anyone."
He watches me, and I can tell he hears everything I am not saying.
"You never have to apologize to me," he says.
He means it. I can feel it.
Which only makes panic flare higher.
"I should go," I say. "The director will want the rewrites for later."
"Okay," he says.
He steps back, making room for me to pass.
As I walk by, he says, very softly,
"If I do make you uncomfortable... at any time... tell me."
I stop.
Half turn.
"You don't," I say, softly.
He holds my gaze for a beat that feels like the inside of a held breath.
A small, quiet smile touches his mouth. It's not his public smile. It's smaller, warmer, something I feel in my chest more than I see.
"Then I won't stop caring," he says.
The sentence hits me like a physical touch.
My heart does something reckless.
"I..."
I have no idea what I was about to say.
He rescues me by looking away, breaking the tension.
"See you on set," he says gently.
He walks off, footsteps soft against the hallway floor.
I lean back against the wall after he disappears around the corner.
My pulse is loud in my ears.
Outside, people are moving lights and adjusting props and living normal, non-disastrous lives.
In here, one quiet line loops over and over.
"I won't stop caring."
I press the back of my head against the wall and close my eyes.
For a moment, I let myself feel it... the warmth of it... the terrifying possibility of it.
Then I straighten, pick up my script, and put my armor back on.
We still have scenes to shoot.
We still have a story to finish.
Everything is just getting harder to control.