I show up to set so early the automatic lights are still thinking about turning on.
Half the stage is dim, humming in that half-awake way that feels like a secret. The big overheads are dark. Only a few emergency strips glow along the floor like a low-budget runway.
I set my bag down in the writer's corner and take a breath.
New day.
New chance to pretend I am not emotionally compromised.
I line up my pens, then line them up again. Aqua, black, pink. My matcha sits to the left, steam curling lazily like it has no idea my insides are a tangled electrical mess.
"We are calm," I tell the table. "We are normal. We are absolutely not replaying yesterday's pen incident where he said… that."
I poke myself in the forehead.
"No thinking about the hallway. No thinking about 'why won't you look at me.' No thinking about how he caught my pen like some kind of green knight of stationery."
I take a long sip.
Matcha, hot with two pumps of vanilla and oatmilk.
Comfort, in paper cup form.
I open the script and stare at a line I have already edited three times.
My brain politely offers up an image of his face from yesterday instead.
Soft eyes, steady voice.
Then why won't you look at me.
I close the script.
Professional composure: attempting reboot.
The back door to the stage opens with a soft metallic creak.
Footsteps. Familiar. Light, even, with that slight pause he always has when he looks around before stepping fully into a room.
I grip my pen a little too tight.
He is just a colleague.
He is just an actor.
He is just a man.
My heartbeat disagrees.
"Morning."
His voice comes from the edge of the writer's corner.
I look up.
Jingyi stands there, still in street clothes. Dark hoodie, baseball cap, hair messy like he has not hit the styling chair yet. No sunglasses. Just bare face and early hour softness.
He bows his head slightly.
"Morning… Writer Yoon."
The formal title lands strangely.
He has never added that pause before. Never put that much distance in two words.
It is… polite.
It is respectful.
It is him trying to give me space.
I should appreciate it.
My chest does something complicated instead.
"Good morning," I say, tone brisk, professional. "You're early."
"You are earlier," he replies.
He drops his bag on the nearby chair, but instead of coming closer like he usually would, he sits a little farther away. Not far enough to be rude, just… measured.
He doesn't lean over my shoulder.
He doesn't peek at my pages.
He doesn't ask what I am working on.
He just takes out his script and flips it open, eyes down, posture careful.
I focus very hard on my laptop screen.
He clears his throat once, softly.
"If anything in today's scenes feels wrong," he says, still looking at the script, "you can change it."
"That is my job," I answer.
"I know," he says. "But I mean… even if it is small. You don't have to hold back because of me."
I glance at him.
He doesn't look up.
I swallow.
"Noted," I say.
Silence settles between us. Not sharp. Not angry. Just… fragile.
I find that I miss the version of him who steals my pen with his eyes.
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Once the rest of the staff trickles in, the world speeds up.
Lights switch on. The AD shouts call times. The makeup team starts hauling their rolling cases like glamorous emergency responders.
The director calls for a quick notes meeting.
"Writer Yoon, Jingyi," he says, clapping his hands once. "We will revise two scenes before lunch. The rooftop echo in episode ten and the coffee stand in twelve."
I nod.
"Okay."
Jingyi nods too, then glances at me as if checking my reaction.
At the fold-out table near the monitor, we sit side by side again. The universe seems intent on repeating the same test until I fail it properly.
I place the tablet between us. He leans in slowly, making sure I see the movement, like he is asking permission without words.
Our shoulders almost, almost touch.
Almost.
He stops just short.
My skin misses the contact before it even happens.
"Here," I say, pointing at the rooftop echo. "He says he will not chase her again. I think we need to soften it now. After… everything."
My voice almost catches on that last word.
His jaw tightens, the only sign he heard the weight behind it.
He nods.
"He can say he will try to keep distance," he suggests, "but that he cannot promise his heart will listen."
I look up.
"That sounds… dangerously sincere," I say.
He allows a small smile.
"It is a drama," he says. "We are allowed some danger."
Our eyes linger.
Then I look back down first and type it in.
He doesn't push.
His hands stay neatly folded on the table, fingers loosely interlaced. No accidental brushes. No hovering near mine.
It is… respectable.
It is infuriating.
At one point we both reach to scroll the page.
Our fingers stop half a centimeter from touching.
We both draw back at the same time.
"Sorry," he murmurs.
"It is fine," I say.
We pretend it did not matter.
It mattered.
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The crew is not as subtle as they think they are.
"Did you see that," one PA whispers near the lighting rig.
"They are so awkward now," another replies.
"That's not regular awkward," the first one insists. "That is romantic awkward."
"This is better than last week's script."
"She keeps looking at him when he is not looking."
"He keeps looking at her when she is not looking."
"They are basically a mirror."
I would like to file a complaint with the Department of Background Commentary.
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Later, I am walking between cables toward the continuity board when my heel catches on a twisted loop.
My body pitches forward.
For one heart-dropping second, I see the floor rushing toward me.
A hand grabs my elbow firmly.
I stop inches before my face meets the storyboard for episode six.
"You okay?"
His voice is low, very close.
He is right behind me, hand steady on my arm.
The world narrows to three things:
His hand, warm through the fabric of my blouse.
His breath near my ear.
The fast, staggered stutter of my pulse.
I straighten slowly.
He takes his hand away immediately, letting me balance on my own.
"…Sorry," he says. "I should have warned you about the cable."
"You didn't put it there," I reply, trying to sound normal. "I should watch where I am going."
He studies me for a moment, checking my face for signs of actual injury.
"You are not hurt," he says finally.
"Just my pride," I answer.
His mouth curves.
"It is still intact," he says. "For now."
My heart apparently does not want to be intact.
He steps back first this time, giving me space.
The ghost of his touch lingers for the rest of the morning like a phantom bruise.
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I decide to eat lunch outside.
Technically it's a smoking area, but no one is using it, and the air feels less crowded out here.I sit on a bench under a patch of shade, container of kimbap on my lap, matcha beside me.It is not peaceful, exactly. My brain is still high on anxiety and unsent emails.
But at least it is quiet.
I pop a piece of kimbap into my mouth and try to think about anything except—
"Can I sit here?"
I almost choke.
I turn my head.
He stands at the end of the bench, lunchbox in one hand, that hesitant softness in his eyes again.
"This side is free," I say. My voice sounds a little too bright. "You can… sit far away. For safety."
He huffs a small laugh and sits exactly where I indicated—other end of the bench, a respectable gap between us.
Not touching.
Not crowding.
But close enough that I can hear the faint rustle of his clothes when he moves. Close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating off him faintly through the air.
He opens his lunch.
For a few minutes we eat in silence.
The quiet is not heavy. Not this time.
Just… fragile.
"I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable yesterday," he says suddenly.
My chopsticks pause halfway to my mouth.
"You didn't," I say, eyes on the pickled radish.
He glances at me.
"You ran away very fast," he murmurs.
"I walk briskly," I correct. "It is good cardio."
He smiles, then looks down at his food again.
"I just…" I start, then stop.
He waits.
I force the words out in a low rush.
"I just don't know how to handle you sometimes."
The confession hangs in the air like a thread.
His head turns slightly.
"You think I know how to handle you," he says quietly.
I look up, surprised.
His expression is… soft. Worn around the edges. Honest in a way that steals my breath.
"I don't," he continues. "Not when everything feels like it could be… too much."
For a moment, the air stills.
Too much.
Of what.
Of him.
Of me.
Of us.
Of whatever this is.
I set my chopsticks down carefully so my shaking doesn't betray me.
Before I can ask what he means, my phone starts ringing loudly in my pocket.
I almost jump.
"Writer Yoon, we need you on stage two," the AD says when I answer. "New blocking adjustment."
"Coming," I say.
I stand up too quickly.
"Thank you for sharing the bench," I add, because my brain has decided this is the sentence that must be spoken.
His lips twitch.
"Anytime," he replies.
As I walk away, I can feel his gaze following me.
It feels like walking away from a cliff edge I am not sure I do not want to jump from.
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In the afternoon, the makeup team becomes even less subtle than the PAs.
I am passing the open door of the makeup room when I hear my name.
"Writer Yoon is glowing today," one artist says in a sing-song tone.
"That is not highlighter," another replies. "That is he likes her glow."
I freeze in the hallway.
"Did you see how he looks at her," the first one continues. "It is so soft. I would like to sue."
"They're so in denial," the second says. "I keep waiting for the tabloids to catch up."
I misjudge the step and almost walk into a rack of costumes.
So smooth. Very professional.
If my life was a drama, the title of this episode would be Everyone Knows Except the Two Leads.
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We wrap a little later than usual.
The sky outside the high windows is already dimming, that bluish pre-evening that makes everything feel like a memory.
I pack my bag slowly, trying to drag my feet just enough so I do not have to share an elevator with anyone.
Of course, the pen betrays me again.
As I sling the strap of my bag over my shoulder, my aqua pen slides out of the loose pocket and clatters onto the floor.
Traitor.
It rolls toward the hallway.
I sigh and bend down.
A familiar hand gets there first.
He picks it up smoothly, the blue gems catching the faint overhead light.
We have done this dance so many times now it almost feels rehearsed.
He straightens and holds it out to me.
This time he does not hold it just out of reach.
He does not let his fingers trail over mine.
He just places it in my palm, simple and sure.
"Good work today," he says quietly. "Su-bin."
No Writer Yoon.
Just my name.
The way he says it feels like something placed gently into my hands.
My fingers close around the pen automatically.
"…You too," I manage.
For a second, we just stand there in the quiet of near wrap, crew voices muffled in the distance.
His face is calm. Tired in the edges. Eyes still too soft whenever they land on me.
"Get home safe," he says.
"You too," I echo again, because apparently my creativity ends at basic symmetry.
He gives me a small nod and turns down the corridor toward the dressing rooms.
I watch his back for exactly two seconds longer than I should.
Then I turn the opposite way.
We walk in different directions, and somehow it still feels like we are on the same line, stretching tighter.
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That night, in my tiny apartment, I sit at my kitchen table with my laptop open and my script notes spread out like a strange paper shrine.
The city hums faintly outside the window. My matcha has been replaced by lukewarm barley tea.
The aqua pen lies in the center of the table.
I pick it up, twisting it between my fingers.
I think about his hand around my elbow when I tripped.
His voice on the bench.
His expression when he said he did not know how to handle me either.
I know what this is.
I just do not want to say it out loud.
If I name it, it becomes real.
If it is real, it can break.
I press the tip of the pen into the corner of my notebook and write, small:
If I get too close, I will fall.
I stare at the sentence.
My chest tightens.
Because under that fear, under all the leftover poison from Hyun-woo's voice, under years of thinking I should be grateful for crumbs…
Something else is growing.
Something warm.
Something careful.
Something that looks a lot like hope.
I am not ready for it.
I am not ready for him.
I am not ready for the way he looks at me like I am already enough.
I close the notebook and set the pen on top of it like a seal.
Across the city, on another side of Seoul, someone else is also not ready to let me have that softness.
In a hotel room near the broadcasting station, Lee Hyun-woo scrolls through tomorrow's call sheet for the drama… and smiles when he sees his name beside mine.
At home in her high-rise apartment, Han So-ah lounges on her sofa, tablet in hand, replaying footage from the last few days.
Her eyes linger on one thing.
The way Liu Jingyi looks at Su-Bin.
Her smile sharpens.
Two people making plans.
Neither of them care if things break, as long as they get what they want.
A storm is coming.