The August set was hot as a steamer.
Noah stood outside the filming location of Desire Kiss, dragging his suitcase, sweat sticky across his shoulders. A fresh-faced idol from a talent show, cleaned up and packaged to perfection, he now stood before the entrance of this high-profile production—with his eyes fixed on one person in the distance.
Asher.
He was practically a legend in the industry. Winning awards since he was sixteen, there wasn't a single soul in showbiz who didn't know his name—or feel his presence.
And he… was the only person Noah had ever liked back in his teenage years.
Noah hadn't expected to see him here. Wasn't today supposed to be the producers' meeting and casting tryouts with the executive director? Why was the film emperor himself here?
He subtly lowered his head, tugging the brim of his baseball cap down, palms slightly sweating.
His assistant muttered beside him, "Didn't they say Asher's playing the male lead and producing this drama? No way he's here on day one, right?"
But he was here.
Dressed in a black shirt, backlit by the overhead lights, tall and striking. He stood by the monitors, one hand in his pocket, the other flipping through paperwork. He wasn't looking at anyone in particular, his gaze sharp as a blade, slicing through each actor being auditioned.
Including Noah.
And in that moment, Noah instinctively looked away.
But he knew Asher had seen him.
He even had the strange illusion—Asher's gaze lingered on him longer than it did anyone else.
Desire Kiss was Asher's first time serving as executive producer on a drama. It was also penned by his sister, Sarah—controversial, sharp-tongued, and one of the boldest writers of recent years. The story? A love between two men—raw, unapologetic, with so many intense scenes the director already dreaded the censorship board.
Noah's agency, upon hearing about the audition, had practically shoved him onto the project.
"Land this role," his manager had said, "and your resources will triple. No more faceless variety shows—your name will mean something."
He knew what it meant.
And still, he came.
When it was Noah's turn to enter the soundstage, the director sat behind the monitors flipping through the script. A few assistant directors lingered nearby, and so did Sarah—red-haired, glasses on, face unreadable. She glanced at Noah. "You're auditioning for the bottom role?"
"Yes."
"Scene eighteen. First kiss between the leads," Sarah said, then looked at the man beside her. "Asher says he'll do it."
Noah froze.
"Is that a problem?"
"…No problem."
Asher stood, pushed open the barrier, and stepped into the filming zone. All eyes followed him as he slowly undid the top button of his shirt, eyes sharp and unreadable. "Let's hit your marks," he said.
The air turned strangely quiet.
Noah swallowed. He'd spent a year in the entertainment industry already—he wasn't camera shy, and his acting wasn't bad. But right now… he was nervous.
Asher was close enough that Noah could smell his cologne—subtle sandalwood, light but unnerving.
"In the script, I've got you cornered against the wall," Asher said. "Look at me. Say your lines."
Noah followed the directions, backing into the set's fake wall, forced there by Asher's imposing steps.
Asher didn't speak immediately. He braced one hand against the wall, and with the other, gently lifted Noah's chin. His fingers brushed the side of Noah's neck.
Everyone behind the monitor held their breath.
"Why are you avoiding me?" Asher murmured the line, his eyes dark as a still lake.
Noah's lashes trembled. His voice, involuntarily shaky: "I… I'm not."
"Then why won't you look at me?"
That line marked the end of the scene.
But Asher didn't stop.
He leaned down, closing the space between them, his lips nearing Noah's.
Just a finger's width away.
Noah's body tensed instantly, panic flashing in his eyes. For a moment, he even forgot he was acting.
And that flicker of panic—was more honest, more raw, than anything the script could have asked for.
The director let out a soft click of the tongue behind the screen. "That's the feeling."
Asher didn't kiss him. He merely brushed a strand of hair from Noah's forehead, eyes low. "Scene's over."
Noah felt like he'd been pulled out of water, his heartbeat completely out of sync.
Later, in the break room, he sat in a quiet corner, sipping water.
The light shone on his pale face, highlighting an unnatural flush.
An assistant director clapped him on the shoulder. "You did well today. The director said your eyes really work on camera—didn't expect you to look even more fragile in person than in photos. It's… fitting."
Noah forced a smile. "Thanks."
He knew why he'd panicked.
It wasn't that he couldn't act.
It was him—Asher.
Being near him shattered all of Noah's carefully maintained professionalism.
During the break, Noah washed his face and stepped out of the restroom. Just around the corner, he spotted someone standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows.
It was Asher.
Leaning against the frame, cigarette between his fingers, collar loose, one hand on the sill. His eyes were somewhere far beyond the glass, lost in thought.
Noah debated walking the other way.
But Asher suddenly looked up. "Noah, right?"
Noah paused, then turned to face him.
"I watched a few episodes of your talent show," Asher said. "Camera loves you—especially when you're dancing."
Noah lowered his head. "Thank you, sir."
Asher took a step closer, eyes flickering with something unreadable. He smiled, softly. "No need to be so nervous."
There was a brief silence, as if he was choosing his words.
Then, in a low voice, he said:
"You have this… quality. Makes people want to kiss you."
Noah froze.
A second later, Asher leaned in, close enough to whisper by his ear.
"I'm not talking about acting."
And with that, he turned and walked away, his long legs disappearing around the corner.
Noah stood there, rooted in place.
That whisper—makes people want to kiss you—lingered in his ears, impossible to shake.