There should be a word for the moment you realize you've become studio gossip.
It's somewhere between nausea and static.
I feel it the second I step onto set.
People don't stop talking when I walk in… they just shift topics in a way that is somehow worse. Laughter softens, eyes flick over, volume dips. A PA glances at me, looks away too fast, then whispers furiously to another.
I tug my tote higher on my shoulder.
Nothing to see here. Just a woman with a laptop and trauma.
I head toward the writer's corner, cup of hot matcha in hand. Today it's actually drinkable. Half comforting, half performance.
"Writer Yoon, good morning…"
I look up.
The assistant director smiles at me with complicated sympathy. Someone else gives me a thumbs up like I just survived a war. I give them all the same polite office smile.
I am fine.
Lie.
My spine knows I am walking into a day that has both So-ah and Hyun-woo on the call sheet. That alone should qualify as hazard pay.
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I almost make it to my desk.
Almost.
"Su-bin."
His voice curls around my name from behind me and every muscle in my body pulls tight on instinct.
I turn slowly.
Lee Hyun-woo stands there in fitted black, hands tucked casually in his pockets like we are old classmates bumping into each other at a coffee shop.
The same soft, careful expression. The one that once made me think he was safe.
"Hey there," he says, tilting his head. "You look tired."
There it is.
I tighten my grip on my matcha.
"I'm just busy," I say. "Like everyone else here."
He tuts, the sound so familiar it turns my stomach.
"You always did overwork," he says. "Still not taking care of yourself properly, huh?"
I shift my weight, ready to go around him.
"Please move," I say. "I have work to do."
His eyes flicker, just enough to show the old irritation.
"I forgot how cute you are when you pretend to be strong," he adds, a little louder.
My jaw clenches.
Behind him, someone slows down to watch.
Of course they do.
My heartbeat starts to climb into my throat. The old reflex is still there… that urge to shrink in on myself, to vanish, to smooth it over so he won't be annoyed.
Not today.
I inhale once. Calm. Cool.
"I am not pretending," I say quietly. "You just never liked it when I had a spine."
He blinks.
For a half second, satisfaction tastes like sugar on my tongue.
Then a new voice cuts in, light and sweet and unpleasantly familiar.
"Oppa… are you bothering Writer Yoon?"
Of course.
Kang So-ah appears at his side like she was summoned from makeup by the scent of emotional carnage. She looks polished, neat, with straight hair, soft makeup, and a perfectly calculated worried expression.
She takes my outfit in with a quick sweep of her gaze.
Her smile sharpens.
"You look… fragile today," she says. "Are you feeling okay? There is a lot of pressure on you right now, right?"
I smile back.
The kind that shows no teeth.
"I am managing," I say.
"Oh, but some people just are not built for pressure," she continues, faux-concern dripping from every syllable. "It is not a flaw, you know. Not everyone can handle this industry."
Her eyes flick toward the cameras, the overhead lights, the bustle.
Then to Hyun-woo.
Then… to someone over my shoulder.
I do not need to turn to know who just walked in.
Every cell in my body already knows.
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"Morning."
Jingyi's voice comes from just behind me, low and even.
The tiny crackle in the air when he arrives is familiar now. The way background noise shifts, the way people straighten, the way the space rearranges around him.
I turn.
He stands there in wardrobe slacks and a dark shirt, emerald jacket draped over his arm, hair styled just messy enough. Sunglasses hang from his collar. His expression is calm… but his eyes go straight to my face.
Not to them.
To me.
"Morning," I say.
I can hear my own pulse.
His gaze skims my features like a scan. Checking for cracks.
"Did you eat," he asks.
"Some," I answer.
His eyes linger like he does not entirely believe me, but he lets it go. For now.
Only then does he look at the other two.
"Senior Lee. Sunbae," he says politely.
Neutral tone.
No warmth.
So-ah brightens as if he just confessed undying love.
"Jingyi," she gasps. "You are finally here… we were just talking about how intense everything must be for Writer Yoon. You know how it is. Not everyone is cut out for this kind of pressure."
She laughs lightly.
"Some people just break," she adds.
Her gaze slides back to me.
Something in my chest twists.
Hyun-woo smiles more widely, sensing blood.
"Ah, she has always been like that," he says, voice rising so more people can hear. "She used to get overwhelmed all the time… skipping meals, gaining weight, losing weight… very sensitive. It is just how she is."
The words hit like someone opened a drawer full of old knives and dumped them on the floor.
For a second, the studio sounds distant. Cotton in my ears.
I feel the familiar shame prick under my skin… the one he spent years building. Messy. Too much. Not enough. Never quite right.
Several pairs of eyes cut to me. Curious. Assessing.
Waiting to see if I will fold.
Something inside me steadies instead.
No.
No more.
I blink once. Twice. The air slides back into focus.
I lift my chin.
"I was not sensitive," I say, clearly enough that the nearby crew can hear. "I was with someone who needed me small so he could shine."
Hyun-woo's smile snaps.
So-ah's eyebrow twitches.
My heart is pounding but my voice is calm. It feels like it belongs to someone braver.
"I am not small nor insignificant," I continue. "I just learned to hide around the wrong people."
Silence drops over our little circle.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Jingyi's shoulders loosen… like he has been holding his breath for an entire episode run.
I step closer to So-ah, small enough that only the four of us will hear the next line. Her perfume is expensive and sharp. She looks at me with that wide-eyed, fake-innocent expression, waiting for me to flinch.
I lean in slightly.
"Do you really want to try me again?" I say softly.
Her forehead creases.
Then the meaning lands.
Her lips part just a little.
"You…" she breathes.
"Yes," I answer. "Me."
Translation: I see you. I know exactly what you are. I am not afraid of you. Pick another game.
Her pretty, polished composure trembles for half a second.
It feels… good.
Not vicious. Not petty.
Just like finally setting down a weight I should never have been carrying.
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Jingyi chooses that moment to move.
He steps a little closer, enough that I can feel his presence at my side.
Not touching. Just there.
He looks at So-ah first.
His expression has cooled in a way I have never seen outside of a character on screen.
"So-ah-ssi," he says. "We need to clear something up."
Her eyes go wide with practiced innocence.
"About what," she asks. "Did I say something wrong…?"
"Yes," he replies, without even a pause. "More than once."
She blinks rapidly.
"We have never had chemistry," he says.
The words are gentle.
They land like a slammed door.
Her face goes slack.
"…What," she says faintly.
He continues, tone even.
"On camera, we are colleagues," he says. "We do our job. That is all. Please stop mistaking professionalism for interest."
Heat rushes to my cheeks on her behalf. Not sympathy. Just secondhand humiliation.
"Jingyi…" she begins, voice wobbling, "I did not mean…"
"And," he adds, softer but sharper, "please stop dragging Writer Yoon into your issues with me. Her work and her place here are not up for debate."
Someone nearby swears under their breath.
Someone else gasps.
So-ah stands frozen, mascaraed lashes fluttering like she can blink this out of existence.
"This is not about my issues," she tries weakly. "I am just worried about her ability to handle—"
He cuts her off with nothing but a look.
"I am not," he says.
She closes her mouth.
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Hyun-woo snorts, trying to wrestle back control of the moment.
"This is a little dramatic for a table read, don't you think," he says. "I am just catching up with an old friend. You do not have to act like you are her…"
He trails off, looking for a word.
Bodyguard. Owner. Something ugly.
Jingyi's eyes shift to him.
I have watched him play villains, princes, bodyguards, boyfriends.
I have never seen him like this.
Calm. Collected. Dangerous in a way that has nothing to do with violence and everything to do with certainty.
"You do not get to talk about who she is anymore," he says.
The words are quiet.
They hit harder than shouting.
Hyun-woo laughs once, brittle.
"You think you know her better than I do," he asks. "We were together for years. She is a lot to handle. She needs someone who can keep her grounded. I'm just saying you might not realize what you are getting into."
My stomach flips.
Old shame claws at my ribs.
Before I can speak, Jingyi does.
"Do not ever imply she needs you," he says, eyes locked on Hyun-woo's. "She doesn't."
Hyun-woo's jaw tightens.
"So you're what then," he spits. "Her new protector?"
Jingyi's expression softens in a way that somehow makes him even more intimidating.
"I respect her," he says. "I trust her. I work with her more closely than anyone on this set."
I forget how to swallow.
"If that bothers you," he finishes, looking from Hyun-woo to So-ah and back, "that's a 'you' problem."
Silence spreads outward like ripples.
Someone at the monitors turns very slowly, pretending not to stare.
A makeup artist forgets to move her brush.
The AD clears his throat and suddenly becomes extremely interested in scheduling.
So-ah's eyes glisten with anger rather than tears.
Hyun-woo's fingers curl once, then release.
For the first time since they walked up to me, neither of them look bigger than me.
They look… small.
Very, very small.
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The director appears like a referee who has walked into the ring late.
"What is going on here," he asks lightly, eyes darting between our faces. "If we are finished with the morning drama, can we please move on to the one we are actually filming."
People laugh awkwardly.
The spell breaks.
So-ah smooths her hair, pasting on a fragile smile.
"Of course, director-nim," she says. "I was just worried about Writer Yoon's health. That is all."
She throws me a look that promises this is not over.
I return one that says she is very, very wrong.
Hyun-woo straightens his shoulders.
"Let us work hard," he says stiffly. "As professionals."
He throws in a tight, meaningless smile and walks away.
So-ah goes in the opposite direction, heels clicking too sharply.
The studio resumes breathing.
Someone mutters, "I need popcorn next time."
I exhale slowly.
My hands are shaking.
Jingyi notices.
Of course he does.
"Come on," he says softly. "We start blocking in five minutes. Do you want water."
"No," I say automatically. "I am fine."
The words taste wrong the second they leave my mouth.
He studies me.
One eyebrow lifts, just barely.
"Try again," he says.
A laugh escapes me… small, breathless, but real.
"I'm… not sure," I admit.
The truth feels unfamiliar and clumsy.
His shoulders ease.
"There we go," he says quietly. "That I believe."
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The rest of the day happens like it always does.
We rehearse.
We adjust lines.
We stand around waiting for lights.
But something is different.
People look at me differently.
Not with pity…
With a kind of cautious respect.
Someone from costume brings me a bottle of water without making a comment about how I look. A camera operator tells me, in passing, that the last batch of rewrites were "clean" and "hit hard".
Even the director grumbles less than usual.
And Jingyi…
He does not hover.
He does not cling.
He also does not pretend he is not watching me from across the set, checking in with quick glances like little anchors.
When I catch him once, he does not look away.
He just smiles. Soft. Knowing.
Something in my chest unknots one careful loop at a time.
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By the time we wrap, the sky outside the studio windows is bruised purple.
Most of the crew clears out in a wave of exhausted chatter. I hang back to close my laptop, stack my pages, tuck my aqua pen into its usual place.
My body hums with leftover adrenaline and something else I don't want to name yet.
I am almost at the door when he appears in the frame.
"Su-bin."
He says my name like it is something he is allowed to keep.
I stop.
"Hey," I say. "You're still here."
He steps into the room, letting the door swing slowly shut behind him.
"Of course, I am," he says. "I wanted to check on you."
The fluorescent lights have been dimmed. There is a warm glow from the hallway and it makes everything feel softer. Closer.
I grip the strap of my tote.
"I told you, I am fine," I say.
The words come out on reflex.
He just looks at me.
The kind of look that used to make me want to run.
Today, it makes me want to exhale.
"I don't think you are," he says gently. "Not completely."
My throat tightens.
I look away, toward the empty chairs, the abandoned water bottle on the table.
"I don't know how I am," I say quietly. "Is that acceptable."
There is a pause.
Then I hear his footsteps cross the room.
He stops a respectful distance away, close enough that I can feel his presence, far enough that I can breathe.
"It is honest," he says. "That is more than acceptable."
I laugh once, humorless.
"I spent years convincing myself I was okay when I was not," I say. "It is a hard habit to break."
He nods.
"I know," he says.
I glance up.
His eyes are so open it hurts to look at them.
"I cannot promise people like that will not try again," he adds softly. "There will always be someone who thinks they are allowed to define you."
He tilts his head, gaze steady.
"But I can promise you won't do it alone," he finishes. "Not while I am here."
My chest squeezes.
"You don't have to do that," I murmur.
"I know," he answers.
He smiles, small and real.
"I want to."
There it is again.
That feeling like the floor is shifting an inch to the left. Like everything in me is moving to make room for something bigger.
I swallow.
"I'm still… scared," I admit. "Of being too much. Of needing too much. Of asking too much."
He takes a breath.
His voice is so gentle it almost undoes me.
"Then you don't have to ask," he says. "I will stay until you're not scared."
My fingers tighten on the tote strap.
My heart lurches against my ribs.
"I… don't know when that will be," I say.
"That is fine," he replies. "I'm not going anywhere."
He says it so simply.
No drama. No fanfare.
Just reality.
Somewhere behind my ribs, the version of me who used to hide on metaphorical rooftops sits up and listens.
I nod once.
"Okay," I whisper.
He smiles.
"Good," he says. "Then let's go home."
We walk out of the rehearsal room side by side.
He opens the door.
I step through.
Our shoulders don't touch.
But the space between us feels like it belongs to us now.
The part where I stop running has begun.