My matcha tastes like control.
Hot… oatmilk… two pumps of vanilla… whisked until the foam looks soft enough to nap on.
I watch it swirl in my cup and pretend that this is what stability looks like. A small ritual. A quiet promise. A morning that doesn't start with bracing for impact.
I take a sip and exhale.
No panic. No aftermath hangover. No sudden fear that I hallucinated the rooftop.
Just… calm.
Which feels suspicious.
I stare at my reflection in the microwave door while it counts down the last ten seconds of warming the oatmilk. The version of me looking back doesn't look different.
Same soft wave to my hair. Same tired-but-pretty face. Same curves that exist whether I'm loved or not.
But my eyes…
My eyes look like someone who has been seen.
That's the most radical thing that's happened to me in years.
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The studio is already loud when I arrive. Headsets, footsteps, props rolling past like they have somewhere more important to be than my nervous system.
I walk into the writers' corner with my matcha, my tote, and my aqua pen tucked into my script like a bookmark.
Three people glance at me too long.
Not rude long. Just… measuring.
A producer near the monitors pauses mid-sentence when I pass. A PA stumbles over their words.
"Writer Yoon… good morning… um… the director-nim asked if you can… later…"
"Sure," I say, gentle and normal, like my chest isn't doing a slow, suspicious clench.
The PA nods too hard and scurries off.
I set my matcha down and open my laptop.
Internal monologue:
Okay. Great. We're doing the thing where everyone pretends nothing's happening while clearly thinking something is happening.
I tap my pen once against the script.
Click.
The sound steadies me.
For ten minutes, I almost believe I'm overreacting.
Then I hear it.
A cluster of voices near craft services. Soft. Quick. The kind of whispering people think doesn't carry.
"I swear he's been hovering around Writer Yoon."
"Not hovering… he's just… always there."
"Management will hate that."
"Don't say it out loud."
"I'm not saying anything. I'm just saying it's weird."
I keep my face neutral. My fingers type a line of dialogue like my heart isn't suddenly too loud.
It's fine.
Lie.
It's not hostile. It's not cruel. It's worse.
It's the industry doing what it always does.
Looking for a story to take.
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So-ah appears like a perfume commercial.
She's all soft waves and a white blouse that screams innocence, gliding past people with a smile that never reaches her eyes.
She does not come near me.
She doesn't have to.
Instead, she stops near a production coordinator and laughs brightly.
"Oh my gosh, I know, right… he's been so intense lately."
I pretend to read a script note. I can't hear every word, but I catch enough.
"…just worried about him… his image is everything… and Writer Yoon is… you know… sensitive…"
Sensitive.
The word is a pin. Small. Sharp. Placed exactly where it hurts.
I twist my pen once… click.
No. Not today.
Internal monologue:
She's not trying to win him anymore.
That part is done. She knows it.
This is punishment.
She can't touch him, so she's trying to bruise me through the machinery around us.
The thing about sabotage is it's cowardly by design. If you call it out, you look paranoid.
If you don't, it grows.
I stare at my screen and force myself to type.
One sentence. Then another.
Words are the only thing I can control.
Until they aren't.
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Jingyi doesn't approach me first today.
He doesn't need to.
He appears at the edge of my vision like gravity, passing behind my chair, voice low.
"Did you eat?"
"Yes," I say automatically.
A beat.
He doesn't reply right away.
I look up.
He's watching my hand.
The one gripping my pen too tightly.
Not judgment. Not suspicion.
Observation.
"Okay," he says.
Then softer, almost to himself.
"Something changed."
He walks away before I can respond.
Which is unfair, because now I have to live with the fact that he noticed before I was ready to admit it.
Of course he did.
He notices everything I do like it matters.
Even the things I wish didn't.
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The day drags. Meetings. Notes. Rehearsals. Little pockets of quiet that aren't actually quiet because my brain fills them with the same loop.
Management will hate that.
His image is everything.
Writer Yoon is sensitive.
I laugh once when I read it back in my head, because if I don't laugh I will do something dramatic. Like throw a matcha latte at a production coordinator. Or cry in a supply closet. Or both.
By late afternoon, I'm rewriting a small scene when Jingyi appears beside my table.
Not close. Not distant. Just… there.
"Come with me for a minute," he says quietly.
It's not a command.
It's an invitation.
I blink up at him.
"Is this where you fire me," I ask. "Because I only rewrite under threat and caffeine."
His mouth curves slightly.
"Neither," he says. "And you already have caffeine."
I look at my matcha.
"It's matcha."
He nods as if that solves everything.
"Come on," he repeats.
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He leads me to a stairwell landing that no one uses unless they're lost or emotionally spiraling.
So… perfect.
The fluorescent light hums. The air smells like concrete and faint cleaning solution.
He leans against the wall with his hands in his pockets, posture relaxed, eyes not.
"You got quieter today," he says.
Not a question. Not an accusation.
A fact.
I stare at my pen.
Click. Click.
My throat tightens.
"I'm fine," I start.
He lifts an eyebrow.
I stop.
A small breath leaves me, defeated by the truth.
"So-ah is talking," I admit.
His expression doesn't change, but something in it sharpens.
"To who," he asks.
"People who like whispers," I say. "People who pretend they're concerned."
He nods once, slow.
"And what are they saying," he asks.
I laugh, short and humorless.
"That you're distracted," I say. "That I'm… sensitive. That management won't like whatever story they're building."
He watches me carefully.
"And what story are they building," he asks.
I swallow.
I can feel the word hovering.
Us.
I hate that it makes my stomach flip, because it shouldn't feel like a crime.
"They're building the version where your career is a glass tower and I'm the pebble," I say.
His gaze softens.
He steps a little closer, still giving me space.
"They're wrong," he says.
I scoff quietly.
"They might not be," I admit. "The industry doesn't like… lines."
His eyes hold mine.
"That's funny," he says.
"Why," I ask.
"Because you're the one who writes lines," he replies.
I blink.
The smallest smile tries to form and I hate myself for how quickly he can pull me back from the edge.
Then he grows serious again.
"If they come for you," he says, voice low, "they come through me."
My heart stutters.
He raises a hand slightly, like he's catching himself before he oversteps.
"But only if that's what you want," he adds. "I won't decide that for you."
Choice. Always choice.
I exhale.
I didn't realize how much I needed to hear that.
"I don't want to hide," I say.
The words come out steadier than I expect.
His eyes widen just a fraction.
"I'm not saying we announce anything," I continue quickly. "I'm not saying we… perform. I'm saying I won't deny my work. I won't let them imply I'm a liability because I exist near you."
He nods slowly, like something settles into place.
"Okay," he says.
Just… okay.
But it sounds like agreement. Partnership. Respect.
It makes my throat burn.
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An hour later, we're back near the monitors while the director reviews the last take.
A producer I don't like… one of the polished ones who speaks in corporate fog… clears their throat.
"We need to be careful about distractions," they say lightly.
The room stills.
Everyone hears the implication.
My spine tries to curl inward. Old reflex. Old training.
I keep my face neutral.
Jingyi doesn't.
He turns calmly, expression polite, voice even.
"Then let's focus on the work," he says.
The producer blinks.
Jingyi continues, not loud, not sharp, just unshakeable.
"Writer Yoon's writing is the backbone of this project," he says. "If we're talking about priorities, that's one of them."
Silence.
The producer's smile falters.
Someone coughs. Someone looks at their clipboard like it's suddenly fascinating.
Jingyi turns back to the monitor, as if that's all there is to say.
Because to him… it is.
My chest warms in a way that almost hurts.
Not because he defended me.
Because he did it without turning me into a headline.
No romance. No drama. No possessive claims.
Just respect.
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Later, as the crew disperses, I pack my laptop and tuck my aqua pen into my script.
Jingyi waits near the exit like it's the most natural thing in the world.
When I approach, he doesn't speak at first.
He just looks at me, checking.
"Breathing," I tell him dryly. "Barely."
His mouth curves.
"Good," he says.
I hesitate, then whisper, "You didn't have to do that."
"I wanted to," he replies.
A beat.
"And I'll keep wanting to," he adds, quieter.
My heart does something inconvenient.
I stare at my pen like it can explain how to act like a normal person.
"I'm still learning," I admit.
"Me too," he says.
Then, very softly, like it matters.
"But I'm not confused anymore."
I look up.
His eyes are steady.
The line we crossed on the rooftop doesn't feel like danger now.
It feels like direction.
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That night, at home, I sit at my desk and open the script.
The cursor blinks.
Patient. Not cruel.
I pick up my aqua pen.
I breathe.
And the words come.
Not from fear. Not from proving myself. Not from shrinking so someone else can shine.
From something steadier.
Internal monologue:
The story will try to take things from me.
But I'm not writing from the wound anymore.
I underline the last sentence twice, aggressive and satisfied.
Then I smile… small, private.
Because for the first time in my life…
I'm not choosing love instead of myself.
I'm choosing both.