He's smiling again.
Not the polite smile he uses for cameras.
Not the careful one he perfected during the months we circled each other.
The real one.
I notice it before I realize I've slowed down just to watch him.
He's standing near the monitors, half-leaning against a table, jacket slung open, laughing at something the sound director says. His shoulders are loose. His hands move when he talks, expressive and easy. The crooked smile flashes, familiar enough to make something warm and reckless bloom in my chest.
The smile that used to make me roll my eyes.
The smile that made me stay longer than I planned to.
Internal monologue:
Oh no.
He's back.
Worse…
He's only like this when I'm nearby.
As if he senses my attention, his gaze lifts. Our eyes meet. He lifts one eyebrow… just one… and the corner of his mouth curves like he knows exactly what he's doing.
I look down at my script immediately.
Too late.
"You're doing the thing," he murmurs later, when the crew disperses and we end up near the rehearsal rooms.
I glance at him sideways. "What thing."
He steps closer, close enough that I can smell the faint trace of soap and something warm and familiar I've started associating with him.
"That face," he says quietly. "The one you make when you're pretending not to stare."
"I don't stare," I reply, flat and dignified.
He hums, thoughtful and unconvinced.
"Mmm. Sure."
I scoff, but my pulse betrays me, skittering under my ribs.
This is the Jingyi I met first.
Observant. Playful. Infuriatingly warm.
Only now… there's no edge to it. No performance layered over fear. No careful distance pretending to be professionalism.
Just him.
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We rehearse a scene that feels uncomfortably familiar.
Two characters standing too close. Words carefully neutral. Bodies saying something else entirely.
During blocking, he places his hand against a bookshelf behind So-Ah, bracing himself there, close enough to make the air between them tighten.
The memory hits me immediately.
The first almost-kiss.
The restraint.
The ache that lingered long after the scene ended.
I swallow and focus on my notes, but my fingers tighten around my aqua pen.
Click.
Afterward, the director nods, satisfied.
"Good. Let's take ten."
People scatter like they've been released from gravity.
I gather my script and step into the now-empty rehearsal room to make a note before I forget it.
I don't hear him follow me.
I feel him.
"You're smiling," he says behind me.
I turn. "I am not."
"You are," he replies mildly. "Just a little. It's annoying."
"Good," I say. "That was my intention today."
He laughs softly, the sound low and unguarded.
The door clicks shut behind him.
Not locked.
Just… closed.
The room hums faintly, holding the echo of earlier tension.
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He leans back against the wall like he belongs there, arms crossed, posture relaxed.
"So," he says. "You survived another rehearsal."
Barely.
"You were very professional today," I tease.
He tilts his head. "I always am."
I give him a look that says liar.
He smiles wider.
"Okay," he concedes. "I'm trying."
I step closer without realizing I've decided to.
"Why," I ask.
His gaze flicks to my mouth for half a second before returning to my eyes.
"Because," he says lightly, "I don't trust myself when you look at me like that."
Heat crawls up my neck.
"Like what."
"Like you're about to argue," he says. "Or throw something. Or kiss me."
My breath stutters.
"Those are very different outcomes," I manage.
"Yes," he agrees, stepping closer. "They are."
The air changes.
Slows.
The room seems to narrow until it's just us and the space between.
He lifts his arm and places his hand against the wall beside my head.
Not touching me.
Just… there.
The echo is immediate.
Bookshelf. Script. Almost.
Except this time, I don't freeze.
I let my back meet the wall, steady and deliberate.
I don't feel cornered.
I feel chosen.
"You know," he says softly, voice dipping, "this is the part where I'm supposed to say something charming."
I tilt my chin slightly. "And ruin the mood."
He smiles, eyes bright.
"I already did," he says. "You're still here."
My heart thumps hard enough to be embarrassing.
"This is reckless," I whisper.
"No," he says gently. "This is honest."
His other hand lifts, hovering near my waist. Not touching yet. Asking.
I don't answer with words.
I close the distance.
The kiss is soft.
Unrushed.
A question answered gently.
His lips press to mine like he's confirming something he already knows. He pauses after a breath, giving me time to pull away.
I don't.
He kisses me again, just a little deeper, warmth spreading through my chest instead of panic.
One hand cups my face, thumb resting against my cheek, grounding and tender.
I melt into it, the world narrowing until there's nothing left to brace for.
Internal monologue:
I'm not bracing.
I'm not wondering.
I'm here.
When we pull back, it's slow, reluctant.
Foreheads touch. Our breaths mingle.
"That," I whisper, dazed, "just happened."
He smiles. The smile.
"Yes," he says. "It did."
I laugh softly, the sound bubbling up before I can stop it.
"I waited a very long time for that," I admit.
He chuckles, warm and certain.
"I know."
"You knew."
"I noticed," he says gently.
Of course he did.
We don't rush to separate.
We don't pretend it didn't matter.
Eventually, he drops his hand from the wall and bumps my shoulder lightly, playful again.
"So," he says. "Matcha tomorrow."
I smile, full and unguarded.
"Always."
As we leave the rehearsal room together, side by side, I realize something startling and wonderful.
The charm never disappeared.
It just waited.
And now that the weight has been shared…
It shines.