I wake up smiling.
It happens before I can stop it… before my brain has a chance to run quality control and stamp the feeling as irresponsible.
The warmth at my mouth is the first clue. Not lipstick. Not sleep. Just… memory. The soft press of his lips. The way my body didn't tense like it was waiting to be punished for wanting.
I stare at the ceiling for a second, offended.
Internal monologue:
This is dangerous.
ButI like it anyway.
I sit up slowly, hair a mess, and reach for my phone.
No dramatic messages. No frantic follow-up. No awkward "about last night" text that would immediately force me to become a human being with opinions and vulnerability.
Just a single message from him, timestamped late.
Jingyi: Home safe?
Jingyi: Don't answer if you're asleep. I'm just… being annoying.
I cover my face with the blanket and let out a sound that is, unfortunately, close to a laugh.
He's back.
Not the careful version who watched every step like the floor might crack.
The annoying version.
The warm version.
The version that makes me want to throw something… or kiss him again.
I type back with a level of composure that should qualify me for an award.
Me: I'm alive. Unfortunately.
Me: Matcha in ten. Try not to cause scandals before noon.
I hit send and immediately regret existing.
Then my phone buzzes.
Jingyi: Ten minutes? Writer Yoon, you're spoiling me.
Jingyi: I'll cause scandals after lunch. For pacing.
I stare at the screen, lips twitching.
This is exactly the problem.
It's too easy to be like this with him.
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My matcha ritual is slower today.
Not because I'm tired.
Because I'm… aware.
I warm the oatmilk. I whisk the matcha until the foam turns soft and glossy. Two pumps of vanilla. The smell is sweet and clean and comforting in a way that makes my chest loosen.
I take a sip and stare at my reflection in the microwave door again, like it's become my personal morning therapist.
Aqua silk blouse draped over my shoulders. Hair falling into soft waves after I twist it loosely. My face still looks like me… but my eyes look different.
Not brighter, exactly.
Less guarded.
Like they're not scanning for threat.
I smooth my blouse over my waist and pause.
I don't critique.
I don't pinch.
I don't bargain with myself about what I'd look like if I were smaller.
I just… exist.
Internal monologue:
He kissed me.
And I didn't feel like I had to earn it.
I didn't feel like I had to be anything else first.
That thought sits in me like something holy.
Then I shake my head once, firm.
Professional composure… intact.
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The studio is already loud when I arrive. It always is. Headsets, cables, voices overlapping like a soundtrack no one asked for.
I walk in holding my matcha like a shield.
Not because I'm scared.
Because it's my thing.
My anchor.
My "don't speak to me until I've had at least three sips" sign.
I spot him across the room before he spots me.
He's talking with someone from lighting, laughing again, smile wide enough to show teeth… and for one terrifying second I understand why the entire country thinks he's charming.
Then his gaze flicks toward me.
His smile changes.
Not smaller.
Just… different.
Private.
Mine.
He doesn't come over immediately. He waits until the conversation ends. Until it's natural. Until it doesn't look like anything.
And then he walks toward me like it's the most normal thing in the world to cross a room just to stand near someone.
"Morning," he says.
His voice is casual. His eyes are not.
I lift my cup.
"Morning. Don't talk to me until I've had three sips."
He nods solemnly.
"Understood."
I take one sip. Then another.
He watches me like I'm performing something important.
On the third sip, he says, "You're early."
I narrow my eyes.
"You're smiling. That's suspicious," he adds.
"I'm not smiling," I lie.
"You are," he says, calm. "It's small. But it's there."
"Maybe my face is glitching," I say. "Maybe it's allergic to you."
He laughs quietly, like he's trying not to.
"Unfortunate," he murmurs. "I'm very hard to avoid."
I roll my eyes, but I can't hide the way my mouth betrays me.
He notices.
Of course he does.
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People start drifting around us. Crew members moving past. A producer calling out schedules. Someone handing me a revised shot list.
Normal.
But also… not.
Because his shoulder brushes mine and neither of us moves away.
Because he stands a fraction too close for "colleagues," and my body doesn't panic about it.
Because when he glances down at my script and leans in slightly, his breath warms my cheek and it feels… familiar.
Not dangerous.
Familiar.
I hear a crew member whisper to another one behind us.
"They're… different lately."
"Shh. Don't say that."
I pretend I didn't hear.
Internal monologue:
Great.
We're in the phase where people can feel the shift even if they can't name it.
I glance past the monitors and catch So-ah watching.
She doesn't approach. She doesn't smile. She just stands there for a moment, eyes assessing, then turns away like she's calculating a new strategy.
Good.
Let her calculate.
I'm tired of shrinking.
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Midday, I step into the hallway near the rehearsal rooms to review a scene with the assistant director. We talk quietly about pacing, about emotional beats, about how the camera will catch the micro-expressions.
Normal work.
Normal day.
Until Jingyi passes by and, without slowing down, murmurs near my ear:
"You have powder on your cheek."
I freeze.
"What."
He stops walking and turns back, face innocent.
"I said you have powder on your cheek."
"Why are you telling me," I whisper.
He tilts his head.
"Because I noticed."
I narrow my eyes.
"Are you flirting with me in the hallway like a criminal."
He smiles, slow and maddening.
"Is it working."
I feel my face heat.
"It's annoying," I mutter.
He steps closer and lifts his hand… not touching my cheek yet, hovering.
"Asking permission," he murmurs.
My breath catches. I nod once.
He brushes his thumb lightly along my cheek, removing the powder with a touch so gentle it makes my chest ache.
Then he pulls his hand back as if nothing happened.
"There," he says. "Fixed."
I stare at him.
"That was not professional," I whisper.
He leans in slightly, grin returning.
"You told me not to cause scandals before noon," he says. "It's after noon."
I choke on a laugh.
He walks away like he didn't just erase my ability to form sentences.
Internal monologue:
He's terrible.
I'm doomed.
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Later, someone makes a comment about the rewrite.
Not cruel. Not overt. Just dismissive enough to be irritating.
A junior producer flips through the pages and says, "It's good… just don't make it too emotional. The audience wants light."
I look up slowly.
I can feel Jingyi behind me.
I can feel the moment where he could step in.
He doesn't.
He waits.
Trusting me.
I set my matcha down carefully.
"Light doesn't mean empty," I say calmly. "And emotion is why people watch."
The producer blinks.
I continue, gentle but firm.
"If you want scenes people quote… you want emotion. If you want something forgettable… remove it."
Silence.
Then the producer clears their throat and nods.
"Okay. Right. Sure."
They move on.
When they're gone, Jingyi leans closer and murmurs, "You've got it."
I glance at him.
"I always have it," I say.
He smiles, pleased.
"I know," he replies.
And somehow that simple trust… that respect… feels even more intimate than the kiss.
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By the end of the day, my energy is low but my heart feels… steady.
As we walk toward the exit, people pass by with distracted waves. Someone calls Jingyi's name. He responds easily, charm on, smile bright.
Then he looks back at me.
And the smile shifts again.
Privately mine.
He bumps my shoulder lightly, the same playful touch as last night, like we have a language now.
"So," he says. "Matcha tomorrow."
I lift my cup. "Always."
We pause by my car.
He doesn't reach for me like he owns me.
He doesn't hesitate like he's afraid.
He just stands close, gaze warm.
"Text me when you get home," he says.
I arch an eyebrow.
"Are you my manager now."
"No," he says, amused. "I'm… annoyingly protective."
I laugh softly, surprising myself with how easy it is.
"I'll text," I promise.
He nods once, satisfied, and steps back to let me go.
As I slide into my seat, I catch sight of myself in the mirror.
Aqua blouse. Soft hair. Matcha cup. Pen tucked into my script like a secret.
A woman who looks like the main character of her own story.
It feels… new.
Not dramatic.
Just true.
Internal monologue:
We haven't named this.
We don't have to.
Because whatever it is…
It feels like something that wants to last.