The director’s voice cuts through the room like a divine decree.
“Closer! Chemistry doesn’t work from two meters apart!”

I blink, because apparently personal space is now optional.
The camera crew laughs. I do not.

Jingyi’s standing in the middle of the rehearsal hall, sunglasses perched on his head he just stepped in for a moment. His co-star, Han So-Ah, looks ready to commit a crime, probably against me, because he keeps missing his cue… mostly by looking at me.

I am sitting nowhere near the camera. I am literally a prop-less human behind the monitor, but somehow, my existence has become a distraction.

This is fine. Everything’s fine.
Professional composure: engaged.
Humiliation: thriving.

“Writer-nim,” the director calls, smiling a little too sweetly, “why don’t you come show them what this scene is supposed to feel like?”

The entire room perks up.

“Me?” I ask, pointing at myself, in the voice of someone trying to deny the truth.

“Yes, you,” he says, like it’s obvious. “You wrote it. Show them the emotion.”

I laugh. Quietly. Internally. The kind that sounds like dying inside.

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I walk to the set. So-Ah steps aside with suspicious speed. Jingyi grins like this is the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

“You okay, Writer-nim?” he says softly.

“No,” I whisper back. “But apparently, I’m method acting now.”

He smirks. “I’ll follow your lead.”

“Please don’t.”

The director claps. “Ready… and action!”

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We’re standing close — too close.

The scene is simple: he reaches for her hand, she hesitates, tension builds, camera lingers. Classic, clean, foolproof.

Except he doesn’t just reach. He looks at me like the whole set dissolved. His hand pauses midair, and suddenly I forget the next line.

“I… I didn’t expect you to stay,” he says, voice lower, slower than rehearsal.

His fingers hover near mine. I can feel the warmth before the touch.

My brain scrambles for professionalism, finds sarcasm instead.

“You weren’t supposed to make eye contact during that line.”

He smiles. Not his actor smile, but the real one, soft and earnest.

“Guess I missed that direction.”

The crew snickers. The director waves for a reset, muttering something about “natural chemistry.”

Natural, my foot.

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As everyone resets equipment, I step back, clutching my script like a lifeline.

My pulse is pretending it’s a drum solo.
This is ridiculous. I am a grown woman with deadlines and vitamin deficiencies.

But then I remember this morning…

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Flashback — 7:00 AM, my apartment

I was standing in front of my mirror, practicing the same line he just said.

“I didn’t expect you to stay.”

I’d said it to my own reflection, with an exaggerated sigh.
Then again, leaning dramatically against the counter.
Then again, holding my pen like a microphone.

“See,” I’d told my mirror. “Completely neutral. No heart rate increase.”

The mirror didn’t buy it. Neither did I.

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Back to the present.

Jingyi adjusts his sunglasses and catches me staring.
He lifts a brow. “Practicing my line in your head?”

“Practicing ways to fire you politely.”

He laughs, and of course it’s charming. “I’ll write my own apology scene later.”

“You can’t even follow the blocking.”

“Maybe the blocking’s wrong.”

I open my mouth to argue, but the director claps again. “Take two!”

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He steps into position.
The lighting shifts, and suddenly everything feels softer… brighter.

We run the scene again. His hand finds mine this time, only for a second, the barest touch of his thumb brushing my skin.

Something stutters in my chest.
Not romance. Probably caffeine.

When the scene ends, the director beams. “Perfect! That’s the feeling!”

Of course it is.

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As the crew wraps cables, Jingyi stops beside me, lowering his sunglasses. “Thanks for saving my scene,” he murmurs.

“Don’t make it a habit,” I reply, pretending to look busy with my notes.

He grins. “Too late.”

My breath catches, and he walks off before I can scold him properly.

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The room quiets.
I twist my pen once… click.
The little blue sparkles in the barrel glint under the light.

I write one note in the margin: Stop standing too close to trouble.

I underline it twice.

Then I sigh.
Because, clearly… I’m already standing there.

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