Rooftops at night are deceptively romantic. Cool air… soft wind… the glitter of Seoul stretching into forever… which is exactly why I should not be here.

With him. Alone.

Technically, we’re here for work. Location scout, script polish, director’s orders. But the director left twenty minutes ago with a wave and a “You two finish up… don’t freeze.”

So now it’s just me… my notebook… my pen… and Liu Jingyi leaning against the railing like he was sculpted to decorate city skylines.

“You’re spacing out again,” he says, gently amused.

“No, I’m thinking,” I correct. Then I realize that sounds worse. “So… technically spacing out with intention.”

He laughs… that soft, warm version he doesn’t use in interviews.

God help me.

I clear my throat and hold up the script. “Scene Twenty-One. The rooftop confession. We need to adjust the emotional beats.”

“Show me,” he says, stepping closer.

Too close.

I should step back. I don’t.

Instead, I hand him the pages.

His fingers brush mine… a light slide of skin that feels like an accident made on purpose.

He lowers his voice. “Which part feels off?”

“You were too… sincere,” I mutter. “It’s a midpoint scene, not a finale.”

“So the problem is scene sincerity…?” He tilts his head. “Or mine?”

I choke on air. He grins like he caught me.

“I—I mean,” I stammer, “your delivery was too… too…”

“Too what, Sian-Sian?”

Oh no. He used it. My nickname.

In that tone.

Warm. Private. As if he’s always said it.

“It was too…” I try again, but my brain is aggressively buffering. He steps close enough that the city glow softens over his shoulder.

“Let’s try it again,” he says. “I’ll give you something less sincere.”

I should run. I should jump off the roof. Instead, I nod like I have oxygen.

He takes the script back, flips to the line, and stands across from me, eyes locked.

“I only stayed because someone needed to.”

His voice is lower now… breathier… too quiet for cameras but perfect for killing writers on rooftops.

I inhale. Mistake. He smells like mint tea and clean laundry and something warm I can’t name.

“I liked the sincerity,” I whisper before my brain can stop me.

He blinks. Something shifts. The air between us goes high-voltage.

 Slow.
Certain.

“Sian-Sian,” he says carefully, “should I play it your way… or mine?”

I don’t answer. I can’t.

He moves closer… close enough that I feel his breath against my cheek… close enough that his hand lifts as if to tuck my hair back.

Then—

PSSSSSHTTTTTTTTT

The sprinklers erupt as if they were contributing personally to form and function.

Ice-cold water sprays in all directions. I shriek. Jingyi curses in Mandarin, then Korean, then something I think might have been invented on the spot.

The entire rooftop becomes a comedy baptism.

I’m soaked instantly… blouse clinging, hair collapsing into chaotic loose curls. Jingyi’s emerald jacket darkened two shades; his hair flops over his forehead in the most unfair way imaginable.

For a heartbeat, we just stare at each other through the downpour…

Then burst into laughter.

Real laughter. Uncontrolled. The kind that bends your knees and steals your breath and wipes out tension so cleanly it leaves something sweeter underneath.

He tries to shield me with his jacket — pointless — but the gesture is warm, steady, and so him.

“This is… not ideal,” I manage between gasps.

“This is unforgettable,” he counters, wiping water from his lashes.

A bead of water trails down my cheek. He reaches to brush it away… stops halfway… changes direction… pretends to flick water off his own collar.

My heart does the dumb flutter anyway.

“Let’s… let’s get inside,” I say.

He nods. “Before frostbite becomes a bonding experience.”

We dash to the stairwell. I nearly slip; he catches me. Not necessarily dramatically. Not possessively. Just… carefully.

We reach the hallway, dripping everywhere. Crew members stare.

“Sprinklers misfired,” I explain weakly.

“Rooftop malfunction,” he adds.

We look at each other… and both try not to laugh again. Fail.

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Later, in the empty dressing room, I towel my hair and stare at myself in the mirror.

Aqua silk clinging to curves… curls gone wild… cheeks warm… I look like someone who just got caught between a confession and a sprinkler system.

I twist my pen once… click. The sound is soft… sweet… a reminder of what almost happened.

Almost.

But almost is enough to burn the edges of a story into something real.

I smile, a tiny, trouble-sized one, and whisper to my reflection:

“That was… something.”

And I’m not sure if I mean the sprinklers… or the moment right before them.

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