Read The Line Between Us :: It Means Something, Doesn’t It?

I walk into the studio hugging my matcha like it is shielding me from all known forms of emotional vulnerability.

It is not.

The building smells like hairspray, coffee, and mild panic. It’s also humming with yesterday fresh in the atmosphere.

Pieces of it keep replaying behind my eyes.

You’re incredible.
That was strength.
Fire.
Tell me if you need me.

And that one line from the crew kid, half whispered, half prophecy…

She really doesn’t know, does she.

I take a long sip of matcha.

“Nope,” I murmur to myself. “We are not thinking about it. We are not analyzing it. No analysis, no dissertation, no feelings…”

I pause at the doorway to Stage A.

“…maybe just a small feeling,” I admit under my breath.

Just a tiny one. The size of an ant. Or a very small raccoon.

I shake my head and step inside.

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He arrives like the universe heard me and decided to test my resolve.

Emerald jacket. Black shirt. Sunglasses. Hair styled into that carefully careless mess that makes him look like he fell out of a magazine and landed directly on my nervous system.

Liu Jingyi, in full idol mode.

The crew notices. They always do. Heads turn. Someone whistles low.

He takes off his sunglasses as he walks, folding them and tucking them into his pocket. Then his gaze sweeps the room and stops on me.

Everything inside me does a quiet somersault.

He crosses the space between us without rushing. He is not flirting, not teasing, not playing with the room. His eyes are soft, warm in a way that feels more dangerous than any smirk.

He stops in front of me.

“Morning,” he says. His voice is lower than usual, almost intimate. “Did you sleep?”

I forgot that was a question people ask. My brain short circuits.

“I… umm… sleep adjacent,” I say.

He smiles, a little crooked. Like he is amused and relieved at the same time.

My fingers tighten around the matcha cup. The lid shifts. For one horrifying second, I feel it tilt.

“Careful,” he says.

His hand moves before I can react. He catches the cup, steadying it between both of our hands.

Our fingers brush.

A spark shoots up my arm.

We both freeze.

His eyes flick down to our hands, then back up to my face. For a heartbeat, the entire studio narrows to this one point of contact.

Then he lets go, slowly.

“Sorry,” he says softly.

“It’s fine,” I answer too quickly. “Gravity is the real problem here.”

His mouth curves. Not a big grin, just a tiny, fond tug.

He looks like he wants to say something else. His lips part, then close again. Whatever it is, he swallows it.

So much restraint it hurts.

“Rehearsal in ten,” he says instead. “Don’t forget to eat.”

“As long as they remember to feed the writer,” I reply.

“I remember,” he says.

He walks away before I can figure out what that means.

My heart is already ignoring my instructions about feelings.

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By midmorning, I realize something terrifying.

The crew is shipping us.

Not in the vague, maybe, haha way.

In the serious, meme draft folders already started way.

I hear them as I walk past the props table.

“Writer-nim was so badass yesterday,” one whispers.

“That line about green tea,” the other sighs. “Iconic.”

“He looked like he wanted to set that hallway on fire,” a third says. “Did you see his face when she walked away?”

“Liu Jingyi looked like he was in love,” someone mutters.

“Shut up, he’ll hear you.”

“He should.”

I pretend the script in my hand needs urgent attention. The pages might ignite from how hard I stare at them.

Great. I am trending in the studio cafeteria.

I escape into the writer’s corner and set my matcha down with exaggerated care.

Professional composure: attempted.

Heartbeat: indecisive.

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So-ah arrives on set a little later, perfectly composed.

White blouse, slim trousers, sleek hair, smile like a flower arrangement at a very expensive funeral. Nothing in her face shows that yesterday she got verbally gutted with one line and a calm stare.

She walks up to Jingyi like nothing has ever bothered her.

“Oppa,” she says, softly bright. “Should we warm up the lines together before rehearsal?”

Her hand hovers near his arm, fingers poised to land.

He steps back. Not dramatically, just enough that she has to adjust.

“I already went through them,” he says politely. “But thank you.”

Her smile flickers.

“Of course,” she replies. “You’re always so prepared.”

Her gaze slides past him and lands briefly on me.

It lingers.

I look away, flipping a page that does not need flipping.

Throughout the morning, she tries again, different angles.

“You were so good in that last scene…”

“You must be tired, do you want my vitamin drink…”

“Oppa, do you think the audience will really like our chemistry…”

Her voice is soft, sweet, professional.

He answers with the emotional equivalent of a politely closed door.

“Thank you.”

“I am fine.”

“We’ll see after editing.”

Every time, his attention drifts back to where I am, just out of frame.

So-ah’s smile gets tighter. Lip gloss, tension, and perfectly concealed irritation.

If I were not the unintentional center of this triangle, I might almost feel sorry for her.

Almost.

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After lunch, the director decides the universe is not chaotic enough and calls for a quick rewrite.

“Writer Yoon,” he says. “Can you adjust the confrontation from episode eight so it echoes better here? I want the rhythm to match.”

“Sure,” I say.

“Work with Jingyi on the new line,” he adds. “He has a good feel for the character’s emotional beats.”

Of course he does.

Perfect.

Disaster.

We end up at a small fold-out table in the corner of the soundstage, two chairs, one tablet, too many feelings.

I sit. He sits. The table is not built for safe emotional distance. Our knees brush under the edge. I pull back a little. So does he.

We both pretend it did not happen.

“Here,” I say, opening the scene on my tablet. “He is apologizing, but he is not used to apologizing. So it needs to sound sincere without losing his pride.”

“That sounds familiar,” he says quietly.

I risk a glance at him.

He does not look at me. Not yet. His gaze is on the screen, but his jaw is tense.

I scroll to the line in question and tap it with the stylus.

“This,” I say. “He says he will give her space… but he keeps showing up anyway. We need to make it clear that he understands he is the problem.”

Jingyi leans in.

His shoulder brushes mine.

It is an accident.

We do not move away.

He points to the sentence, index finger hovering very close to mine.

“I think this…” he says softly, “is where she starts to trust him again.”

He is close enough that I can feel the warmth of his breath near my cheek.

Without thinking, I ask, “Do you think she should?”

He looks at me.

Not at the tablet.

At me.

His eyes are so open it almost hurts to hold the gaze.

“Yes,” he says.

He does not look away.

“If he is worth trusting,” he adds.

My heart forgets how to stay inside my ribcage, and instead performs an entire drum beat solo.

I look down quickly, pretending to adjust the punctuation.

“Well,” I say, my voice barely steady. “We will see if the audience agrees.”

He lets out a quiet breath that might be a laugh, might be something else.

“I hope they do,” he says.

For a second, I cannot remember if we are talking about the characters anymore.

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Later, in a narrow hallway that smells like fabric softener and set paint, someone makes the mistake of underestimating me out loud.

We are passing the costume racks when a junior producer says, “Writer Yoon is very strict. Always protective of her lines. Sometimes I wonder if she is a little too emotional about the script.”

He says it like it is a harmless observation.

It is not.

I stop.

My mouth opens.

Before I can decide between sarcasm and murder, another voice enters the conversation.

“She writes the scenes that make this drama popular,” Jingyi says.

He is standing just behind me, hands in his pockets, expression calm.

“If that is emotion,” he continues, “we should all be grateful for it.”

The hallway goes quiet. The junior producer stares like he has been slapped with a silk glove.

“I… of course,” he stammers. “That is not what I meant.”

“I think it is exactly what you meant,” Jingyi replies, still perfectly polite. “You just did not expect her to hear it.”

The producer flushes.

“I apologize, Writer-nim,” he blurts. “I spoke carelessly.”

“It is fine,” I say.

It is not fine.

But I am too busy trying to reconcile the feeling currently flooding my chest with oxygen.

Jingyi glances at me.

There is no smugness in his face, no see what I did.

Just quiet conviction, like this was obvious, like defending my work is as natural as breathing.

We walk away together.

“You did not have to do that,” I say softly once we are around the corner.

He looks down at me.

“I was not defending,” he says. “I was correcting.”

My heart does a stupid, unnecessary flip.

“That is a very dramatic distinction,” I say.

“You write dramas,” he answers. “You should appreciate it.”

I roll my eyes to hide how warm I feel.

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I eat lunch on a bench behind the soundstage, near the loading area where nobody bothers to pretend they are not exhausted.

There are crates, cables, a stack of empty water bottles. The sky is a flat gray. It is peaceful.

I am halfway through my kimbap when the bench dips beside me.

Of course.

He sits, leaving just enough space to be appropriate, not enough space to feel safe.

“Are you hiding from something,” he asks, “or someone.”

“Yes,” I say. “Both.”

He laughs under his breath.

We eat in silence for a few minutes. Our thighs brush when we shift. Neither of us moves away.

“You really did not have to correct him,” I say finally.

He shakes his head.

“I am not going to stand there and listen to someone reduce your work to mood swings,” he says.

“It happens,” I reply. “People think writers are fragile.”

“People are wrong,” he says.

He looks at me, searching my face like there is something he is trying to memorize.

“You are very…” I start, then falter.

He tilts his head.

“Supportive,” I say. “Today.”

His lips curve.

“I am trying not to cross lines,” he admits quietly.

The words drop between us like something heavy.

My next bite pauses halfway to my mouth.

“But sometimes,” he continues, voice softer, “I do not know where the line is with you.”

My heart trips.

“…What,” I whisper.

He looks straight at me.

“It feels like everything with you… means something,” he says.

The world goes very still.

Every shared joke, every rooftop, every matcha, every time he picked up my pen, every quiet look, every gentle correction.

I can hear my heartbeat in my ears.

“That is… a very dangerous way to live,” I say, because my brain is trying to throw sand on the fire.

He smiles, but there is no teasing in it, only something raw and careful.

“I know,” he says.

Silence stretches.

It feels like a confession wearing casual clothes.

“We should go back,” I say abruptly. “They will need us.”

I stand too fast. My legs are unsteady.

He stays seated for a second longer, watching me with an expression I do not have the courage to name.

“Right,” he says. “Work.”

He rises and falls into step beside me, not quite touching, presence warm like a coat I am not sure I am allowed to wear.

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At the end of the day, I am almost free.

Scripts stacked, notes sent, tablet shut down. I walk past the prop table, thinking only of my bed and maybe a shower long enough to wash off the emotional residue of the last twelve hours.

My aqua pen slips out of my pocket.

It hits the floor and rolls, traitorously, under the table.

“Of course,” I mutter, crouching.

A hand gets there first.

He catches the pen with the same easy reflex he used on my matcha cup.

He straightens, holding it between his fingers.

I stand too, brushing imaginary dust from my skirt.

He looks at the pen, then at me.

For a second, the air is full of echoes.

The first read through.
The time it was stolen and in So-ah’s hand.
The way he returned it to me then, like it was something sacred, not cheap plastic filled with fake gemstones.

He holds it out.

I reach for it.

Our fingers touch.

He does not let go, not immediately.

His voice is quiet, almost a whisper.

“I know what this means to you,” he says.

My throat tightens.

He finally releases it, slowly.

“Do not lose it,” he adds.

Too late, I think.

I am losing everything that used to feel safe.

I curl my hand around the pen, the cold barrel pressing against my palm.