I knew something was wrong the moment I walked onto set.

The lights were normal.
The chatter was normal.
My matcha tasted like it always does — creamy, warm, two pumps of vanilla, oatmilk.

But something in the air felt… off.

Like the past had found the spare key and let itself in.

I rub my thumb over the sleeve on my cup.

“It’s nothing,” I whisper to myself. “Just nerves. Just a long week.”

My chest doesn’t believe me.

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I’m reviewing a script update when his voice is suddenly beside me.

“Morning.”

Jingyi.

I don’t know how someone can sound gentle at 9 a.m., but he manages it.

He’s in casual rehearsal clothes today, still expensive-looking, still dark emerald green, and still absolutely unsafe for my emotional well-being.

He studies my face.

“You okay?” he asks quietly. “You look… tense.”

“I’m fine,” Not a lie, just not sure what it is, yet.

He doesn’t call me out. He just stands a little closer than usual, like he’s bracing himself to catch something I haven’t admitted I’m dropping.

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The director calls for blocking.

We line up.

I’m flipping through my scene notes when I feel a prickle on the back of my neck. A ripple. Like someone is staring.

I turn slowly.

The PD is walking in with a man I haven’t seen in years.

But every cell in my body remembers him.

Lee Hyun-woo.

He looks almost exactly the same.

Tall.
Well-dressed in subtle designer that pretends to be modest.
Hair styled like a man who thinks mirrors adore him.
Smile smooth enough to sell bottled charm.

He hasn’t changed.

My stomach drops straight through the floor.

The moment his eyes land on me… his smile widens.

“Bin-bin?”

I freeze.

My throat closes around air.

I did not expect to hear that name today.
I did not expect to ever hear it again.

His voice is warm, familiar, and falsely tender, the way it always was when he wanted something.

He walks right up to me, stopping close. Too close.

“Wow,” he says, eyes sweeping me in one long, assessing line.
“You look… different.”

I bow slightly, because muscle memory is stronger than pride.

“Hyun-woo sunbae,” I say. “Welcome.”

He laughs softly.

“Just Hyun-woo is fine. We’re not strangers.”

My hand tightens around the script.

The crew watches with polite curiosity, unaware of the landmine that just walked into the room.

“Well,” he continues, “you look good, Bin-bin.”

The nickname slides off his tongue like he owns it.

I step back half a step.

He steps forward half a step.

“I’m glad you’re still writing,” he says. “I always worried you’d… lose momentum without support.”

There it is.
The voice that always sounded like reassurance but meant something else.

You’d struggle without me.
You were lucky to have me.
You wouldn’t shine on your own.

My palms go cold.

And then—

A shadow falls beside me.

Not threatening.
Not loud.

Just steady.

Jingyi steps between us with a quietness that feels like a shield sliding into place.

“Writer Yoon,” he says calmly, eyes on me, not Hyun-woo, “they need you for script alignment.”

He’s close enough that his shoulder nearly touches mine.

Hyun-woo raises a brow.

“Oh?” he says, turning to him. “And you are…?”

Jingyi doesn’t offer a smile.

He offers a line in the sand.

“Her colleague.”

Two words.
Soft voice.
Steel underneath.

Hyun-woo’s smirk sharpens.

“Colleague. Of course.”
He chuckles. “Bin— sorry, Su-bin always attracted strong personalities.”

My spine locks. My lungs stop.

Jingyi notices.

His jaw flexes once.

Just once.

But it hits like thunder behind my ribs.

“Excuse us,” Jingyi says with impeccably polite iciness. “She’s needed.”

He guides me away, not touching, just walking close enough that his presence steers me like gravity.

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The moment we’re out of the main area, I slip away into a storage closet behind the set.

It’s dim and quiet here. Smells like dust and props and old cardboard.

I press my back against the wall and finally breathe.

My hands shake.

It’s been years.
Years since I saw him.
Years since he dismissed me, minimized me, made me feel like someone’s afterthought.

I thought I outgrew it.

“Su-bin.”

His voice again.

The only one that doesn’t make my stomach drop.

Jingyi steps into the closet and gently closes the door behind him.

He doesn’t ask permission to be here.
He doesn’t crowd me.

He just stands there… a steady warmth in the dim.

“What happened?” he asks softly.

“I’m fine,” I say.

“You’re lying.”

I swallow.

Silence stretches thin.

His gaze drops to my hands.

“You’re shaking.”

“I’m just cold,” I say weakly.

He steps closer. Not touching. But warm. Solid. A presence that feels like shelter.

“Who is he?” he asks finally.

My breath catches.

He reads the answer in my silence.

“Hyun-woo,” he murmurs. “He hurt you.”

It’s not a question.

“A long time ago,” I whisper.

“That doesn’t matter.”

I look away.

“I don’t want drama,” I say. “We’re at work. It’s nothing.”

His voice softens, almost breaks.

“Don’t say that.”
He shakes his head.
“He made you feel like this. This isn’t nothing.”

I clench my fists.

He takes one more step. Still no touch. Still careful.

But the closeness makes my throat tight.

“You don’t have to talk to him,” he says.

“I know,” I whisper.

“You don’t owe him anything,” he adds, voice lower now. “Not a greeting. Not a smile. Not a name.”

I look up, startled.

His expression is… raw.

A quiet fire burning through restraint.

“I hate…” he stops, breath shaking a little, “I hate that someone like him was your before.”

My chest caves in.

“Jingyi—”

He shakes his head.

“You deserve someone who sees you now.”

I swallow hard. My voice is barely a breath.

“Don’t say things like that.”

“Why?” he asks gently. “Because someone else said you didn’t?”

I close my eyes.

He continues, softer.

“I’m jealous,” he admits.

My eyes open.

Not angry-jealous.
Not territorial-jealous.
Something else. Something wounded.

“I’m jealous he knew you first,” he says.
“That he got to be in your life before I could protect you.”
“That he got any version of you at all.”

My heart clenches like it’s being wrung out.

“Jingyi…” I whisper again.

He steps closer — slow, hesitant — until there’s barely a breath between us.

“I don’t ever want you thinking his version of you is real,” he says.

His voice is a tremor of emotion I’ve never heard from him before.

“You’re stronger than he ever knew. Brighter. More than he deserved.”

My breath shakes in my chest, like it doesn’t want out, to face the world.

There is so much unsaid in the air it’s suffocating.

He lifts a hand, starts to reach for me… and then—

The door bursts open.

“Jingyi-ssi! Writer Yoon!”
A PA pokes their head in. “They need you both on set now!”

We spring apart.

The moment shatters.

He clears his throat. I straighten my script.

“Yes,” he says. “We’re coming.”

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We walk back to set in silence.

Hyun-woo stands near the monitors, chatting with the PD.

He sees us.
Sees the distance between us.
Sees the crackling tension.

His smile is smug.

Jingyi’s expression goes cold in a way that scares me a little.

When we have to separate at the equipment table, he pauses.

Leans close enough that only I can hear.

“I won’t let him hurt you again,” he says.

I don’t look back.

But inside?

Something breaks open. I will my eyes not to betray me with the tears that are trying to form.

And something else — something terrifying, something warm — emerges.