I feel it the moment I walk in.
Not hostility… not exactly.
Attention.
The kind that lingers a second too long. The kind that pauses conversations and makes people pretend they weren't talking when they absolutely were. The kind that doesn't touch you directly but still finds a way to get under your skin.
I tighten my grip on my matcha and keep my steps steady.
Internal monologue:
This is the part they don't warn you about.
When being happy makes you visible.
I pass the monitors. A producer nods at me more formally than usual. A PA says my name like it has a title attached now.
"Writer Yoon… good morning."
I smile politely.
Professional composure… intact.
But my stomach does that small twist it always does when I realize the room is watching me like a story.
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Jingyi isn't near me at first.
Not because he's avoiding me.
Because he's smart.
He's across the room laughing with a crew member, signature charm turned on just enough to be light. He looks like himself again… bright, effortless, easy.
Then his eyes flick toward me.
That smile shifts, private and subtle, like a secret passing between us.
Then he walks over and stops beside me, close enough that his shoulder almost brushes mine.
Almost.
"Morning," he says, voice casual.
His eyes are not casual.
"Morning," I reply.
He glances down at my cup.
"Matcha," he says, approving.
"It's my entire personality," I deadpan.
His mouth twitches.
"I noticed," he murmurs.
I roll my eyes, but the warmth in my chest gives me away.
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A group forms naturally around us. Assistant director, a couple of staff, someone from wardrobe. We're discussing a schedule adjustment, a scene that needs to be shifted to accommodate lighting.
Normal set talk.
Except Jingyi's body is angled toward mine like it's instinct.
Not possessive. Not dramatic.
Just… attentive.
When I speak, he listens like my words matter. When someone else speaks, he doesn't drift. He stays present, gaze occasionally flicking to me like he's checking something.
Then someone says it.
A crew member I don't know very well smiles and jokes lightly, like they're being cute.
"I've seen you two together a lot, lately."
The air shifts.
Not sharply… just enough.
I feel the familiar reflex rise in me. The urge to laugh too loudly, to make a joke, to deflect so no one can pin anything on me.
Internal monologue:
Say something sarcastic.
Make it disappear.
Don't become a headline.
My mouth opens.
Before I can speak, Jingyi answers calmly.
"We work well together," he says.
Neutral. Simple. Unbothered.
True.
The group laughs lightly and the conversation moves on, just like that.
But my heart keeps thudding like it heard something else under the words.
Not denial.
Not hiding.
Just… grounding.
He didn't make it bigger.
He didn't make it smaller.
He made it safe.
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I catch So-ah across the room an hour later.
She's in a white blouse again, perfectly styled, hair glossy, expression soft in the way that's meant to look innocent. She's speaking with a producer, smiling gently.
Then her gaze drifts.
It lands on me.
And stays.
No greeting. No wave.
Just calculation behind pretty eyes.
I'm used to that look.
I've worn it myself before… the armor of composure.
But today, something feels different.
So-ah isn't controlling the room.
She's watching me instead.
Like she's trying to figure out what changed.
And that realization is almost… satisfying.
Internal monologue:
You don't scare me anymore.
I take a slow sip of matcha and look away first… not because I'm afraid, but because she isn't worth my focus.
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Midday, I slip into a quieter hallway to review a scene note.
The air is cooler here, away from the bustle. My shoulders drop a fraction. I let my brain unclench.
Then I hear footsteps.
Not hurried. Not heavy.
Familiar.
Jingyi appears at the corner like he belongs in my peripheral vision now.
He stops in front of me, just close enough that I can see the tiny details in his expression… the soft seriousness behind the sparkle.
"Are you okay," he asks.
It's not a performance. Not a public check-in. Not something he says with other people watching.
It's real.
My instinct is to say yes.
I open my mouth.
Then I stop.
Because he asked like he actually wants the truth.
I exhale.
"The attention is weird," I admit quietly. "It feels like… people are deciding what I am before I open my mouth."
His gaze softens.
I continue, words careful.
"I'm scared of becoming a headline," I confess. "Or a rumor. Or a problem that everyone blames if something goes wrong."
He doesn't interrupt.
He doesn't rush to reassure me like a script.
He just listens.
When I finish, he nods once, slow.
"Tell me when it's too much," he says.
My throat tightens.
"That's it," I whisper.
He tilts his head slightly.
"I thought you'd say you'll fix it," I admit. "Or that I shouldn't care."
His mouth curves faintly.
"I can't fix it," he says honestly. "And you're allowed to care."
Then, softer:
"But you don't have to handle it alone."
My chest warms dangerously.
I look down at my script so he won't see it.
Internal monologue:
This is what safety feels like.
Not being rescued.
Being accompanied.
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Back on set, the pressure returns in small ways.
A staff member asks me a question they could have emailed. A producer mentions "public perception" in a tone that makes my skin prickle. Someone says Jingyi's schedule is "tight" like that's supposed to mean something about me.
And Jingyi…
He handles it like art.
His charm slides into place, not flirtatious… strategic.
He answers questions meant to corner him with easy warmth. He redirects attention with a joke that makes people laugh and forget what they were pushing for.
When someone comments, "You've been very supportive of Writer Yoon lately," Jingyi smiles like they complimented his haircut.
"She's good," he says simply. "It would be weird if I wasn't."
And somehow… the room accepts it.
No drama.
No confrontation.
Just… normalizing.
I realize suddenly:
He's not hiding me.
He's protecting space.
There's a difference.
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Later, a small moment happens that could have made me retreat.
A meeting I could skip. A conversation I could avoid. A place I could disappear so no one can look at me too long.
My old instincts whisper:
Step back.
Be smaller.
Make it easier.
I don't.
I walk into the meeting anyway.
I speak calmly.
I correct a misunderstanding about the script without apologizing for existing. I keep my voice steady and my posture open.
Internal monologue:
I'm allowed to take up space.
When I finish, Jingyi doesn't clap. He doesn't praise me out loud like a show.
He just looks at me… and his eyes soften like he's proud.
It's quieter than compliment.
It lands deeper.
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By the time the day ends, the sky outside the studio is dusky and blue.
The crew filters out in waves. Lights shut down. People say goodnight.
Jingyi walks beside me toward the exit, close but not touching, like he understands the thin line between comfort and scrutiny.
At the door, he pauses.
"We're getting better at this," he says lightly.
"At what," I ask.
He glances at me, smile small.
"At being seen," he replies.
My chest tightens.
I nod once.
He adds, softer:
"Together."
For a second, everything else falls away. The whispers, the attention, the weight of being a story.
All that's left is him. Warm, steady, annoyingly gentle.
I exhale.
"Okay," I whisper. "Together."
We don't kiss.
We don't need to.
The certainty is already there.
And as I walk out into the night with my matcha cup empty and my aqua pen tucked safely in my script…
I realize something else, too.
Visibility used to feel like danger.
Now…
It feels like proof I'm still here.