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365 days Under His Skin
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The alarm blared at 7 am, a harsh, robotic sound that made me bolt upright in bed. And now I officially hate being a man. Because—what the hell is this? Why do I feel this ' thing' in the morning?
I blinked at the ceiling. Mortified and helplessly aware of the situation under the blanket. "Seriously? You're kidding me." I groaned, throwing an arm over my face.
No one warned me about this part. Not Kai. Not the memories of Taekyung that supposedlysurface when needed. Apparently, those memories had left out a few... crucial morning routines.
I rolled over, wincing at the stiffness in my neck. Great. Emotional trauma, body confusion, and now...this.
Welcome to manhood.
I stumbled into the bathroom after a long session of lying in bed and cursing every higher power for whatever twisted logic led me into this situation. The cold tile shocked my bare feet, dragging me the rest of the way into consciousness.
The mirror didn't help. Taekyung's reflection blinked back at me: messy hair, puffy eyes, and a jawline that could cut glass. Honestly, it was unfair. Even looking like he lost a bar fight with sleep, he still somehow looked like the kind of man people would pay to stare at.
But it wasn't my face. I touched the corner of my mouth. Still new. Still weird. And then, God, I still wasn't over that this body had facial hair. Barely, but still. I reached for a razor instinctively, then paused.
Did...I even know how to shave this face?
Thanks for nothing, Kai.
A wave of Taekyung's memory surfaced, finally just enough to show me he preferred clean-shaven and used this citrus-scented foam. I found it under the sink, popped the cap, and took a deep breath. Okay. Shaving. Shower. Pretend like I'm not trapped in the life of an emotionally repressed workaholic with a script due and two men who apparently took turns watching me like I was a kid to take care of.
Just another normal morning in someone else's body. "Okay," I muttered, deepening my voice experimentally. "Lee Taekyung. Successful drama writer. Respected colleague.Totallynot a sleep-deprived college student in disguise."
It sounded ridiculous. I looked back at the mirror and tried the expression again—cool, composed, slightly brooding. The kind of face that probably answered interview questions with carefully chosen silences, instead, I just looked constipated.
"Great, Oscar-worthy." I sighed, rinsing the razor.
The shower helped. Sort of. The hot water did little to wash away the weight pressing on my chest, the script, the lie, and the people around me who were clearly more invested in Taekyung's survival than I had anticipated. Junho's worry. Yohan's suspicion. Or maybe it was something else in his eyes.
I stepped out, wrapped in a towel, and padded to the bedroom. The clothes in the wardrobe were all arranged neatly with beige, navy, forest green, blues, and blacks; turtlenecks, pressed slacks, and button-downs; thank goodness, there were some jeans too.
"WOW!" I yelped, practically bouncing back from their sheer aesthetic. "This is unreal." I kept staring at the wardrobe as it had personally betrayed me with its monochrome perfection.
I still couldn't get over how weirdly similar we both were.
Hates Coffee?Check.
Can handle spice like a pro?Check.
And now this wardrobe? It was like someone had pulled the closet straight out of my head, if my head had been a moody, emotionally restrained character from a book.
Though, to be fair, my actual wardrobe was a little more chaotic. Oversized sweaters paired with shorts were my go-to; the kind of combo that screamed comfort over style. And while I did own some decent button-up shirts and jeans, I leaned toward deep reds, blacks, and purples—colors that feel like late-night playlists and half-written poems.
Whereas Taekyung is exactly how I used to picture my fictional male leads: minimalistic, introverted, emotionally unavailable, but secretly soft? ...Wait? Is he really secretly soft? Who knows? I shrugged. Anyway, the kind who wears black turtlenecks and knows too much but speaks less.
The only difference?
Me. I wasn't exactly extroverted, but I wasn't this closed off either. It always depended on the people around me. My energy came and went like a wave of the ocean, sometimes loud, sometimes distant. But this guy? Lee Taekyung? He seemed like he lived permanently in silent mode.
I pulled out a black turtleneck and dark grey trousers, hesitating only for a second before slipping into them. The fabric hugged differently, maturely, like the person wearing it actually paid rent on time and remembered recycling days.
I caught my reflection in the full-length mirror beside the closet. The trousers made my (his? our?) ass look distractingly good. I glared at the mirror.
"Okay, well, that's...annoying."
There is no matter how many times I could praise him—tall, lean, the kind of jawline people wrote thirsty fanfiction about—and now this? Great. Add "hot against my will" to the growing list of problems. I looked away before my own reflection could make things weirder. Again.
I quickly grabbed everything I needed and walked out, closing the door shut. As I walked down to the parking space, there it was, a black sedan in its spot like a sleeping panther. Taekyung's car.
My car now.
I freeze, key dangling from my fingers. A flood of my muscle memory hit me on how to adjust the seat, the mirror, and the exact pressure needed on the accelerator. Butknowinganddoingwere different things.
"Okay," I whispered, sliding into the driver's seat. The leather creaked under me. "You've got this, Taeha; you have got this." With that, I started the engine, which purred to life. Then stalled.Twice.
A honk behind me made me jump. Some ajusshi yelled out his window, "Ya! Are you drunk or what?"
"Sorry!" I squeaked, my voice doing an embarrassing flip between Taekyung's baritone and my natural pitch.
The ajusshi's eyebrows shot up. "Weirdo," he muttered before peeking around me.
Once on the road, muscle memory kicked in until a silver Hyundai cut me off. My hand flew to the horn on my reflex, and a stream of creative curses poured out of my mouth.
"Damn this bastard, really—!" Then the floodgates opened. "Ya!Gae-sonom(Dog-dastrad), how much did you bribe the tester for that license?! Time-wasting jerk!"
The Hyundai's brake lights flashed in shock. I clapped my hand over my mouth. As I finally peeled away, my face was burning with equal parts of rage and shame. Who knew Taekyung's vocal cords could hit that pitch?
By some miracle, I arrived at Blue Sky Productions intact. The glass skyscraper towered above me, its reflective surface showing disheveled Lee Taekyung fixing his hair with trembling hands.
I stared at the underground parking attendant like he'd grown a second head when he cheerfully called out,"Taekyung-ssi! One spot, like always?"
"Y-yeah," I croaked, then immediately stalled the caragain, trying to parallel park. The attendant's smile froze as I took up two parking spaces, part of the loading zone, and Junho's favorite potted plant. RIP to it.
The potted plant exploded in a shower of terra cotta shards and dirt as my rear bumper finished the job. The parking attendant's eye twitched. Then that voice cut through the chaos: "Ya~ Taekyung-ssi."
I turned to find Lee Hyungshik, the Lee Hyungshik, the only actor I could recognize in the past and now among these new faces, lead actor ofEclipseand Walking God Complex, lounging against his matte-black BMW like he'd been waiting for this moment. His designer sunglasses slid down his nose just enough to reveal amused eyes.
"Should I call an ambulance?" He nodded at my still-running car. "Or an exorcist?"
My finger clenched around the key. Because I used to have a good impression of him, to be frank, a die-hard fan of him, but this man had been Taekyung's personal nightmare, according to his memories.
Changing scripts again and again
That bastard 'accidentally' spilled coffee on Taekyung's notes. He knows Taekyung hates the smell, yet he did it.
Now his smirk widened as he took in my disastrous parking job.
"Aigoo, our genius writer can't handle a manual transmission?" Muscle memory surged—Taekyung's trademark comeback was sitting on my tongue: "Unlike some, I don't pretend to be competent at everything."
That's it; Hyungshik's smile vanished. The parking attendant suddenly found the ceiling fascinating. And then, "Hyungshik-ssi! Your 10 am fitting!" An assistant came sprinting across the lot.
The actor straightened, adjusting his jacket with a huff. "This isn't over," he muttered, tossing his key to the attendant, "Park it properly. Unlike some people." And just like that, he stormed off.
As he strutted away, I noticed two things:
His designer shoes were so spotless despite the dust I'd kick up.
He moved like someone who'd never parallel parked in his life.
The parking attendant sighed. "Taekyung-ssi... Your usual spot is over there." He pointed to a conspicuously empty VIP space markedWRITER.
I looked at my murdered plant. The two stolen parking spots. The loading zone violation.First day on the job, and I've already declared war on both the lead actor and the parking regulations.
"Such a great start."
*
*
*
"Wow," Junho leaned against my desk, grinning. "Twenty minutes late on your first day back. Should I start calling youfashionably late, Taekyung?"
I scowled, dragging the chair out with more force than necessary. The legs screeched against the floor, drawing glances from nearby coworkers. If only they knew this man would be calling me, Lee Taekyung, a murderer if he had seen what happened to his precious plant.
"I'm recovering," I muttered, dropping into the seat. "Fromwhat? An overdose? Or the Craziness that made you run out like a madman." He tossed a stress ball at my head without warning. I fumbled the catch.
Junho's lips parted slightly. "...Did you justmissthat?"
Shit.Taekyung was probably athletic. Or at least coordinated.
"Medication side effects blurred my vision." I lied, smoothly pushing the hair strands that were falling over my eyes with what I hoped was convincing nonchalance.
Junho opened his mouth, probably to call bullshit, when the air behind me shifted, carrying a wave of expensive cologne and unchecked charisma.
"Taekyung-ssi~!"
I turned just as a pastel orange-haired guy showed up at my shoulder, close enough that his silk sleeve brushed my cheek, which made me flinch. He leaned down, his artfully disheveled pastel orange hair casting shadows over eyes that dissolved within his amusement.
"You're alive!" he chimed, draping himself over the back of my chair like a human stole. Up close, the details of his face were almost unfair—flawless porcelain skin, small, triangular hazel eyes, a straight yet soft and buttonlike nose, and lips that looked just like a round cherry tomato. and a beauty mole under his left eye that made him look always winking. His designer shirt gaped just enough to reveal a collarbone that probably had its own fan base...I guess.
"Miss me," he purred, plucking the pen from Junho's hand. The cold metal tip pressed against my cheekbone, sending an involuntary shiver down my spine. My heart performed an Olympic-worthy dive straight into my stomach.
Who the fuck is he?!
Junho made a sound like a teakettle reaching boiling point. "Yah, Siwoo! Are you trying to give him a heart attack on his first day back?"
Siwoo... The fragments of Taekyung helped me to recollect who this orange head is. The actor is charming and flirty, and more clingy with Taekyung.
Siwoo's eyes again crinkled, not just smiling, but dissolving into amusement, like he'd been waiting his whole life for this exact moment. The pen traced the shell of my ear, sending shivers down my spine, and heat crawled up to my neck.
He began, "Just checking if our favorite writer is still ticklish—"
Bang.
The office door flew open with a bang. Yohan stood frozen in the doorway, a file folder clenched in his white-knuckled grip, his gaze drifting between Siwoo's pen that was still hovering near the shell of my ear, the actor's chest practically resting on my shoulder, and my death grip on the armrests.
"If you're done with your greetings, we have script revisions," he said, in a voice that was enough to draw blood out.
He crossed the room in three strides and slid the file across my desk with athwackthat made both Siwoo and Junho flinch. The pages inside rustled like startled birds.
Yohan leaned down, placing one hand on the desk beside me, effectively caging me between his huge arm and Siwoo behind me. His cologne, clean linen, and something faintly pleasant wrapped around us as he tilted his head, eyes narrowing to slits. I could see the exact moments his pupils constricted—black pinpricks in a sea of stormy gray.
"Youdoremember thedeadline?" pressing on the word"do"and the word "deadline," as if he knew that I had definitely forgotten. My fingers twitched against the armrest. And my throat went dry.I don't even know what script you're talking about, but I cannot tell it loud.
But then Siwoo shifted behind me, his chest brushing my shoulder blade, making me gulp down all the liquid that my dry mouth had. The actor's chuckle was warm again in my ear.
He said, "Aw, don't scare our writer-nim, Yohan-ssi. Creativity can't be rushed."
Yohan didn't blink or even look up at the orange head; his eyes kept staring at mine, making my heart pump harder.
"Page 42. The confession scene." His voice dropped to a whisper only I could hear. "Just complete it before the meeting starts." Then he straightened.
Then he was gone, leaving the document between us like a smoking gun. The silence lasted exactly three seconds before an assistant skidded into the doorway, tablet clutched to her chest.
"Lee Taekyung-ssi! PD Kim is asking for you—urgently." Her eyes darted to Siwoo, then back to me, wide with secondhand panic.
My heart dropped through the floor. The morning's disasters flashed behind my eye: the crashed potted plant, Lee Hyungshik, and after this orange head's relentless proximity, then the script I had never seen, and now PD Kim.
Siwoo's finger tightened slightly on my shoulder. "Well, writer-nim," he murmured, lips curved in a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Best of luck!"
The words hung between us like a challenge or maybe a warning. But I brushed them off and stood up from my seat, not even bothering that Siwoo had almost fallen. Thank goodness Junho caught him when I saw him from the corner of my eye and walked up to the PD's room.
As soon as I stepped into the office, pulling the glass door aside, my gaze fell on the person, the man lounging in the producer's chair like it was a throne. PD Kim looked up from his tablet, and my brain short-circuited.
Like, why not? Never in my wildest dreams would I have imagined seeing someone in his late twenties running South Korea's third-largest production company, complete with a black undercut that would make idols jealous. With graceful, dragon-like eyes, he can make anyone work for him without saying anything. A long, tailored coat draped over his shoulder, the crisp white dress shirt beneath unbuttoned just enough to reveal a sliver chain glinting against his collarbone.
And then he looked up through the glasses perched low on his nose, framing those handsome eyes. A slow, deliberate tilt of his head. and—oh no—a dimple.One damn dimple. That's it—my soul left my body. Or rather, Taekyung's body.
Lee Taekyung, what did you do in your past life to be surrounded by this many unfairly handsome men?!
PD Kim's lips curved, that goddamn dimple deepening as he tapped his tablet with a stylus. "Taekyung-sii," he said, his voice smoother than silk, deeper than the ocean—than mine, I mean, than Taekyung's.
But my inner squeal was short-lived as he continued, "I thought you drove scripts better than you drove cars."
Crap, I had completely forgotten why I was here, and my thoughts were correct; he called me for the morning chaos.
Heat flooded my neck like a rising tide. I ducked my head, letting the weight of embarrassment press down on me. If PD Kim hadn't been sitting right there, I would've gladly dug a hole twelve feet deep and buried myself next to Taekyung's dignity.
"PD-nim, it's—"
"It's okay." His voice softened, that damn dimple making an appearance as he cut me off. "I'm glad you're alright. Being discharged after an overdose and almost crashing...it's no small thing." The kindness in his voice made my stomach flutter.
"I only called you here to welcome you back." He leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. "Just don't repeat this." He added a soft taunt, I could tell. But then he added, "I'm not talking about the driving."
I snapped my head up, only to see his silver shards as the light caught his glasses, turning his eyes into unreadable. "S-sure, sir," I replied. No matter how much I tried, the small sentence couldn't be completed without any stutter.
"Also," he started moving his chair back as the wheels moved effortlessly without feeling any weight of his. The movement sent his silver chain slithering across his collarbone, catching the light with every smooth movement.
"Since 'The Eclipse' will be over by this weekend," he said, his tone reverting to business, "make sure you're ready with a new project starring Actor Choi Siwoo."
Wait. That means I'm not working with Lee Hyunshik.
A silent sigh of relief escapes from me, but then it hits me. Working with Siwoo, the "flirt master," was hardly better. At least Lee Hyungshik only butchered scripts with his endless rewrites.
Good for you, Taekyung. just great
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