Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The filming day hadn’t even started yet, but Ivan was already leaning against the craft services table, treating his cup of coffee like it was a rare vintage. The steam curled up from the paper cup, mingling with the faint scent of donuts from breakfast Hyuna had brought and stale studio air. His eyes were half-lidded but alert, like a cat watching a mouse hole.

Till spotted him across the crowded set the moment he walked in, hands full of script pages and a water bottle. “You know you have to sing in twenty minutes, right?” he called out, voice teasing but edged with genuine concern.

Ivan didn’t bother looking up. “Yes,” he said simply, taking another slow, deliberate sip, the faintest smirk flickering at the corner of his mouth.

Till’s fingers tightened instinctively around his script, gripping the pages just enough to crease them. He was not going to rise to the bait this early in the morning — no matter how tempting. He had lines to rehearse, guitar chords to memorize (because why hire someone else when Till could already play?), and… oh, who was he kidding? He was already rising to the bait.

“You’re impossible,” Till muttered, more to himself than anyone else, as he brushed past Ivan to head toward rehearsal.

“Good thing I’m charming,” Ivan called after him smoothly, voice dipped in mock sincerity.

Till rolled his eyes but said nothing—not because he was above it, but because Ivan’s grin was disarming enough to make any comeback sound weak.

Across the set, in a corner that looked like it hadn’t seen an actual prop cleaned in months, Mizi and Sua were huddled side-by-side on a battered, worn-out couch. Between lazy page flips of their scripts, Mizi’s eyes never strayed far from Ivan and Till’s brewing battle.

“They’re at it again,” Mizi murmured with a conspiratorial smile, eyes tracking Ivan’s steady stare as he took another sip of coffee.

Sua didn’t bother looking up. “It’s not acting when the tension is that real,” she said dryly, voice low enough not to carry but loud enough for Mizi to hear perfectly.

Mizi chuckled softly, the kind of sound that bubbled from the corners of her mouth. “Do you think they’ll actually admit it before the season ends? Like, say the words out loud?”

Sua’s lips quirked into a tiny smile, the kind that held secrets. “Not a chance. They’d rather torture each other—and us.”

Mizi glanced at her script, pretending to read, but really just enjoying the quiet theater of watching Ivan and Till exchange looks sharp enough to cut glass.

Meanwhile, Hyuna and Luka were supposed to be rehearsing their lines for the next scene. Instead, Luka was holding up a muffin with a dubious look. “Is this… food?” he asked, voice a mix of curiosity and doubt.

Hyuna tilted her head, examining the suspicious baked good as if it might bite her. “Could be blueberry,” she said thoughtfully, “or… alien egg.”

Luka made a dramatic sniffing gesture, nose twitching in exaggerated suspicion. “Only one way to find out.”

He leaned in, sniffed again, and then recoiled with an exaggerated grimace, making Hyuna burst out laughing. “Perfect,” she declared, her grin wide and mischievous. “His name is Greg. He’s our son now.”

“You’re naming the suspicious muffin?” Luka raised an eyebrow.

Hyuna nodded firmly. “He’s the only one here without drama.”

Her chin jerked pointedly toward Ivan and Till, who were now locked in some sort of silent, coffee-related standoff — the kind of quiet war only the initiated understood.

By the time the director yelled for everyone to get into position, the atmosphere was a strange mix of caffeine, low-level irritation, and questionable baked goods. The first take of the day began under the flicker of studio lights and the hum of the cameras.

“Action!”

Ivan and Till launched into the scene from episode three, their characters delivering dialogue with the same familiar rhythm their fans loved — a careful blend of humor and tension. Their delivery was razor-sharp, the subtle undercurrent of their off-camera chemistry lending an extra spark.

But trouble was brewing behind the scenes.
Luka, meant to enter from stage right, was distracted by Greg—the muffin—which Hyuna had dared him to test by dropping it.

The muffin bounced.

Luka’s wide-eyed expression as Greg defied expectations sent the crew stifling laughter.

Meanwhile, Mizi and Sua nailed their lines, sliding perfectly into their scenes. But Sua’s voice faltered when she caught Ivan smirking at Till mid-performance. There was no way they were just friends. Her next line, which she had rehearsed a dozen times, suddenly slipped away like sand through her fingers.

“Cut!” the director barked, face palm firmly planted. “I swear, if I see one more muffin on set—”

Greg sat proudly on the edge of the stage, unbothered by mortal threats.

—

Later, during a short break, Till found himself alone in the cramped costume racks, flipping through pages of his music. The dim light barely cut through the maze of hanging garments, but the silence was a rare balm from the chaos of the main stage.
Ivan slipped in behind him, another coffee in hand, and leaned casually against a rack.

“You’re in my light,” Till said without looking up.

Ivan stepped closer, voice low and teasing. “Maybe I’m here for the shade.”

Till turned his face away before his ears could betray him with a flush. “You’re insufferable.”Ivan just smiled like he’d just won a game no one else knew they were playing.

Back by the makeup table, Mizi and Sua exchanged a glance that was half amusement, half exasperation.

Hyuna wandered past with Luka in tow, cradling Greg carefully in a paper napkin like a priceless artifact. The camera crew had no idea what they’d signed up for.

Chapter Text

The next morning, the set was a little quieter than usual — not because anyone was well-rested, but because the director had been pacing since sunrise. His muttered grumbles about “deadlines” and “retakes” had put the whole crew on edge.

Ivan arrived first, coffee in hand, sunglasses firmly in place despite being indoors. Till arrived shortly after, carrying nothing but his water bottle and a look of grim determination. They made brief eye contact and, mercifully for everyone, didn’t immediately start sniping at each other.

It was almost peaceful. Almost.

The first scene on the schedule was an emotionally heavy one between Ivan and Till’s characters. The lights dimmed, cameras adjusted, and the set was transformed into a shadowed corridor of the competition stage.

“Action!”

Ivan delivered his first line with precision, his voice low and resonant. Till’s reply was sharp but tinged with warmth—the kind of delivery that made fans pause videos just to dissect facial expressions.

Everything was going perfectly… until Ivan smirked. Not the in-character, “I’m up to something” smirk. The other one. The one that was directed solely at Till, smug and subtle, like an inside joke.

While Ivan didn’t technically break character, Till did. He froze mid-step, his mouth opening slightly before he realized he’d completely blanked on his line.

“Cut!” the director’s voice cracked through the air like a whip. “Till? What happened?”

“I—” He glanced at Mizi, who was sitting just out of frame, looking way too entertained. “I… forgot.”

“Forgot?”

“He saw it,” Mizi said helpfully, trying not to laugh. “The smirk.”

Till glared at her, cheeks faintly pink. “I did not-”

“Oh, you did,” Mizi said, leaning back with a smirk of her own. “It’s a dangerous weapon.”

———

The second take started strong… until Mizi’s turn came up. She strode into the scene, exchanged a few lines with Sua, and then Sua smiled. Not the polite stage smile, but the kind that crinkled the corners of her eyes and wasn’t meant for the cameras.

Mizi’s brain stalled.

Her next line slipped completely out of reach. She just stared at Sua for a beat too long.

“Cut!”The director pinched the bridge of his nose. “You people are going to make me ban eye contact entirely.”

“That’s not possible,” Luka piped up from the sidelines. “Unless we do all our scenes in sunglasses.”

Hyuna perked up instantly. “Oh, I could make that work.”

The director gave them both a look. “No. Sunglasses. We are not turning this into Men in Black: The Musical.”

———

Between takes, the coffee machine wheezed like it was dying a slow, painful death. Ivan lingered near it, clearly daring Till to comment.

Till ignored him, which only seemed to make Ivan more determined to get a reaction.

Elsewhere, Hyuna and Luka were huddled in a corner with Greg the Muffin, who now sat atop a tiny folding chair like a king surveying his kingdom.

“I think he should have an Instagram,” Hyuna whispered, scrolling through her phone.

“Obviously,” Luka said. “And a Twitter. Maybe a TikTok. We can stage little videos of him watching rehearsals.”

Greg, naturally, remained expressionless.

The third take finally made it to the end without anyone breaking — but the tension was palpable. The moment “Cut!” was called, the director turned on the group with a weary sigh.

“Alright,” he said, rubbing his temples. “New rule: no more coffee or muffins on set until we finish this scene.”

Ivan straightened. “What do muffins have to do with it?”His gaze slid toward Greg’s tiny chair.

The director didn’t answer.

Luka’s hand shot protectively in front of Greg like a bodyguard. “He’s done nothing wrong.”

Hyuna nodded solemnly. “Greg is innocent.”

“Greg is a distraction,” the director muttered, already walking away.

As the crew reset for the next scene, Mizi leaned toward Sua, whispering just loud enough for the words to carry over the sound of shifting props.

“You realize,” she said, “if we can’t make it through one take without… whatever that was… we’re going to be here all day.”

Sua gave a tiny shrug. “Guess we’ll just have to practice together.”

Mizi’s heart skipped in a way she immediately pretended didn’t happen. “Right. For… professionalism.”

“Exactly,” Sua said, her lips twitching into the faintest grin.

Back at the craft services table, Ivan took a slow sip of his coffee, watching Till walk by.

“You know,” Till said without looking at him, “one day you’re going to smirk at the wrong moment and ruin your own take.”

Ivan’s reply was immediate and effortless. “Worth it.”

By the end of the day, the coffee ban hadn’t stuck, the muffin was still present, and at least three more takes had been ruined by unscripted smiles. Somehow, it was starting to feel less like a problem and more like a pattern.

Chapter Text

No one knew what exactly had gotten into Ivan that morning. He strolled into the studio without his usual coffee in hand, a fact that alone was alarming, and instead of greeting anyone, he went straight to the dressing room. When he emerged twenty minutes later, he was already in costume and… different.

Not different in the “overslept and skipped breakfast” way. Different in the “oh no, he’s decided to become his character” way.

“Till,” Ivan said as they crossed paths near the lighting rig, his tone low, dramatic, and utterly in-character, “you can’t trust anyone here.”

Till stopped. “…Are we filming right now?”

Ivan just narrowed his eyes and brushed past him without answering.

By mid-morning, everyone had figured out the truth: Ivan was trying method acting. He didn’t speak to anyone unless it was as his Alien Stage persona, voice and mannerisms perfectly dialed in.

Even when the cameras weren’t rolling, he moved like they were, every gesture deliberate, every look intense enough to make crew members take involuntary steps back. Except Luka, for some odd reason, who decided he was utterly thrilled by the idea, and had to have Hyuna spend thirty minutes trying to talk him out of the idea he’d had to do the same thing, citing “no one would survive”.

Till lasted exactly thirty minutes before snapping. “You realize,” he said, following Ivan between takes, “that no one’s paying you extra for this?”

Ivan stopped, turned, and fixed him with that laser-eyed gaze. “Some roles,” he said gravely, “are worth more than money.”

Till gaped at him. “Oh my god, you’re serious.”

Ivan smirked, his character’s smirk, the one that Till found unfairly attractive, and walked away without another word.

By lunchtime, the tension was unbearable.
Sua found Mizi tucked into a corner of the set, half-heartedly flipping through her script.

“Has he spoken to you normally today?” Sua asked.

Mizi shook her head. “He told me my ‘loyalties would be tested’ and then handed me a prop dagger.”

“That’s… we don’t even use those?”

“That would be Ivan for you.”

The afternoon rehearsal was where things truly went off the rails.

Till was supposed to deliver a line over Ivan’s shoulder while the two of them examined a holographic screen. In theory, simple. In practice?

Till stepped into his mark, leaned slightly toward him, and, without realizing it, let the line come out softer, more intimate than scripted.

Ivan’s in-character gaze flicked to him, sharp but almost… fond.

There was a beat too long of silence before either remembered they were supposed to keep talking.

From across the set, Hyuna whispered to Luka, “Are they… flirting?”

“They’re method flirting,” Luka whispered back. “It’s dangerous.”

Meanwhile, Mizi and Sua were running their own lines at the far end of the set.

They’d started out sitting a reasonable distance apart, scripts in hand, reading through dialogue in even voices. But as the scene grew more emotional, the space between them seemed to shrink without either of them realizing.

By the time Sua delivered her last line, there was only a few inches separating them. Mizi’s reply came out quieter than she’d intended.

They both blinked, suddenly aware of the closeness.

“Uh,” Mizi said, shifting back in her chair, “good rehearsal.”

Sua’s smile was small but knowing. “Very good.”

Hyuna and Luka, sensing that the entire cast was seconds from combusting under the weight of unresolved tension, decided to intervene.

They waited until everyone was on a short break, then Hyuna appeared in the middle of the set wearing a reflective safety vest and holding a clipboard. Luka stood behind her with Greg the Muffin perched atop a small, hastily made “throne” built from spare prop boxes.

“Attention, crew!” Hyuna called out. “We are conducting an alien invasion drill!”

Mizi looked up. “Is this… a real thing?”

“It is now,” Luka said gravely. “In the event of an extraterrestrial threat, all muffins must be secured.”

Till crossed his arms. “You can’t be serious.”

“Tell that to Greg,” Hyuna replied, gesturing to the muffin, who sat in stoic silence.

Even Ivan, who was still technically method acting, cracked the smallest smile.

The “drill” lasted ten minutes and ended with Hyuna and Luka chasing Mizi across the set while she pretended Greg had been “abducted.” The crew got a good laugh, and the director, though pretending to be annoyed, didn’t stop them.

For the rest of the day, Ivan stayed in character… but occasionally, between takes, he allowed the corners of his mouth to lift just slightly.

Till noticed every single time.

Chapter Text

The new script pages arrived halfway through lunch, fresh from the writers’ room. Till didn’t think much of it — until he hit the halfway mark.

His fork froze halfway to his mouth.

He stared at the script in his hand. He blinked once, twice, and then glanced at Ivan.

“This is a joke, right?”

Ivan didn’t look up from his own copy. “If it is, they’ve committed to the bit. Page twelve.” He tapped the spot without expression, though the corner of his mouth threatened to twitch.

“It’s a kiss scene!” Till hissed, dropping his fork. “Who even writes a kiss into a life-or-death song battle? No warning, just—bam! Kissing in the rain, like we’re in some kind of romance drama.”

Ivan leaned back in his chair, lips twitching like he was fighting a smile. “Would you prefer they cut to black and use the sound of fireworks?”

“That’s not—” Till gestured wildly at the page. “I’m just saying, we’ve been bickering on-screen for five episodes straight. This is sudden.”

“Not for the audience,” Ivan said, flipping the page casually. “They’ve been rooting for this since episode two.”

Till stared. “Since episode—? You’ve been reading the comments again, haven’t you?”

“Maybe,” Ivan replied nonchalantly.

Till didn’t deign that with a response, choosing instead to read the line again, his stomach tightening. Kiss. In bold, right after the high note that marked the end of the verse.

He shook his head. “And it’s while the rain’s pouring? That’s going to be miserable.”

“You mean dramatic.” Ivan smirked.

“You’re ridiculous.” But they pushed on, before starting to run lines, half-humming their respective vocal parts, when Till suddenly frowned.

“…Wait a second. Why does my last note turn into a solo?”

Ivan’s eyes stayed glued to the page, a little too carefully. “No reason.”

“Ivan.”

“Fine.” He shut the script with a snap. “Because my character dies halfway through the scene.”

Till stared. “You die during a romantic duet?!”

Ivan shrugged. “Guess it’s poetic. Or tragic. Or both.”

Hyuna, who was passing by with a lighting check clipboard, muttered, “It’s also gonna wreck the fanbase. Better brace for crying edits.”

Till’s pulse thundered, not entirely from the script.

He read through it again.

The scene would be set on stage, with rain pouring down, lights dimmed to electric blues and purples, the atmosphere thick with tension. They would stand not too close, voices weaving together in a desperate duet, the lyrics pulling them toward the inevitable climax: the kiss.

Till would stop singing halfway through, ready to die and join Mizi’s character. Ivan would sing one more line, then stop too.

And then the twist would come. Ivan would stalk across the stage and draw Till into a long kiss. The music would still be playing in the background, both of their respective instruments prominent. Then Ivan would faux-choke Till to lower his own score—to sacrifice himself so Till would live. Till’s eyes would shut, and would only flutter open again as Ivan’s character would be shot on stage in front of his eyes. The crowd would erupt— some gasping, some screaming — as Ivan’s instrument fell silent and the music carried only Till’s signature guitar.

Till would not sing again, instead the rest of the duet would be a one-sided instrumental plea, Till’s guitar stuttering to be overheard against the storm while Ivan lay still at his feet.

This was going to be so fun. Note the sarcasm.

———

Till was reminded again why he hated filming rain scenes. They were always tricky. Fake rain meant slippery floors, heavy clothes, and at least half the crew catching colds. But today’s scene was supposed to be the emotional climax for Till and Ivan—the kind where they would stand inches apart in the downpour, voices low, tension crackling.

The set had been dressed as the typical stage. Overhead, a series of rain bars waited to drench them on cue. Greg the Muffin sat in his usual director’s chair by the monitors, “supervising” as Hyuna and Luka argued over whose job it was to hold the umbrella over him between takes. Not that it was necessary. Somehow, Greg the Muffin had been given his own tiny poncho by Luka, who was guarding him like a priceless artifact. Someone was already warning the lighting crew not to let the water short anything out again.

When the assistant director shouted, “Positions!” Till took his mark, shaking out his arms to loosen the nerves.

The first take started fine.

The rain poured down, soaking their costumes instantly. Till shivered but pushed through his first lines, voice loud enough to carry over the sound. Ivan answered with sharp precision, the tension between them building in the space between words.

Ivan took a half-step forward towards his mic. Another. The world outside the rain blurred away. Lights refracted in the falling water, catching in Ivan’s eyes as he tilted his head just slightly…

And then the rain machine went berserk.

Instead of a steady drizzle, the rain bars unleashed what could only be described as monsoon mode.

Instead of a mournful drizzle, they were instantly under a torrential downpour better suited for a hurricane scene. Within seconds, the set looked like a flood zone. The force of it nearly knocked Till down and sent a freezing splash straight into his mouth mid-line.

He spluttered, coughing. “What the—!”

Ivan shielded his face with one hand, hair plastering flat. “Keep going?” he asked, deadpan.

“You cannot be serious.”

“Maybe it was intentional?”

“Does this look intentional to you?!”

The crew scrambled to kill the rain, but the pump seemed determined to empty the entire tank. Water began pooling around their ankles, and someone yelled for sandbags.

Near the monitors, Hyuna facepalmed. Luka, still guarding Greg, just muttered, “Not again.”

Mizi and Sua were mischievously giggling about something behind their hands while everyone was distracted.

When “cut” was finally called, everyone was drenched. Till wrapped himself in a towel while Ivan squeezed water out of his sleeves like it was nothing.

“Well,” Till said, “if the audience was waiting for fireworks, they’re getting a flood instead.”

Ivan glanced at him, a small smirk breaking through. “Guess we’ll have to save the kiss for take two.”

Till groaned.

The rain machine was now pouring enough water to trigger the set’s actual drainage alarms.

The crew scrambled to shut it down, and in the chaos, Greg was momentarily left unguarded.

Mizi seized the moment. “Operation Muffin Rescue is a go!” she shouted, scooping Greg from his chair and bolting toward the craft services table.

Luka spotted her instantly. “Code red! Muffin extraction in progress!”

Hyuna dove to intercept, slipping on the wet floor and nearly taking out a lighting stand in the process.

By the time they’d all skidded to a stop, Mizi had set Greg on top of the snack table like a victorious flag.

Even Ivan doubled over laughing, water dripping from his hair. Till caught the sound, felt it stick in his chest, and decided maybe the disaster hadn’t been all bad.

For the rest of the shoot, the rain scene was known on set as The Great Flood, Greg was treated like a war hero for “surviving” it, and the crew had a new rule: never leave the muffin unattended in wet conditions.

Chapter Text

The studio buzzed with the usual pre-filming energy — crew members darting between cameras, sound techs adjusting mics, and the director barking orders just loud enough to be heard but not loud enough to break focus. But today, an extra current of mischief floated through the air, barely contained by a circle of four actors whispering near the craft services table.

Hyuna tapped a tiny device hidden in her palm, a mischievous smile tugging at her lips. “Ready to make history?” she whispered.

Luka adjusted the strap on his earpiece and grinned. “Absolutely. Let’s give the fans the behind-the-scenes chaos they never expected.”

Mizi leaned in, eyes sparkling. “Remember, keep it hidden from the director and crew. This stays our little secret.”

Sua nodded, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “And no blunders. We want them to love us, not get us canceled.”

The plan was simple: set up hidden cameras and mics around the set and livestream the actors’ natural antics, flirting, flubs, and all. It was a perfect way to connect with fans while poking fun at the polished facade the show usually put on. Most importantly, it was all a secret from the higher-ups.

The first camera was hidden inside a seemingly innocent coffee cup sitting on the craft services table. Another was disguised as a prop walkie-talkie, sitting near the director’s chair. A third was taped beneath the edge of a prop console, and, of course, Greg the Muffin—the unofficial mascot of the set—was carefully positioned in view as a running gag.

The moment the cameras flipped on, chat exploded.

[Chat] AlienFan22: They’re LIVE!!!
[Chat] CoffeeAddict: Is that a camera in Ivan’s coffee? He’s onto us!
[Chat] GregArmy: WHERE IS GREG??? 🧁💖

Ivan spotted the blinking red light inside his coffee cup and shot a smirk directly at the lens. “Guess I’m the star now,” he said, voice low but playful.

Till groaned but couldn’t hide the corner of a smile. “Stop flirting with the camera, Ivan.”

“Never,” Ivan winked, “it’s the perfect audience.”

The chat blew up with heart emojis and enthusiastic fan comments:

[Chat] ShipItNow: IvanTill is REAL!!!
[Chat] SneakySusie: Till’s trying to act annoyed but he’s totally loving it.
[Chat] GregLover: GIVE US GREG PLZ!

Meanwhile, Mizi and Sua took their places near the corner of the set, pretending to rehearse but mostly exchanging quiet smiles and stolen glances. The cameras caught it all, much to the delight of the fans.

[Chat] BingeWatcher: Mizi and Sua look like they’re about to confess something!
[Chat] WhereIsGreg?: Muffin cam’s gone! WHERE IS GREG?
[Chat] MuffinManiac: Protect Greg at all costs!

Hyuna, crouched behind a stack of prop crates, tapped her earpiece nervously. “Crew approaching from stage left. Hide the muffin!”

Luka sprang into action, scooping Greg up and shoving him under a folded jacket. “Emergency muffin extraction!”

Despite the frantic cover-up, the chat kept flooding with hilarious reactions.

Greg the Muffin, draped in a napkin and perched like a tiny monarch atop a prop console, became an accidental star. Each time the camera panned away from the actors, after all, they didn’t want to spoil the next episode, it found Greg in the background, prompting waves of fan affection and memes.

On social media, fans quickly caught on.

[Tweet by @AlienStageFan]: Just when you thought the behind the scenes couldn’t get any cuter — meet Greg, the real MVP of #AlienStage 👑🧁 #SaveGreg

[Tweet by @MuffinManiac]: Someone get Greg a spin-off already. The fluffiest actor in the galaxy! 🧁✨

The director, oblivious to the livestream and the chaos around him, strode confidently toward the cast. “Let’s keep it tight today, people. We’re behind schedule.”

“On it,” Hyuna whispered, the entire prank team freezing mid-movement like deer caught in headlights.

Ivan caught Till’s eye and silently signaled, “You ready?”

Till gave a slow nod. Ivan leaned in and began a low, exaggerated conversation.

“Do you think the director suspects?” Ivan teased, voice dropping into mock paranoia.

Till rolled his eyes but whispered back, mock-theatrically, “Not yet. But if he finds out, we’re doomed.”

Ivan rolled his eyes, “No way, the director loves us too much to get us in trouble.”

Till just gave him a wicked grin. “True, but the chat is seeing our conversation and thinking we’re flirting right now.”

Ivan gaped. “You’re devious Till.” His eyes narrowed playfully and he leaned in. “What do you think they think of this.”

Till flushed a pleasant red. “I-“

Just then, Mizi nudged Sua and whispered-yelled to the rest of the cast, “Watch out, here comes lighting tech!”

The pranksters dove for cover, hiding cameras behind crates, ducking behind furniture, and pulling whatever they could find to block lenses. Luka stuffed Greg into his jacket.

The chat was loving it.

[Chat] Memelord42: That’s gotta be the most awkward freeze frame ever 😂
[Chat] FanGirl99: Not Ivan and Till flirting in the background!! #IvanTill4Life

As the director moved away, the pranksters breathed a collective sigh of relief. But Luka, playing into the running gag of Greg being alive, maneuvered Greg so he popped the top of his “head” out from under the jacket, instantly capturing the camera again.

“Not the muffin!” Hyuna whispered, gently pushing him back under cover.

The day continued with the cast relaxing into the flow of the prank. Ivan and Till bantered openly into the hidden cameras, their natural chemistry on full display.

Later, Ivan caught Till off guard, peeking playfully into the camera’s tiny lens from behind a crate.

“Caught you,” Ivan teased, voice low.

Till rolled his eyes, though his smile betrayed him. “You’re impossible.”

Ivan grinned. “And charming. The perfect combo.”

Mizi and Sua found themselves caught in the middle of the prank, stealing moments that felt almost too genuine for the screen.

“Do you think any of the crew suspects yet?” Mizi asked quietly.

Sua smiled. “If they do, they’re too polite to say.”

The chat kept up its relentless commentary:

[Chat] ShipGoals: Best stream ever. More please!
[Chat] GregFanClub: When’s the official Greg merch drop??

As the livestream wound down, Hyuna tapped her earpiece one last time. “Alright, team, wrap it up. Let’s keep it a secret a little longer.”

The cast gathered for a quick group huddle, faces flushed with adrenaline and laughter.

Just then, the director returned, brows furrowed but a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth.

“You guys are ridiculous,” he said fondly, shaking his head. “But maybe you’re right—the fans deserve to see this side of you.”

As the director’s footsteps faded and the crew buzzed back into action, Ivan and Till found themselves lingering near the craft services table. The prank’s adrenaline still danced in the air between them.

After the stream ended, Ivan leaned casually against the table, his half-empty coffee cup in hand. His eyes caught Till’s, who was flipping through his script but clearly distracted.

“So,” Ivan began, voice low and teasing, “after all that chaos, how about we finally grab that coffee together? No cameras, no pranks — just us.”

Till stood for a moment after Ivan’s invitation, the words replaying in his mind.

“Just coffee,” Ivan had said, but something about the way he looked at him—there was more beneath the surface, something unspoken but unmistakably there.

A flutter stirred in Till’s chest, the kind of nervous excitement he hadn’t felt in a long time.

As he watched Ivan casually sip his coffee, a slow smile spread across Till’s face. This wasn’t just about grabbing a drink after a long day—it was a subtle, carefully worded invitation. A first step toward something neither of them had openly acknowledged before.

Till’s heart quickened, and he realized with a quiet laugh that Ivan was asking him on a date. Not with grand declarations or overt gestures, but with a simple, genuine offer to spend time together—just the two of them.

He folded his script with newfound lightness, feeling a warmth that went beyond caffeine or pranks. This was different. This was real.

For the first time, Till allowed himself to imagine what might come next.

Nonetheless, he raised an eyebrow, a mix of incredulity and amusement curling his lips. “You’re serious? After everything that’s happened today?”

Ivan smirked, the faintest glint of hope shining in his eyes. “Yeah. No standoffs, no smirks, just coffee.”

Till shook his head slowly, chuckling. “I don’t know whether to believe you or suspect another prank.”

“Promise,” Ivan said, voice soft but sincere. “Just coffee. You pick the place.”

Till slipped his folded script into his bag. He took a step closer, his smile warming. “Alright then. But if you try any funny business, I’m holding you accountable.”

Ivan laughed, the sound light and genuine. “Deal.”

They stepped side by side toward the studio exit, the late morning sun spilling warmth over them. The sunlight caught the corner of Ivan’s smirk, making it look almost… hopeful.

“Guess some things are better off-camera,” Till murmured, nudging Ivan gently. He wasn’t sure if he meant this moment or the way Ivan’s smile caught in the light. Or maybe the way he found his heart skipping a beat.

“Definitely,” Ivan agreed. “And maybe a little less secret, too.”

Till glanced over at Ivan, nudging him gently. “You know, for someone so insufferable, you’re surprisingly persuasive.”

Ivan grinned. “And you, for someone so skeptical, have a soft spot.”

Till shook his head with a smirk. “Maybe. Or maybe I just like the coffee.”

“Whatever it is,” Ivan said quietly, “I’m glad you’re coming.”

They stepped out into the noisy streets, leaving the studio—and the prank—behind. But the promise of something real, something quietly unfolding, lingered in the air between them.

Chapter Text

The afternoon sunlight filtered lazily through the tall windows of the rehearsal studio, casting long, soft shadows across the worn wooden floor. The air smelled faintly of sweat, stale coffee, and anticipation.

Till stood by the edge of the room, gripping a thick stack of pages that bore the title Alien Stage: Final Episode Script. His eyes scanned the words almost unwillingly, heart hammering in his chest. The others were still milling around the set, chatting and joking, blissfully unaware of the storm brewing in the two actors who held the fate of their story in their hands.

Luka was beside him, calm but alert, his sharp gaze drifting over the same script. He broke the silence first.

“So... this is how it ends,” Luka said quietly, voice low enough that no one else would hear.

Till swallowed, nodding. “Brutal. But it makes sense. Ivan’s character dies... and then mine...”

Luka’s mouth twitched in a small, sad smile. “That final dance number—the choreography—they want us to make it painful, raw. The kind of desperation that can break you.”

Till folded the pages carefully, his hands trembling slightly. “They want me to dance like I’m falling apart.”

Luka’s eyes locked on Till’s. “And I’m supposed to be the cold presence—reminding you of him.”

Till’s breath hitched. “Ivan’s ghost.”

The irony wasn’t lost on either of them. Ivan—Till’s real-life co-star, possibly something more now, after their coffee date, and on-screen love interest—was absent from this conversation, unaware that his character’s death would set off a chain reaction that Till’s character would be left to survive, or not.

The weight of secrecy between them felt like a quiet pact. They could talk openly here, now, before the cameras rolled, before the others knew, before the story became reality.

“Feels strange,” Till admitted. “To carry this alone. Everyone else is in the dark.”

Luka shrugged, his usual smirk replaced by something more thoughtful. “Maybe it’s better this way. The reactions will be real. Pure.”

Till nodded, but in his chest, a storm was brewing—an emotional tempest he would have to channel into every step, every note, every breath.

They moved toward the sound system, where the first notes of “Blink, Gone”—the finale song—began to fill the room.

Till stretched his limbs, loosening his tight muscles.

Luka started moving, fluid and precise, embodying the cold, controlled anti-hero his character was meant to be.

Till hesitated, then tried to match the rhythm—his movements awkward and jerky at first, the emotional turmoil evident in every falter.

“Like you’re being pulled apart,” Luka coached gently, stepping closer. “Control the chaos, but let the pain show.”

Till swallowed the lump in his throat, pushing through the discomfort.

Midway through their first tentative run, Till nearly tripped over a loose cable.

“Careful,” Luka quipped, steadying him. “If you die during rehearsal, that’s it. No encore.”

Till laughed weakly. “I’d rather go out on stage.”

Luka shook his head. “You’re impossible.”

“Good thing I’m charming,” Till shot back, smiling despite himself.

The tension broke for a moment, laughter spilling between them.

Next came singing practice, where the weight of the song’s emotional intensity collided with their voices.

Till’s voice wavered on the high notes, cracking slightly. Luka teased him, mimicking the shaky falsetto with exaggerated flair.

“Your character’s supposed to be a wreck,” Luka said, grinning. “Try sounding the part.”

Till shot him a glare. “You just want to see me suffer.”

“Guilty as charged.”

But despite the jokes, both knew the song demanded vulnerability—a performance that went beyond mere technical skill.

Backstage, Mizi leaned against a wall, tucked out of sight to observe the rehearsal without interrupting, or unfortunately, hearing. She watched Till and Luka with a mixture of admiration and quiet concern.

“They’re really committing,” she whispered to herself. “Pouring everything into the roles.”

Sua stood nearby, nodding thoughtfully. “It’s impressive. You can see how much it means to them—to tell this story right.”

Mizi’s gaze didn’t waver from the stage. “And they’re carrying a secret none of the rest of us knows. It makes the tension even more real.”

After the music faded and the rehearsal paused, Till and Luka settled in a quiet corner of the studio, scripts and choreography notes spread before them.

Till rubbed his hands together, forcing a smile. “So, we’re just actors playing broken people who’ve seen their friends die.”

Luka chuckled softly, “Yeah, just two guys pretending to fall apart and hold it together all at once.”

“But it’s weird,” Till admitted. “To get so deep into it. To feel it—even when it’s not really happening.”

Luka nodded. “That’s the job. To make the audience believe it’s real, even when it’s all pretend.”

They shared a look—both aware of the emotional toll but ready to channel it into their craft.

“Let’s make them believe,” Till said quietly.

“Absolutely,” Luka agreed.

———

The studio lights dimmed to a focused, ethereal glow, outlining the vast set up to mimic a catwalk like stage for the final round of Alien Stage. The usual noise of crew and cast faded into silence. Every eye was on Till and Luka.

Till adjusted his guitar strap one last time. The instrument wasn’t a prop—it was a lifeline, a way to channel his character’s grief and desperation. Next to him, Luka’s violin gleamed under the lights, its delicate frame contrasting sharply with the weighty scene ahead.

No one else on set knew how the story ended. Till and Luka carried that secret alone, and it added an unspoken gravity to their performance.

The entire crew was on edge, every breath held as the cameras rolled and the first notes of “Blink, Gone” began to echo through the cavernous space.

The story was clear in their minds. Till’s character had just witnessed the brutal death of Ivan’s character—his closest friend and perhaps the only person he truly trusted. The shock had left him broken, desperate, and vulnerable.

Now, minutes—or was it hours?—later, he was thrust back onto the stage to face Luka’s character. A rival, yes—but more than that: a cold, calculating presence designed to provoke and destabilize.

Till’s character danced with desperation, every move jerky, uneven, as if he was fighting a losing battle with his own body and mind. Every twitch and falter was deliberate, an unsteady heartbeat made visible. His voice, when he sang, wavered with raw, bruising emotion—desperation, anger, sorrow all tangled together.

Luka’s character was the exact opposite — smooth, controlled, confident to the point of cruel arrogance. His movements were precise and catlike, reminiscent of a predator circling. He stepped close to Till, a barely-there smirk playing on his lips, his eyes sharp with intent. His character was designed to unsettle Till’s—a calculated reminder of Ivan’s character, both a ghost and a tormentor.

As the two moved across the stage, the contrast between them was stark.

Luka’s steps were smooth, flowing like water, each gesture a taunt—his fingers grazing Till’s cheek, a slow, predatory approach, a deliberate retreat. The kind of calculated cruelty designed to get under the skin.

Till’s responses were frantic and disjointed, a physical embodiment of his character’s mental fracture. His hands reached out, grasping at ghosts, the space where Ivan’s character had fallen. Every movement echoed pain and loss.

The juxtaposition of their playing echoed the story: chaos versus control, desperation against calculated provocation.

Luka moved like a shadow—fluid, elusive, deliberately close but never quite touching. His choreography was flirty in a way that was both tantalizing and painful, designed to remind Till’s character of Ivan. Slow, deliberate touches brushed Till’s arm or jawline, the smallest smiles flickering across Luka’s face, each one a silent taunt.

Till recoiled and reached out, searching for steadiness, but his limbs betrayed him. His body jerked unevenly, as though wracked by waves of grief and confusion. His voice wavered when he sang, struggling to keep pace with the raw emotions crashing through him.

In the darkened “audience” section of the set, Mizi sat unseen, embodying her character’s mystery and fate. The others didn’t notice her—nor would they during filming.

Suddenly, something shifted.

Till’s character’s gaze flicked toward the “audience” — a sparse group of extras meant to be digitally multiplied later into a sprawling CGI crowd. Among them, almost hidden in shadow, was Mizi’s character.

Till’s eyes widened. She was alive.

After months of believing her dead, after the heartbreak of her disappearance, the faintest pulse of hope stirred within him.
His movements steadied, his breathing slowed.

For a moment, the torment from Luka’s character seemed to loosen its grip.
His score began to climb—a spark of resilience flickering amid the pain.

That small, unexpected spark of hope brought a flicker of strength to Till’s dancing. The jerky movements smoothed, his steps grew steadier, his voice gained power as he danced toward what he thought was salvation.

But it wasn’t enough.

The music built, Luka’s violin slicing through the space like a blade.

Till’s character danced with renewed vigor, but the exhaustion and anguish weighed heavily.

Step by step, he moved toward the edge of the stage—the precipice of defeat.

The cameras caught every strained muscle, every raw expression of a soul unraveling.

Luka’s character was relentless. The teasing smirk melted into cold steel. His violin’s notes were sharp, slicing through Till’s fragile resurgence.

Till’s character reached the edge of the stage, every step heavy, every breath strained.

Then— the moment of collapse.

A simulated bullet struck. Till’s body jerked violently, collapsing as he reached desperately toward Mizi’s character. His eyes widened with shock, disbelief, and heartbreak.

The music stopped.

Silence.

The director’s voice broke the tension. “Cut!”

The crew erupted in applause. The cast exchanged looks—some stunned, some exhilarated.

The moment the cameras stopped rolling, the tense atmosphere slowly began to melt away like morning mist under the sun. Crew members exchanged tired smiles while resetting equipment, and the cast began to loosen up, shaking off the heaviness of the performance.

Till lay on the stage, breathless and spent.
Luka lowered his violin, offering a steady hand to help him up.

Ivan stretched dramatically, grinning as he sauntered over to Till and Luka. “You two should seriously consider a career in dramatic theater. Or maybe… intense interpretive dance?”

Till laughed, the sound a little shaky but genuine. “You’re just jealous because you don’t get to be the tragic hero.”

Luka smirked, nudging Ivan lightly. “Watch out, or Till might break into song and drown you out.”

Ivan rolled his eyes. “Please. I’m way too talented for that.”

Hyuna approached with a box of snacks, waving a peace offering. “You guys look like you need sugar more than air.”

Sua nodded in agreement. “Definitely. After that emotional rollercoaster, I’m stocking up.”

Mizi joined the group, finally stepping out of her shadowy corner, her eyes bright despite the exhaustion. “You both killed it out there,” she said quietly. “I don’t know how you keep going.”

Till gave a tired smile. “I didn’t want to have to do another take,” he admitted, chuckling.

Luka leaned back against a prop wall, stretching his arms. “Besides, it’s not all doom and gloom. We still have bloopers to make.”

The group laughed, the sound light and easy, a balm after the storm of emotions.

As the laughter carried on, Till’s gaze drifted back to Luka. The performance had been intense—not just emotionally, but physically—and Till knew Luka didn’t always like talking about his heart condition. Still, he walked over, lowering his voice.

“Hey,” Till said, “you okay? That was a lot out there.”

Luka exhaled slowly, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah. Pushed a bit, but I’m fine. Don’t worry.”

Till frowned slightly. “I’m going to worry. I saw how hard you were dancing. You didn’t hold back at all.”

“That was the point,” Luka replied softly, meeting his eyes. “If we’re going to shock everyone, it has to be all in. And besides…” He tapped his chest lightly. “I know my limits.”

There was a beat of silence before Till nodded, though the crease between his brows didn’t ease. “Just promise me you’ll say something if you start feeling off.”

“I promise,” Luka said, and this time, his smile was more genuine.

Chapter Text

The text arrived at 8:31 PM, just as Ivan had peeled off his hoodie and sunk into his couch with the weight of the day pressing down.

Emergency choreography review — you and Till, 9 PM.

He stared at it for a second, weighing how much he valued his bed versus the thought of spending two uninterrupted hours with Till in an empty set. The scale tipped embarrassingly fast.

By the time he arrived, the studio was silent. Usually, the crew’s chatter, the clatter of props, and the occasional whir of cameras gave the space a lively hum. Tonight, only the dim glow of the overhead lights and the soft echo of his own footsteps filled the air.

Till was already there, hoodie oversized enough to swallow his frame, hair still slightly damp like he’d showered and rushed over. He looked warm, rumpled, unfairly good in a way that had nothing to do with stage makeup or costuming.

“You look thrilled to be here,” Ivan said, stepping forward, coffee-scented hoodie still clinging to him.

Till tilted his head, offering a tired grin. “Oh yeah. Nothing says fun Friday night like being told you need to ‘rehearse your face off’ at 9 PM.”

“Well,” Ivan said, grinning, “you’ve done it before.”

“Yeah, but last time there was a promise of coffee involved.” His words came out teasing, but the faint blush on his cheeks gave away that he remembered more than he let on.

Ivan’s grin widened. The coffee date. The one neither of them had called a date out loud, but both had been acutely aware of. He was pretty sure at least.

They began the first run-through of the scene. Every line, every movement, carried a weight even in the empty set. Ivan leaned into the choreography with a precise intensity, purposefully inching closer to Till at key moments.

Till, catching on, retaliated. A brush of fingers here, a deliberate shift of posture there—subtle, teasing, unspoken exchanges layered over the choreography.

“Watch it,” Till said lightly during one tricky turn, his hand grazing Ivan’s wrist.

“Or what?” Ivan challenged, smirking.

Till rolled his eyes, but the faint twitch of a grin betrayed him. “Or I’ll make you look bad on purpose.”

Their laughter broke the tension momentarily, but then came the long, deliberate eye-contact moment required by the scene. For a stretch of time, the world fell away. Lines faded to nothing. All that remained was the quiet electricity between them, the way Ivan could read every flicker of emotion across Till’s face—guarded, hesitant, curious. Neither blinked first.

They both broke at the same moment, laughter bubbling out, though Ivan’s felt a little deeper, richer. “You’re dangerous,” Till muttered.

“You’re one to talk,” Ivan countered, his voice low, teasing, but not entirely joking.

They called a five-minute break. Till dropped onto the floor, stretching his legs out and sipping water, hair falling across his face. Ivan flopped down a few feet away, leaning back on his hands.

“You ever get that thing,” Till said, voice quiet, “where a scene feels… too real? Like you’re acting, but—”

“—you forget it’s acting,” Ivan finished for him.

Till nodded, a faint laugh tugging at his lips. “Yeah. That.” He glanced at Ivan briefly, eyes lingering just a fraction too long.
Ivan didn’t joke this time. “I get it.”

The conversation drifted. Early call times. How absurd it was to learn choreography in a single day. Then, naturally, the coffee date came up again — Ivan teasing Till about his tragically sweet order, Till countering that Ivan had been more interested in staring than drinking.

“That’s because you were more interesting than the coffee,” Ivan said softly, almost without thinking.

Till froze for a fraction of a second, then looked away, a faint smile tugging at his mouth.

———

The rehearsal space felt different after midnight — the harsh fluorescent lights were dimmed to a softer amber, and the vast emptiness of the set seemed to make every sound louder. Sua sat cross-legged on the stage floor, script in hand, glancing up at Mizi, who was pacing with restless energy.

The scene they were trying to get right required deep eye contact, gestures, timing — and yet they kept breaking character. Not because they didn’t know the lines, but because the tension between them was impossible to ignore.

“This part always throws me off,” Mizi muttered, tapping the page. “It’s supposed to be grief, but… not sobbing grief. Like… the grief that turns into anger if you poke it.”

Sua tilted her head, trying to picture it. “So, more contained? Like you’re holding your breath because if you let it out, you’ll break?”

Mizi stopped pacing, staring at her. “Yeah. Exactly.”

There was a moment, just a beat too long, where neither of them looked away.

Mizi coughed, breaking the spell. “Okay. Let’s try from my second line after you,” she gestured to Sua, “walk back onstage.”

They reset positions. Sua moved with deliberate slowness, her character’s return meant to unsettle Mizi’s in a flashback-esque scene. She stepped into the light, eyes locked on Sua.

They went back and forth, voice and posture sharpening like blades. Mizi didn’t even realize she had stepped closer until Sua’s breath brushed her cheek. It was just a scene. Just acting. But her heartbeat was thudding hard enough she was sure Sua could hear it.

“Again,” Sua said softly. Her tone wasn’t commanding, more like a request she didn’t want to admit she needed.

Mizi’s lips quirked in a nervous half-smile. “You just like bossing me around.”

Sua smirked, but her eyes didn’t leave Mizi’s. “Maybe I do.”

The next run-through was tighter, their energy feeding into something they both felt but didn’t name. When the final line came, Sua didn’t break eye contact until the silence between them felt thick enough to touch.

“That was… good,” Mizi said, voice quieter than she meant it to be.

“Yeah,” Sua replied, still looking at her. “Too good, maybe.”

Mizi laughed softly, trying to shake off the weight of the moment, but it clung to her as they went back to their marks—both a little too aware of how close they’d stood.

At one point, a little bit later, Mizi muttered, “I should get hazard pay for this.”

Sua smirked. “You couldn’t afford me.”

Both laughed, but neither could shake the odd tightness in their chests when they locked eyes again. A brief pause, a guiding hand on a shoulder during a critical beat — the touch lingered just a second too long. A blush. A swallowed laugh. All the things that weren’t meant to happen, and yet did anyway.

———

Luka had been tucked away in one of the smaller recording rooms for hours, bow moving in steady, precise sweeps as he worked through a new violin arrangement.

The studio at night was blissfully empty, the kind of silence that didn’t press in on him like it sometimes did at home. Here, he could take his time—no one rushing him, no cameras, no noise except the strings under his fingers.

His phone buzzed on the music stand, snapping him out of the half-trance he’d fallen into. A message from Mizi lit the screen:

Mizi: You’re not gonna believe this—Till and Ivan are here practicing. Feels like a ghost town except for them. Come hang out?

He stared at it for a beat, the corners of his mouth tugging up. With a quick flick of his thumb, he switched to Hyuna’s chat.

Luka: Meet me at the studio. Bring blankets. Trust me.

Luka barely waited for Hyuna’s typing bubbles to pop up before he started packing away his violin. The soft click of the case latches felt loud in the otherwise empty room. He slipped the strap over his shoulder and headed for the hallway, the echo of his footsteps reminding him just how late it was.

Hyuna: It’s almost 10. Why are you there? And why do I need blankets?

He grinned, tapping out a reply while walking.

Luka: Because Till and Ivan are here. Alone. In the dark. Practicing.
Luka: We’re turning this into a sleepover. You in?

There was a pause—long enough for Luka to pass two empty sets and the dimly lit editing bay. Finally, his phone buzzed again.

Hyuna: …Give me 20 minutes. And you owe me coffee.

He was still smiling when he reached the main rehearsal room door. The faint sound of guitar strings carried through the wood, quick, emotional strumming that made him slow his step without meaning to. He pushed the door open just enough to peek inside.

Till and Ivan were in the middle of something—Till’s head bowed, Ivan watching him with a look that Luka couldn’t quite read, somewhere between admiration and something sharper. The air in the room felt thick.

Luka eased the door shut again and leaned against it, thumb flying over the screen.

Luka: Hurry. You’re going to want to see this.

Hyuna arrived in record time, still in a hoodie and sweatpants, hair thrown into a messy bun that clearly wasn’t meant for public consumption. She had a tote bag over one shoulder, blankets stuffed inside with the edges trailing like a cape.

“You weren’t kidding,” she said, catching sight of Luka lounging in the hallway, phone in hand. “I broke three traffic laws for this.”

“You’ll thank me,” Luka replied, straightening up and motioning her toward the door. “They have no idea we’re here.”

Hyuna arched a brow. “And what exactly are they doing that’s worth sneaking around for?”

“Just watch.”

Luka cracked the door open, letting her peek through.

Inside, the room was lit only by the overhead spots, casting Ivan and Till in dramatic shadows. Till sat on a stool, guitar in his lap, fingers moving in a rhythm that wasn’t quite polished but carried something raw. Ivan stood opposite, leaning against the mic stand, his gaze fixed on Till as if the rest of the world had stopped existing.

Hyuna’s eyes widened slightly. “…Oh. Ohhh.”

“Right?” Luka grinned, leaning close. “It’s like watching a scene they didn’t realize they’re in.”

Till laughed suddenly at something Ivan said, the sound breaking the charged silence like a spark in dry wood. It was too soft to hear clearly through the door, but Hyuna didn’t need the words—whatever it was had made Ivan’s mouth twitch into a half-smile, the kind he usually kept under lock and key.

Hyuna pulled back from the door, shooting Luka a look. “Alright. I’m in. But we’re doing this properly—snacks, blankets, the works.”

“Already working on it,” Luka said, lifting a grocery bag from the floor. “Went to the convenience store during lunch. Got everyone’s favorites.”

Hyuna peered inside and frowned. “Chips, chocolate, candy… but where’s yours?”

Luka shrugged like it was nothing. “Monster.”

“That’s it?” she said, disapproval cutting through her whisper.

He gave her a half-smile, sheepish but unapologetic. “It’s fine. Keeps me going.”
Hyuna’s eyes narrowed, that flicker of worry she always got when his health was involved tugging at her expression. She didn’t push—at least, not yet. “Come on. Let’s get set up before they notice.”

The two of them slipped into the room quietly, the sound of Till’s guitar and Ivan’s low voice washing over them. Neither Till nor Ivan looked up at first—they were too wrapped in whatever moment they were sharing.

Hyuna spread the blankets out on the floor near the back of the room, the crinkle of fabric finally making Till glance over. He froze mid-strum, blinking at them in confusion.

“…What are you doing here?” he asked.

“Late-night rehearsal party,” Luka said simply, already opening a bag of chips. “Keep playing. We’re just the audience.”

Ivan looked from them to Till, something amused flickering in his eyes. “Guess we’ve been promoted to headliners.”

They unloaded their haul onto the floor, and suddenly, rehearsal morphed into chaos. Snacks were unwrapped. Candy wrappers fluttered across the stage like confetti.

Luka picked at a small bag of chips, eating one or two before setting it aside. Hyuna noticed but didn’t comment right away.

Instead, she tossed him a granola bar. “Eat,” she said casually, “or I’m telling wardrobe to add shoulder pads to your next costume.”

Luka rolled his eyes but took it, unwrapping it slowly. He nibbled a little at a time, slower than anyone else, his movements deliberate.

Till’s gaze lingered on Hyuna and Luka for a second longer, clearly weighing whether to protest, but Luka just leaned back on the blanket with a smirk that dared him to try. Eventually, Till shook his head and went back to playing, the guitar’s low hum filling the room again.

———

Ivan didn’t mind the new “audience.” If anything, it made things more interesting. Luka had always had a knack for breaking tension without asking permission, and Hyuna’s quiet, grounding presence balanced him out. It shifted the energy in the room—still intimate, but now threaded with something lighter.

Ivan’s fingers tapped against his thigh in rhythm with the music. He’d been watching Till closely all night, telling himself it was for timing, for the rehearsal, for work. But that excuse had worn thin long ago. It was impossible not to notice the little things—the way Till’s brow furrowed when he was chasing the right chord, how his lips shaped around unspoken words between verses, the flicker of stubborn focus in his eyes.

It made Ivan think of that coffee date. The one that hadn’t been labeled a date but had felt like one from the first moment Till had smiled at him over the rim of his mug. That same quiet awareness sat between them now, unspoken but electric.

A sudden snort of laughter from Luka broke the thread, and Ivan glanced over just in time to see Hyuna elbow him in the ribs for spilling crumbs on the blanket. They both looked like they’d done this a hundred times—teasing and bickering like siblings, but with a steady current of care under it.

Ivan leaned on the mic stand, the weight of the night settling in his chest in a way that wasn’t unpleasant. The set was empty, the world outside felt far away, and for once, there was no rush to perform. He could just… be here. Watch Till play like the guitar was the only thing keeping the walls from closing in. Feel the way the air shifted when Till’s eyes flicked up to meet his.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Ivan knew this was dangerous—letting the line between character and self blur, letting his own feelings seep into every glance and note. But for the moment, under the dim lights with Luka crunching chips in the background and Hyuna rolling her eyes at him, it didn’t feel dangerous at all.

It felt like the safest place in the world.

The scene itself devolved quickly. Ivan kept nudging Till into over-the-top gestures, Till retaliated with flourishes and stumbles, Hyuna and Luka made ridiculous commentary, and Ivan occasionally shot a glance at Greg the Muffin, wrapped carefully in a tiny blanket Hyuna had brought.

“Protect the mascot!” Hyuna whispered dramatically when Ivan tried to shift Greg out of the way.

Luka giggled. “He’s more important than all of us combined.”

The two of them sprawled on the floor in a pile of blankets, sharing snacks and rolling their eyes at Ivan and Till’s ridiculous intensity. Ivan leaned against a bundle of blankets, noting the warmth of Till’s shoulder brushing his own as they plotted the next run-through, words spilling into quiet teasing.

Even the music practice found its way into the chaos. Till plucked at a guitar he’d borrowed from the set props, Luka tapped out an accompanying rhythm on an old violin they’d “found somewhere backstage.”

The melodies were rough, imperfect, but the energy crackled—flirty, playful, yet tinged with all the emotional undercurrents of the day.

Greg watched silently from his blanket, the de facto mascot of this impromptu sleepover, and every so often he was almost squished, prompting soft laughter and whispered “save Greg” warnings.

As the night wore on, the actors gradually collapsed into the pile of blankets. Snack wrappers littered the stage. The lights glowed softly overhead. Ivan rested his head near Till’s shoulder, feeling the familiar pull in his chest. Till’s arm brushed against him casually, but the small gesture was enough to make the air thick with unspoken words.

It wasn’t a date.

But it felt like one.

Luka nibbled quietly on another granola bar, Hyuna’s hand resting lightly on his arm as she made sure he was eating a little more than usual. Mizi and Sua, finished with their scene rehearsal, peeked in from the hallway and whispered a few observations about how ridiculous everyone looked sprawled on the floor.

Eventually, laughter dwindled. Sleep claimed most of them. Only Ivan stayed awake a little longer, watching Till’s soft breathing and feeling the lingering warmth of proximity, thinking about the coffee date, the stolen glances, the quiet tension that hadn’t quite settled.

In the empty soundstage, with snacks strewn around them, blankets tangled like miniature forts, and Greg the Muffin securely wrapped nearby, the cast had unwittingly turned a late-night rehearsal into a night of quiet confessions, laughter, and small, tender chaos.

And somewhere in the gentle glow, Ivan felt that the world outside the studio, the scripts, the cameras, the pressure, didn’t matter at all. Not tonight.

Chapter Text

The day had teeth. Bright lights snapped awake the studio before coffee shops could even pour their first cups. Makeup chairs gleamed like command posts, cables braided like curious snakes, and the greenroom smelled of hairspray, shared nervousness, and reheated breakfast.

They were a cast of practiced performers and habitual mess-makers, and today they had to look polished for cameras, games, radio spots, and a live panel that would probably eat their souls in fifteen-minute increments.

Only three heads were on different axes of the same nervousness: Ivan, Till, and Luka. Their mornings braided into the rest of the day and back again—intersecting, missing, tugging.

Each of them carried the same small, dangerous sparks from the late-night rehearsals: the new, quiet honesty between Ivan and Till; the secrets brewing with Mizi and Sua; the care Hyuna had begun offering Luka after the sleepover. Today, under fluorescent scrutiny, every glance and slip of tone meant something.

———

Ivan — Greenroom — 08:47

He told himself he was calm because he’d done press before. He had interviews that spiraled into ruination of public images and interviews that had elevated him, but nothing quite made his stomach flip the way Till did when they sat next to each other under hot lights. He told himself the nerves were for the audience, for the click metrics, for the producers who would slice their sentences into headlines. He told himself a lot.

“You ready?” he asked, leaning forward, palms flat on his knees. He let the question be casual, let the lightness mask that his voice felt like it belonged to someone else.

Till looked up from the interviewer’s cheat-sheet as if he’d never seen one before. His hair was styled just enough to look effortless, which Ivan knew meant someone had spent thirty minutes getting it that way.“Define ready,” he said, and the little edge of humor flared in his eyes.

Ivan thought of the coffee date — the way Till had chosen the largest strainer of sugar and then quietly disappeared into conversation like a comet. He thought of the way Till’s hands curled around his cup, how Till's laugh tasted like something he wanted to memorize.

“Ready enough to not accidentally tell the entire fanbase about our—” Ivan started, and stopped like he’d been cut by glass. The rest of the sentence sat between them like a dare.

Till raised an eyebrow. “Our…?”

“Undying friendship,” Ivan supplied, and the grin he gave was half apology, half challenge.

Till’s face softened into something complicated — not quite amusement, not quite warning. “Right. Very undying.”

Ivan let the small thrill of it chase the stupid, nervous heat from his chest. Cameras were machines, he told himself, and people were predictable. He could shape this. He could be smooth. He could—

A PA stuck a mic on his collar and looked like a priest affixing a talisman. Then a stylist fussed at his hair. “Less bedhead, more enigmatic,” she said, and rearranged him like he was a living prop.

He sat through a quick reel, drank the wrong lemon water, and practiced the smile that did not show too many teeth. He noticed everything about Till: the angle of his jaw when he read questions, the way Till’s mouth settled into a line of concentration, the small, habitual lift of a shoulder when he was about to make himself small.

Right before they went live the first time, Till leaned just enough that their shoulders brushed. Ivan waited, aware and ridiculous and suddenly obedient to the physics that made his heartbeat accelerate.

“Play nice,” he whispered.

Till’s mouth dipped. “Always.”

The lights came up and the smiles got sharper.

Luka — Makeup Chairs — 09:02

Luka had always been good at data: steps in choreography, the arc of a violin bow, how far a glance needed to travel to read as grief rather than melodrama. Eating was not data he liked to manage. Food felt loud in his chest, like an invasive microphone. He had a habit of taking a bite and then not being able to finish it, so he’d break things into fragments — a calculated avoidance of feeling full, of feeling unsteady.

This morning the catering table groaned with pastries. Luka picked up a croissant on the end, tore off a corner and then admired the shape until the corner grew cold in his hand. He set it down carefully, as if it might get offended. The coffee was safe — just enough cream to look “normal,” not enough to make it taste better.

Hyuna slid in beside him like she was born to be there. She watched him with that half-joking concern she’d always worn like a favorite scarf. “You hate croissants now?” she murmured.

“Just… pacing myself,” he said.

Hyuna didn’t press, but she also didn’t watch him avoid the food. She broke one of her cinnamon rolls in half and slid it toward him. “Eat half,” she said. “I’ll race you.”

“Not necessary,” he said, but smirked faintly anyways—the challenging tone was always better than sympathy—and took a bite, even if it was small. Hyuna didn’t celebrate, just kept talking about her favorite interview bloopers like it was nothing.

He chewed slowly, the movement deliberate and oddly ritualistic, and the world became something small and manageable again for a moment.

He felt lighter that someone—Hyuna, always her or Till, for some reason—noticed. It wasn’t that he couldn’t handle anything; it was that being noticed by her stopped the small panic. She didn’t worry out loud. She masked it in snacks and jokes and the kind of fierce, lowkey competence that meant she’d quietly intervene if anyone else tried to make fun.

He finished the half-cinnamon roll, swallowed the fluttering discomfort, and rehearsed a smile before the makeup touched his cheekbones. He was good at pretending his body was merely a vessel for the thing he wanted to say. Sometimes that pretending was an honest performance.

He took a deep breath and told himself the day would be straightforward: talk about the show, thank the fans, dodge the speculative questions. Safe, clean, rehearsed.

And then his phone buzzed with the first tweet alert of the day—an image someone had already clipped from a rehearsal snippet. Hyuna nudged him and mouthed, “Ignore it.”

He ignored it.

Till — Interview Set — 09:17

Sitting in the interview chair felt like sitting in a shallow pool; everything around him shimmered but he was steady, grounded by muscle memory and by something steadier: Ivan, who sat next to him. It was the habit of performers—you met the moment, loud lights, louder questions, and you made sure the beat didn’t skip.

This morning, the host steered the conversation toward on-set chemistry. It was always the lightweight prompt for revealing sauce; producers loved it and fans screamed into their keyboards over it later.

Ivan’s answer slid in like a warm hand on the small of his back. “It’s easy when you genuinely enjoy the person you’re acting with. Till makes my job—” he looked at Till, sentence sending his stomach lurching, “—very easy.”

The words were harmless. The delivery was not. There was a glint in Ivan’s eye like he knew exactly what he was doing.

The audience laughed. The host blinked, delighted, smelling the potential viral clips.
Till felt the weight of a thousand future fan edits press against his ribs. He smiled because he could, because this is what you did. But inside, his pulse sprinted.

Underneath the training and the jokes and the grind, something electric hummed when Ivan said his name that way.

“It’s easier when the person you pretend for understands you,” Till said instead, a taut kind of humor that slid past like a sharp note. He passed the answer off with a shrug because he was a professional, and professionals find ways to deliver without giving away territory.

The cameras lingered on Ivan’s face — on the attentive half-smile, the way his eyes widened in bemused satisfaction when the host fawned. Meanwhile, the live chat window was already lit up on someone’s backstage monitor. A PA was discreetly monitoring and passing typos down the line.

[Chat] shipitnow: did u hear that?? #IvanTill
[Chat] coffeelovers: CUTIES FALL IN LOVE LIVE 😭
[Chat] gregarmy: GREG THUMB UP 10/10

The host chuckled. “Sounds like there’s a lot of mutual respect there.”

“Oh, definitely,” Ivan said smoothly. “And some… other things.”

Till nearly choked on air. He heard the laughter, saw the flashes, and tried to calibrate himself back to the present moment. He’d learned to let Ivan steer the flirt—it fit Ivan like a second wardrobe—but he also knew he couldn’t just float. He had to choose where the line lived, somewhere subtle and present-tense and deliciously dangerous.

After the segment, a photographer called them together for a quick shot. Ivan moved like he always did in photographs: loosened, capable of turning any angle into a small promise. He slid an arm near Till, easy and almost casual. Till let him. The camera clicked. Someone in wardrobe adjusted a stray hem. The world spun on.

Ivan — Interview Set — 09:50

Second round. Another host. Another set of questions like soft knives. This one asked about time off, about routine. It was the kind of slow midfielder question that let them breathe before the more invasive queries.

Ivan could’ve kept it vague. He didn’t. He smiled and told a story about a coffee shop that served miniature cookies on the side of every ordered cappuccino. He told it like a tease, and he leaned toward Till in the telling, voice dipped.

“He’s worse than I am,” Ivan said, letting the implication hang. “I learned he can’t order a drink without turning it into dessert,” Ivan finished, smirking.

Till’s cheeks tipped to a color Ivan considered a personal victory.

“And I learned you’re terrible at subtlety,” Till said back, and the host laughed delightedly.

The fans were going to eat this up. Ivan could feel it. He could see it too. Fans in the live chat began to triangulate the moment into their favorite edit templates.

Ivan felt the heat in his chest—not nerves this time, exactly, but an awareness sharpened by the knowledge that Till knew, at some level, how his words landed. He was flirting in public on purpose. It was affectionate. It was also tactical; a way to mark territory with jokes while still making it theater.

When the cameras finally called for them to pose, Ivan moved to make himself part of Till’s frame, because it felt like belonging. He let the contact be something that warmed him evenly. The flash popped and he kept in his head the photograph as proof—proof of the small, quiet present they were sharing.

Luka — Between Segments — 09:33

The second segment gave him five minutes in the wings. Luka slipped backstage, pulling his jacket tighter despite the heat. He didn’t rush to the catering table this time. He headed straight for the cooler where the crew kept smoothies and bottled drinks he liked—ones with a real shake of protein and color. Hyuna materialized beside him like a good omen and held out another bottle without being asked.

“You good?” she asked, like she always did.

It was such a plain question, but it carried the weight of all the small check-ins she’d made since the sleepover.

“Yeah,” Luka said, and he believed it in the moment because he was not empty. He was braced. He was functioning. “Just… pacing myself,” Luka replied, which was true in more ways than one.

Hyuna’s hand brushed his arm as she passed the bottle. He felt steadier.

“Drink this.”

He gave her a look.

“It’s not a request,” she said.

Luka sighed, but cracked the cap.

She asked how he was handling the interview questions. He made a joke about how he always gives the same answer—“We’re emotional, we’re tired, we love each other”—and she laughed.

She didn’t probe. She didn’t do the clinical concern he would have resented. Instead she slipped into his rhythm, an ally with snacks and a capacity to shield. That, for Luka, was enough.

Till — Pictures — 10:12

They’d just finished wrapping up the last interview, and the hallways smelled of ozone and old coffee. A crew person shouted about a final group photo, and someone made a joke that devolved into nonsense. The morning had been a string of these — high, bright, performative moments stitched by small backstage interludes.

Each one was a bead on a string Till could feel the weight of.

Till lingered in the photo frame as the flash popped again. Ivan’s shoulder pressed to his arm—closer than necessary, but intentionally so. The contact registered like a friendly weather front: brief, warm, already a memory.

As the flash went off, Till thought about how he’d replay this morning in his head later, every glance and half-smile and unsaid thing.

And if Ivan had been dangerous last night in the empty set, he was absolutely lethal under studio lights.

In the wings, Mizi and Sua sat in a row, close because of course they would be. Both had been scheduled for a later fan Q&A and had ducked into makeup only briefly. The program coordinator was talking to producers; they were relaxed in that way that meant they’d been working a long time and had learned how to make downtime pleasant without losing public composure.

During a lull, their hands brushed. Mizi’s breath caught in a way Till recognized as private and electric. He watched them as if from the outside and felt the quiet ache in his chest that wasn’t the show this time but something softer—an awareness of other people’s moments and his own.

Till’s phone vibrated. He didn’t check it. He didn’t have to. He held the quiet happiness of the moment like an unstable molecule and let it sing.

At some point the photographers called over the rest of the group and posed them for a final photo, everyone crowding together. Luka was half-hidden behind Hyuna, but she subtly shifted so he was more in frame.

Ivan leaned just close enough for his shoulder to brush Till’s again, the contact lingering longer than necessary. The photographer didn’t notice—or maybe they did.

Ivan — Pre-Live Interview — 10:37

Ivan leaned casually against the edge of the set, earbuds dangling around his neck, phone in hand as he scrolled through fan comments on the pre-stream chat. The crew was bustling around, adjusting lights, checking cameras, and reminding everyone to keep their microphones on.

“Alright, alright,” Ivan muttered, voice low and teasing, “let’s see who’s awake enough to handle me this early.”

He tapped his phone, pulling up a fan question from earlier:

[Tweet by @CoffeeDateStan]: “Ivan, do you plan on teasing Till again during the stream??”

Ivan’s lips curved into a slow, mischievous smile. “Oh… I might.” He glanced toward Till, who was fumbling with his microphone pack a few feet away, face red and hair slightly mussed from rushing to set up. Ivan sauntered over, leaning casually against the wall near him.

“You know,” Ivan said smoothly, “some people are way too easy to fluster. I think you’re proof of that.”

Till’s eyebrows shot up, and he muttered something about “impossible,” though the corner of his mouth betrayed a twitch of a smile.

Ivan chuckled softly, pulling up the livestream countdown on his phone. “Three minutes, my friend. Three minutes until chaos ensues. Want a head start on the embarrassment?”

Till groaned but didn’t look away from the screen, and Ivan gave him a quick wink before turning back to his phone to read more fan questions.

[Tweet by @ShipItAllDay]: “I NEED TO SEE IVAN AND TILL’S TEASING LIVE! PLEASE!”

“Don’t worry, everyone,” Ivan said with a grin, looking straight into the pre-stream camera on his phone, “you’re about to get exactly what you came for. And maybe a little more than you bargained for.”

He tapped the phone, leaning back against the wall, and let out a quiet laugh. A few crew members glanced over, shaking their heads at his antics, but Ivan didn’t care—he lived for this: the chaos, the flirting, the impossible-to-ignore energy he brought to every Alien Stage moment.

And, of course, the chance to see Till squirm a little.

Luka — Live Interview — 11:01

Luka adjusted the lapel of his jacket and sighed. He’d barely eaten breakfast, the nerves settling in a tight coil in his chest, and the pile of equipment cases, cameras, and crew members moving in all directions wasn’t helping.

Hyuna had pressed a granola bar into his hand, and he’d taken a cautious bite, mindful of the fluttering in his chest. It wasn’t severe, just… noticeable. He flexed his fingers around the wrapper, trying to will the sensation away.

“Hey, you okay?” Till’s voice drifted over from the other side of the room. Luka blinked. He hadn’t realized Till had come over so quietly, watching him like he did sometimes, the way he did whenever Luka tried to downplay anything.

“I’m fine,” Luka said, offering his usual quick smile. “Just… excited. That’s all.”

Till didn’t look convinced. “You haven’t eaten much,” he said, stepping closer. “And your hand’s shaking a little. Don’t try to push through it, Luka.”

“I can handle it,” Luka murmured, but his eyes betrayed him. Till’s brow furrowed.

“You’re not alone in this,” he added softly, patting Luka’s shoulder before walking off to prep for the camera.

Hyuna, hovering with a tote full of snacks and bottled water, gave him a pointed look. “I’ll be watching,” she whispered, settling beside him. Luka rolled his eyes, but he secretly felt grateful.

The cameras were already live-streaming snippets to fans across the globe. Even though they were backstage, the monitors flashed with their faces, snippets of past rehearsals, and the constant river of fan comments.

[Chat] AlienStageFan42: “Is Greg the Muffin making a cameo today???” #SaveGreg
[Chat] BlinkGoneObsessed: “Till and Luka better give us more about the finale song!”

Luka smiled faintly, leaning on the wall as he adjusted the microphone pack at his waist. Fans were watching everything—every twitch, every smile, every awkward adjustment. It was thrilling and terrifying.

And then the interviewer arrived, a tall woman with too much energy and a notebook full of questions that clearly hadn’t been vetted.

“Alright, cast of Alien Stage! Media Day is live! Let’s start with something fun — your love lives, your friendships… spill a little for us!”

Luka froze. He could feel Hyuna inch closer, as if shielding him from the barrage of prying eyes. The fan chat instantly exploded with emojis and warnings:

[Chat] ShipItAllDay: “Don’t let her trick you into spoilers!!”
[Chat] BlinkGoneStan: “Oh no, she’s asking the personal stuff again!”

He exhaled, keeping his voice light. “Well… I think we’re all friends here, right?”

The interviewer’s smile widened like a trapdoor. “Friends are great — but fans eat up romantic subplots. Any secret crushes? Off-screen romances? Come on, spice us up.”

Luka felt Hyuna’s body move almost unconsciously beside him, the slight shuffle of her shoulder blocking him like a human shield. The room seemed to tilt toward the bright ring of cameras and the woman’s relentless energy.

The chat bled across the side monitor in a rushing column of color and caps-lock fervor:

[Chat] ShipItAllDay: “DO NOT LET HER GET ANYONE TO SAY ANYTHING!!”
[Chat] InABlinkGone: “No spoilers pls!!”
[Chat] MuffinMafia: “WHERE’S GREG?!!!🧁”

Hyuna, sensing Luka’s tension, spoke up. Her voice stepped in before Luka could form a reply. “We are absolutely all friends. Sometimes too friendly,” she said with a conspiratorial wink toward Ivan and Till, which drew a ripple of laughter and a few suggestive emojis from the live chat.

The interviewer wasn’t deterred. “That was evasive! Luka, Mizi—do any of you have crushes on someone on set? Or someone outside of the show?” Her pen hovered over her notebook like a vulture.

Luka’s fingers clenched in his lap. He was used to playing a precise role: controlled, composed, measured. Spotlighted interrogations about feelings felt loud in a way his body didn’t like. He pushed his voice out, even, careful. “I— I like making music and doing my job. That’s my focus.”

A dozen people leaned forward to see if his mouth would betray him. The chat morphed, part frantic, part adoring:

[Chat] squeequeen: “Luka dodged it!!!”
[Chat] comfortcat: “let him be 🙏”

The interviewer, trying a gentler tack, tilted her head. “You’ve been under a lot of schedule pressure lately. Fans have noticed you look…thin sometimes—are you okay? People worry.”

There was a tiny tilt of the room’s temperature. It wasn’t a cruel question — not exactly — but it cut closer than the rest, like a camera finding a scar. Luka’s face closed the smallest amount. He had rehearsed answers for everything from ‘favorite scene’ to ‘worst on-set mishap,’ but this lived in the private folder marked: not a story to share with fans.

Before he could answer, Hyuna exhaled and smiled in a way that said she would not allow the conversation to become a hunt. “He eats,” she said briskly, taking the moment and flipping its script. “Luka eats. I fail to see how this relates to the interview though.”

The interviewer blinked, clearly not expecting such a sharp deflection. Her pen hovered over her notebook as if she’d just realized she might have stepped too far.

“Oh, well—just curious!” she said, but her eyes darted back to Luka with that pointed, faux-casual glint.

Luka forced a chuckle, the sound just barely believable. “Yeah, I think Hyuna’s just mad I stole the last snack on set earlier.”

The fan chat lit up again, messages flying too fast to read in real time:

[Chat] StarryEyedBlink: “Protective Hyuna is my FAVORITE Hyuna.”
[Chat] StageDoorDrama: “Luka… looks tired? Is he okay??”
[Chat] GregTheMuffin0fficial: “Give Luka snacks challenge 2025.”

Hyuna didn’t break eye contact with the interviewer as she reached into the tote bag off to the side and produced a small pack of chocolate-covered biscuits. Without ceremony, she slid them onto Luka’s knee under the table. He didn’t move for a second—his fingers curled against the seam of his jeans—but then he took them, murmuring a quiet thanks that the mic didn’t pick up.

The interviewer cleared her throat, flipping a page in her notes as though the rustle of paper could erase the awkwardness. “Alright then… let’s move on! How about your favorite moments filming together?”

Luka smiled this time—smaller, but more real—and let the others answer first, leaning back in his chair with the biscuits tucked under one hand like a quiet lifeline.

Till — Live Interview — 11:14

Till was nervously tapping the folder containing his press notes. He hated these moments—the live cameras, the fan comments scrolling on the side, the invasive questions that somehow always veered into territory that made him blush. But today, more than anything, he was keeping an eye on Luka.

The interview started with the usual antics. Ivan leaned forward, grinning at him with that infuriatingly perfect smirk that Till could never quite resist, even when he tried.

“So, Ivan,” the interviewer began, “you two have been spending a lot of time together on set lately… any sparks flying we should know about?”

Till froze, nearly choking on his own tongue. Ivan’s gaze flicked to him, eyes bright, teasing. He leaned in slightly, voice low enough for only Till to hear: “You know, coffee dates don’t count as platonic, right?”

Till’s face went hot. He cleared his throat, shoving down a laugh. “Uh… that’s, uh… classified information,” he managed, the chat exploding in emojis and fan theories.

[Chat] ShipItAllDay: “OMG they’re flirting live!!!!!”
[Chat] IvanTill#1Fan: “HE’S BLUSHING HE’S BLUSHING HE’S BLUSHING”

Till couldn’t focus on the next question. His eyes kept darting back to Luka—catching the tiny, almost imperceptible signs that something was off. Fingers flexing around the mic pack like he was working out tension he didn’t want to show. A faint shifting of one leg to cross over the other, never still. That small hitch in his breathing when he moved, like the air caught on something inside him.

They were sitting close enough that Till could lean in without the cameras catching it. “Hey,” he murmured, low enough for only Luka to hear, “you okay? Don’t push yourself too hard.”

Luka’s answer was too fast. Too practiced. “I’m fine.”
No, he wasn’t. The slight tremor in his voice said as much, even if he thought he was hiding it. Till’s hand hovered near his shoulder—not touching, not yet, but ready if Luka wavered. He forced himself to turn back toward the cameras, though every instinct told him to ignore the show and keep watching Luka.

Then the interviewer spoke again, and the hair on the back of Till’s neck went up. “So, Luka—you’re the thinnest member of the cast, and some fans are worried you don’t eat enough on set. Any truth to that?”

Till’s jaw locked instantly. Seriously? She’d already tried this line of questioning earlier—Hyuna had shut it down. Was she hoping Luka would slip up this time? That she’d get a soundbite she could twist into something ugly?

His eyes slid toward her, and he didn’t bother to hide the edge in his stare. She was smiling, all syrup and teeth, but he let his own expression sharpen into something that said, ‘Careful. Try it again and see what happens.’

Hyuna stepped in like a shield. “Like I said earlier,” she replied, emphasis heavy on earlier, “he eats fine. Just in private, thanks.”

The interviewer hesitated, pen hovering over her notebook before she looked away, scribbling something that Till had no doubt was less than flattering. But at least she’d dropped the question.

Till let out a slow breath, the tension in his chest easing just enough. Luka gave Hyuna a grateful nod, but when his gaze flicked over to Till, Till made sure to meet it—steady, firm. Luka might still feel that invisible weight pressing on him, but at least he’d know someone else was carrying part of it.

And if the interviewer tried that stunt a third time?
Till was ready.

Meanwhile, someone from the crew — able to find humor in everything — had quietly placed Greg the Muffin in the interviewer’s field of view. The plush muffin sat near the desk, unashamed and ridiculous, like a stuffie king presiding over the chaos. The chat’s reaction tumbled into full-blown adoration.

[Chat] GregHQ: “GREG IS ON SET THANK YOU WHO DID THIS”
[Chat] MuffinMafia: “Protect Greg at all costs 🧁🛡️”

The interviewer laughed, all bright teeth and TV polish, and reached for Greg—poor Greg, minding his own business on the table—turning him toward the camera like a novelty prop. “Okay, we have to ask—who’s in charge of Greg’s social media? Can we get a behind-the-scenes account?”

Till’s shoulders tensed automatically. Questions like this could go one of two ways: harmless fun, or bait for something that put someone on the spot. He caught Luka’s faint flinch out of the corner of his eye and almost stepped in—

“Hyuna,” Ivan called out before Hyuna could even blink. “She’s the unofficial PR director.” His tone carried so much easy affection that the whole room let out a ripple of warm chuckles.

Till exhaled, slow and quiet, like a knot loosening in his chest. The net had been tightening—he’d felt it—but Ivan had cut it clean. He hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath until now. Hyuna caught his gaze across the table, and there it was—the tiniest nod, so subtle anyone else would’ve missed it. A little we’re fine between them. It was enough.

The interviewer, clearly pleased to have gotten her harmless, shareable moment, clicked her pen with a satisfied little snap. “All right, we’ll move on to some lighter questions—favorite bloopers, who’s the best at karaoke, and who actually can’t sing but tries anyway?”

As the tone shifted back toward the goofy backstage nonsense their fans devoured, Till felt the whole cast loosen beside him. The collective tension bled out of the air. He let himself relax too—though his attention still kept drifting sideways, making sure everyone’s smile wasn’t too forced.

Ivan — Live Interview — 11:29

Ivan, naturally, had been leaning casually against the backdrop, watching the chaos unfold with more amusement than concern—though he caught every little detail of Till’s flustered reactions. He knew that look: flustered, self-conscious, and very, very aware of him.

The interviewer barreled through another round of slightly invasive questions. “Ivan, do you have a favorite cast member to prank or tease on set?”

Ivan raised an eyebrow, glancing at Till, who was scribbling nervously in his notes. “I’d say… the one who reacts the most,” he replied smoothly. Till’s ears turned pink.

[Chat] AlienStageFan42: “HE SAID TILL!!!!!!!”
[Chat] Coffeeislife: “THEIR FLIRTING IS REAL!!!”

He watched the chat zoom by and the clock crawl. More questions were asked to his co-stars. He had to admit, he hadn’t been paying much attention to the interview until the interviewer angled the microphone toward again him like a salivating animal. “Ivan! There have been whispers about you and Till — you two looked pretty close during the finale rehearsals. Is there something romantic brewing?”

The live chat combusted:
[Chat] #1IvanTillDefender: “SHOW US THE DATE PLANS!!”
[Chat] GregCult: “GREG APPROVES THIS ROMANCE 😭🧁”

Till’s jaw flexed at the edge of a smile. He’d learned to let Ivan start the flirt; it suited the latter. The pressure of the moment softened into an exchange they both understood: Ivan would prod, Till would parry, and the room would read the verbs and punctuation as whatever they wished.

Ivan’s grin widened. “We’re very close. We probably—” He glanced at Till, deliberate. “—have plans. For things like coffee, maybe more.”

Till’s mouth twitched, and an answering heat rose in his neck. He looked at Ivan, and for a negligible second his face looked unguarded. “We do have plans,” he admitted, and the admission on camera felt like a small, dangerous victory.

Till tipped his head slightly; his voice was quiet enough that only the nearest mics caught it crisply, and the chat ate it alive.

[Chat] ShipItNow: “IT’S OFFICIAL!!!!!!”
[Chat] clickbaitwatch: “BREAKING: CUTE COFFEE DATES CONFIRMED”

The interviewer, delighted, pounced for details. “Coffee date… dinner? When? Can we—”

“Hey, let’s not give the fans a full itinerary,” Hyuna cut in, but there was laughter in her tone. She had loosened the room with her earlier interventions and now wielded that warmth like a shield.

Luka — Live Interview — 12:14

The rest of the questions continued, each slightly more intrusive than the last. Ivan accidentally brushed a shoulder against Till’s as they adjusted for a camera angle, and the chat erupted.

[Chat] BlinkGoneObsessed: “TOUCHING!!!!”
[Chat] ShipItAllDay: “CAN YOU FEEL THE CHEMISTRY???”

Meanwhile, Luka had been caught mid-chew on another granola bar, quickly hiding it behind his back. His chest pinched faintly, and Till, noticing, whispered: “Let me know if you need anything.”

Luka swallowed quickly, shaking his head. “I’m fine. Really.”

[Chat] GregTheMuffinFan: “Where’s Greg???”
[Chat] SaveGreg: “LOOK AT GREG!!!!!”

Hyuna had just snatched the plushie of the iconic muffin off the table and held it up, placing it in the middle of the frame to distract the fans from Luka’s slight moment of discomfort.

The questions veered toward the “onstage dynamics” and “friendship chemistry,” and the cast leaned into their personas: Ivan teasing Till, Hyuna and Luka swapping inside jokes that left the interviewer utterly bewildered, and Till quietly checking on Luka in between questions and the chaos.

The interviewer smiled—something sharp and predatory. “So, Luka, does your character’s relationship with Till’s remind you of anything off-set? We’re dying to know.”

Luka smiled faintly, uncomfortably shifting. “Uh… I think I would say yes, but…”

Hyuna leaned in quickly and smiled politely, “Let’s stick to relevant questions, please.”

When the attention of the interviewer switched over to Hyuna, Till muttered under his breath: “It’s fine. You’re fine.”

The live chat scrolled at a dizzying pace, fans theorizing, shipping, panicking over the smallest gestures. And through it all, Till’s quiet attentions to Luka never wavered, Ivan’s mischievous flirting continued, and Hyuna kept her watchful, protective eye on her friend.

By the time the interview wrapped, Luka was exhausted but smiling, having made it through without much further incident. Till exhaled, brushing imaginary dust off his hands, and Ivan clapped him on the back, grinning.

[Chat] ShipItAllDay: “BEST. MEDIA. DAY. EVER.”
[Chat] BlinkGoneStan: “I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS HAPPENED LIVE.”

Luka took a small sip of water, finally feeling his heartbeat settle slightly. He caught Hyuna’s eye, and she gave him a thumbs-up. Till’s shoulder brushed his again, subtle, grounding, and… it felt like enough.

Ivan, still leaning casually against the set wall, grinned. “Not bad, team. Maybe next time we can see if the real Greg approves of our antics.”

Luka let out a tired laugh, Hyuna shaking her head at the plush muffin, and Till, of course, couldn’t stop smiling, the subtle warmth between them all lingering long after the cameras cut.

Ivan — After the Live Interview — 12:36

They drifted to a vendor area for a quick branded shoot: a photo booth with silly props the network insisted would “humanize” them. Ivan dominated it, going overboard on a fake mustache, offering it to Till with mock ceremony. Till took it, then set it back on his upper lip while still managing to look devastating.

Clips would ripple across accounts by evening. The PR table sent them funny overlays and branded hashtags.

[Tweet by @AlienStageLive]: Live chats said it’d be spicy — @IvanOfficial & @TillStar did not disappoint 😏 #Cure

Ivan felt the internet’s scrutiny from here and made a small choice: he would tilt, for now, toward the safe flirt. He would not push the cliff edge into a real confession. The world could not be a cliff today. There would be premieres and parties and the long slow reveal after all the cameras cooled. He owed himself a few tactical breaths.

He found Till near the catering again, both of them needing air that wasn’t studio warm. “Drink?” he offered.

Till accepted. The contact was nothing and everything.

Luka — Interview Room — 12:54

The studio lights cast a warm glow over the sleek set as Luka sat calmly on a tall stool, violin resting lightly on his lap. His slender frame seemed almost delicate under the harsh lights, but his posture was steady, his expression composed.

The interviewer, a polished host with a practiced smile, shuffled her notes and looked up with keen eyes.

“Luka, thanks so much for joining us today! Your talent on the violin has really captivated audiences, and of course, your role on Alien Stage has made you a fan favorite. How do you manage to juggle the intensity of both careers?”

Luka smiled softly, his eyes briefly flicking toward Hyuna, who stood just off-camera holding a water bottle, offering a discreet thumbs-up.

“They’re different, but connected. Music and acting both tell stories. I just try to be honest with both.”

The interviewer nodded, leaning in slightly. “That honesty really shows. Now, fans have noticed you sometimes seem a bit reserved, especially during press events. Would you say that’s just your personality, or is there more behind that?”

Luka’s smile faltered for just a fraction, his fingers tightening slightly on the violin case. “I guess I’m just more comfortable expressing myself through music and my work, rather than words.”

The interviewer’s tone softened, but her eyes stayed sharp, like she was sniffing for a headline. “Understandable. But some fans worry you might be pushing yourself too hard—working long hours, juggling rehearsals and filming. Is burnout something you’ve dealt with?”

Luka’s gaze flicked toward Hyuna again.

She wasn’t speaking, but her eyes held that quiet, anchoring concern she always had when she thought he might overextend himself.

He swallowed and let out a small, polite laugh, careful to keep it from sounding defensive. “I appreciate the concern. I’m working on pacing myself better. Hyuna’s been a big help with that.”

The interviewer tilted her head, sympathetic but still digging. “That’s good to hear. With such a demanding schedule, do you ever feel pressure to always be ‘on’ for the fans?”

Luka hesitated—just long enough for the pause to register—then nodded.

“Sometimes. But I try to keep my focus where it matters most: putting everything I can into my roles and my music. If I can do that, the rest tends to work itself out.”

The host smiled, wrapping up. “Thank you for your honesty, Luka. We’re all rooting for you—and we can’t wait to see what you do next.”

As the cameras cut, Hyuna moved closer with the water bottle, offering a comforting presence.

Luka took a slow sip, grateful for her steady support amid the probing questions, and prepared to face the rest of the day.

Till — Interview Set — 13:00

Till settled into the plush chair across from the interviewer, the studio lights reflecting softly off his dark hair. His usual confident smile was in place, but there was a flicker of something else beneath—something quieter, more guarded.

The interviewer grinned warmly. “Till! So great to have you here. Your character in Alien Stage has such a passionate fanbase. What’s it like playing someone so intense?”

Till leaned forward slightly, voice smooth but thoughtful. “It’s a challenge, for sure. I try to bring as much honesty to the role as I can, especially with all the emotional moments. It’s not always easy.”

The interviewer nodded. “Speaking of emotional moments, fans have been loving the dynamic between your character and Ivan’s. The chemistry is off the charts! What’s it like working with Ivan?”

Till’s eyes flicked briefly to where Ivan was watching from the sidelines. He smiled, though a subtle warmth bloomed in his expression. “Ivan’s amazing. Working with him makes those scenes feel real. It’s… special.”

The interviewer raised an eyebrow, sensing an opening. “Special how? Is there more to that connection than what we see on screen?”

Till chuckled, brushing a stray lock of hair back. “I think that’s for us to know. But I will say, it’s rare to find someone you can trust that much in front of the camera.”

The interviewer pressed on, a playful gleam in his eye. “Any chance that trust extends beyond the set?”

Till’s smile deepened, though he kept his response measured. “We’re close, yeah. But what happens off-camera is our own story.”

The interviewer nodded, shifting gears. “Got it. Now, your character’s final scenes are intense—especially the dance and music performances with Luka. How do you prepare for something so physically and emotionally demanding?”

Till’s face grew serious. “It takes a lot of focus and practice. Luka’s a great partner—his control on stage helps balance my intensity. We push each other to bring the best performance.”

The interviewer smiled brightly. “Sounds like a great team! Last question—any message for your fans eagerly awaiting the finale?”

Till’s gaze softened. “Thanks for all the support. We’ve poured our hearts into this season, and I hope it means as much to you as it does to us.”

The cameras cut, and Ivan approached with a grin, handing Till a cup of coffee. Their eyes met briefly—something unspoken passing between them.

Till took a sip, then looked toward Ivan. “Thanks. I needed this.”

Ivan’s smirk softened into something warmer. “Anytime.”

Ivan — Interview Studio — 13:17

The soft hum of the cameras and crew buzzed around Ivan as he settled into the sleek leather chair on the minimalist set.

The bright studio lights cast a halo around him, but Ivan’s sharp eyes remained steady, reflecting a mix of confidence and a hint of something deeper—vulnerability carefully tucked beneath layers of charm.

The interviewer, a seasoned professional with an easy smile, leaned forward, ready to draw out the star’s story.

“Ivan, it’s great to have you here today. Your role in Alien Stage has captivated so many fans with its intensity and depth. What drew you to this character initially?”

Ivan tilted his head, a slow smile curling at the corner of his mouth. “Thanks. I think what grabbed me was the complexity—there’s so much beneath the surface. He’s not just some brooding singer; he’s layered, conflicted, and flawed. That’s real life, right? Nothing’s ever simple.”

The interviewer nodded, scribbling a note but clearly intrigued. “Your scenes with Till’s character have been described as electric—there’s a palpable tension that fans can’t get enough of. How do you approach building that chemistry on screen?”

Ivan’s eyes flicked momentarily toward the side where Till was reviewing lines quietly. He sighed, a mix of fondness and something unspoken passing through his gaze.

“It’s... natural, honestly. We’ve known each other for a long time, and that familiarity seeps into the work. But it’s more than just acting—it’s about trust. Without that, the tension wouldn’t be real.”

The interviewer smiled knowingly, pressing on gently. “And beyond the screen? Rumors are swirling—what’s the real story between you two?”

Ivan chuckled softly, but the sparkle in his eyes deepened. “You’d have to ask Till. But I won’t deny there’s something there. It’s complicated, but that’s what makes it interesting.”

She shifted topics smoothly. “Your character goes through some intense emotional scenes, especially in the sixth episode with the music performance. How do you prepare yourself mentally and physically for those moments?”

Ivan’s smile faded just slightly, replaced by a more serious, introspective look. “It’s draining, in a good way. You have to dive deep into those feelings—the anger, the loss, the hope—and really live them. The music helps ground me. Till and I work closely to balance the raw emotion with control.”

The interviewer leaned in. “And after those intense scenes, how do you decompress?”

Ivan’s gaze softened. “Coffee helps,” he said with a small laugh, then glanced over to Till, who was approaching with a fresh cup. “And knowing someone’s there. Someone who gets it.”

The camera zoomed in as Ivan took the cup, their eyes locking in a brief but meaningful exchange.

“Anything you want to say to your fans about the journey this season has been?”

Ivan’s voice lowered, sincere and a bit raw. “Thank you for sticking with us. This season has been a rollercoaster—on set and in the story. We’ve poured everything into it, and I hope it resonates with you. There’s pain, love, and everything in between. That’s life.”

As the cameras cut, Ivan relaxed back, the tension momentarily easing. Till sat beside him, nudging his shoulder playfully.

“Coffee break over?”

Ivan smirked. “For now.”

Luka — Lunch Room — 13:42

Lunch time. The cast was corralled into a small greenroom where the network had arranged for a modest buffet. The crew used it like a pit-stop. The hosts used it like a runway. It smelled like reheated food and perfumed pop-ups.

Luka kept his plate small: a handful of rice, a portion of lean protein, some steamed greens. He ate methodically, watching the room like he watched choreography: attentive, calculating.

Hyuna sat beside him again and nudged his elbow. “You’re doing great,” she said.

He smiled at her like she’d given him permission to exist as he was. She refilled his bottle without fuss. She asked no questions but skimmed the surface of things enough that he trusted her. That consistency mattered; it kept him from being alone in a room full of people.

Someone on set — an overexcited production assistant trying to earn brownie points — posted a blooper clip showing Ivan and Till tripping over a prop. The comments went feral and affectionate. Hyuna groaned. “Can you believe them? At least their chemistry’s real.”

Luka laughed, but he watched the number of likes rise. He felt removed from the tremor of fandom hysteria; that was not his territory. His job was to play the violin like a sword, to keep time, to stay in the frame.

The rest could be anyone’s.

Till — Interview Room — 14:18

The afternoon slid into a softer, calmer rhythm after the onslaught of cameras.

They were scheduled for a short taped segment for a fan Q&A—more intimate and less intense than the livestreams simultaneously, a single camera, and questions submitted by viewers rather than producers.

It felt smaller, safer. Till liked that. He liked the idea of an “honest” conversation in a corner of the day that had been otherwise loud and performative.

The host asked the kind of question that made actors either very careful or unguardedly real: “What scene this season changed you the most?”

The studio lights made the room feel smaller, like a pocket of truth. Till looked at the camera, then at the face of the host, and let himself answer without the usual jokes or deflection.

“It was the finale,” he said simply. “Not just performing it, but all the pieces that led there—the rehearsals, the watching, knowing what everyone else didn’t. There’s a responsibility in telling someone’s end like that, in making it feel honest for people who’ll watch and feel it. That weight taught me a lot about what we’re asking from each other as actors—trust, sure, but also courage.”

He found himself thinking, briefly and painfully, of Ivan’s quiet steadiness during the day, of Luka’s controlled coldness onstage, of Mizi’s shadowed presence in the audience that had changed everything. “It’s strange,” he added, “how pretend grief can show you what you’re capable of feeling for real.”

The host probed gently—how do you carry that back off camera? Till let that sit. He talked about routines that kept him grounded: a long walk to clear the show out of his bones, keeping music on the edge of everything he did, and the small rituals with the people who’d become more than coworkers.

When he mentioned coffee with Ivan, it wasn’t meant to be more than a practical thing, but the memory warmed him in a way the cameras couldn’t register.

When they cut, Till lingered a moment in the quiet set. The exchange had left him steadier. It felt right to admit that acting could be a mirror and a map—showing him where he had to go, and who he wanted to go with.

He glanced toward the greenroom where the others were packing down lights and smiled, the ache easing because it had been shared, even if only a few understood the whole of it.

Ivan — Live Interview — 16:05

Ivan sat alone under the interview lights, feeling both conspicuously visible and oddly grounded. The set smelled faintly of citrus disinfectant and hairspray; the camera hummed softly like it was waiting for him to stumble.

He’d done plenty of interviews before, but being the only one in the chair right now made the space feel larger and somehow more intimate—one chair, one mic, one interviewer with a practiced, bright smile that clearly meant she wanted a headline before the truth.

He could handle headlines. That was part of the job. But today, the word they wanted him to speak was Till, and suddenly the room felt smaller.

“Relationships,” the interviewer began. “You two have amazing chemistry. What’s it really like, off-set?”

It was a question a thousand people had asked in a thousand ways: “Is there something more?” “Are you dating?” “Do you like each other?”—but phrased like this, it was a line he could own. A phrase he could tilt and shade however he wanted.

“Till makes my job easier,” Ivan said, letting the simplicity sit where a headline might grab it. He turned slow, aware of the mic and the lens pointed at him. “He’s an actor who listens. He’s precise, brave, and he trusts the scene. That makes everything feel… truer.”

The interviewer asked for specifics, pressing for anecdotes.

And, for a second, Ivan pictured their coffee date: two paper cups, steam like a pale cloud between them, both talking and listening until they forgot there was anyone else in the café. He remembered the way Till had laughed at something small, the way his fingers had closed around the cup like an anchor. He remembered what it felt like to be seen.

So Ivan supplied a small story about a coffee shop they’d stumbled into between rehearsals—how Till had ordered something ridiculous and forgotten about it entirely because he was talking about choreography. The tale was trivial enough to be safe for broadcast but held a private warmth only Ivan fully appreciated.

The chat feed, mirrored on a small monitor off to the side, had already started exploding. Emojis, hearts, excited speculation. Ivan couldn’t help but grin.

He let his eyes find Till’s, off set, waiting, let the look freeze for a half-second longer than is strictly necessary on air. Cameras did a little binary flicker and fans compiled the moment into GIFs almost instantly.

Backstage, a monitor displayed the live chat:
[Chat] sinkingship: “oh my god he’s looking at him 😭”
[Chat] blinklover: “he said ‘happy’ 😭”
[Chat] mooncupcake: “fuel the romance gods plz #IvanTill”
[Chat] gregstuff: “GREG APPROVES 🧁”

Ivan let them have it. If the world wanted a GIF of him smiling fondly while saying Till’s name, he would give it to them. Public flirting was a performance, but it also allowed him to control the moment, to keep the intimacy between him and Till framed on their terms.

The interviewer tried one last push. “Do you think fans should expect anything soon? Dates? Announcements?”

Ivan exhaled, letting a spark of mischief creep in. “They’ll have to wait and see,” he said, smiling. It was a tease that promised momentum without specifying timing—a small, safe confession.

When the segment cut, applause filled the studio. The monitors displayed a flurry of new tweets and speculation, and Ivan allowed himself a small thrill at the chaos.

His gaze swept the greenroom, where Till was offstage, flexing his fingers in that way he did when working through music or lines. He looked tired in the way that came from throwing himself fully into his public persona.

Till glanced up, meeting Ivan’s eyes. A half-smile passed between them, private and intimate, invisible to the cameras. Ivan let the smile linger before turning away.

He walked toward Till, thinking about the coffee date that had never officially been called a date but had felt exactly like one.

He considered the public teasing, the private promises, and the patient way he could let Till meet him halfway. For now, he simply stayed near, letting the moment exist as it was—quiet, unspoken, and entirely theirs.

Luka — Between Segments — 17:20

By now the day had settled into a rhythm that was both exhausting and oddly grounding. The constant hum of cameras, microphones, and half-shouted cues made his muscles tense, but Hyuna moved beside him like a quiet tether, offering snacks, water, and calm reminders to breathe. She had a no-fuss way of caring that somehow made his limbs ache less, his chest feel lighter.

Across the room, he watched Ivan and Till. Their interactions were almost operatic—every glance, tilt of the head, smirk, and subtle shift in posture a note in a private melody. Luka observed without envy, without intrusion. He knew his own role: measured, deliberate, steady. He was the counterpoint to chaos, the precision in a scene that threatened to unravel if mishandled.

A junior sound tech approached hesitantly, holding a phone. “Someone uploaded this from last night,” he murmured. The clip was a micro-montage from their late-night rehearsal: empty set, scattered props, Till and Ivan practicing lines and movements in the muted glow of stage lights, the corners of their shoulders brushing as they adjusted a cue or shared a small joke.

Hyuna rolled her eyes with a soft sigh and handed the phone to Luka. He studied it, letting the tiny domestic intimacy of it settle over him. There was warmth there, a story not his—but not entirely separate from him either.

He felt protective of Till in a quiet, almost instinctive way. Not possessive, but as if safeguarding the choreography of emotions that were his responsibility to respect and honor.

He flexed his fingers, grounding himself. The schedule loomed: panels, a final group photo, another PR meeting.

A pastry—soft, slightly dry—was placed in front of him. He nibbled at it without finishing, conscious of the way his stomach sometimes rejected the rush of the day. Hyuna didn’t comment. She prepared a smoothie and set it down beside him, the motion calm and routine. He drank slowly, savoring the anchor it provided.

In the brief stillness, Luka allowed himself a glance back toward the duo of Ivan and Till. It was admiration tempered with awareness—a recognition that stories could overlap without colliding.

He exhaled and adjusted his jacket, mentally rehearsing the next panel, the next smile for the cameras, the next step in the delicate balance of work, friendship, and the invisible currents that tied them all together.

Till — Solo Mini-Panel — 19:05

The final live segment was billed as a mini-panel for a streaming partner, but the energy was immediate and relentless.

Instead of a traditional host, the setup relied on live fan submissions: comments, emojis, and questions scrolling across a big screen above the stage.

Till adjusted his mic, took a steadying breath, and leaned forward.
The first question appeared: “What’s the hardest part about playing your character?”

Till exhaled softly. “Honestly… it’s the emotional weight. My character goes through so much grief, loss, and despair. You can’t just act sad; you have to really feel it, and that’s exhausting.”

Another popped up almost immediately: “Do you ever break in the middle of a scene?”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Sometimes, yes. There’s a moment in one of episodes when I forgot a line completely because I was too focused on another actor’s performance. It’s humbling, and honestly… sometimes hilarious in hindsight.”

Fans continued flooding the feed:
“Favorite scene this season?”
“Most fun on set?”
“If you could swap roles with anyone else, who would it be?”

Till answered them all, one by one. He leaned back, voice steady even as the fatigue tugged at his throat. “Fun scenes… the ones that let us be ridiculous off-script. Like that one late-night rehearsal where Ivan kept pretending he was Shakespeare while he rehearsed his lines. Or the blooper reels where props went flying. I’ve never laughed so hard on set.”

“Who inspires you the most?” a question appeared, smaller in volume but striking.

Till’s eyes softened, unconsciously searching the room. He let the screen scroll slowly, the cursor flickering over the next question: “Who do you trust most on set?”

He didn’t answer immediately. The truth wasn’t complicated; it had a name, a presence he’d known for months. But the camera didn’t need to capture everything. He took a breath and spoke generally. “The people who make the work feel safe. Those who challenge you without judgment. Those who keep you grounded when everything else is spinning.”

Another question popped up, slightly mischievous: “Most dangerous co-star?”

Till smirked, shaking his head as he typed a quick answer on the small control panel they’d been given. “Depends on your definition of dangerous. Some people can destroy a scene with charm alone. Others… with accidental prop destruction.” His fingers hovered briefly, knowing exactly which friend would recognize the joke.

The stream exploded with emojis and quick responses:
[Chat] ShipItAllDay: “Dangerous?? Who?? 😏”
[Chat] BlinkGoneStans: “He’s talking about him isn’t he?? 👀”
[Chat] gregstuff: “SAVE GREG!!!”

Till laughed softly at the last one, glancing around. The plush Greg the Muffin sat on a nearby prop pedestal, slightly squished from the day’s handling, but clearly still the unofficial mascot.

He answered a few more fan questions, letting his voice carry the honesty he usually reserved for rehearsal rooms. He talked about the joy of collaboration, the small moments that made the grind worthwhile, and yes, even the absurdity of dancing like he was terrified in highly uncomfortable shoes while trying not to fall on his face.

When the panel wrapped, the energy was still buzzing. Till exhaled, rubbing his neck and scanning the room. That’s when Ivan appeared, holding two paper cups of something sweet and far too strong for anyone’s good but somehow exactly as Till liked it.

“You survived,” Ivan said, handing over one of the cups with a smirk.

“We survived,” Till corrected automatically, accepting the warmth in his hands. “You did well today. Very dangerous, actually.”

Ivan’s eyebrows lifted. “Was it the subtle smirk, the eye roll, the expertly timed nods?”

“Maybe all of the above,” Till said, a private smile tugging at his lips.

They walked out of the room together, cups in hand. Hyuna waved from across the networking area, sitting beside Luka, who was quietly nibbling on a sandwich she’d prepared. Luka gave a half-salute, a small acknowledgment that made Till’s chest ease slightly.

He caught the excited look in Mizi’s eyes and the calm steadiness in Sua’s, feeling a quiet grounding amid the chaos of panels and social feeds.

He sipped the coffee, sweetness prominent but comfortingly exact—Ivan always made it just right, even though he hated it himself—and let himself relax into the rare moment of calm at the end of a long day.

“Why do you make it this way if you hate it?” Till murmured, more to himself than Ivan.

Ivan only smirked, a small twinkle in his eye. “Because I know you’ll survive the day better if I do.”

And for Till, that was more than enough.

Ivan — After — 22:10

By the time the official press day rhythm wound down into quieter conversations and less polished chats, Ivan felt a tired satisfaction settle over him. He’d curated the right amount of flirt; he’d given fans little treasures. He’d made sure he hadn’t broken anything irreversible.

At the hotel shuttle, he and Till lingered.
“You did good,” Ivan said, and he meant it in the shallow, practical way that also hid the entire other thing.

“You did more than good,” Till replied. “You were… steady.”

Ivan let that land. There was something about the day — the public flirtations, the cameras, the live chats — that had sharpened them in private. He wanted to say it out loud. He didn’t. He let his hand brush Till’s as they walked toward the shuttle, a movement small enough to be explained away and honest enough that once upon a time it would have been impossible.

Across the lot, Luka cradled a bag Hyuna insisted he take, full of overnight snacks and a couple of extra sweaters “in case you forget your layers again.” Hyuna rolled her eyes when he scowled but set the bag in his hands with the same practical tenderness she’d shown all day.

Ivan watched them go — Till’s shoulders relaxed, Luka’s stance the same guarded poise — and felt a protective, illogical pride that belonged to friendship and something just beside it.

The day had been a spectacle. It had also been a map of what could be: small gestures, care done quietly, and the pressing closeness that happened only when the cameras weren’t still rolling and the world felt enough like theirs to be vulnerable.

He tucked his hands in his pockets and let the heat of the moment keep him company until the shuttle doors shut.

———

They would wake tomorrow to a swell. Clips would be remixed within minutes, GIFs plastered to stories, tweets compiled into trending threads. Fans would pick sides, bookmark small flourishes, and in weeks the press would ask for clarifications that didn’t exist.

But for now, Hyuna watched Luka eat his sandwich on the shuttle, the way she watched him all day: with a practiced, private patience. Mizi texted an eight-word message that made Sua grin like a child. Ivan and Till held a small, soft secret under the press day’s scraps of pacing, smiles, and staged proximity.

Chapter Text

The soft hum of the city outside drifted through the cracked-open window of Ivan’s apartment as the six original cast members of Alien Stage settled into a cozy, haphazard circle. The room was bathed in a warm glow from strings of fairy lights that twined around bookshelves and framed windows, casting delicate patterns across the walls.

The air smelled faintly of coffee, vanilla candles, and freshly baked cookies—Hyuna’s contribution, which she proudly set on the coffee table along with a small stack of mugs filled with steaming tea and coffee.

The countdown of the new—and last—episode played on the large screen, but the focus in the room was more subtle than rapt attention. The screen illuminated faces bright with a mix of pride, nervous excitement, and quiet relief. This wasn’t just a viewing party; it was a celebration of an entire journey—the long nights, the inside jokes, the tension, the growth.

Ivan nestled into his favorite spot by the window, knees pulled close and his usual smirk softened into something gentler. He stole a glance at Till, who sat cross-legged on the thick rug nearby, leaning forward slightly with a cup cradled between his hands. Their eyes met, and for a heartbeat, the world outside their little circle seemed to quiet down. Ivan’s heart did a small flutter—a flutter that had been growing stronger since their first—not-quite—date.

Till gave a subtle smile, the kind that spoke volumes without a single word. Ivan returned it, the smile widening, warm and genuine. It was a silent exchange of recognition and something unspoken yet undeniable: what had been simmering beneath the surface was finally being acknowledged between them.

Mizi and Sua sat close on the oversized couch, their shoulders brushing just enough to send sparks of awareness through them both. Their phones lay forgotten beside them. Every so often, their fingers grazed—an accidental touch that lingered just a second too long. Both caught their breaths, cheeks warming. Those quiet moments carried a promise, an invitation, even if neither was quite ready to voice it aloud just yet.

“You two look like you’re sharing secrets,” Ivan teased lightly from his perch.

Sua rolled her eyes but smiled in a way that was almost shy. “Maybe we are.”

Mizi’s laughter was soft, nervous but sincere. “It’s a good kind of secret.”

Across the room, Hyuna and Luka were sprawled comfortably on the floor, leaning back against the sofa legs with a small pile of “Greg the Muffin” plushies stacked between them. They had become something of an unofficial mascot—soft, squishy reminders of their wild, messy, and often hilarious journey through filming. The two exchanged whispered jokes, their laughter muted but infectious.

Hyuna nudged Luka gently. “You really think anyone will want these as souvenirs?”

Luka grinned, clutching a plush Greg like a prized possession. “Absolutely. They’re legend. Just like us.”

Hyuna shook her head, smiling warmly. “Only you could turn a muffin into a fandom icon.”

The room’s mood was easy and intimate, the noise of the city and the earlier chaos of their filming season reduced to a gentle countdown serving as a backdrop.

Till shifted closer to Ivan, who caught the movement from the corner of his eye. The warmth radiating from Till felt like sunlight breaking through clouds.

“So…” Till’s voice was low, steady, but tinged with nerves. “What if that coffee run you took me on... counted as our first date?”

Ivan’s grin broke out instantly, warm and unguarded. He reached down threading his fingers through Till’s like it was the most natural thing in the world. His pulse kicked up, but the gesture felt easy.

“Good… because I wanted it to be.”

“Then…” Till’s voice reminded Ivan of someone testing a bridge to make sure it would hold. “About that coffee you asked me to—what if we turned it into a proper date instead?”

Ivan’s grin softened into something open and a little breathless. “You mean… make it official?”

“I mean,” Till said, thumb absentmindedly rubbing the back of Ivan’s hand, “yes. No rush, just… something that’s ours.”

Ivan laughed, small and pleased. “That sounds perfect Till.”

They lingered in that quiet pause for a moment, letting the weight of the promise settle between them. Neither spoke, just fingers entwined and hearts thumping a little faster, both marveling at how simple and yet monumental it felt.

Till’s smile softened, his thumb brushing lightly over Ivan’s knuckles. “Then maybe... we think bigger. A movie? Or dinner?”

Ivan laughed under his breath, shaking his head affectionately. “Dinner sounds perfect.”His brow creased. “I still want to take you for coffee tomorrow though.”

“Okay,” Till said easily, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Coffee tomorrow morning. Dinner when?”

Ivan hesitated for a beat, then squeezed Till’s hand, almost shy despite the warmth in his voice. “Soon. As in—whenever you’ll let me. I don’t want to wait too long.”

“Is tomorrow too soon?” Till asked shyly, the words slipping out before he could second-guess them.

Ivan’s laugh was soft and breathless, relief mingling with joy. “Not even close. Tomorrow sounds perfect.”

“Even though you’re taking me for coffee in the morning?” Till added, half-teasing but still uncertain, as if daring to believe he could ask for more.

Ivan squeezed his hand again, grin tugging wider. “Coffee and dinner are two different categories. I’m greedy—I want both.”

Till’s head spun, warmth flooding through him until he felt almost giddy. His lips curved into a small, breathless smile. “Okay,” he breathed. “Tomorrow.”

Ivan’s eyes softened, and he leaned just slightly closer, the warmth in his voice matching the smile on his face. “Tomorrow,” he echoed, like a promise—and a little thrill passed between them at the sound of it.

They both stared at each other for a second, as if the words had to settle into the space between them. Then a small, incredulous laugh bubbled up from Till—half disbelief, half delight—and Ivan joined, the sound matching him perfectly.

They laughed again, softer this time, the sort of laugh that means: this is real, and also, we can’t quite believe we get to be this lucky.

The shared laughter between them filled the room like a gentle melody.

Meanwhile, across the room, Mizi took a deep breath and shifted to face Sua, voice quieter now, braver.

“When you’re ready...” Mizi said, “I’m here.”

Sua’s eyes softened, the tension in her shoulders easing. She reached out, squeezing Mizi’s hand gently.

“Soon,” she whispered.

Neither spoke more, but the moment carried the weight of a thousand words. It was a promise of patience, of understanding, of a future that was still theirs to claim.

Hyuna watched the two with a knowing smile before turning her attention back to Luka, who was already planning mischief in his usual way.

“Ready for round two of our mayhem?” she teased.

Luka’s eyes gleamed with excitement. “Always. But maybe we keep it quiet this time.”

Hyuna shook her head with mock sternness, but her eyes twinkled. “Quiet. Sure.”

The evening stretched on, a delicate mix of warmth and laughter, quiet confessions and playful plans. The cast of Alien Stage—no longer just colleagues but a makeshift family—sat together, watching the countdown tick steadily closer, savoring this new chapter.

Ivan and Till stayed close, fingers entwined as they leaned into each other’s presence. The first real date was no longer just an idea—it was a promise hanging warmly in the air.
Mizi and Sua exchanged shy glances and soft smiles, the distance between them closing with every shared look.

Hyuna and Luka plotted their next playful stunt, their laughter blending perfectly with the peaceful hum of friendship.

And Greg the Muffin, nestled safely in the center of the table, sat as a symbol of all they’d endured—chaos, laughter, heartache, and hope.

The final curtain had fallen on their season, but the first acts of their new beginnings were just beginning to play.

As the friends settled deeper into the comfortable hum of Ivan’s apartment, the soft glow from phones began to flicker around the room. One by one, their screens lit up with notifications—likes, comments, shares—the digital echo of their season premiere rippling across the internet.

Ivan was the first to glance at his phone, a slow smile spreading across his face. The Alien Stage Twitter hashtag was trending, fans flooding the timeline with glowing praise, fan art, and of course, endless memes about Greg the Muffin.

[Tweet by @AlienStageFan101]: “Did you SEE Greg stealing the spotlight? He’s the real MVP! #SaveGreg 🍰👽✨”

[Tweet by @CosmicMuffin]: “Till and Luka’s dance scene gave me chills — can we get an entire episode dedicated to those two? #BlinkGoneForever”

Ivan tapped out a quick retweet, adding,
[Tweet by @IvanOfficial]: “Our favorite muffin appreciates the love. #GregLivesOn”

Till’s phone buzzed, and he grinned, scrolling through the live chat from the premiere watch party streams.

[Chat] Viewer123: “Till’s character breaking my heart on stage 💔 #AlienStageFinale”

[Chat] SpaceCadet: “Can someone explain the tension between Ivan and Till? Because I’m HERE for it 🔥 #IvanTill”

Till caught Ivan’s eye and raised his phone with a smirk.

“I think we’re famous,” he whispered.

Meanwhile, Mizi and Sua exchanged amused glances over their phones, sharing screenshots of fan messages and reaction videos that captured their almost-confession moment perfectly.

[Tweet by @MiziSuaShippers]: “THEY’RE SO CUTE I CAN’T EVEN—”
accompanied by a gif of wide-eyed cartoon characters.

Sua giggled, “Looks like the fans ship us almost as hard as Ivan and Till.”

Mizi turned a pleasant pink color at that and immediately leaned over to see the tweet.

Hyuna, scrolling through a fan art page dedicated to Greg, nudged Luka. “Look, your muffin is getting more fan art than you.”

Luka chuckled, “Hey, if the muffin’s the star, I’m just the supporting cast.”

They both laughed, the soft warmth of the room mirrored in the virtual world beyond.

As the night deepened, their phones buzzed with more notifications — live tweets from cast members, playful banter, heartfelt thanks to fans, and promises of behind-the-scenes content soon to come.

Ivan posted a final message before setting his phone down:
[Tweet by @IvanOfficial]: “Tonight was just the beginning. Thank you all for being part of this journey — on screen, off screen, and in every crazy moment in between. Here’s to what’s next. #AlienStage #Family”

Till smiled, resting his head briefly against Ivan’s shoulder. The future felt wide open, full of hope, laughter, and maybe, just maybe, a little more love.

And somewhere in the digital ether, Greg the Muffin smiled too—the sweetest mascot anyone could ask for.

Chapter Text

The final day of filming had wrapped hours ago, but the cast of Alien Stage was nowhere near ready to call it quits. The wrap party was already in full chaotic swing at a downtown loft, the kind of place with exposed brick walls, string lights hanging haphazardly, and enough space for a makeshift dance floor and karaoke setup.

Ivan leaned against the balcony railing, the cool night air brushing past him, coffee long forgotten in his hand. Below, the party buzzed with energy—music blasting, laughter echoing, and the unmistakable hum of excitement that came from completing something big.

Inside, Till was showing off his surprisingly agile dance moves, halfway through an energetic spin that drew cheers and whistles from the crowd. Luka clapped enthusiastically nearby, clearly impressed by Till’s effortless rhythm. The sight stirred something warm in Ivan’s chest, a mix of admiration and a prickling sense of something unresolved.

Ivan pushed off the railing and stepped back inside, weaving his way through the crowd. The noise and laughter felt both electric and overwhelming, but his gaze locked onto Till, who had just caught his eye and smiled—a smile that made Ivan’s pulse quicken.

Minutes later, the party was in full swing, and the confetti cannon that Luka insisted on firing exploded in a burst of glitter, sending the room into gleeful chaos.

Ivan found himself beside Till again as they hurried onto the balcony to escape the glitter rain, the cool night air sharp against their flushed faces.

Till’s expression was unreadable, but Ivan could see the tension flicker behind his eyes.

“You okay?” Ivan asked quietly.

Till looked at him, then away toward the street below, where castmates and crew were entering and exiting as they pleased.

“Yeah,” Till said, voice low. “It’s just... a lot.”
Ivan swallowed hard, feeling the weight of the moment settle between them. He hesitated, then spoke with a clarity that surprised even himself.

“Till, I’ve been meaning to say this for a while—long before the finale, the scripts, everything. I’m not just acting when it comes to you. I... I’m in love with you.”

Till’s eyes widened, then softened, a small, vulnerable smile curving his lips.

“Ivan,” he breathed, stepping a fraction closer. “I’ve known. Maybe longer than you think.”

The noise of the party faded to a distant hum as their gazes locked, the night around them narrowing to just the two of them.
Ivan’s heart pounded as he reached out, his fingers brushing against Till’s hand—a simple touch charged with meaning.

Till didn’t pull away. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, eyes searching Ivan’s.

“I want this,” Till said softly. “I want us.”

Ivan’s smile was both relieved and radiant.
“Then let’s start—right here, right now.”

The space between them closed until their lips met in a gentle, tentative kiss, sweet and full of promise. It wasn’t rushed or desperate, but a quiet affirmation of something real and long-awaited.

When they finally parted, breath mingling in the cool air, Ivan chuckled softly.

“So, coffee date... again?”

Till laughed, eyes sparkling. “Definitely. And maybe something a little longer this time.”

———

The party pulsed with energy—karaoke battles erupting, laughter rolling over the music, and the occasional crash or spill reminding everyone that control was optional tonight. Amid the chaos, Mizi and Sua found themselves pushed toward the quieter side of the room, near a window overlooking the city lights.

Mizi fiddled nervously with the edge of a napkin, stealing glances at Sua, whose usual confident demeanor was softened by the dim lighting and the vulnerability of the moment.

“Sua,” Mizi began, voice barely above the music, “there’s something I’ve been meaning to say... but every time I try, the words just get stuck.”

Sua’s eyes met hers, a flicker of understanding shining through. “I know what you mean,” she admitted softly. “It’s like... the more I want to say it, the harder it gets.”

Mizi took a breath, her heart hammering. “I don’t want to hide it anymore. I think about you all the time. More than just friends.”

Sua’s breath caught, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. She reached out, brushing a stray hair from Mizi’s face, her touch gentle, tentative. “Me too.”

Before either could say more, a burst of laughter from across the room reminded them of the world waiting outside their bubble. They shared a small, hopeful smile, silently promising to find the right moment soon.

———

Across the room near the drink table, Hyuna was carefully monitoring Luka, who was nibbling absentmindedly on a tiny sandwich, barely touching it.

“You’ve barely eaten tonight,” Hyuna said softly, concern edging her voice.

Luka shrugged, managing a small smile. “I’m okay. Just... not very hungry.”

Hyuna frowned, stepping closer. “You’ve got to take care of yourself, you know. We need you at full strength.”

Luka’s smile softened, touched by her care. “I know. Thanks, Hyuna.”

For a moment, the noisy party faded away as they stood side by side, the warmth between them grounding amidst the whirlwind.

Hyuna nudged him gently. “Come on, let’s find you a real meal. No excuses.”

Luka chuckled, nodding. “Deal.”

As they walked toward the kitchen, a quiet understanding passed between them—friendship, worry, and something long lasting.

———

Back in the main room, the party raged on, full of laughter and moments that would become stories they’d tell for years.

The music pumped loud enough to shake the floorboards as the cast danced, joked, and celebrated the end of filming. The loft was a whirlwind of vibrant energy—people crowding around the karaoke mic, others huddled in corners sharing stories, and a steady stream of snacks and drinks flowing from the kitchen.

Around the three hour mark, near the makeshift snack table, Greg the Muffin made an appearance, sitting proudly atop a paper napkin throne, a little flag with “Crew Mascot” written in shaky handwriting poking out from his sugary crown. The muffin had become a legend on set—appearing mysteriously in shots, inspiring fan art, and generating a flood of “Save Greg!” messages in chats whenever anyone posted.

Luka, eyes twinkling with mischief, crept up to Greg with a conspiratorial grin. Hyuna caught sight of him and narrowed her eyes.
“Luka,” she warned, her voice low but firm, “don’t even think about it.”

Luka just grinned wider. “Come on, what’s a party without a little fun?”

Before Hyuna could protest further, Luka carefully lifted Greg, balancing him on the edge of a spoon like a delicate artifact.

He dramatically pretended to kidnap Greg, holding him high like a trophy as he wove through the crowd, making exaggerated “evil villain” faces. The cast burst into laughter, chasing after him.

Hyuna chased too, half amused, half exasperated. “Luka! Put him down before you get us kicked out!”

Finally cornered near the couch, Luka carefully returned Greg to his napkin throne, bowing with a flourish.

“Long live Greg!” he declared.

The cast and crew cheered in agreement.

———

Later, as the night wore on and the party grew rowdier, Luka convinced Hyuna to join a spontaneous dance-off. His lanky frame moved with surprising grace, twisting and spinning with flair. Hyuna laughed, matching his steps with playful determination.

Ivan and Till watched nearby, caught between amusement and awe as Luka’s carefree energy lit up the room.

Just as Luka pulled off a daring spin, his foot caught on a stray cable, sending him stumbling into a tower of empty cups. The crash drew gasps and then roars of laughter from everyone.

Hyuna rushed to help, steadying him with a grin. “You really know how to make an entrance.”

Luka shrugged sheepishly. “What can I say? Signature move.”

As the party wound down, Greg remained a steadfast presence—sometimes carefully guarded, sometimes accidentally knocked askew—always the symbol of the wild, wonderful chaos that had become their shared journey.

The music was still pounding through the wrap party venue, but the cast’s corner had grown quieter as the night wore on. Balloons sagged, confetti stuck to shoes and hair, and Greg the Muffin sat proudly in the center of their table, wearing a paper crown someone had made from a napkin.

Ivan leaned against the balcony railing, a cool breeze brushing his face. Inside, Till was laughing with Mizi over some disastrous karaoke video Hyuna had recorded. Luka was nowhere to be seen—until he reappeared from the kitchen carrying an entire tray of cupcakes, frosting smudged at the corner of his mouth.

“Don’t ask,” Luka said with a mock-serious tone, setting them down. “But we now have a lifetime ban from the catering fridge.”

Hyuna groaned, but she was smiling as she brushed crumbs off his sleeve.

By the time the lights started to dim and the staff began hinting at closing time, they’d settled into a mellow sort of giddiness. Uncomfortable dress shoes were traded for sneakers, half-empty drinks were abandoned in favor of water bottles, and their conversations had shifted from wild party talk to nostalgic recollections of their first days on set.

Eventually, they spilled out into the cool night air together, their laughter quieter now, the streets slick from a light rain. Taxis and Ubers pulled up one by one, but before they split off for the night, Ivan cleared his throat.

“Coffee tomorrow? Just us. The originals.”

No one argued.

The city lights reflected in puddles as they went their separate ways, the memory of the party still buzzing faintly in their ears.

———

The early morning sun filtered softly through the windows of a quiet downtown café, its gentle light casting golden patterns across the worn wooden tables. The wild energy of the wrap party had faded into a sweet, comfortable calm as the original cast—Ivan, Till, Mizi, Sua, Hyuna, and Luka—gathered around a corner booth, nursing steaming cups of coffee and sharing tired smiles.

The hum of quiet conversation and clinking mugs created a cozy backdrop, a stark contrast to the chaos of the night before.

Ivan stretched, finally allowing himself to relax. “I still can’t believe it’s over,” he said, voice low but filled with something like awe.

Till nodded, his fingers wrapped around his cup. “It’s weird. Feels like the end of something big—and the start of who knows what.”

Mizi glanced at Sua, sharing a shy smile. “I think it’s the start of a lot of things,” she said quietly.

Sua reached over, squeezing Mizi’s hand gently. “Yeah. Like real friendships.”

Across the table, Luka was slowly working his way through a flaky croissant, tearing off small pieces and eating them between sips of coffee. No one mentioned it, but each of them noticed, their glances softening just slightly. There was no teasing, no spotlight on him—just an unspoken, collective relief that hung warmly in the air.

Some time later, Ivan noticed Luka scrolling through his phone under the table, fingers hovering over the screen with that familiar mischievous glint in his eyes. Ivan caught the smirk forming before Luka hit post, suspicion creeping in.

“Wait—are you seriously about to post that?” Ivan asked quietly, leaning over slightly.

Luka’s grin widened and he whispered back. “Oh, absolutely. It’s perfect. Watch the chaos unfold.” He tapped the screen decisively, sending a harmless but hilariously provocative tweet into the void, one he knew would get a flurry of confused replies and laughing emojis.

Mizi nudged Hyuna with an exaggerated whisper, “He looks suspiciously calm — that’s the ‘before’ picture, someone save it for evidence.”

Hyuna shook her head, laughing despite herself. “Just wait—he still knows how to stir the pot when he wants.”

Luka leaned back, satisfied, eyes sparkling with amusement. “Oh, you know me. Chaos comes naturally.”

A warm chuckle rippled around the table, easy and unforced, carrying the weight of shared memories, inside jokes, and the comfort of friends who had seen each other through both silly and serious moments.

The conversation drifted, touching on favorite scenes, funny on-set moments, and plans for the future. Greg the Muffin made a brief appearance when Hyuna pulled out a small, plush muffin keychain—an unofficial friendship souvenir that had somehow become their mascot.

Till held it up, pretending to bow. “To Greg—the real star of the season.”

Ivan chuckled. “Long live Greg.”

The moment stretched, peaceful and unhurried, the six friends savoring the calm after the storm.

As the café filled with the gentle bustle of morning patrons, the cast lingered, reluctant to let go but ready to face whatever came next—together.