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Chapter Text

The morning sunlight filtering through the tinted glass of Midas Entertainment looked deceptively warm. Inside, however, everything remained the same corporate gray that greeted Kim Geonwoo every day: polished concrete floors, silent LED lights, the faint smell of disinfectant mixed with burnt coffee, and employees in black clothing moving like they were performing in a minimalistic contemporary dance performance no one asked for.

It was Monday.

Which meant hell.

Geonwoo pulled down the black cap on his head and walked through the lobby, bowing automatically at the staff he recognized. He kept his expression neutral, just enough to look professionally polite, but not so warm that anyone would think he was in the mood for conversation.

He wasn’t. He rarely was.

He had been with Midas Entertainment for four years now. Long enough that the employees treated him with familiarity, but not long enough for anyone to mistake him for a superstar. His dramas did well, his roles were praised, and he’d won a newcomer award once… but Geonwoo had never been marketed as an idol-like pretty face or a variety-show darling.

He was the guy with the sharp jawline, the intense eyes, and a voice that always sounded like he’d spent the night arguing with someone.

And the public loved that.

His brand was simple:

Not gentle. Not cute. Not sweet.

Just raw, simmering energy that directors kept calling “masculine edge” or “the dark horse charm.”

His manager, Na Hyeri, met him at the elevator with a tablet hugged to her chest like a fragile infant.

“Morning,” she said. “You look… awake.”

“That’s generous,” he muttered.

“You didn’t sleep, did you?”

“Define sleep.”

“More than three hours.”

“…Then no,” he said, eyes dry.

She sighed the sigh of a woman who had accepted her tragic fate in life. “At least tell me you ate breakfast.”

“I had coffee.”

“That’s not—”

“Black coffee with sugar,” he added, as though that counted.

Hyeri closed her eyes. “You’re impossible.”

He smirked slightly. “That’s what makes me marketable.”

The elevator doors slid open, and they entered the 12th floor: a long corridor lined with meeting rooms, script discussion halls, and the agency cafeteria. Posters of actors affiliated with Midas decorated the walls, some older, some painfully youthful. Geonwoo’s face appeared twice, both times wearing expressions that looked like he was about to punch a wall.

He disliked those photos.

But fans loved them, so they stayed.

Hyeri led him toward the conference room. “We have a brief schedule today,” she explained. “A magazine concept meeting at eleven, a casual lunch shoot at one… and one surprise.”

He gave her a skeptical look. “Surprise?”

She nodded. “A casting announcement is dropping today. A new workplace BL drama.”

He paused mid-step.

“…BL?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re telling me now?”

“Yes.” She kept walking.

“I have a reputation, Hyeri.”

“Exactly, which is why they want you.”

“That doesn’t sound like a compliment.”

She sighed. “Look. I wasn’t going to tell you until the official announcement, but Director Yoo specifically asked if you’d be interested in auditioning. He said you’re his first pick for the ‘unfriendly, prickly office worker role.’ The one who looks like he would file paperwork angrily.”

He stopped to stare at her.

Then looked away.

“…Okay, that actually does sound like me.”

“Right?”

“What’s the catch?”

“No catch. Just … it’s a triple-lead drama. Three leads with equal narrative weight.”

“A love triangle?”

“More like love line entanglement,” she said. “Two colleagues into the same guy.”

“Which one is the one who starts fights over staplers?”

“You.”

He snorted. “Of course.”

Hyeri gently nudged him to keep moving. “Anyway, the agency representing the production already started receiving audition tapes. Since your break is still ongoing and you haven’t picked a script for your comeback project, I thought… maybe this is a good step.”

Geonwoo clicked his tongue, thinking.

BL was no longer taboo in the industry, plenty of actors had taken on such roles, and many gained huge popularity because of it.

But still… his image was built on tension. Sharp edges. Emotionally constipated characters who learned how to love by episode eight.

It fit ridiculously well.

“Fine,” he finally said. “I’ll consider.”

“Good,” Hyeri said, relieved. “Because I already told them you’d audition this afternoon.”

He blinked.

“…What?”

“Director Yoo insisted. He wants in-person chemistry tests.”

“Hyeri—”

“It’s not negotiable. And you need a new project. You’ve been bored out of your mind these past few weeks.”

He hated that she was right.

By ten a.m., the agency’s internal chat exploded with excitement.

Hyeri walked into the meeting room holding her tablet, then showed him the trending posts.

#WorkplaceBLDrama

#TripleMainLead

#MysteryCasting

#UnfriendlyOfficeGuyWhoWillRuinYourLife

The last tag made Geonwoo raise an eyebrow.

“Is that the actual tag?”

“Yes. The marketing team is insane.”

He scrolled through the trending article:

A new workplace BL romance, titled “Between Cubicles”, would begin production in two months. Three leads. One office. Two colleagues competing for affection. Corporate politics meets emotional chaos, wrapped in witty banter.

It was ridiculous.

But the script sample Hyeri emailed to him was good, really good.

He found himself reading the first scene, lips curling slightly as he read the role description for the character he’d audition for:

Character: Yoon Seohwa

Age: 26

Position: Senior Analyst

Personality: Unfriendly. Blunt. The embodiment of “I don’t care.”

Secretly very soft but refuses to admit it.

Unexpectedly vulnerable when it comes to love.

Geonwoo muttered, “…Hyeri, why does he sound like me?”

“Because that’s why they want you.”

“So they want me to be myself.”

“Pretty much.”

He closed the sample script.

And despite the reluctance he tried to maintain, a spark of excitement slipped through.

Audition at four.

Chemistry test afterward.

He had no idea who the other main leads were.

Everything was kept confidential.

The audition building wasn’t far, just a fifteen-minute drive to a smaller agency known for producing indie films and experimental content.

The front desk recognized him and escorted him to a private waiting room.

The corridors buzzed with quiet chaos.

Young actors rehearsed lines, some pacing, some whispering, some vibrating with the type of nervous energy Geonwoo hadn’t felt since his rookie days. He felt oddly out of place among them, older, calmer, more jaded.

Hyeri stood beside him, scanning the area. “I heard the center main lead is a very big name,” she whispered. “But they’re not announcing who yet.”

“Someone from our agency?”

“No. External.”

He shrugged.

The casting assistant finally came out. “Kim Geonwoo-ssi? Please follow me for the first round.”

He removed his cap, tucked it into his pocket, rolled his shoulders once.

Mask on. Focus sharp.

Professional mode activated.

He entered a room with a black background, two cameras, and three judges behind a long table.

Director Yoo smiled. “Geonwoo-ssi. Glad you came.”

“Thank you for having me,” Geonwoo replied politely, bowing.

They asked simple questions at first, his interpretation of Seohwa, how he expressed quiet vulnerability, how he managed emotional scenes.

Then came the acting segment.

Geonwoo slipped easily into the character, cold at first, then cracking slightly at the edges when the script demanded softness.

Director Yoo whispered something to the screenwriter.

The screenwriter nodded vigorously.

When the scene ended, the director leaned forward.

“…As expected. You fit the role.”

Geonwoo’s jaw tightened with barely contained satisfaction.

“We’d like you to move to the chemistry test next,” the casting assistant said. “Please wait outside for a moment.”

Hyeri looked thrilled. “You nailed it.”

He didn’t respond, but his fingers drummed lightly on his thigh, his version of showing excitement.

They escorted him into another room.

This one was dimmer, stage-like.
Two chairs in the center.
A black curtain dividing the space.
A blindfold in the assistant’s hand.

“Blindfold?” Geonwoo asked.

“The director wants unbiased chemistry testing,” the assistant explained. “You and the other actor won’t see each other until the last second. You’ll answer questions to check compatibility.”

The other actor…
The one who would play the “center main lead.”
The one the entire plot revolved around.

Geonwoo had no idea who it was.

“Please take a seat,” the assistant instructed.

He allowed them to tie the blindfold over his eyes.

Soft fabric. No vision.

His world narrowed to sound and breathing.

He heard someone else exhale softly on the other side.

Not too far.

Not too close.

The chair sponge dipped lightly, someone shifting their weight, maybe resting an arm on the armrest.

He couldn’t identify the voice, but he could sense presence.

The staff asked questions.

“First question: What is your character’s first impression of the center lead?”

Geonwoo replied smoothly, “Annoying. Too bright. Someone who talks too much.”

From behind the curtain, the other actor laughed quietly, and replied at the same time:

“He seems unapproachable. Irritatingly attractive.”

Geonwoo’s breath hitched.

Their answers…

Matched perfectly in tone.

Second question.

“What do you think will change about your character because of the center lead?”

Geonwoo answered, “He’ll soften, unwillingly.”

The other actor murmured, “…He’ll learn to trust again.”

Again, compatible.

And again.
And again.

With each synchronized answer, a strange familiarity pricked under Geonwoo’s skin.

Like he knew this voice.
This cadence.
This breathing.

A faint unease curled in his stomach.

“Now,” the staff said, “we will rotate Geonwoo-ssi slightly, to face the curtain.”

Hands gently turned his chair.

He felt the other actor move as well.

Their chairs now pointed toward each other, only a thin fabric separating them.

“On the count of three,” the assistant said, “we will remove the curtain.”

He heard the fabric sliding.
He felt his heartbeat grow uncomfortably loud.

“Three.”

“Two.”

“One.”

The curtain dropped.

Light flooded through his blindfold as staff quickly untied it.

The world came into focus.

Geonwoo blinked once.

Twice.

And froze.

Because sitting in the chair across from him, hair slightly longer, eyes sharper, posture infuriatingly relaxed,
was the one person he never expected to see again in this lifetime.

Lee Sangwon.

Geonwoo’s ex.

His first love.

His worst heartbreak.

His biggest mistake.

And the man he had spent the last two years avoiding like a survival instinct.

Sangwon’s lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile.

“Long time no see, Geonwoo.”

Geonwoo felt his pulse explode.

This,
This had to be a joke.

But it wasn’t.
The room was real.
The production team was real.
The chemistry test was real.

And Lee Sangwon,
his ex, his ghost, his unresolved disaster,
was sitting directly in front of him.

Playing the center lead.
His romantic partner.
His storyline’s emotional core.
The man his character was supposed to fall for.

Again.

Geonwoo didn’t breathe.

Sangwon leaned back casually, gaze burning through him like he’d waited years for this moment.

“Well…” Sangwon said softly.

“Looks like we’re coworkers again.”

Geonwoo swallowed hard, jaw clenching.

This was supposed to be just an audition.

But now?

This was war.

Chapter Text

For three whole seconds, no one breathed.

The curtain didn’t just fall,

it split his world open.

Lee Sangwon sat across from him, legs crossed loosely, one hand on his knee, posture casual in the way only someone absolutely confident in their effect could pull off.

His hair was darker than Geonwoo remembered. His skin looked unfairly luminous under the studio lights. 

And his eyes,

those damn eyes,

still held that half-lidded, knowing look that had once made Geonwoo forget how to speak.

Now they made him forget how to breathe.

“Wow,” Sangwon said with a low whistle. “They really didn’t tell you, huh?”

His voice.

That tone.

Smooth, unhurried, slightly amused, as if everything in the world was a private joke meant only for him.

The staff looked between them, confused, sensing tension but not sure if it was bad or good.

Geonwoo finally found his voice.

“…What the hell are you doing here?” he asked, far too quietly.

Sangwon smiled wider, leaning back like he was lounging at home.

“Being cast,” he said. “Same as you.”

Of all the actors in the country,
all the men perfectly capable of playing a bright, charismatic center lead,

why him?

Geonwoo clenched his jaw, every muscle tight.

Director Yoo cleared his throat. “Ah… do you two know each other?”

Sangwon didn’t hesitate.
“We used to date,” he answered cheerfully.

Geonwoo snapped his head toward him.“What—?”

“Oh, was that not public knowledge?” Sangwon asked, feigning innocence.

The director’s eyes widened.
The screenwriter dropped her pen.

Hyeri, standing at the doorway, covered her mouth like she had witnessed a murder.

The casting assistant whispered, “Oh my god.”

The sound operator whispered, “This is so awkward.”

And Geonwoo wanted to evaporate.

He forced himself upright, spine stiff. “We used to date,” he said sharply. “Past tense.”

Sangwon hummed. “Obviously.”

The word lingered between them, warm, heavy, taunting.

Obviously.

As if the past was an inside joke they both still belonged to.

Director Yoo rubbed his temples but looked weirdly excited. “Well, this is… unexpected. But not necessarily bad. If you two are comfortable, we’d still like to run the chemistry scene.”

“Comfortable?” Geonwoo repeated mechanically.

Sangwon propped his elbow on the chair, chin in hand. “I’m fine with it.”

Of course he was.
Sangwon was always fine.

Even when he was the reason Geonwoo couldn’t sleep for months.

Geonwoo swallowed down the bitterness.

He was a professional.
He could handle this.
He had to.

“…Fine,” he said.

“Great!” Director Yoo clapped, relieved. “The scene is simple. Seohwa”—he nodded at Geonwoo, “has just found out that Jisung”—he gestured to Sangwon,“was chosen for a project they both wanted. You’re annoyed. He’s trying to lighten the mood.”

Sangwon’s lips twitched. “So, basically us.”

“Shut up,” Geonwoo muttered.

The camera operator stifled a laugh.

“Take your positions,” the director said.

They didn’t need to move; they were already facing each other.

The moment the slate clapped, Sangwon slipped seamlessly into character, bright, charming, annoyingly magnetic.

“Seohwa-ssi,” Sangwon said in a soft, coaxing tone, “you’re not mad at me, are you?”

His voice had that gentle warmth Geonwoo had once drowned in. The kind that made you feel chosen. The kind that made you stupid.

Geonwoo’s chest tightened involuntarily, but he forced Seohwa’s coldness over it.

“Why would I be mad?” he replied, tone flat, eyes sharp. “Your success has nothing to do with me.”

Sangwon leaned forward, smile subtle but devastating. “That’s not what your face says.”

“My face is neutral.”

“Your face,” Sangwon murmured, “is pouting.”

Some staff members giggled.

Geonwoo felt heat rise to his ears. “I don’t pout.”

“You do,” Sangwon said. “You always have.”

That wasn’t in the script.

That was personal.

Geonwoo’s breath hitched, because Sangwon said it the same way he used to say it while poking his cheek in bed.

Director Yoo whispered excitedly to the scriptwriter, “This is gold.”

The tension thickened, electric.

Sangwon’s eyes softened, and for a moment,
just a heartbeat,
he looked at Geonwoo with something real.

Not the character.

Not the performance.

Him.

The man who once knew every version of Geonwoo.

“You always get quiet when you’re hurt,” Sangwon said, voice low.

Geonwoo’s pulse jumped.

The director lifted a hand, about to cut,
but Sangwon wasn’t done.

“You still do,” he added.

This wasn’t acting.
And everyone in the room knew it.

Geonwoo’s heart hammered.
His throat tightened.
His hands curled into fists.

He wanted to say something sharp, something cold, something that would sever the thread tying them back together,

But the truth was, he couldn’t speak.

Not because of the scene.

Not because of the script.

Because Sangwon looking at him like that,
with familiarity,
and warmth,
and challenge,
and history,
made every wall he had built tremble.

The director finally cut in.

“Cut!” he said, exhilarated. “Incredible. Perfect. Electric. That was real chemistry.”

Too real.

Hyeri whispered from the side, “Oh no. Oh no. Oh no.”

The production staff whispered, “They’re real exes? This drama is going to kill the internet.”

Geonwoo dragged in a slow breath.

Sangwon smiled lazily, tilting his head.

“So,” he said softly.

“Ready to work together again?”

Geonwoo met his eyes, fire and ice colliding in his chest.

“I’m ready,” he said.

“But don’t get the wrong idea.”

“Oh?” Sangwon’s brows lifted. “And what idea is that?”

“That this changes anything.”

Sangwon leaned in just a fraction, enough to make Geonwoo’s throat go dry.

“I disagree,” he murmured.

And with that,
the audition was over.

But the real trouble was only beginning.

The email arrived at 9:12 a.m. the next morning.

Geonwoo was sitting in his agency’s small lounge, hoodie up, hair damp from a rushed shower, when Hyeri nearly kicked the door open.

“YOU GOT IT!” she shouted.

He blinked slowly. “…The role?”

“All. Three. Leads. Announced.” She shoved her tablet at him. “You. Sangwon. And, get this… Kim Junseo.”

Geonwoo froze.

Kim Junseo?

That Junseo?

The calm, polite, effortless actor who had basically redefined the BL genre with his last hit?

The guy who made kissing scenes look like a doctoral degree?

The one fans always described as “soft-spoken but devastating”?

The tablet screen confirmed it:

CASTING ANNOUNCEMENT — Workplace Romance BL “Between Cubicles”

Starring:

Lee Sangwon as Seo Jisung — “the heart of the office”

Kim Junseo as Han Mingeun — “the composed, perfect colleague with a hidden bite”

Kim Geonwoo as Yoon Seohwa — “the troublemaking transfer employee who stirs everything up”

Hyeri squealed. “This is huge, Geonwoo. This is… this is career-defining! This is profile-on-bus-stops level!”

He continued staring.

Sangwon.
And Kim Junseo.

In a love-triangle BL.

Playing colleagues.

Working beside each other every day.

Junseo’s desk positioned directly in front of Sangwon’s in the office set, meaning their characters would constantly be within intimate framing, leaning across desks, sharing glances, whispering work gossip.

And Geonwoo would be the employee transferred from another branch of the same company…

aka the outsider walking into their dynamic.

Perfect.
Absolutely perfect.

A spike of irritation shot through his chest.

“Fantastic casting,” Hyeri added, oblivious to his internal crisis. “And the director said the chemistry between you and Sangwon was so good it was borderline dangerous.”

Geonwoo groaned. “This is going to be a nightmare.”

Hyeri patted his shoulder. “A lucrative nightmare.”

He was heading to the elevator when he heard the unmistakable voice behind him.

“Well,” Sangwon said. “Good morning, coworker.”

Geonwoo shut his eyes briefly. “…Why are you here?”

“This building represents the production team, too.” Sangwon stepped in beside him, hands in pockets, eyes gleaming. “But don’t worry. I didn’t follow you.”

The elevator doors opened with brutal timing.

They stepped inside.

Alone.

Sangwon casually pressed the close-door button. Too casually.

“I read the announcement,” he said. “Junseo will be playing the calm, dependable rival. He’s good.”

“I know,” Geonwoo grunted.

“He’s also known for… very realistic kissing scenes.”

Geonwoo shot him a sharp look. “And?”

“And nothing.” Sangwon shrugged, smiling like a devil in an expensive sweater. “Just letting you know.”

The elevator hummed downward.
Tension thickened.

“You really don’t have to worry,” Sangwon added with a soft tilt of his head.

“I’m not worried.”

“Mm.” His smile widened. “Right.”

The doors opened.
Geonwoo stormed out.

He wasn’t worried.

He wasn’t jealous.

He wasn’t anything.

(He absolutely was.)

The conference room buzzed with quiet anticipation when Geonwoo arrived.

Producers, writers, stylists, and staff filled the space. The long table was covered with bound scripts, color-coded tabs, coffee cups, and nervous actors flipping through pages.

At the far end of the table sat Kim Junseo.

He looked even more ethereal in person, calm eyes, soft features, hair neat, posture perfect.

He stood when he saw Geonwoo approach.

“Ah, sunbaenim,” Junseo said with a polite bow. “It’s an honor to work with you.”

Sunbaenim?

Geonwoo blinked. “I’m not older than you.”

“You debuted earlier.” Junseo’s smile was serene. “So you are.”

Geonwoo scratched his cheek awkwardly. “Uh… thanks.”

Junseo sat again, flipping through the script. “Your audition performance was impressive. I admire your acting style.”

The compliment was so smooth and genuine that Geonwoo didn’t know what to do with his hands.

Then Sangwon arrived.

He slid into his seat directly beside Junseo, offering him a warm smile.

“Morning, Mingeun-ssi,” Sangwon greeted him, using Junseo’s role name as a tease.

Junseo smiled back, amused. “Good morning, Jisung-ssi.”

They exchanged a few casual lines of dialogue, one bright, the other calm.

It already looked perfect on camera.
Perfect chemistry.
Effortless synergy.

Geonwoo’s left eyebrow twitched.

He sat across the table, flipping open his script with exaggerated focus.

He could feel Sangwon’s gaze on him like a warm hand at his neck.

The director clapped. “Let’s begin!”

The read-through started lightheartedly. Everyone matched character energies easily.

Junseo’s voice for Han Mingeun was calm, subtle, and steady as a heartbeat.

Sangwon’s Jisung was bright, warm, effortlessly charming.

And Geonwoo’s Seohwa came out sharp, curt, and incisively emotional beneath the surface.

The triangle dynamics crackled immediately.

Script excerpt (read-through):

Mingeun: “You’re the new transfer, right? I’m Han Mingeun. If you need help, just ask.”

Seohwa (Geonwoo): “…I don’t need help.”

Jisung (Sangwon): “Don’t mind him, he always acts like that. He’s actually nicer once you get past the outer shell.”

(Sangwon suppressed a smile while saying this, stealing a glance at Geonwoo.)

Seohwa: “…Stop talking like you know me.”

Jisung: “Do I not?”

(Sangwon’s voice dipped, too soft, too real.)

The room hummed at the tension.

Junseo, without missing a beat:

Mingeun: “Sounds like there’s history. Should I be worried?”

He delivered it with perfect calm amusement, like Mingeun already saw through them.

Geonwoo’s jaw tightened. Sangwon’s lips curved.

Everyone noticed.

Everyone whispered.

Everyone sensed the crackling undercurrent that wasn’t in the script but made the story ten times richer.

The director nearly vibrated with excitement. “This is AMAZING. Incredible. Organic tension.”

Geonwoo wanted to bury himself under the table.

As the room emptied, Junseo approached Geonwoo.

“Sunbaenim,” he said gently, “would you like to rehearse later? Our characters share many scenes. I think practicing early could help.”

Geonwoo nodded. “Sure. That’s fine.”

Junseo smiled, small, neat, devastating. “Great. I’ll message you.”

Then he walked off, returning to pick up his coat.

Behind him, Sangwon appeared like a shadow.

“You two seem to be getting along,” Sangwon said.

Geonwoo gave him a look. “It’s called professionalism.”

“Ah.” Sangwon clicked his tongue softly. “I remember when you acted like that with me.”

“That was different.”

“How?”

“Because,” he said, stepping past him, “I actually liked you then.”

Sangwon stopped.

His expression stiffened just one second, barely visible.

But Geonwoo saw it.

He kept walking.

Then,

“Geonwoo.”

Sangwon’s voice was low. Too low.

Geonwoo paused.

Sangwon moved closer, expression unreadable. “If you think I’ll just sit back and watch Junseo flirt with you on set…”

Geonwoo blinked. “…Flirt? With me?”

“Yes,” Sangwon said without hesitation. “He was flirting.”

“He wasn’t—”

“You’re oblivious,” Sangwon said. “Some things never change.”

Geonwoo scoffed. “Maybe you’re projecting.”

“Oh?” Sangwon stepped closer, expression dangerous. “Onto who?”

“Onto whoever you want to send mixed signals to,” Geonwoo snapped.

Silence.

Sangwon’s eyes darkened, slowly, intently, like he’d just confirmed something he suspected.

“I see,” Sangwon murmured. “So you are bothered.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I said I’m not.”

“Then why,” Sangwon asked, leaning close enough for his breath to graze Geonwoo’s cheek,

“are you jealous?”

Geonwoo’s breath stopped.
He didn’t answer.

He couldn’t.

Junseo called from across the room, “Lee Sangwon, I’ll head out first. See you tomorrow!”

Sangwon stepped back, smiling politely at Junseo.

Then he looked back at Geonwoo, his expression shifting into something that promised trouble.

“Better keep up,” he murmured. “This love triangle is just getting started.”

And with that, Sangwon walked away.

Leaving Geonwoo burning.

Infuriated.

Conflicted.

And absolutely not ready for what filming would do to him.

Chapter Text

Kim Geonwoo woke up before his alarm. Not because he was well-rested.
But because his mind wouldn’t shut up.

The ceiling above him glowed faint gray with dawn light, and for a while, he just lay there, staring at it, refusing to acknowledge the tight knot sitting in his stomach.

Today was the first day of filming.
His first project back from hiatus.
His first big role in months.
His first time seeing—

He exhaled sharply and sat up. He wouldn’t think about Sangwon. He refused.

Geonwoo ran a tired hand over his face. His heart thudded too fast for so early in the morning.

Ridiculous.

He dragged himself out of bed, showered longer than necessary, choosing cold water because it kept him alert, and because it numbed the dull, stupid ache sitting under his ribcage.

When he looked at himself in the mirror, droplets clinging to his jawline, he narrowed his eyes.

No one would see anything.

No one would know anything.

Especially not him.

His manager Hyeri was already waiting in the agency lobby when he arrived, waving a cup of iced coffee in the air. “Geonwoo-ya! Over here!”He approached, taking the drink she handed him. 

“You look good today,” she said.

“I always look good.”

“Well, the confidence is back at least.”

He didn’t respond. But he appreciated her trying.

They took the elevator up to the small practice room the agency had reserved for him. The walls were bare except for a full-length mirror. Hyeri handed him the script. “Last chance to look over the blocking for the morning scenes.” He nodded and sat cross-legged on the floor, flipping pages.

He’d read the script before. Five times, if he was being honest. But he kept pretending he needed review so he wouldn’t think about—

He flipped to Episode 1.

“Office Desk Scene — Mingeun and Jisung”

He swallowed.

Junseo and Sangwon’s characters.

Right from the beginning, the script emphasized familiarity. History. Comfort. A quiet intimacy only co-workers who’ve spent too much time together understand.

Then:

“Seohwa (Geonwoo’s character) watches from afar. Unsettled.”

He could feel the director’s smirk in the wording.

Unsettled.
Uncomfortable.
Jealous.

It wasn’t subtle.

Hyeri looked up from her tablet.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re gripping the script like it owes you money.”

He loosened his fingers.

She hesitated, chewing her lip.

“Look… the chemistry test was… a surprise. I know you and Sangwon—”

“Don’t,” he warned softly.

Hyeri shut her mouth. 

Geonwoo wasn’t angry at her.

He just didn’t want to hear the name out loud before he had to face it again.
He reread the scene, each line making his stomach twist. He hated that it affected him. Sangwon didn’t matter. That was the mantra. He repeated it in his head until the words felt thin and unconvincing.

The filming studio was already buzzing when they arrived. Stylists, camera operators, lighting crew, extras in business attire, the hum of production energy filled the air.

The office set was startlingly realistic.

Rows of desks.
Fluorescent lights.
Endless paperwork stacks.
Glass meeting rooms.
Coffee machine humming in the corner.

A normal workplace.

Except it wasn’t.

Because Sangwon was in it.

Not yet, thank God… but soon.

Hyeri guided him toward makeup. “They’re starting with the desk scenes first. Junseo is already here.”

“Good,” Geonwoo muttered. “One of the sane ones.”

Junseo greeted him with a warm, polite smile as he walked in. “Morning, Geonwoo-ssi.”

“Morning.”

Junseo was easy to be around. He radiated a calm, unbothered aura, the type who never rushed or raised his voice. A complete opposite of Geonwoo’s explosive tendencies. And Sangwon’s subtle provocations.

The makeup artists worked quickly, light foundation, clean hairstyle, simple office attire. Nothing too flashy. He looked like any ordinary employee. Too ordinary, he thought, seeing his reflection.

Next to Sangwon’s natural glow and Junseo’s soft calmness, he always looked… sharper.

Colder.
Less approachable.

Good.
Let that be his armor.

When he walked onto the set, the director waved him over excitedly. 

“Geonwoo! Look at this layout! Isn’t it great?”

He followed the director’s gesture… and froze.

Sangwon’s desk was positioned beside a window, catching sunlight. Junseo’s desk was directly facing his. Close. Intimate. Familiar. And Geonwoo’s desk was far enough away to be an observer.

Never a participant.
Never close.

“Perfect for tension, right?” the director said proudly. Geonwoo didn’t answer. His jaw worked silently. Hyeri whispered, “Don’t kill anyone. Yet.”

He felt Sangwon before he saw him.

A shift in the room.
A brightness in the chatter.
A tightening in his chest.

Then, footsteps.

Then, laughter.

Then—

Sangwon walked in, wearing fitted office attire, hair styled effortlessly, smile bright enough to blind someone unprepared. He greeted the staff like he hadn’t watched the world burn the night before during the chemistry test. He caught Junseo’s eye first.

“Junseo-ssi! You’re early again.”

“Old habit,” Junseo said, bowing politely.

Then Sangwon turned. And saw him.
The brightness dimmed into something sharper.

“Geonwoo.”

“Sangwon.”

Their voices were flat. Cold.
Perfectly civil in the way only people who hated each other politely could manage.

Sangwon’s gaze flicked over him, assessing. Noticing. Searching for weakness. He wouldn’t find any today. 

Geonwoo looked away first, strategically, not submissively, and took his seat.

This was a battlefield.

They both knew it.

The director gathered the three of them.

“Our first shot today is simple. Mingeun and Jisung have long-term chemistry. Subtle touches. Looks. Familiarity. Meanwhile, Seohwa—” he nodded to Geonwoo “—is new, watching them interact, feeling a bit out of place.”

Geonwoo exhaled slowly through his nose.

Sangwon caught it. Of course he did.
And smiled faintly, like he enjoyed the discomfort.

Junseo quietly read his lines, unaffected.

The director clapped. “Let’s go through it!”

They moved to their desks.

Sangwon leaned back casually in his chair, one leg stretching forward, comfortable in a way that made Geonwoo’s teeth tighten.

Junseo sat upright, typing. Geonwoo sat at his distant desk, pretending to review a report but really watching everything with simmering irritation.

“Great,” the director said. “Let’s shoot.”

Cameras rolled.
Lights brightened.

Sangwon lounged in his office chair, one leg stretching comfortably under his desk.

Junseo typed quietly, posture perfect, calm expression unwavering.

Then—

Subtly.
Casually.
Deliberately.

Sangwon extended his leg and brushed Junseo’s calf under the table.

Junseo’s fingers paused on the keyboard for half a second.

A small, involuntary inhale.

The camera didn’t catch the foot.
But it caught everything else.

Junseo’s ears turning faintly pink. The twitch of restraint in his jaw. His calm eyes flicking upward.

Sangwon noticed, of course he noticed, and his lips curved into a slow, self-satisfied smirk.

“Hey,” Sangwon said softly, leaning slightly forward. “You okay?”

Junseo cleared his throat once. “I’m fine.”

“Mm.” Sangwon let his foot glide up his calf again. “You look warm.”

Junseo’s voice stayed smooth, but Geonwoo saw the tiny tremor at the edge of it.

“It’s just… the lights.”

“Sure.” Sangwon’s smirk widened. “The lights.”

The director whispered, “Beautiful. Love this.”

Geonwoo gripped the script until his knuckles went white. 

He hated this.
He hated how convincing it was.  
He hated how Sangwon enjoyed it.
He hated that it bothered him.

“Cut! Perfect! Reset for Scene 12!”

They shifted to the break room set.

Sangwon entered the coffee room set, sleeves rolled up slightly, pretending to check messages on his phone.

He approached the counter and began pouring coffee into a mug. The camera framed the shot.

Geonwoo stood off to the side, pretending to study the script but actually watching every breath.

Junseo stepped in silently, effortlessly slipping into character. The director gave a subtle cue. Junseo approached.

Slow.
Controlled.
Dangerous in the quietest way.

And then it happened.

He placed both hands on either side of Sangwon’s waist on the counter, caging him in. Not touching, but closer than allowed in polite society. Sangwon inhaled sharply.

Junseo leaned in, voice low and quiet enough that only the boom mic caught it.

“Don’t start something if you can’t handle the consequences.”

His lips brushed Sangwon’s ear. Barely. But enough.

Sangwon’s breath hitched. His fingers tightened on the counter. And then,

He smiled.
Broad.
Thrilled.

The exact smile that always got Geonwoo into trouble.

He placed his hands on the counter beside Junseo’s. Their fingers grazed. And then, Sangwon subtly shifted his hips back.
His body brushed against Junseo’s crotch, soft, intentional, electric. Junseo’s breath escaped him, deep, shaky, undeniably real.

“CUT!”

The director nearly screamed with joy.

“That— THAT was perfect! You two are unreal!” Staff clapped. Stylists giggled.

Assistants exchanged looks.

Geonwoo’s heart pounded painfully in his chest, fury twisting beneath his ribs.
He kept his face blank. Expressionless.  
But inside, he was burning.

Junseo stepped back first, face still a shade too warm. He bowed slightly. “Great work, Lee Sangwon.” Sangwon smiled softly, too softly. “Likewise.”

Geonwoo looked away. He wouldn’t give Sangwon the satisfaction of seeing anything. He walked to the water dispenser, keeping his distance.

Junseo finished talking to the director and approached him with an easy smile.

“Geonwoo-ssi,” he greeted, handing him a new script copy. “Your lines for the afternoon scene.”

“Thanks.”

Junseo tilted his head. “You good?”

“I’m fine.”

“You seem… tense.”

“It’s just the first day.”

Junseo nodded, considerate. “If you want, I can help run lines during the break.”

Polite.
Friendly.
Genuine.
Nothing more.
And Geonwoo appreciated that.

“Sure,” he said. “Later.”

Junseo smiled lightly and walked off.

Nothing flirtatious. Nothing intimate. Just two co-workers discussing the script.

But when Geonwoo lifted his gaze, Sangwon was staring at them.

Expression unreadable. Eyes sharp. Shoulders too still. He held his coffee cup so tightly the lid bent. The possessiveness simmering under his skin wasn’t subtle to someone who knew him this well.
He walked over, passing behind Geonwoo, leaning slightly closer than necessary as he reached the sink.

“You two seem close,” he murmured.

Geonwoo didn’t turn.
“Talking about the script.”

“Mm.”Sangwon’s voice was cool.
“Of course.”

A beat passed.
Then another.

Then Sangwon added, barely audible,

“Be careful who you rehearse with.”

Geonwoo froze. He looked up slowly.
Sangwon was already walking away.

They didn’t speak again for the next hour.

But they didn’t need to. Every glance, every motion, every breath between them crackled. Neither would give in. Neither would break first.

Because in their twisted, bitter dynamic…

to feel was to lose.

And they would burn before losing to each other.

Lunchtime arrived, but for Geonwoo, the entire set felt like it was breathing wrong.

The office scene had rattled more than expected. Not that he’d ever admit it.

He sat at a small folding table in the hallway, lunchbox unopened. Staff hurried past, stylists with makeup kits, lighting techs carrying stands, PAs running errands.

Hyeri dropped a bottle of water beside him.

“You haven’t eaten.”

“I’m fine,” he said, for the thousandth time today.

“So you’ve said.” She crossed her arms. “Want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Is it because Sangwon—”

“Hyeri.”

She raised both hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. But if you faint today I’m dragging you home by the ankles.”

He glared.

She smiled sweetly.

Balance restored.

Junseo approached with quiet footsteps, carrying his own lunch tray. “Mind if I sit?” he asked.

“Go ahead,” Geonwoo said.

Junseo sat across from him. He ate calmly, neatly. “I saw the morning takes,” Junseo said softly. “You did well.”

Geonwoo scoffed. “I was barely in them.”

“But the reactions matter,” Junseo said. “You portrayed unease very naturally.”

Geonwoo stiffened. “It wasn’t— I wasn’t uneasy.”

Junseo blinked, surprised by the sharp tone. “I meant it as a compliment.”

Geonwoo exhaled. “Sorry. I just… didn’t sleep well.”

Junseo’s expression warmed in understanding. No judgment. Just empathy.

“You know,” he said, picking up his chopsticks again, “most actors force reactions. You don’t. It reads as very real.”

Geonwoo paused. He didn’t know if that was flattering or insulting. He didn’t have time to decide, because a shadow suddenly fell over their table.

Sangwon stood there, holding a protein shake, dressed casually for the next scene. His gaze flicked between them, Junseo eating and Geonwoo sitting quietly with an untouched lunch. His eyes lingered on the water bottle Hyeri gave Geonwoo.

Then on Junseo’s tray.
Then on Geonwoo’s hands.

Possessive.
Suspicious.
Sharp enough to cut.

“Junseo-hyung,” Sangwon said sweetly.
But the sweetness was poisoned.

“You’re not rehearsing? That’s rare.”

Junseo blinked. “We have an hour before the next shot.”

“Mm.” Sangwon looked at the seat beside him, occupied. “You’re sitting with Geonwoo?”

“Is that a problem?” Junseo asked, genuinely confused.

“No,” Sangwon replied instantly, smiling.

Then he looked at Geonwoo. And the smile died. “Eat,” Sangwon said quietly. “You’ll collapse.”

Geonwoo bristled. He hated when Sangwon talked to him like this, like he still had the right. Junseo blinked, sensing tension, but politely continued eating.

Sangwon stood there a moment longer, gaze icy, before turning away with a dismissive flick of his fingers.

Hyeri whispered, “Oh my god,” once he was gone.

Junseo cleared his throat.
“…Are you two… close?”

“No,” Geonwoo said immediately.

Junseo nodded slow. “I see.”

He didn’t.
But he was too polite to pry.

Between scenes, the director called Geonwoo over.

“We’re running a small rehearsal for Episode 3. Seohwa and Jisung—hallway confrontation.”

Geonwoo froze.

Hallway confrontation.

That was the one scene in the early episodes where Sangwon’s character cornered his, expressing confusion and possessive irritation at being ignored.

Too close to real life.

He followed the director to the long, dim hallway set. Sangwon was already there, leaning against the wall, script in hand, expression unreadable.

The assistant director clapped.

“Okay, boys. This isn’t an intense scene yet. Just tension. Unspoken discomfort. Jisung steps in front of Seohwa, blocking his path.”

Geonwoo exhaled slowly. He could do this. This was acting. Just acting.
He walked forward, script down, shoulders squared.

“Let’s try a dry run,” the AD said.

Geonwoo walked down the hallway. Sangwon stepped in front of him.

Close.

Too close.

“Seohwa,” Sangwon said softly, eyes searching his face. “Why are you avoiding me?”

Geonwoo’s throat tightened. He had heard those exact words before. Not in a script.

In their bedroom. Two years ago.

He swallowed.

“Sangwon,” he said under his breath, out of character, “don’t improvise.”

Sangwon’s lips twitched.
“That wasn’t improvising.”

It was.

Geonwoo took a step back. “I’m not avoiding you.”

“You are,” Sangwon replied calmly. He leaned forward slightly. Just enough to make the air between them thick.
“You always do this when you’re hurt.”

Geonwoo froze. The hallway dissolved.
The set, the lights, the crew, it all blurred.

He saw—

Flashback.

Sangwon standing in their kitchen.
Geonwoo grabbing his jacket.
The sound of rain hitting their apartment windows.

“Say something,” Sangwon pleaded. “You’re shutting me out again.”

“You’re the one who—”

“Don’t walk out.”

“I can’t talk to you right—”

“Geonwoo!”

His voice breaking.

End flashback.

Geonwoo blinked hard. The present snapped back into focus.
Sangwon’s eyes softened when he saw the flicker in Geonwoo’s expression.

He recognized it. Of course he did.

He caused it.

“Cut,” the AD said. “That was… surprisingly emotional. Good job, both of you.”

Geonwoo stepped back quickly. Distance. Breathing room.

Sangwon watched him.
Carefully.
Hungrily.

As if gauging how deep the wound still was.

Junseo appeared, holding his script.

“Director wants us to run the evening meeting scene after this,” he said calmly. “Geonwoo-ssi, you’re needed in wardrobe.”

“Coming,” Geonwoo said quickly.

He started walking, and Junseo naturally walked beside him.
Not close. Not too far. Just enough to look like colleagues heading to the same place.

But to Sangwon?
It looked like something else.

Geonwoo felt eyes on his back. He didn’t turn. He refused to give Sangwon the satisfaction.

Junseo spoke softly. “You know… you and Sangwon-hyung act very well together.”

“It’s not acting,” Geonwoo muttered.

Junseo nodded slowly.
“I thought so.”

Geonwoo stopped walking.
“Junseo-hyung.”

Junseo waited.

“Whatever you’re thinking, it’s not like that.”

Junseo smiled gently. “I don’t assume things easily. But… the emotions feel real.”

Geonwoo didn’t respond. Junseo added, voice soft and kind:

“If things ever feel too heavy, you can tell me. I won’t judge.”

Geonwoo blinked. He wasn’t used to kindness so uncomplicated.

“Thanks,” he said quietly.

Junseo’s smile remained warm.

But behind them,
unseen,

Sangwon watched.

Hands in his pockets.
Jaw clenched.
Eyes dark.

And for the first time today…

He looked genuinely hurt.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of lines, camera angles, and blocking. But the fault lines had been drawn.

Junseo’s quiet concern.
Sangwon’s wounded jealousy.
Geonwoo’s stubborn walls.

And underneath all of it,

the breakup lingering like smoke that refused to clear.

By the time filming wrapped, the tension in the studio was thick enough to cut with a knife.

Tomorrow would be worse. Geonwoo could feel it. Sangwon could feel it. Junseo would soon notice everything.

The war hadn’t started yet.

But the match had been lit.

Chapter Text

Geonwoo woke up before his alarm.
The sky outside his window was still pale, almost colorless. He brushed his teeth slowly, breathing through his nose to steady himself. The mirror showed a calm face, colder than yesterday, maybe, but calm.

Good.

He needed that.

He rinsed his mouth and stared hard at his own eyes.

Today, I won’t react to him.
Not even once.

It was a rule. A promise.

His stylist arrived at six sharp with coffee and a cheerful greeting. “You look focused this morning,” she said as she fixed his hair.

“I should be,” he answered. “I’m not letting anything distract me today.”

“‘Anything,’ huh?” she hummed. “Must be something serious.” He didn’t respond. She didn’t push.

Day two began with the kind of tension that didn’t belong this early in a shoot. Not unless two exes were pretending nothing was wrong, while everything was wrong.

Geonwoo arrived on set early, sipping iced Americano, wearing expressionless calm like armor. His shoulders were loose, his gaze steady. No trace of the emotional blowout from the day before.

He looked good.
Infuriatingly good.

Sangwon noticed immediately.
He always noticed.

Geonwoo was reviewing his script when the door opened. Sangwon walked in.
Damp hair. Rolled sleeves. Eyes scanning the room until they landed right on him.“Morning,” Sangwon said, voice smooth like always. Junseo responded first. Then the makeup staff.

Geonwoo didn’t look up. Not even a glance. Just sipped his drink and turned a page.
He could feel Sangwon stare at him for a few seconds longer. The air tightened.

Sangwon smiled.

A dangerous one.

Game on.

At the table read, tension sat between them like a fourth person. They sat around a long table; Junseo in the middle, Sangwon on his right, Geonwoo on his left.

Of course the staff arranged it that way.
Of course the universe wanted pain.

As they began the read, Sangwon leaned back casually, voice smooth, too smooth.

“Your part today is full of reactions, Geonwoo-ssi.”

“Acting involves reacting,” Geonwoo replied without looking up.

“True,” Sangwon murmured. “But you’ve always been good at reacting to me.”

Junseo blinked. The staff paused.

Geonwoo flipped a page. Completely unfazed. “I had to be. You were always unpredictable.”

A small hit. Clean, dry, lethal.

Sangwon’s lip twitched into a smirk.
Junseo shifted slightly, sensing something heavy behind those simple words.
The tension along the table was electric, pulsing like static crawling over skin.

Filming started. They did simple office scenes, nothing intense; Junseo typing calmly, Sangwon standing beside his desk,

Geonwoo entering the frame with documents. Except, Sangwon leaned against Junseo’s desk, too close to him, shoulder brushing Junseo’s.

Junseo didn’t react. Professional. Steady.

But Sangwon tilted his head slightly, just enough to flick a glance at Geonwoo as if to say: Watch.

Waiting for something. Anything.

Geonwoo gave him nothing.
His lines were steady.
His face unreadable.

The director praised their “natural tension.”Sangwon smiled for the camera but his eyes kept drifting. Searching. Not finding.

His smirk said everything.

He was starting the fire.
He expected Geonwoo to burn.

He didn’t realize he was sitting closest to the flame.

During the break, Sangwon strolled over to Junseo, calling for wardrobe to check something on their costumes. Junseo stood still as staff inspected him. Sangwon waited beside him.
Then, when most eyes drifted away, he reached forward and straightened Junseo’s collar.

Slowly.

Two fingers sliding from the fabric to the base of Junseo’s throat. Lingering there.

A touch too intimate. Too slow.

Junseo stiffened in surprise.
“…Lee Sangwon?”

“Your collar was crooked,” Sangwon said lightly, fingers brushing the warm skin just under Junseo’s jaw. “It’d look bad on camera.”

The gesture looked polite. Helpful.
But the way Sangwon’s thumb swept along Junseo’s throat, that was not polite.

And he did it facing Geonwoo.

Geonwoo did not move. Did not blink.
Only the faint tightening of his jaw betrayed anything at all.

It was subtle, most wouldn’t catch it,
but Sangwon did. And he smiled.
A small, poisoned curl of lips.

He reacted. He always reacts.

But the victory was thin, hollow. Because while he was busy performing jealousy traps, Geonwoo turned, nodded to the assistant director, and walked away to adjust his mic pack.

Unbothered.
Untouched.

Sangwon’s smile faltered for half a second. Just enough to reveal something raw beneath.

Later, all three sat on a bench during another pause in filming. Staff laughed loudly nearby. Someone was showing a silly video. The room felt bright, except for where the three of them sat.

Junseo in the middle.
Sangwon on the right.
Geonwoo on the left.

Sangwon stretched his arms behind him, casual and relaxed, then but his right hand fell casually onto Junseo’s thigh.

Barely touching. Just fingertips resting, then sliding slightly upward.

Junseo froze, shocked.
“Sangwon….”

“Sorry,” Sangwon said innocently. “No space.”

The bench had plenty of space.
And they all knew it.

Geonwoo’s gaze flicked down once, just once, to the hand on Junseo’s thigh.
Then back up. Expression unreadable.

Then he stood calmly, script in hand.
“I’ll review the next scene.”

No anger. No emotion. Just… leaving.
That hit Sangwon harder than jealousy ever would.

Ten minutes later, Geonwoo sat on a couch reading. Sangwon walked over without hesitation and sat down, too close. Thigh pressed against thigh.

A deliberate, intimate touch.
A territorial move.

He waited for the reaction. Waited, for the flinch, the stiffening, the glare.

But instead, Geonwoo stood up immediately. Smooth, almost gentle.

“As I thought,” he said quietly, not even looking at Sangwon. “You’re too close.”

The words weren’t cold. They were worse.

Detached.
Dismissive.

As if Sangwon wasn’t a threat, or temptation, but an inconvenience.

Sangwon froze on the couch. Humiliation pricked under his skin.

Not from the rejection.
But from the difference.

Because yesterday, Geonwoo had reacted. Today, he didn’t even spare him a heartbeat.

Sangwon blinked, thrown off.
“Geonwoo-ah…”

“Don’t.”
Calm.  
Controlled.  
“I’m working.”

Then he walked away again.

This time Sangwon’s hands curled into fists, hidden in his lap. He was losing control, and he knew it.

He was the one who caused this.
He was the one who broke them.
He was the one still playing this stupid game.

So why?

Why did he feel like the loser every time Geonwoo didn’t look at him?

When filming wrapped for the day, staff cheered and dragged everyone out for barbecue. The dinner was loud, sizzling meat, clinking glasses, staff laughing at every silly story.

“Did you see PD-nim almost fall earlier?”

“I thought he was going to cry!”

“Junseo-ssi, you’re too polite! Eat more!”

Geonwoo sat between Junseo and an assistant director. Junseo quietly grilled meat for him, placing pieces on his plate. Geonwoo didn’t make a fuss, just thanked him softly.

To anyone else, it looked normal.

To Sangwon, sitting across the table, it felt like a blade pressed to his ribs. He smiled at staff jokes, but his eyes kept drifting, again and again, to the other side of the table.

When dinner ended, someone shouted:“KARAOKE TIME!”

Everyone cheered.

They booked a private room in a neon-lit building. Inside, the room glowed purple, the couches wide and soft. Beer bottles filled the table. The assistant director grabbed the mic first, immediately singing off-key while staff screamed with laughter.

Junseo laughed so hard he bent forward. Geonwoo leaned back on the couch, the top button of his shirt undone, expression finally a bit relaxed. And Sangwon sat across the room, watching the two of them through dim lights and loud music, the tension in his jaw tightening with every passing second.

He had spent the whole day playing the game. But somewhere between the collar touch, the thigh stunt, and the rejection on that couch, he realized something awful:

He was the one losing.
Not Geonwoo.
Not Junseo.
Just him.

The karaoke room was already a mess of neon and laughter by the time the second bottle of soju landed on the table. Even with the dim lights, it was obvious who was drunk and who wasn’t: half the staff had glassy smiles, the assistant director was screaming old K-pop lyrics, and someone had started dancing with a mic cord like it was a pet.

Geonwoo and Sangwon, however, were both dangerously sober.
Junseo sat between them, flushed from alcohol, laughing so easily that it softened the tension in the room. When he leaned toward Geonwoo to tell him something, Geonwoo tilted his head closer to hear.

“What?” he asked quietly.

Junseo chuckled. “You still haven’t sung a single line.”

“I won’t,” Geonwoo answered.

“Shy?” Junseo teased.

“Smart,” Geonwoo replied. “There are cameras in phones.”

Junseo nudged him gently with his shoulder, amused.

Sangwon watched the small contact from across the table. His lips barely curved, but his eyes tightened, just enough for anyone who knew him to see.

He stood and joined the two, sliding into the empty spot beside Junseo. His knee brushed Junseo’s leg in a way that looked casual. Maybe it was. Maybe it wasn’t.

“What are you guys talking about?” Sangwon asked smoothly.

“Just teasing him,” Junseo said.

Sangwon leaned an elbow on the back of the couch, looking between them.
“Oh? Geonwoo doesn’t like being teased.”

Junseo laughed. “He’s fine. He’s tougher than you think.”

Sangwon’s eyes flicked to Geonwoo.
“Are you?”

Geonwoo blinked once.
“I’m sitting here, aren’t I?”

A low hum left Sangwon’s throat. Something about the answer satisfied him too much.

Junseo turned away for a moment to speak to a staff member, and as he did, Sangwon reached forward and brushed a stray lock of hair from Junseo’s forehead. A soft touch. Slow. Familiar.
The exact kind of touch he knew Geonwoo would see.

Geonwoo’s fingers tightened slightly around his drink. Just enough to show tension, not quite enough to be a reaction.

Sangwon felt it. He didn’t need to look directly to know. His smile sharpened.
And that was exactly the moment Geonwoo stood up.

No words. No glare. Just quiet, cold departure. He pulled his cap lower and left the room.

Sangwon watched the door close behind him, jaw clenching once, almost invisible.

He hated how empty that spot felt the second Geonwoo left.

The hallway outside the karaoke room was dim and cool. Geonwoo’s footsteps were silent, but his pulse wasn’t. It thudded in his throat, sharp and irritated.

He pushed open the emergency exit door and stepped into the night air.

Cold wind.
Moonlight.  
Smoke.

And a man leaning against the railing.
Tall enough to look eye-level with him if he stepped closer, but slightly shorter. Lean body, slim face, undercut hair swept back. The smoke curled around his face like it was part of him.

Their eyes met.

Held.

The man didn’t look away. Didn’t pretend not to stare. There was something direct in his gaze, a hunger without shame.

Geonwoo felt something jump in his chest.

“You smoke?” the man asked, voice deep, slightly accented.

“I don’t.” A pause. “Not usually.”

The stranger smiled and stepped forward slowly,slow enough to give Geonwoo time to reject him, step back, look away.

Geonwoo didn’t move.

The man lifted the cigarette to his own lips, inhaled, then reached out, fingers brushing the side of Geonwoo’s neck, thumb grazing the line of his jaw as he gently pulled him forward.
Heat shot up Geonwoo’s spine at the unexpected touch. His lips parted instinctively when the man exhaled warm smoke into his mouth.

Close.

Too close.

The smoke curled deep into him, warm and dizzying.

The stranger stepped back with a slow, knowing smirk.

“Arno.”

Geonwoo let the breath go in a long, shaky stream.

“Geonwoo.”

Arno’s eyes lowered to his mouth, then back to his eyes.
“What are you doing out here alone?” he asked, voice low enough to almost feel against Geonwoo’s skin.

“Hiding,” Geonwoo admitted quietly.

Arno chuckled. “Come have a drink with me.”

Geonwoo should have said no.

He didn’t.

They slipped into a small bar area attached to the karaoke floors. It was empty except for a bartender wiping glasses without looking at them.

Geonwoo set his cap low again. Arno ordered two drinks and slid one in front of him. “You seem tense,” Arno said. “Relax.”Geonwoo took a sip.

Warmth spread instantly.

Too fast.

Too strong.

It slid through him like liquid heat, hitting his chest, then his stomach, then lower.

He froze for half a second.
Arno watched his reaction.

Oh.

There was something in it.

Geonwoo’s breath hitched, and Arno leaned in closer, eyes burning.
“Come,” he said softly, brushing his fingers against Geonwoo’s sleeve.

A light tug.

Follow me.

Geonwoo did.

As they walked, the air around Geonwoo got heavier. Hotter. His tie felt suffocating. His skin felt too tight. He loosened the tie. Unbuttoned one button.
Then another. Arno glanced sideways at him, the flush on his neck, the slight tremble in his fingers.

“You’re burning up,” Arno murmured.

Geonwoo breathed harder.
He hated how true it felt.

They reached an empty private room.
Arno opened the door and stepped inside. Geonwoo followed, and everything stopped.

Someone was in the hallway behind them.

Someone who wasn’t supposed to see this.

Sangwon had left the room after seeing Geonwoo disappear, telling Junseo casually he was “going to the bathroom.”

He wasn’t.

He followed the hallway Geonwoo had taken, steps fast but silent. Some part of him knew it was stupid. Another part didn’t care.

He saw them before they entered the room. Arno’s hand on Geonwoo’s arm. Geonwoo breathing hard, tie undone, shirt slightly open.

Something vicious stabbed through Sangwon’s chest.

He took a step forward. Then another.
He reached the door they had entered.
His hand froze on the handle. He pushed it open, and froze completely.

Arno had a hand on Geonwoo’s waist, fingers brushing the exposed skin above his belt. Geonwoo’s breath trembled, his cheeks flushed, pupils wide.

Arno leaned closer.

Too close.

Geonwoo turned his head, noticing Sangwon’s presence at the door.

Their eyes met.

Heat.
Challenge.
Pain.
All tangled.

Then Geonwoo smiled. A slow, sharp smirk meant only for Sangwon.

Sangwon’s voice was low and shaking. “Geonwoo… You shouldn’t be doing this.”

Geonwoo didn’t break eye contact.
Instead, he slid his hand to Arno’s waist, pulled him forward, pressed their bodies together. The exact gesture he used to do with Sangwon. The one that always made Sangwon melt.

His voice was soft, cold, and deadly.

“Is this still acting, Sangwon?”
A small smile.  
“I can do whatever I want.”

The words hit Sangwon harder than any punch. His throat bobbed. “Stop.”

“Why?” Geonwoo asked. “You said we were colleagues. Nothing more.”

Arno leaned in, sensing permission.

Geonwoo let him.

He turned his head and kissed Arno, slow, open-mouthed, heated. Arno’s fingers slid into his hair, tugging gently. Geonwoo let out a soft sound, half breath, half surrender to the heat overwhelming him.

But his eyes, his eyes never left Sangwon.

It was punishment.
And pleasure.
And cruelty all mixed together.

Sangwon swallowed hard, chest rising too fast. Then he closed the door.

No words. No fight. Just silence. And the sound of his pride tearing open in the hallway.

He walked away quickly, heart pounding in his throat, jaw aching from how hard he clenched it.

He hated this.

Hated how badly it hurt.

Hated how possessive he still was.

Hated that Geonwoo could destroy him so easily.

But worse, he hated that he could still be destroyed at all.

Chapter Text

The karaoke room was still bursting with noise when Sangwon came back. But he didn’t hear any of it. He entered like a storm; shoulders tense, eyes dark, mouth fixed in a shaking line. His movements were too fast, too sharp, dragging everyone’s attention to him even if he wished they wouldn’t look.

Junseo was the first to notice.
“Sangwon? What…”

“I’m heading home,” Sangwon cut in. His voice was controlled. Too controlled. The kind where one wrong breath could break it. “Schedule tomorrow. I’m leaving first.”He grabbed his jacket, his phone, his hands shaking just enough for Junseo to see.
A single tear slipped down his cheek, fast and silent. He didn’t wipe it. He didn’t acknowledge it. He only bowed stiffly to the room. “Goodnight.” And left.

Junseo stood half-risen, confused, but a staff member bumped him playfully, distracting him. No one else saw the tear. But it was real; hot, involuntary, humiliating.

The night air hit him hard. He walked fast at first, then slower, then stopped entirely halfway down the street. His breath came in sharp, uneven bursts. He pressed a hand to his chest. It hurt. It actually hurt.

Geonwoo’s flushed face, undone shirt, trembling breath, that stranger’s hands on him, the kiss, too heated, too eager, Geonwoo looking at him while doing it…

It kept replaying, stabbing him each time.

By the time he reached his apartment, he wasn’t walking anymore; he was barely holding himself together. He closed the door behind him and let his back slide down against it. His breath came out ragged. He pressed both hands against his heart like he could hold it in place.

“Fuck… fuck…”

He clenched his jaw, trying to stop another tear, but it fell anyway.

It wasn’t jealousy. It wasn’t anger.

It was the realization: Geonwoo had never kissed anyone else that way. Not back then. Not after.

He thought he had years to convince himself Geonwoo couldn’t hurt him anymore. But it took seconds to prove he was wrong.

Meanwhile — Behind the Door

Arno’s fingers were still threaded through Geonwoo’s hair when the door clicked shut behind Sangwon. Geonwoo didn’t hear the door. He didn’t hear anything except the heavy, strange thudding of his own heartbeat.

Aphrodisiac heat pulsed under his skin, making the air feel heavier, thicker. Each breath dragged like something molten inside him.

Arno leaned in, brushing his lips along the side of Geonwoo’s neck, slow, teasing, deliberate. Not biting. Just touching. Letting heat sink deeper. Geonwoo’s hand tightened in the fabric of Arno’s shirt.

“Hey…” Arno murmured, voice soft and low. “Look at me.”

Geonwoo lifted his eyes. Arno’s gaze locked onto his, hungry, deliberate, reading every reaction in him.

“You’re losing it,” Arno whispered, a faint smirk curving his lips. “It’s okay. Let go.”

Geonwoo’s breath shook.

He hated how much he felt it.
He hated how hot his skin was.
He hated how his pulse jumped every time Arno’s fingers traced his neck.

Arno sat on the sofa and gently pulled him down with him, guiding him until Geonwoo’s back met the cushions.

The room felt small.

Too warm.

Too quiet.

Arno climbed onto his lap slowly, not forceful, not rushed, giving Geonwoo every chance to push him away.

Geonwoo didn’t.

Their breaths mingled.
Their foreheads barely brushed.

“Let me see,” Arno whispered, thumb stroking just under Geonwoo’s ear. “Show me how badly you want this.”

That sentence, that provocation, hit something raw inside him. Geonwoo’s breath stuttered, and he turned his face slightly, eyes lowering as heat surged through him.

Arno kissed the base of his neck, slow, lingering. Then another, just above his collarbone. His hand slid down, fingertips brushing the line of buttons that were already undone. Geonwoo’s stomach tightened at the cool air touching his heated skin. Arno’s lips traveled down; slow, teasing pressure against his chest, then lower, toward the faintly defined lines of his abs. Geonwoo’s head fell back against the sofa, a low sound catching in his throat, half need, half frustration.

He felt himself slipping.

Losing control.

Losing reason.

Arno lifted his head slightly, breath warm against his skin. “You feel incredible,” Arno whispered. “Let me have you.”

Something in that voice, too confident, too knowing, snapped something inside Geonwoo. He didn’t want to be the one unraveling. Not tonight. Not in front of a stranger. Not after Sangwon saw him.

He acted on instinct. His hand gripped Arno’s wrist, not rough, but firm, stopping him. Arno looked up, surprised.

Geonwoo sat up fast, reversing their positions in one sharp, fluid motion.
Arno hit the sofa cushions with a soft gasp as Geonwoo pinned him down, one hand on his chest, the other braced beside his head.

The heat in his eyes changed.  
No longer lost, in control.

Arno’s breath hitched. His smirk returned, slower, more impressed.

“That’s it,” Arno murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “There you are.”

Geonwoo’s chest rose and fell too quickly. The mix of frustration, heat, anger, and something darker made his gaze burn.

Arno reached up and touched Geonwoo’s jaw lightly, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth.

“You’re strong,” he whispered. “Don’t let heat make you weak.”

Something in those words hit too close.

Geonwoo leaned closer, close enough their breaths mixed again, close enough his hair fell slightly forward, brushing Arno’s cheek.

Their lips hovered inches apart.

Geonwoo’s voice came out low.
“Shut up.”

Arno’s smile widened.

Later That Night 

The air had cooled. Geonwoo sat on the edge of the sofa, breathing steady again, hair slightly messy, shirt half-open but his heartbeat calmer now.

Arno leaned against the wall across from him, watching him with a look somewhere between interest and hunger.

“You surprise me,” Arno said softly.

“Do I?” Geonwoo asked, rubbing a hand over his face, trying to clear the last traces of heat from his mind.

“You’re intense,” Arno said. “But you try to hide it. Badly.”

Geonwoo let out a short, humorless breath. “You talk too much.”

Arno smiled. “And you don’t talk enough.”

He stepped forward, close enough that Geonwoo could feel his presence again, not overwhelming, but impossible to ignore.

“I want to see you again,” Arno said simply. “Off set. Off drinks. You and me.”

Geonwoo looked up. Their eyes held.
And something inside him said he wouldn’t say no. Not tonight, not after everything, not after Sangwon.

“Fine,” Geonwoo said quietly. “We’ll see.”

Arno’s smile deepened.
“Then I’ll text you.”

He brushed his fingers against Geonwoo’s hand briefly; light, fleeting, intentional. A touch that lingered even after he pulled away. 

Geonwoo didn’t stop him.

He didn’t know if he wanted to.

Sangwon walked onto set the next morning looking like someone had drained all the light out of him.  
His hair was styled perfectly, clothes immaculate, makeup hiding the shadows under his eyes, but nothing could mask the tension in his jaw or the way his gaze refused to lift from the ground for too long.

Junseo greeted him with his usual calm smile. “You look tired,” he said softly.

Sangwon forced a breath through his nose.“Didn’t sleep.”

Junseo tilted his head. “Want coffee?”

“No,” Sangwon answered too quickly.
He didn’t trust himself to drink anything without shaking.

Across the room, Geonwoo entered with the same unreadable calm as always.
No redness, no exhaustion. Just composed, distant, professional.  
But Sangwon’s stomach twisted painfully the moment he saw the faint marks of flushed skin near Geonwoo’s collarbone, barely visible under makeup, but Sangwon saw them. He saw everything. His heart squeezed so hard he had to look away.

The morning’s shooting crashed almost immediately. Lines were delivered, but something cracked between them, the subtle current that used to make their scenes electric now pulsed far too real, far too raw. Sangwon’s voice trembled on certain words he was supposed to say coldly. Geonwoo avoided looking directly at him on takes where they were meant to hold eye contact. Junseo watched the two of them silently, confused but not blind.

After the third failed take, the director exhaled deeply. “Okay. This isn’t working. Let’s switch.” He rubbed his forehead. “We’ll do the dramatic scenes today. The heavy ones. Maybe the emotional charge will help.”

Sangwon stiffened.
Geonwoo stood up straighter.

Neither protested.

They shot scenes of confrontation. 

Of jealousy. 

Of heartbreak.

Geonwoo delivered his lines with an almost serene coldness that made staff whisper. Sangwon’s voice cracked in real places, not scripted ones.

Junseo exchanged glances with the director, worried. Something was wrong between the two leads. Something so sharp it cut the air.

When filming wrapped, Geonwoo changed quickly, slipping into his casual clothes with mechanical calm.

He still felt the ghost of last night’s heat on his skin. He was steady now, but his body remembered; the warmth in his stomach, the electric touches, Arno’s breath against his neck and the way control had nearly slipped from his fingers.

He didn’t let any of it show.

He walked past Sangwon without slowing. Sangwon’s eyes followed him with a look that was half fury, half heartbreak, but Geonwoo refused to acknowledge it.
He was done being the first to break.

When Geonwoo stepped out of the building, he pulled out his phone. Arno had already texted.

ARNO:
Did you think about what I said?

Geonwoo typed back:

GEONWOO:
Come to my place. I’ll send the address.

A three-second delay.

ARNO:
Send it.

Geonwoo sent it without hesitation.

Something inside him wanted calm. Something inside him wanted distraction. Something inside him wanted to feel anything that wasn’t Sangwon.

When Geonwoo got home, the apartment felt too cold, too empty. He turned on the lights. Opened a window. Tidied the cushions. Rearranged things unnecessarily just to keep his mind occupied.

He showered. The hot water helped, but not enough. His thoughts wouldn’t stop circling Sangwon’s face from last night, the look in his eyes, the way he stood frozen in the doorway, the moment the door clicked closed.

He pushed the memory away violently.

He wasn’t going to care. Not anymore.

He stepped out of the shower, towel around his shoulders, hair still dripping.

That was when the doorbell rang.

His heart thudded once. He put on a shirt halfway and walked to the entrance.
When he opened the door, Arno stood there, leaning casually against the wall, hands in pockets, eyes lit by something warm and dangerous.

His scent reached Geonwoo first; roses, smoke, and something darker. Then Arno’s gaze swept slowly over him.

His damp hair.

His half-buttoned shirt.

His bare throat.

A smirk curled Arno’s lips.
“Just got out of the shower?” he asked softly.

Geonwoo felt heat creep up the back of his neck. He hated that Arno noticed so easily.“Yeah,” he said, stepping aside. “Come in.”

Arno walked past him, close enough that their shoulders brushed.

It felt intentional.

Geonwoo poured them both water, avoiding the temptation to offer anything stronger. He didn’t trust his body to handle it after last night’s heat.

“You said you were tired,” Arno said, sitting on the couch, crossing one leg over the other.

“I am.”

Arno tilted his head.
“You don’t look tired.”

Geonwoo sank into the seat opposite him.“Then what do I look like?”

Arno’s gaze moved over him slowly.
“Like someone who’s trying very, very hard not to think about something.”

Geonwoo’s jaw tightened. Arno smiled quietly, not pushing further. They talked about work, about schedules, about nothing. But every sentence had something under it.

Every glance lasted a little too long.

Every silence felt heavy.

Arno leaned forward slightly, fingers brushing the seam of Geonwoo’s sleeve.

“I like your place,” he murmured.

Geonwoo’s breath caught in his throat at the touch. “Thanks.”

Arno’s hand didn’t move away.

“You’re tense,” he said softly.

His thumb brushed Geonwoo’s wrist, slow, warm, deliberate. Geonwoo’s breath stilled. And when Arno’s gaze lifted to meet his, lingering, burning, inviting, Geonwoo couldn’t hold himself back anymore.

He reached out, grabbed Arno’s shirt, and pulled him in.

Their mouths met in a hard, breathless kiss. Heat surged through him, sharp and overwhelming. Arno’s hand slid to the back of his neck, fingers threading through damp hair, holding him close. Geonwoo exhaled against his mouth, breath shaking.

Arno pressed closer, lips trailing along his jaw, his throat, the line of his collarbone.

Geonwoo hissed quietly, head tipping back.

Arno pulled back only slightly, eyes half-lidded. He lifted Geonwoo’s hand, and slowly, deliberately, took two of his fingers between his lips. His tongue slid around them, slow and teasing.

Geonwoo’s breath stuttered, his eyes darkening.

Arno looked up at him while doing it, a silent challenge. A dare. A promise.

Geonwoo’s restraint snapped.

He grabbed Arno’s waist, pulled him onto his lap, kissed him again, deeper, hungrier, breath coming hard. Arno’s fingers curled in his hair, tugging. Geonwoo exhaled a low sound into Arno’s mouth, heat crawling up his spine.

He didn’t know how long they stayed like that, the room spinning with warmth, breaths uneven, kisses turning slow and heated.

Arno’s fingertips traced the lines of his shoulders through the shirt, his breath brushing Geonwoo’s cheek softly.

And then…

the doorbell rang.

Geonwoo froze.

Arno leaned back slightly, breath warm against his lips. “Expecting someone?”

“No.”

The bell rang again, insistent this time. Geonwoo swallowed, stood slowly, heart hammering with something he couldn’t name. He walked to the door, adjusting his shirt, breathing deeply to steady himself.

He opened it,

and froze.

Sangwon stood there. No umbrella. No coat. Just a hoodie thrown over his clothes, hair slightly disheveled, eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep, or something worse.
He looked like someone who’d fought with himself all night…

…and lost.

His breath hitched when he saw Geonwoo’s face; flushed, lips swollen, hair messy.

But what broke him wasn’t that.

It was the voice behind Geonwoo.

“Who is it?” Arno asked casually from the living room.

Sangwon’s eyes darted over Geonwoo’s shoulder, and saw him.

Arno.

Relaxed on the couch. Shirt slightly wrinkled. Neck flushed. His gaze lazy and heavy.

Sangwon’s chest caved in.

Geonwoo didn’t say anything.

Sangwon’s throat worked once, painfully. “…I shouldn’t have come.”

He stepped back.

Geonwoo swallowed. “Sangwon…”

But Sangwon shook his head sharply, pain flickering through his eyes before he covered it with something colder.

“Enjoy your night.” He turned around.

Geonwoo stood in the doorway, frozen. Behind him, Arno watched silently.

And the hallway swallowed Sangwon’s figure in quiet, shattering steps.

Chapter Text

Geonwoo didn’t expect the sight of Sangwon standing at his doorway to hit him so hard. Even with everything between them, even with the anger, the betrayal, the months of bitterness, seeing Sangwon’s eyes shimmering, breath uneven, shoulders trembling…

It felt like someone twisted a knife inside his chest.

He didn’t say anything. Neither did Sangwon. Just one second of eye contact, broken instantly as Sangwon turned away.

That one second hurt more than their entire breakup. And Geonwoo hated that. He hated how it still affected him. He hated how Sangwon still had that kind of power.

He closed the door, leaning against it just as Sangwon must have leaned against his own last night. A long breath left him, shaky and raw. “What am I doing…” he muttered.

Behind him, Arno shifted on the sofa. Geonwoo barely had time to gather himself before he felt arms slip around his waist from behind, warm and slow. Arno pressed a careful, grounding embrace against his back, nothing forceful, nothing demanding. Just… comfort. Something Geonwoo didn’t know he needed until he felt it.

He turned around, breath still uneven, and Arno lifted a hand to his cheek. A soft touch. A thumb brushing gently under his eye.

“Hey,” Arno murmured, voice low. “It’s okay if you want to stop here.”

Geonwoo swallowed. It surprised him, how gentle Arno could be, when the first impression he gave was sharp-eyed, confident, predatory. Now he was warm, steady, looking at Geonwoo like he wasn’t trying to take anything. Just willing to share a little warmth if Geonwoo wanted it.

That contrast made Geonwoo’s chest tighten in a different way.

He didn’t know if he wanted to run after Sangwon… or slam the door on the past entirely. He didn’t know if he wanted answers… or if he just wanted to feel nothing for a little while.

Arno’s fingers moved again, brushing his cheekbone. Geonwoo’s eyes slipped shut a second. He exhaled, a frustrated, exhausted sound. Arno leaned closer, voice dipping.

“I can help you feel better,” he whispered. “Let you release all of that… tension.”

Geonwoo felt his breath drag in. He didn’t respond at first. Arno smiled faintly, inching closer.

“I’ll take care of you. Only if you want me to.”

And Geonwoo did.

He didn’t think, just moved.

Their mouths met again, slower this time, a soft kiss that built quickly. Heat curled between them as Geonwoo pulled Arno closer by the waist, and Arno responded with a deeper kiss, fingers sliding through Geonwoo’s hair.

They stumbled backward, lips parting only to breathe before crashing together again. Geonwoo could feel Arno’s breath against his skin, warm and needful. Arno sucked at Geonwoo’s fingers, slow and intentional, eyes locked with his, and the world tilted.

Geonwoo didn’t resist when Arno guided him toward the bedroom.

Geonwoo sank onto the bed, his breath already catching with anticipation.

Arno stood before him for a moment, fingertips tracing the line of Geonwoo's collarbone before slipping under the fabric of his shirt. He eased it off slowly, as if savoring every inch of skin revealed.

Arno's hand drifted to Geonwoo's chest, guiding him back with a warm, steady pressure. The mattress welcomed him, but it was Arno's touch that made Geonwoo's pulse quicken.

"Close your eyes... relax for me," Arno whispered, his lips brushing the shell of Geonwoo's ear so lightly it felt like a secret being breathed into him.

A shiver ran through Geonwoo's body, impossible to suppress.

He let his eyes fall shut. The world narrowed to the soft heat of Arno leaning over him, the faint tickle of his breath along Geonwoo's cheek, the way Arno's fingers skimmed his skin-slow, unhurried, almost teasing.

Every touch sparked a deeper warmth, every movement pulling Geonwoo further into the quiet, electric gravity between them.

Arno’s kisses traced a heated path from Geonwoo's neck to his collarbone, gliding lower bit by bit, each touch sparking a sharp, irresistible shiver through Geonwoo's spine.

Once Arno’s lips reached his waistband, he rose back up, capturing Geonwoo’s flushed, waiting lips in a deep, lingering kiss.

Geonwoo’s breath hitched as he felt Arno’s hand palming him. Pressing gently against his crotch in a slow, torturous motion.

Arno’s mouth drifted from Geonwoo’s neck to his ear, and the touch coaxed a deep, trembling sound from Geonwoo’s throat. Arno's other hand drifted down Geonwoo's chest, lingering over the warmth of his skin, each touch slow and deliberate. 

Arno unbuckled Geonwoo's belt. His lips never leaving his, his fingers teasing the waistband of his boxer shorts. The brush of his fingers against his skin caused Geonwoo to groan into Arno's mouth.  
An impatient, pleading, desperate sound.

A smirk drew on Arno's lips. He moved away, just enough to lower himself to Geonwoo's hip level without letting the overwhelming warmth of their proximity escape.

His hand caressed the growing bulge that showed through the thin fabric, applying increasing pressure. Geonwoo threw his head back, begging for more.

Arno finally wrapped his fingers around his warm length, which caused an uncontrolled, hoarse moan coming out of Geonwoo’s throat.

Geonwoo suddenly felt a moist warmth along his length, before it enveloped his tip. Tongue strokes causing ragged breaths. Geonwoo gripped Arno's hair, encouraging him. Arno started slowly moving back and forth with his mouth. With a rhythm that desperately sent Geonwoo to heaven. His breathing became heavier.

Arno quickened the pace, his lips encircling his length and his tongue moving in circles. Geonwoo felt an explosion of pleasure as his tip pressed against the back of Arno's throat. "Wait…Wait," he said between breaths, he was slowly losing himself, losing his senses, losing control.

The sound of ragged breaths, Arno's moving mouth, and their body heat filled the room.

"I... I'm going to come," Geonwoo warns. But Arno didn’t back up. In fact, he maintained eye contact with Geonwoo while he licked his tip, keeping Geonwoo’s length in his mouth.

He felt the warm liquid run down his throat. Geonwoo let his head fall back, out of breath, his cheeks and ears flushed, his body shaking.

"Wow…you're incredible…" whispered in an almost inaudible shaky breath. Arno heared him, and smiled at the view. Geonwoo, laying there, unarmed, lips swollen from kissing and face flushed. 

Warmth. That was the first thing Geonwoo registered. He opened his eyes slowly to a quiet room, moonlight bleeding through the window. Something soft brushed through his hair, fingers, steady and affectionate.

He blinked. Arno was behind him, one arm around his waist, the other in his hair.
Half-awake, relaxed, watching him with a calm expression that felt out of place in the chaos Geonwoo lived in.

“Feeling better?” Arno asked softly.

Geonwoo nodded, small, almost shy.
Arno seemed amused by it, smiling as he leaned in to press a gentle kiss to Geonwoo’s forehead.  
They stayed like that for a long time, silent. Breathing the same air. No pressure. No expectations.

When Arno finally sat up, stretching a little, he glanced at the clock.

“It’s getting late,” he said quietly. “I should head home.”

Geonwoo pushed himself up as well, hair a soft mess, expression strangely open.

“Thank you for coming,” he said genuinely.

Arno’s smile deepened, warm, but carrying something unreadable underneath.

“I hope we’ll meet again soon.”

He gathered his coat, gave Geonwoo one last lingering look, and left.

Geonwoo sank onto his bed and stared at the ceiling. The apartment felt too quiet now. Too still. Only the faint scent of Arno’s roses-and-something-mysterious cologne lingered in the air.

He didn’t know what Arno did for work.
He didn’t know his background.
He didn’t even know if Arno lived nearby. But he was curious, almost annoyingly so.

Shaking his head, he reached for the script on his bedside table. And felt dread.

“Fuck…” he whispered.

Tomorrow’s scenes.

Physical closeness. Flustered reactions. Breath-on-skin. Storage-room tension. Bathroom confrontation.

All with Sangwon.

Geonwoo shut the script.
“Great,” he muttered. “Just great.”

The next morning, Sangwon arrived early. He looked… different. Eyes tired, jaw tight, expression unreadable. His hair was styled perfectly but his posture gave him away. He hadn’t slept. The director noticed instantly.

“All right,” he said, clapping his hands. “Let’s switch to the dramatic scenes today. Use whatever tension there is.”

Both actors’ jaws tightened at that. Geonwoo kept his expression calm, or tried to.

Inside, he still felt the phantom heat of last night. The weight of Arno’s hands.  
The breathless sounds against his skin.
But he didn’t let it show.

He didn’t look at Sangwon too long.
He didn’t react when Sangwon’s eyes tried to catch his. He didn’t flinch at subtle attempts to draw him closer.

Indifferent. Cold. Unbothered.  
It was an act. But a convincing one.

Sangwon, on the other hand… Something had shifted. His gaze lingered too long.
His reactions were too sharp. His footsteps carried something determined.

Not softness.
Not regret.
Something else.

Sangwon watched Geonwoo, jaw tightening as if holding back words he couldn’t say out loud. He came to set with only one thing in mind:

To make Geonwoo feel everything.
To awaken every dormant emotion.
To break through that coldness.
To torture him.

And maybe,  
to bleed a little himself in the process.

Sangwon didn’t say a word when filming began. He didn’t need to. His silence carried something sharp, something bruised, something that smelled like hurt pride mixed with determination. The entire team could feel it. Geonwoo felt it most of all.

The director briefed them quickly. “We’ll move straight to Episode 1’s tension beats. Storage-room scene first. Followed by the hall interactions. Bathroom scene after lunch.”

Geonwoo nodded. Professional. Controlled. Sangwon nodded too, but his eyes never left Geonwoo. Not once.

- The Storage Room Scene

The set was small, tight shelves, low lighting, barely enough space for two people. Perfect for tension.

Sangwon stepped into position beneath the high shelf, stretching upward for a folder he obviously couldn’t reach. Fingers brushing at the edge, breath slightly elevated.

He wasn’t acting. Not entirely. Because he felt Geonwoo before he saw him.
The warmth behind him. The height difference. The scent, clean, warm, unmistakably Geonwoo.

His heartbeat stuttered.

“Action.”

Sangwon reached again, hand trembling very faintly. Geonwoo stepped up behind him at the exact right moment, chest almost brushing Sangwon’s back, close enough that Sangwon felt the heat even without contact. His hand rose, effortlessly grabbing the folder from above Sangwon’s head.

As scripted, their fingers brushed.
But Sangwon flinched harder than he was supposed to. A quick inhale left his lungs, barely audible, but Geonwoo caught it. His eyes flicked down, catching the way Sangwon’s throat moved in a swallow. Geonwoo stepped back immediately, keeping his expression neutral.

Sangwon was the one who broke.

His face flushed, an unplanned, raw blush that traveled from his cheeks to the tips of his ears. He tried to mask it by turning away, but the camera caught everything.

“Cut!” the director shouted, thrilled. “Perfect. Keep that energy.”

Sangwon closed his eyes in embarrassment.

Geonwoo turned away before he could react. Before his own chest could betray him with a too-quick beat.

They filmed several short takes:

Sangwon walking past Geonwoo, glancing at him too long.

Geonwoo brushing by without reacting.

Sangwon trying to speak, then giving up.

Geonwoo’s scent catching Sangwon off-guard, making him swallow hard.

Each time, Sangwon’s blush returned, subtle but real. Each time, Geonwoo kept his expression blank. Too blank.

It infuriated Sangwon.

He pushed harder, leaning slightly closer when the scene required it, letting his breath ghost near Geonwoo’s jawline.

Geonwoo didn’t flinch. But the shift of his shoulders, the tightness in his neck, the minimal stiffening of his posture, Sangwon saw it. And that tiny reaction fed something desperate inside him.

- The Bathroom Scene

After lunch, the tension worsened. It was supposed to be a five-minute break before filming, but Sangwon used the opportunity.

He cornered Geonwoo by the sink.

It wasn’t part of the script yet.

Geonwoo was adjusting his mic when Sangwon’s reflection appeared behind him in the mirror. Tired eyes. Determined expression. Something dangerous in the set of his jaw.

Geonwoo didn’t move. 

He waited.

Sangwon stepped closer until their reflections nearly overlapped.

“You’re doing it on purpose,” Sangwon said quietly.

Geonwoo turned, slow and controlled. “Doing what?”

“Teasing me.”

“That’s the script.”

“I’m not talking about the script.”
Sangwon stepped forward.

Geonwoo stepped back.

Another step from Sangwon,
another step back from Geonwoo,
until Geonwoo’s shoulders hit the tiled wall behind him.

His breath caught.

Not loudly.

But Sangwon heard it.

Sangwon leaned in, stopping with just enough space that their bodies didn’t touch, but the heat between them tightened the air.

“You’ve been teasing me all day,” Sangwon murmured.

His lips brushed Geonwoo’s Adam’s apple, not a kiss, not a touch, just the faintest graze of warm breath. Geonwoo’s throat bobbed in a hard swallow. And Sangwon smiled. Slow, victorious, wounded. He stepped back, gaze lifting to meet Geonwoo’s.

But instead of smugness, instead of satisfaction, he froze.

Because Geonwoo wasn’t flustered.
He wasn’t nervous. He wasn’t affected in the way Sangwon wanted.

He looked…

hurt.

Not weak, not shaken, just hurt. In a way Sangwon recognized instantly. It felt like a slap. Sangwon’s expression cracked for a second.

“Get into position,” the director called from outside. “We’re rolling.”

Sangwon forced himself to walk out first, jaw tight. Geonwoo followed, face unreadable as always.

“Action.”

They repeated the steps, Sangwon cornering Geonwoo, the slow lean-in, the breath on the throat.

But this time?

Sangwon’s voice trembled almost imperceptibly when he said:

“You’re teasing me…”

The camera caught everything.

Geonwoo’s restrained swallow.

Sangwon’s shaky exhale.

The way they stared at each other, too close, too much.

When the director yelled “Cut!”
The room was silent. The crew exchanged looks. Junseo leaned back in his chair, eyebrows raised in quiet concern.

Sangwon walked away immediately, not trusting himself to stay standing near Geonwoo. Geonwoo remained still, fingers flexing once against his thigh before relaxing again. He kept his breathing steady.

He didn’t chase Sangwon. He didn’t speak. He stayed professional, even with the ache tightening his chest.

- After Filming

Sangwon disappeared first. Geonwoo didn’t look after him. He cleaned up. Thanked staff. Grabbed his bag. Walked out, all calm composure, everything neat on the surface.

But inside?

There was a storm.

Sangwon’s closeness. Sangwon’s hurt expression. The breakup memories stirred by the confrontation. The ghost of Arno’s touch still lingering on his skin.

And tomorrow’s scenes would only get worse. Closer. Hotter. More painful.

He exhaled through his nose.
“Great,” he muttered to himself. “Just great.”

When he checked his phone later, Arno had texted him first.

Had a long day?

Geonwoo stared at the screen.

He didn’t know what he wanted. But he wanted something.

The next morning felt wrong from the start. Everyone noticed the tension before the actors even stepped onto set. A quiet heaviness hung in the air, thick enough that even the lighting team kept their voices low.

Sangwon arrived with Junseo, the two reviewing their script pages together. Their chairs were pulled close, knees nearly touching, Junseo leaning over to point at specific lines while Sangwon hummed in acknowledgement. A simple, professional moment. But for Sangwon, every second of Junseo’s nearness was a shield. A buffer. And for Junseo, it was duty, but it was also something else. Something like worry hiding behind cool professionalism. He had seen Sangwon shaking the day before. He had seen Geonwoo walk away from him.

Geonwoo arrived last. His expression calm. Controlled. Chest rising and falling in even breaths. But Sangwon felt it, the subtle shift in the air the second he entered the room.

He didn’t look at Sangwon. Not once.
He sat across the room, reviewing documents, entirely focused on his laptop. Which only made Sangwon’s jaw clench harder.

The director explained the morning plan:

“Work tension sequence. Sangwon and Junseo at the desk. Geonwoo enters mid-scene. Keep it cold. Tight. Professional on the surface. Pressure underneath.”

“Understood,” Junseo said.

Sangwon nodded silently.

They took their positions:

Junseo sitting at the computer, calm, posture straight. Sangwon standing next to him, leaning slightly over the desk.
The desk lamp threw a warm glow across Sangwon’s throat, making the faint lack of sleep more obvious.

Their proximity was natural, easy. Too easy.

“Action.”

Junseo typed steadily as Sangwon flipped through sheets, concentrating. But something was off. His fingers hovered in hesitation over a document. A line he’d misread. A small mistake, tiny enough no one should have noticed.

Except someone did.

Footsteps.

Slow.

Measured.

Approaching.

Sangwon’s shoulders stiffened before he even turned. Geonwoo appeared beside them, holding a stapled packet of papers. His height shadowed their workspace. His voice was calm. Too calm.

“You missed a column here.”

He placed the document on the desk. Sangwon’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t like the tone. He didn’t like the implication. He didn’t like how Geonwoo didn’t even look at him, as if this wasn’t personal.

“It’s not a mistake,” Sangwon replied coolly. “It’s an alternate formatting.”

“It’s incorrect formatting,” Geonwoo corrected, still quiet. Still razor-sharp. Junseo looked between them, sensing the shift.

“Sangwon,” Geonwoo said, voice lowering half a tone, “just fix it.”

Sangwon stood up.

Not jerking.
Not dramatic.

Just standing with slow, deliberate control, but his eyes were weapons now.

“I don’t need you to tell me how to do my job.”

“You clearly do.”

The air froze. Junseo straightened subtly, ready to intervene if needed.

Sangwon stepped closer. “You’re being condescending.”

“I’m being accurate.”

That did it. Sangwon’s jaw flexed.
“Then show me,” Sangwon challenged.

Geonwoo’s eyes finally met his.
Cold. Unflinching. He stepped forward once. Then again. Too close.

The desk pressed against the back of Sangwon’s hips, limiting his space. Sangwon refused to move further. Not with Junseo watching. Not with the entire staff quietly pretending not to pay attention.

Geonwoo shoved the paper in front of him, not violently, but sharply enough that Sangwon felt his pulse spike. “Right here,” Geonwoo said, voice barely above a breath, “is wrong.” The page nearly brushed Sangwon’s lips.

Sangwon’s eyes flicked up. A smirk grew, dangerous and trembling at the edges.

“So what?” Sangwon whispered. “Are you going to fix me?”

Geonwoo didn’t blink. The silence snapped tight. Then Sangwon leaned forward, closer, until his forehead almost touched Geonwoo’s. Their breaths mixed.

A dare.
A provocation.
A silent battle.

The room held its breath. Junseo stood and stepped in, placing a firm hand on Sangwon’s shoulder. “Enough. Director said tension, not homicide.”

Sangwon’s smirk widened, triumphant and shaky all at once.

Geonwoo didn’t step back first. He waited. Stared. Sangwon was the one forced to break eye contact when Junseo gently pulled him away.

“Cut!” someone shouted.

The director sighed with relief. “Good tension. Let’s cool down.”

AFTERMATH

Sangwon walked off first, head high, pride dragging him like armor he didn’t feel strong enough to wear.

He kept the smirk. Even let a soft laugh slip out, pretending he’d won.
But as soon as he turned his back…

His shoulders trembled, just once, before he hid it. Junseo followed him quietly.

“You okay?” he asked.

Sangwon didn’t respond at first. Then, barely audible: “I’m fine.”
Junseo didn’t believe that for a second.
He placed a gentle hand on Sangwon’s back, rubbing slow circles. Warm, grounding. Real. Sangwon stiffened, startled, but didn’t move away.

Across the set, Geonwoo saw it.
His expression didn’t change.
Not externally.

Internally?

Something dropped in his stomach. Something tight.
Something he didn’t want to name.

He exhaled once, long and controlled.
Then he left the studio.

The wind was cold against his cheeks, sharper than the tension had been.
He walked two blocks, hands in his pockets, jaw tense. He didn’t know if he was angry at Sangwon, at himself, or at the way the past kept clawing its way back. He stopped at a convenience store.

His fingers hovered over the cigarette shelf. Then he picked the same brand Arno had smoked by the emergency exit. He stared at the pack in his palm.

The scent, the heat,the smoke, the way Arno’s breath had tasted…

He closed his eyes.
“Perfect,” he muttered, voice low. “Now I’m picking up his habits too.”

He bought them anyway.

As he walked back outside, the sun was dipping, turning the city gold. He broke the plastic wrap with his teeth, took one out, held it between his fingers. He didn’t even light it. He just stared at it.

Arno’s fingers between mine…

Arno’s breath on my lips…

The look he gave me after he made me lose my mind with his mouth on my tip…

He swallowed.

“Fuck.”

His phone vibrated. He froze.

ARNO.

He didn’t open it immediately. Just stared, thumb hovering above the screen, pulse tightening in his throat.

He finally tapped.

Arno:  

I’ve been thinking about last night.

One line. Simple. But it landed like warm fingertips on the inside of Geonwoo’s chest.

Another notification came before he could breathe.

Arno:

You looked so good under me while I was riding...

You breathe in such a pretty way.

Heat shot up Geonwoo’s neck. He looked around instinctively, making sure no one could see the messages, before shoving one hand in his pocket and leaning back against the brick wall.

His lips parted on a shaky exhale.

Another message.

Arno:

Are you outside? I can feel you’re tense today.

I could fix that again.

Geonwoo’s breath hitched.

This wasn’t just seduction. The words were warm, almost… familiar. Like Arno wasn’t just teasing, like he paid attention. Like he knew exactly how to slip past defenses and into the quiet places Geonwoo kept locked.

Geonwoo typed back with stiff fingers.

Geonwoo:

I’m fine.

Arno responded within seconds.

Arno:

No, you’re not.

Geonwoo’s eyes widened. The man was impossible. And somehow… intoxicating.

Another vibration.

Arno:

Let me see you.

Come over.

Or I’ll come to you.

Too direct.
Too confident.
Too much.

Yet his stomach tightened in that dangerous, addictive way.

He typed, erased, typed again.

Geonwoo:

Why?

Arno didn’t hesitate.

Arno:

Because I want you.

And because you looked like you needed someone last night.

Not just physically.

That line nearly buckled Geonwoo’s knees. He closed his eyes. Arno kept going.

Arno:

I like the way you let yourself go when you’re with me.

You don’t fake anything.

It’s refreshing.

Geonwoo’s heart twisted.
He hated how much that truth hit.

Another message.

Arno:

Come on, Geonwoo.

Let’s meet again.

Tonight.

That fast pull, seductive, emotional, bold, felt like a hand wrapping around his throat, guiding him instead of forcing him.

He should say no.
He had scenes tomorrow.
He should rest.
He should keep distance.

But Arno’s scent from last night still lingered in his sheets. His fingers still remembered the softness of that man’s waist. His mouth still remembered the way Arno gasped when he kissed him harder.

He typed slowly.

Geonwoo:

Send me the address.

As soon as he hit send, the street felt hotter.

His phone buzzed again, a location link, and one more line that made his stomach flip.

Arno:

Good boy.

Geonwoo bit the inside of his cheek, hard. He shoved the cigarette pack into his pocket, tightened his jaw, and started walking.

But halfway down the block, he stopped.

Because across the street, leaning against the building entrance…

Sangwon.

His posture stiff. Eyes locked directly on him. Expression unreadable. Breathing unsteady.

Neither moved. The air crackled.

Geonwoo felt the residue of Arno’s words sliding down his spine like warm smoke. And Sangwon looked like a storm waiting for impact.

Everything inside Geonwoo tightened.

Tonight would break something.

He just didn’t know who yet.

The city air hung heavy between them, the kind of weight that pressed against the skin.

Geonwoo stood on one side of the street, Arno’s messages still glowing on his phone.

Sangwon stood on the other, chest rising and falling too fast, like he’d run here.

Neither moved.

For a full five seconds, the world felt silent, cars muffled, wind distant, nothing but the static tying their gazes together.

And then Sangwon broke.

He walked across the street with sure steps, jaw set, throat tight, eyes locked on Geonwoo like he was heading toward something inevitable.

His emotions were all over his face, anger, hurt, a simmering something darker, but layered under all of it was the same thing that always ruined everything between them:

want.

When he reached him, he didn’t speak immediately. Just searched Geonwoo’s face like he was trying to decode a map he used to know by heart.

“You’re leaving early,” Sangwon finally said. His voice was low but slightly unsteady.

Geonwoo didn’t let his expression shift.“Everyone wrapped. I’m done.”

Sangwon’s gaze flicked down Geonwoo’s neck, then back to his eyes.

“You weren’t answering your phone.”

It sounded too close to you left me behind, and Geonwoo’s jaw twitched.

“I was busy.”

Sangwon scoffed softly.
“With him?”

Geonwoo didn’t answer, and the silence was answer enough. Something in Sangwon’s eyes shattered, just a crack, barely visible. But Geonwoo saw it.

And it hit harder than he expected.

“Do what you want,” Sangwon said, voice tight. “You always do.”

“That’s rich, coming from you,” Geonwoo snapped before he could stop himself.

Sangwon stepped closer.

Way too close.

The smell of his cologne slid up Geonwoo’s throat like a memory. His pulse jumped. They were inches apart, breath mingling, tension like a taut wire.

“Say it,” Sangwon murmured, eyes sharp.“Say what you really want to tell me so badly.”

Geonwoo forced the heat down.
Forced the hurt down.
Forced everything down.

“What I want,” he said quietly, “is for you to stay out of my personal life.”

A muscle ticked in Sangwon’s jaw.

“And what I want,” he replied, just as soft, “is for you to stop acting like you’re the only one who got hurt.”

Geonwoo flinched, barely, but Sangwon saw it. Of course he did. He always saw everything. And that made everything worse.

Before Geonwoo could speak, Sangwon took another half-step forward.

Their chests brushed.

The closeness burned.

“What?” Geonwoo muttered, refusing to step back.

Sangwon looked up at him, he always had to look up, and his voice dropped to something dangerous.

“Do you kiss him the way you kissed me?”

Geonwoo’s breath hitched.
Sangwon’s eyes darkened.

“Do you breathe like that for him too?”
He tilted his head slightly.
“Did he make you blush?”

Heat flashed under Geonwoo’s skin, anger or desire, he couldn’t tell. He opened his mouth to shut this down. But his phone buzzed.

Arno.

And Sangwon heard it. Saw the faint vibration. The shift in his expression was instant, tight, wounded, jealous, furious all at once. He stepped back like he’d been physically struck.

Geonwoo looked away, breath sharp.

Sangwon swallowed, voice cracking in the middle.

“I’m done for today,” he said quietly. “See you tomorrow.”

He turned. Started walking. Geonwoo didn’t call him back. Didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.

His phone buzzed again.

He didn’t want to look. But he did.

Arno:

On my way to pick you up. I can meet you anywhere.

Unless someone else needs you more.

Geonwoo stared at the message, chest tight.

Someone else. Yeah.

But that someone was walking farther and farther away, shoulders tense, wiping at his face once when he thought no one was watching.

Geonwoo ran a hand down his face.

“Shit.”

He typed back.

Geonwoo:

I’m sending you my location.

Arno read it instantly.

Arno:

Good.

You sounded tense again.

I’ll take care of it.

Geonwoo slipped the phone into his pocket, pushed off the wall, and started walking.

Behind him, Sangwon didn’t look back.

But if he had, he would’ve seen Geonwoo hesitate.

Just half a step.

Just enough to hurt.

Chapter Text

The sun had already dipped by the time Geonwoo reached the corner of the street Arno had texted. He shoved his hands into his pockets, trying to look calm even though the mix of frustration and leftover tension from Sangwon still crawled under his skin.

A low hum echoed down the street.

A sleek black sports car rolled up to the curb, headlights cutting through the dusk.

The window lowered.

Arno.

A slow smile spread across his lips, the kind that felt like a hand sliding under clothing without touching.

“Get in,” he said, voice warm and effortless.

Geonwoo blinked once, surprised, then opened the door. The interior smelled like leather, clean cologne, and something faintly sweet.

“You drive this?” Geonwoo asked, buckling the seatbelt.

Arno glanced at him, amused.
“You sound surprised.”

“You don’t look like the type.”

“And what type do I look like?”

Geonwoo didn’t answer. But Arno smirked like he already knew.

The car pulled away, smooth, powerful, the city lights reflecting off the dashboard. They talked, or rather, they circled each other with words. Their sentences kept pulling closer, dissolving space between them.

Every time they turned at a light, Arno’s hand brushed Geonwoo’s knee. Casually. Maybe accidentally. Maybe not.

Each time, Geonwoo’s breath snagged for half a second. Arno noticed everything.

By the time they reached Arno’s building, a tall, modern tower that gleamed like polished stone, the atmosphere inside the car had thickened into something warm and electric.

Arno guided him up to the apartment.

When the door opened, Geonwoo stopped. It was spacious, open, all glass and dark metal, beautifully lit. It felt like a place made for someone who didn’t just live life, he curated it.

Geonwoo stepped inside and put the pack of cigarettes he’d bought earlier on the kitchen island. Arno’s eyes dropped immediately.

“So you did buy the same ones,” he murmured, picking up the pack. He tapped his thumb against it slowly, knowingly.
A smirk curved his mouth.
“You’re more curious than you pretend.”

Geonwoo felt heat crawl up the back of his neck. He needed air, or water, something.

“I’m going to shower…” he said.

Arno nodded, still smiling, and showed the way to the bathroom.

Geonwoo entered the bathroom, and watched his reflection on the mirror. His ears were slightly pink, his heart beating fast. He exhaled running a hand in his hair, trying to stay composed. He started showering, letting the warm water run over him, his muscles slowly unclenching. The fog built on the glass, softening everything. He ran a hand through his wet hair and exhaled.

The door clicked.

He turned his head, Arno stepped in quietly, wearing a bathrobe, eyes calm and unreadable.

“Relax,” Arno murmured.

“I’m just helping.”

Before Geonwoo could answer, he heard the bathrobe fall on the floor. Arno slid behind him, hands gliding along his arms in a slow, steady motion. The touch wasn’t rushed, it was deliberate, almost meditative. His fingertips traced the line of Geonwoo’s spine, gentle pressure easing the leftover tension of the day.

Geonwoo’s breath faltered.

Arno’s chest pressed lightly against his back, his breath warm against the side of Geonwoo’s neck. He washed him in smooth motions, lingering just long enough to blur the line between soothing and seductive.

Every drag of Arno’s hands made the water feel hotter.

When Geonwoo inhaled sharply, Arno chuckled softly. “You always breathe like that when you’re holding back,” he whispered.

Geonwoo turned slightly but Arno’s hands guided him forward again, keeping control, slow and patient. Arno grabbed the soap, rubbed it between his palms and grabbed Geonwoo’s length. A sharp low exhale came out of Geonwoo’s throat. Arno’s hands started moving back and forth in a massaging motion. Geonwoo's head fell backwards as he closed his eyes to focus on the sensation that was sending shivers down his spine. Heavy and shaky breaths, lingering fingers, warm water, made the atmosphere electric.

By the time they stepped out, everything inside Geonwoo felt warm, relaxed and awake.

Arno took a towel, drying him with the same calm, methodical care. He gave him a spare bathrobe, then guided him into the main room.

“Sit.”

Geonwoo did. A chair in the center of the room. Eyes covered by Arno’s handkerchief, fabric sliding against his skin, tying behind his head. Darkness wrapped around him.

He heard Arno step away. Footsteps fading, then returning. A faint brush under his chin made him lift his head instinctively.

A thumb stroked the corner of his lower lip.

Geonwoo parted his mouth without meaning to. Warm lips pressed to his, soft, slow, and then a taste slid across his tongue.

Whisky.

Smooth, sharp warmth running down his throat, settling inside him like fire in slow motion.

As the heat spread through him, another kiss followed, deeper this time, deliberate, savoring. Arno’s mouth tasted of liquor and something darker, something unexpectedly addictive.

Nicotine.

Geonwoo’s breath hitched. His hands tightened against the sides of the chair, searching blindly until they found Arno’s waist. He pulled him closer with a force that surprised even himself.

Arno laughed quietly against his lips.
A soft, breathy sound that made the room tilt.

“Careful,” he whispered.

“You’ll make me think you missed me.”

Geonwoo’s answer wasn’t verbal.
His fingers dug into Arno’s hips, guiding him closer. Their foreheads touched, breaths mingling, heat pooling between them until the air itself felt unsteady.

Arno’s movements grew more fluid, his body moving against Geonwoo’s in slow, rolling pressure that made every inch of tension inside him unravel. Their breaths tangled, low, uneven, hungry.

Geonwoo felt self-control slip, piece by piece, until nothing existed except warmth, rhythm, and the soft sound Arno made when Geonwoo’s lips found his neck.

It built. Slow at first, then fast, the space between them tightening, breaking, collapsing. 

And when they reached climax, everything blurred into a rush of heat and breath and whispered curses that dissolved into the air.

Silence followed.

Their pulses steadied.
Their breathing leveled.

Arno stood first, brushing his thumb along Geonwoo’s cheek in a slow, intimate drag.

“You look better now,” he murmured.

Later, when Geonwoo stepped onto the balcony for air, night wind cooled his overheated skin. He held the pack of cigarettes in his hand, turning it over thoughtfully.

Arno joined him, leaning on the railing beside him.

“Didn’t you say you don’t smoke?” Arno asked, voice gentle.

“I don’t,” Geonwoo murmured. He lit one anyway.

Before he could take a second inhale, Arno caught his wrist. Pulled his hand up.
Leaned in, lips brushing the cigarette before stealing a breath from it. Then he exhaled slow, smoke drifting past Geonwoo’s mouth, close enough to taste. 

Arno’s gaze held his, soft and knowing.
Geonwoo’s ears burned.
A quiet laugh slipped from him.

“Cute,” he whispered.

- Meanwhile — 

Sangwon’s apartment was dark when he walked in. He didn’t turn on the lights.
He leaned back against the door as it closed, breath uneven, shoulders shaking once, sharp and uncontrolled.

His eyes stung.

The image was stuck in his head, Geonwoo walking away toward someone else. Someone he didn’t know. Someone who could touch him freely. His chest tightened painfully. He pressed a hand to his sternum, fingers trembling.

“This is stupid,” he whispered to himself.

“Get over it. Get over him.”

But the ache didn’t listen.

The room blurred.

He slid down the door quietly, knees bending until he sat on the floor.

One tear slipped down.

He wiped it fast, almost angrily.

But another came anyway.

And another.

By the time he forced himself to breathe, the night outside had grown darker, and so had the space inside his chest.

He buried his face into his hands.

“Why does it still hurt?”

His phone buzzed once, a message from production about tomorrow’s script.
He stared at the screen without opening it.

Tomorrow, he’d have to see Geonwoo.
And pretend he was fine.

Morning again.

But this time, Geonwoo felt the ghost of Arno everywhere; on his lips, on his skin, under his fingernails. His body still pulsed with leftover heat that made the cool air of the make-up room feel too sharp against his neck.

He sat in the chair, letting the stylist fix his hair. He forced his face to be neutral.

He wasn’t going to let Sangwon see anything.

Not exhaustion. Not satisfaction. Not confusion. And definitely not the ache that came when his mind flickered back to last night, the balcony, Arno’s mouth, the smoke, the heat.

He kept his eyes on the mirror.

Then the door opened. And Sangwon walked in like a controlled explosion.

Not tired.

Not fragile.

But sharp.

Focused.

Eyes burning in that way that meant trouble.

His hair was styled in a way that enhanced his facial features. His jaw was tight, lips pressed in a hard line, not anger exactly, but something darker. His gaze swept the room, barely a second, but enough. When his eyes found Geonwoo in the mirror… He stopped walking. For a brief, breathless moment, the room felt too small. Then Sangwon smirked.

A slow, deliberate, cruel thing.

Like he already knew something.

Like he smelled the change.

Like he sensed another man’s presence still warm on Geonwoo’s skin.

He walked behind him, close enough that Geonwoo felt the air shift, but not touching.

“Morning,” Sangwon said, voice low and cold. A voice meant to claim.

Geonwoo didn’t react.

“Morning.”

Sangwon leaned forward just slightly, close enough for the stylist to pause nervously.

“You look different today.”

Geonwoo’s breath stilled. He kept his tone flat. “Tired.”

But Sangwon’s smirk deepened as if hearing exactly what he wanted.

“Mm. That’s not what it looks like.”

The words sank under Geonwoo’s skin like a threat.

The director called everyone to prepare.

They were filming the tension-heavy office scene today. Junseo was already reviewing lines with Sangwon, pointing at the printed script, unaware of the dark air gathering behind them.

Sangwon didn’t pay attention.

Not to the script.

Not to Junseo.

His eyes tracked Geonwoo across the room like a hunter marking territory.

Junseo finally noticed.
“Lee Sangwon…? Is something wrong?”

Sangwon blinked slowly and smiled, a smile that had no warmth.

“No. I’m just… motivated.”

Junseo didn’t believe a word of it.  
Neither did Geonwoo, who felt Sangwon’s stare like a touch on the back of his neck.

Scene 1

They began filming.

The script required Sangwon to approach Geonwoo from behind at the desk, lean close, and question him.

But Sangwon pushed the limits.

He stepped closer than directed.
Close enough that Geonwoo felt the warmth of his breath on the back of his ear.

The director didn’t call cut, the tension looked incredible on camera.

Sangwon placed a hand on the desk beside Geonwoo, trapping him in.

“Why are you avoiding me?” he whispered, not in character, too soft for the mic, meant only for Geonwoo.

Geonwoo’s inhale sharpened.

He didn’t turn.

He didn’t flinch.

“I’m acting,” he murmured.

“Are you?” Sangwon’s fingers brushed the edge of the desk, a quiet command.

“Because it feels real.”

Geonwoo forced his pulse to slow.
It didn’t work.

Later, a break.

Junseo and Sangwon reviewed documents for the next shot. Junseo leaned in, pointing at a line. Geonwoo walked over.

“You forgot a line,” he said, tone clipped.

He dropped a printed page onto the desk, too sharply.

Sangwon looked up, offended.

“That’s not a mistake. It’s intentional.”

Geonwoo stepped closer.

“Intentional doesn’t mean correct.”

Sangwon rose from his seat. Slowly. Intentionally. Matching Geonwoo’s posture.

“What’s your problem today?” Sangwon asked with a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes.

“You,” Geonwoo shot back.

Junseo looked between them, frozen.

The space tightened. Geonwoo shoved the document against Sangwon’s chest.

Sangwon didn’t move away; instead, he stepped closer, chest brushing Geonwoo’s hand as if accepting the challenge.

“Oh?” Sangwon tilted his head, gaze dropping to Geonwoo’s lips for half a second.

“Then fix me.”

The air snapped.

Geonwoo leaned in, dangerously close. Their noses almost brushed.
Sangwon’s breath hitched, barely, but enough. Then Sangwon leaned forward too, until their foreheads nearly touched.

He smiled, eyes heavy-lidded.

“Who’s going to back away first?” he whispered.

Geonwoo didn’t move.

Sangwon didn’t either.

Their breaths mingled, hot, uneven, so close it looked like a kiss waiting to happen.

Junseo finally stepped in, nervous. “Hyungs… please. Enough.”

The spell cracked.
Geonwoo stepped back first. Barely.

Sangwon’s smirk turned victorious.
“As expected.”

Geonwoo’s jaw tightened. His fists curled. He needed air. He needed distance.
He walked out without a word.

Geonwoo bought a pack of cigarettes.
The same brand Arno smoked.
He didn’t smoke, but he needed something to hold, something to ground him.

His fingers brushed the box, remembering Arno’s lips, the smoke they shared, the warmth, the taste…

A buzz in his phone.

Arno.

Arno:
You disappeared this morning.
Should I be offended?

Geonwoo exhaled softly.

Geonwoo:
Had work.
Busy day.

Arno:
Busy thinking about me, or busy thinking about him?

Geonwoo froze. His breath hitched.

Geonwoo:
…Don’t start.

Arno:
You’re tense. I can hear it through the screen. Want me to come undo it?

Geonwoo’s chest tightened in a way that wasn’t unpleasant.

Geonwoo:
Not today. It’s messy.

A pause.

Then…

Arno:
I like messy.
But I’ll wait.
Tell me when you want me.

Something warm spread low in Geonwoo’s stomach. He slid the phone into his pocket. And walked back inside, face composed, heart not.

The atmosphere on set shifted the moment Geonwoo returned from outside.

Sangwon noticed immediately, the faint exhaustion around Geonwoo’s eyes, the distant focus, and most of all… the pack of cigarettes he now held loosely in his hand. Sangwon’s jaw flexed. He’d never known Geonwoo to smoke.

Never.

Something inside him twisted, a feeling he refused to name, a growl that stayed trapped behind his teeth.

Scene 1

They resumed filming, the close, tension-heavy storage room scene.

It was supposed to be playful, awkward tension from Sangwon’s character, not real heat.

But Sangwon wasn’t acting.
He was too close. Too warm. Too intense.

He cornered Geonwoo against the storage cabinet just like the script said, but when he leaned in to reach for the folder above them, his chest brushed Geonwoo’s.

Too intentionally.

Geonwoo inhaled sharply.

“Back up,” he murmured under his breath.

“No,” Sangwon whispered, not breaking eye contact. “This is the scene.”

“You’re overdoing it.”

“Am I?” Sangwon’s lips ghosted over Geonwoo’s cheek, not touching, but dangerously close.
“Or are you just… jumpy today?”

Geonwoo’s heartbeat stuttered.
He hated that Sangwon could still affect him. Hated it.

The director called, “Perfect! Keep that tension.”

Sangwon smirked.
Geonwoo wanted to curse.

Scene 2 — The Bathroom Confrontation (Reshot)

They had already recorded it before, but the director wanted a more “charged” version. Everyone in the room felt exactly what that meant.

Geonwoo leaned against the sink, rubbing tension out of his neck as Sangwon approached slowly. In character, but with something undeniably real under the surface.

“You’re doing it on purpose, aren’t you?” Sangwon’s voice vibrated low.

Geonwoo raised an eyebrow. “Doing what?”

Sangwon stepped closer. Then closer. Until Geonwoo’s back touched the wall.

“You know exactly what,” Sangwon murmured, eyes dropping to Geonwoo’s throat.

“You keep avoiding me. Moving away. Acting like you didn’t respond to me earlier.”

The line wasn’t in the script.

Geonwoo didn’t break character.
“I don’t respond to you.”

Sangwon’s lips brushed the air over Geonwoo’s Adam’s apple.

Not touching. But close enough to make Geonwoo swallow hard.

Sangwon smiled, slow, triumphant.

“Really?” he whispered.

The director yelled, “Cut! Perfect. Take ten!”

Sangwon took half a step back, but his gaze stayed locked on Geonwoo’s.

A silent challenge.

A warning.

A claim.

Off-Camera 

As soon as they were alone behind the hallway partition, Sangwon grabbed Geonwoo’s wrist, not painfully, but firm.

“What the hell is going on with you?” Sangwon demanded.

“Let go.”

“You’re shaking.”

“I said let go.”

Sangwon didn’t. He stepped closer, eyes narrowing.

“You smell like him.”

Geonwoo froze. Sangwon’s voice dropped to a dangerous whisper.

“That cheap cologne. That smoke. That taste on your lips…”

Geonwoo yanked his wrist free.
“You’re imagining things.”

Sangwon laughed once, low, humorless.“You think I can’t tell when someone’s touched you?”

Geonwoo’s pulse stuttered.
He hated how accurate that was.

Sangwon leaned in, breath brushing Geonwoo’s cheek.
“Whoever he is… he won’t last.”

“Not your business.”

“It is,” Sangwon said darkly, “when it concerns what’s mine.”

Geonwoo’s eyes flashed.
“I’m not yours.”

“You were,” Sangwon murmured.

“And that part of you hasn’t died.”

Geonwoo stepped back, breath unsteady. Sangwon watched him walk away, eyes sharp, controlled, dangerous.

Back in the Dressing Room

Geonwoo threw himself into the chair, hands gripping the armrests. His chest felt too tight. Too loud. Too exposed.

He reached into his pocket for the cigarettes, not to smoke, but to ground himself.

Then his phone buzzed.

Arno.

Geonwoo’s heartbeat… softened.

Arno:  
Busy day at work, hm?

He frowned. He hadn’t told Arno anything about the schedule. He typed:

Geonwoo:
How do you know?

A pause.
A long one.
Then:

Arno:
Just a feeling.
You look… tense today.

Geonwoo froze. A strange, cold shiver crawled up his spine. He typed quickly:

Geonwoo:
You can’t see me.

Another pause.
Then:

Arno:
I don’t need to.
I can tell.

It was subtle.
Too vague to confirm anything.
But the implication…

That somewhere, somehow, Arno might be watching.

Geonwoo’s breath hitched. He stared at the message for too long.

Then—

Arno:  
Don’t worry.
If I was nearby, you’d feel it.

Geonwoo’s throat tightened.
He didn’t know if that made him relieved…or more aware of the shadows around him.

Meanwhile — Sangwon

Sangwon sat alone in the break room, one hand gripping his water bottle so tightly the plastic creaked. He replayed every second of Geonwoo’s reactions.

The tremble.
The scent.
The avoidance.

Someone else had touched Geonwoo. Someone else had kissed him.

Held him.

Marked him.

Something animal twisted in Sangwon’s chest, not sadness.

Not heartbreak.

Possession.

Pure, raw, territorial fire.

He exhaled through his nose, slow and dangerous.

“If he thinks I’m letting him go,” Sangwon murmured, “he’s insane.”

He stood up.
Ready.
Determined.
Predatory.

Because Sangwon wasn’t going to cry.
He wasn’t going to beg.
He was going to take back what was his.

By force of emotion.

By heat.

By tension.

By whatever it took.

And as he walked back toward set, ready for the next few scenes of the day, eyes dark and sharp. He had no idea that someone else had already claimed a small corner of Geonwoo’s shadows.

Someone who watched quieter.
Closer.
Smarter.

Someone named Arno.

The next morning, the air in the agency felt thick, like humidity before a storm.

Geonwoo walked in wearing a cap low over his eyes, coffee in hand, pretending the world was silent.

It wasn’t.

Sangwon was already there.  
Leaning against the wall. Arms crossed.
Expression unreadable, but eyes burning with the kind of quiet intensity that made people step out of his way.

Geonwoo slowed his pace.
And Sangwon smiled.

Not soft.
Not warm.

But sharp. Possessive.

Predator-like.

“Morning,” Sangwon said, voice low, knowing, dangerous.

“Morning,” Geonwoo answered flatly.

He tried to pass. Sangwon stepped in front of him. Close. Too close.

“You didn’t answer my message last night,” Sangwon said quietly. “I waited.”

Geonwoo swallowed, jaw tightening. “I didn’t have to.”

Sangwon’s gaze dropped for half a second. Geonwoo’s neck. The faint mark he’d tried to cover since yesterday.

Sangwon leaned in until his breath brushed Geonwoo’s ear.

“You’re letting someone else put their hands on you.”

Geonwoo froze.

Sangwon’s voice dropped even lower, nearly a growl:

“Do you think I won’t do anything about that?”

Geonwoo shoved Sangwon’s shoulder lightly. Enough to break the proximity.
Not enough to actually move him.

“Stay out of my life.” He replied.

Sangwon tilted his head with a slow smile.

“You keep saying that,” he whispered, “but you react every time I touch you.”

Geonwoo’s heart jolted. He hated that Sangwon could still land blows without lifting a finger.

“Get ready,” Geonwoo said coldly.
“We have scenes.”

Sangwon didn’t move. He watched Geonwoo walk away.

Watched the tension in his shoulders. Watched the faint mark on his throat.

And Sangwon made a quiet promise to himself:

“I’ll make him remember me.”

They were filming the office scene where Sangwon’s character brushes past Geonwoo’s, slightly touching him, sparking the growing tension.

The moment the camera rolled, Sangwon pushed the boundary. His hand grazed Geonwoo’s waist instead of his arm.

Not obvious enough for the director to stop. But intimate enough that Geonwoo’s pulse jumped.

He hissed under his breath, “Cut it out.”

Sangwon murmured through a fake polite smile, “Make me.”

Junseo watched from across the room, brows furrowing. 

He sensed it.

The electricity.
The possessiveness.
The danger.

And for the first time, Junseo felt something like protectiveness toward Geonwoo.

Around lunchtime, production assistants buzzed:

“Someone’s here for Geonwoo-ssi.”

“He looks… expensive.”

“Foreign?”

“Maybe… chinese?”

“His car… holy shit.”

Geonwoo froze mid-bite.

Who?

He stood, walking toward the lobby, and stopped dead.

Because leaning casually against a sleek black sports car, sunglasses pushed into hair, wearing a dark coat like he owned the whole building…

Was Arno.

The world seemed to compress for a second. 

Arno looked up.
Saw Geonwoo.
And smiled.

Slow.

Warm.

Possessive in a different flavor…  
smooth instead of sharp.

“Hello,” Arno greeted.

Everyone stared.
Geonwoo’s heart thudded hard.

“What are you doing here?” he asked quietly.

Arno tilted his head, eyes glowing with something unreadable.

“Checking on you.”

That one sentence made the hair rise on Geonwoo’s arms. Not in fear. In something else. Something deep in his chest twisting.

“You shouldn’t just show up,” Geonwoo whispered. “People will…”

“…wonder who I am?” Arno finished with a soft smile.
“Let them.”

Geonwoo’s breath caught.

Arno’s presence was heat. Calm. Unshakable. A shadow that wrapped around him rather than cornered him.

Before Geonwoo could respond, a voice cut through the hallway like a blade:

“…Who is that?”

He turned.

Sangwon stood at the entrance.
Expression blank. Eyes burning.
Junseo behind him, tense.

Geonwoo felt his pulse spike.

Arno straightened, gaze sliding toward Sangwon with slow, feline interest.

“Friend of yours?” Arno asked, tone too polite.

Geonwoo opened his mouth, but Sangwon stepped forward, shoulders squared.

“Not his friend,” Sangwon said, voice edged.

“Tell me who you are.”

Arno’s smile didn’t falter.
“I’m someone who takes care of him.”

Sangwon’s eyes went cold, murderous cold.

Geonwoo felt the floor tilt beneath him.

“Stop,” Geonwoo said quickly, stepping between them.

But Sangwon’s gaze never left Arno.

“You touched him,” Sangwon said quietly.

“You’re the smell on him.”

Geonwoo stiffened in shock.
Sangwon said it out loud, accusation and threat in one.

Arno’s brow lifted slightly.

“And if I did?” Arno asked softly.

Geonwoo’s breath caught.

Sangwon stepped forward, Junseo grabbed his arm, holding him back.

“Sangwon,” Junseo warned, “not here.”

Sangwon’s chest rose sharply.

Arno remained perfectly calm. He touched Geonwoo’s wrist gently, not claiming, not flaunting. But Sangwon reacted like he’d been stabbed. Geonwoo felt his ribs tighten.

“Arno… you should go,” Geonwoo said under his breath.

Arno searched his eyes. Slowly nodded.
He leaned in, not touching, but close enough that Geonwoo felt breath on his jaw.

“Call me,” Arno whispered. Then he left.

Sangwon watched the car disappear, and Geonwoo saw it:

A crack.

A real one.

Not tears.

Not softness.

But something more dangerous…

obsession.

As soon as Arno was gone, Sangwon pulled his arm from Junseo.  He turned to Geonwoo.

“Who the hell is he?”

“No one,” Geonwoo answered too quickly.

Sangwon laughed once, dark and hollow.

“You bring a man like that into your life… and you call him no one?”

“Stop.”

“You let him touch you.”

“Sangwon—”

“You let him mark you.”

Geonwoo’s jaw clenched.
“Stay out of it.”

Sangwon stepped closer, low voice trembling with control.

“I can’t.”

His eyes flicked down Geonwoo’s neck again.

“You think he can love you?” Sangwon whispered.

“You think he knows you like I do?”

Geonwoo’s breath hitched.

Sangwon leaned in, lips brushing the air near his ear, the exact place Arno had kissed earlier.

“I won’t let someone else take you,” Sangwon murmured. “Not again.”

Geonwoo’s heart hammered painfully. Because Sangwon didn’t sound jealous.

He sounded possessive.

Obsessive.

Like someone who would burn everything before letting go.

Junseo intervened again, stepping between them.

“That’s enough.”

Sangwon didn’t move. His eyes stayed locked on Geonwoo.

“I’m not finished,” he whispered.

Then he walked away, slow, calculated steps. Leaving Geonwoo breathless.

Shaken. Unable to tell which shadow behind him was more dangerous:

Sangwon… or Arno.

The moment Sangwon stepped onto set the next morning, everyone felt it. His energy was different.

Not broken. Not emotional. Not angry.

Focused. Controlled. Predatory.

He was dressed sharper than usual, dark slacks, fitted shirt, sleeves rolled just enough to show veins. A look that he knew affected Geonwoo once.

He caught Geonwoo staring for 0.8 seconds. A slow smirk curved his lips. 

“Morning,” Sangwon said, voice silky, dangerous.

Geonwoo looked away immediately. “Morning.”

Junseo, passing by with his coffee, raised an eyebrow. He whispered low so only Geonwoo heard:

“Be careful today. He’s… different.”

Geonwoo exhaled quietly. He knew.
He felt it the second Sangwon walked in.

This wasn’t jealousy.
This wasn’t heartbreak.
It was determination.

And Geonwoo had the sinking realization:

Sangwon had decided to fight.

Fight for him.
Or fight anyone who touched him.

Hard to tell which.

They were shooting a scene where their characters discuss a project, standing side by side. No physical touch.

But Sangwon… didn’t listen.

He stood too close. Just a breath too close. Enough that when Geonwoo tried to step away, Sangwon subtly shifted, keeping their arms brushing.

The director smiled. “This is perfect! The chemistry’s insane today.”

Junseo, watching from his desk scene setup, tensed.

Geonwoo delivered his lines, jaw tight:  
“I think you’ve misunderstood the proposal.”

Sangwon responded softly, leaning in:“Then explain it to me. Slowly.”

It wasn’t in the script.
Geonwoo’s breath skipped.

Cut.

The director was thrilled.
“Beautiful, Sangwon! Keep that intensity!”

Geonwoo walked off the moment he could. Sangwon followed. Geonwoo stopped near the water dispenser, breathing harshly.

Sangwon approached, slow, deliberate. “You’re avoiding me again.”

“You’re being inappropriate on set.”

“Inappropriate?” Sangwon repeated with a soft laugh. He stepped closer. Geonwoo stepped back.

“You think I don’t see it?” Sangwon murmured, trapping him lightly against the wall.

“You flinch when I touch you now.”
He tilted his head. “You never used to.”

“That was before,” Geonwoo muttered.

“Before him?” Sangwon asked sharply.

Geonwoo’s eyes flickered. A mistake. Sangwon moved closer, mouth near Geonwoo’s ear.

“You let him touch you like that?”
A low whisper.
“You let him mark you?”

Geonwoo swallowed hard.
Sangwon noticed. He exhaled a soft laugh.“You’re still mine somewhere in there.”

Geonwoo’s pulse jumped.
“Get away from me,” he finally said.

Sangwon didn’t move for three seconds. Not out of defiance, but because he was studying him. Like a puzzle he intended to solve. Completely.
Then he stepped back. Not because Geonwoo asked, but because he decided to.

That was worse.
Much worse.

During lunch, Geonwoo sat alone in the quiet rehearsal room, scrolling through the script.

His phone buzzed.

Arno.

Arno:  
You look tired today.

Geonwoo froze.
He hadn’t texted Arno a picture.
He hadn’t posted anything.
He typed back quickly:

Geonwoo:
Are you somewhere near?

A pause.
Long.
Then:

Arno:  
Not too near.
Not too far.
Just enough.

The hairs on Geonwoo’s arms rose.

Another message followed:

Arno:
He’s bothering you again.

Geonwoo’s stomach tightened.

Geonwoo:  
Arno…
How do you know that?

Arno:
I pay attention.
That’s all.

Geonwoo exhaled shakily.
That wasn’t an answer.
And it wasn’t a denial.

He typed carefully:

Geonwoo:  
Don’t show up suddenly like yesterday.

Arno:
I won’t.
…Unless you need me to.

His breath hitched. What did that mean?

A knock on the door snapped him out of it. He hid his phone.

Junseo peeked in.

“You okay?” Junseo asked softly. “You look… tense.”

Geonwoo forced a sigh. “Just tired.”

Junseo stepped inside, lowering his voice:“Sangwon is going to push you today. Hard. He’s… not stable right now.”

Geonwoo looked away. He knew that already.

Junseo hesitated.
“You know you can ask me to step in, right?”

Geonwoo blinked. Junseo rarely showed protectiveness. He was usually calm, unbothered. But today… he looked worried.

“Thanks,” Geonwoo said quietly.

Junseo nodded, expression gentle.
Then he left.

Moments later, another message:

Arno:  
Don’t trust everyone who smiles at you.

Geonwoo stared at the screen.
That message could mean anything. Anyone.

But the timing…

His chest tightened.

They were filming a scene where Sangwon’s character corners Geonwoo’s against the desk after an argument.

It was heated. Raw. Built on rising tension. But the moment cameras rolled…

Sangwon crossed the line.

He slammed his hand beside Geonwoo’s waist with more force than scripted.

Geonwoo startled.
It was real fear for a moment.

Sangwon leaned in, whispering so only he could hear:

“You don’t get to run from me.”

Geonwoo’s breath stuttered. He tried to push him back subtly, without ruining the shot. Sangwon didn’t budge.

His face came close, too close…
Eyes burning with possessive fury.

The director, thrilled by the “passion,” let it go.

The room held its breath. Junseo stood up from his desk in the background scene.

Something was wrong.
Very wrong.

Geonwoo whispered, barely audible:

“Sangwon… stop.”

That was all Junseo needed.
He stepped forward, breaking character.

“Cut!” he called, louder than the director.

Everyone froze.

Sangwon didn’t move at first. Then his jaw clenched. He stepped back slowly, gaze locked on Geonwoo, chest rising fast.

The director looked annoyed. Junseo didn’t care.

He walked straight to them.

“Sangwon,” he said calmly, “that was too much.”

Sangwon turned his head sharply.
“Stay out of this.”

Junseo’s eyes narrowed.

“No.”

For a moment, two men stood there, not as actors but as rivals. Geonwoo felt the temperature of the room drop.

When filming wrapped, Sangwon grabbed Geonwoo’s wrist again in the hallway.
But this time, Geonwoo pulled free immediately.

“I’m tired,” Geonwoo said flatly. “Just let it go.”

Sangwon’s eyes darkened.

“You think he can protect you?” Sangwon whispered.

“That foreigner with the smile?”

Geonwoo stiffened.

“You think he won’t hurt you?”

“Stop,” Geonwoo snapped.

But Sangwon kept going, voice low, shaky with intensity:

“You think you’ll be safe with a man who watches you from the shadows?”

Geonwoo’s heart stopped.
“What—?”

Sangwon leaned in, expression softening in a terrifying way.

“I see things too,” he whispered.

“I pay attention too.”

Geonwoo’s blood ran cold. Sangwon stepped back, smiling faintly.

“Don’t trust the wrong person.”
Then he walked away.

Leaving Geonwoo frozen.

Because Sangwon’s warning didn’t sound jealous. It sounded true. And when Geonwoo finally checked his phone later…

Another message waited.

From Arno.

Arno:    
Don’t worry about him.
I’ll take care of it.

Geonwoo stared. Cold crept down his spine.

Take care of it?

What did that mean?

What exactly was Arno willing to do?

And who would reach him first…

Sangwon’s obsession, or Arno’s shadow?