Chapter Text
“Alright, are we ready for the new project?”
It’s too early, at least for Taesan—he feels like a zombie dragged out of his grave, eyelids heavy, temples aching, the air in the meeting room already too loud. There’s too much chatter bouncing off the glass walls, too many overlapping voices, too many pens clicking, laptops opening, chairs scraping. There are too many things going on in his head—ideas waiting to be organized, emails he hasn’t answered, meetings stacked back-to-back, three other projects breathing down his neck—and this meeting, of all things, is the last thing he wants to sit through right now.
If he were honest, he would rather be anywhere else. Preferably in bed. Preferably under his blanket. Preferably unconscious.
He had just finished wrapping up his previous project not even a week ago—a dating show that somehow involved pets, cat moms, and a few dog dads falling in love. The concept itself had been ridiculous from the start, but the ratings were decent, and that was all that mattered in the end. The rumor going around, though, was a lot more interesting than the show itself. Apparently, one of the dog dads had fallen in love with another cat dad, but they couldn’t do anything about it because they were worried the ratings would plummet due to the same-sex pairing.
The producers didn’t even hesitate—they quietly redirected the storyline, nudged choices, edited things differently. Everyone pretended not to notice. Everyone pretended not to know. Because they were all well aware that netizens could be brutal, and no one wanted to deal with that kind of backlash.
So here he is now, sitting in another cold meeting room, coffee slowly going lukewarm beside him, listening to his boss talk about this new project with the kind of enthusiasm that only people who slept a full eight hours could possess.
Sungho, his boss, looks annoyingly awake. Fresh. Energized. Like he actually wanted to be here.
Taesan briefly considers the alternate universe where he’s still in bed, staring at the ceiling, taking his time to wake up instead of forcing consciousness into his system with caffeine and pure spite. But then he remembers that he’s cranky in the morning regardless of whether he works or not, so, really, he never stood a chance.
The idea of the new project is… predictable.
A typical romance drama, inspired by Sungho’s favorite show, Can This Love Be Translated? God, if Taesan had a nickel for every time his boss mentioned that drama, he wouldn’t need to work right now. He’d be on a beach somewhere, phone turned off, responsibilities abandoned.
“Unlike the love story of Cha Mu-hee and Joo Hojin,” Sungho starts, pacing slowly in front of the screen, eyes practically sparkling, “think of it more like Kim Ji-ung and Kook Yeon-su from Our Beloved Summer—” Another all-time favorite. Of course. “—he’s in love with him but can only love him through the camera, while he falls for the main character of the story that this guy participated in writing!”
Taesan blinks. Once. Twice.
It’s too fucking early for this, is what he wants to say. But he doesn’t. Because he loves his job. Because he needs to pay his rent. Because he still owes his friend fifty won and refuses to let that hang over his head forever.
So he just exhales quietly and scribbles something meaningless into his notebook.
“But Sungho-ssi, we can’t really do BLs because of TV ratings,” one of the producers carefully says, voice hesitant, measured. “We already had to interfere in the pet dating show. We asked the dog dad not to choose the cat dad because we knew the public wouldn’t respond well…”
They trail off, uncomfortable, but the implication is clear.
He looks at them—really looks at them—and there’s something sharp in his gaze, something that makes the entire room go quiet.
“Are we still thinking like this?” he asks calmly.
No one answers.
“It’s not only locals watching our content,” Sungho continues. “The entire world is. The Philippines, Jakarta, Taiwan, Vietnam—heck, even Australia, America! The Flix app came to us for this project.”
There’s a ripple of whispers around the table.
“Flix app?” someone murmurs, leaning toward Taesan.
“Netflix,” Taesan mutters back, already tired. “He means Netflix.”
That earns a small, startled nod.
Sungho clicks to the next slide, numbers flashing across the screen. International viewership. Streaming projections. Demographics. Market expansion. It’s impressive, even to Taesan, who has seen these presentations a hundred times.
“This is the time to take risks,” Sungho says. “We can’t keep playing safe forever.”
Taesan stares at the screen, mind slowly catching up to the conversation. A romance drama. Global audience. Risk-taking. Love stories that don’t follow the rules. Somewhere in his chest, something shifts—just slightly.
“Any questions?” Sungho asks, eyes sweeping across the room.
Some people straighten up immediately. Some pretend they weren’t half-asleep. Some—Taesan—were definitely zoning out, eyes unfocused, pen resting uselessly between his fingers. Others were diligently typing notes into their laptops, fingers moving fast like they actually planned on reviewing them later. And then there were a few who leaned back in their chairs, already forming questions, because they knew Sungho liked this part.
Sungho liked talking about his ideas. About his visions. About how things could be. Give him an opening, and he could talk for hours, even if they were supposedly still discussing only the first episode.
“Who are we thinking of as the lead actor?” someone finally asks, breaking the silence. “The one the camera guy will fall for?”
That gets Taesan’s attention. Just slightly.
Sungho’s face brightens instantly, like he’d been waiting for this exact question. “You have the best questions, Geonwoo-ah,” Sungho says warmly, smiling as if genuinely delighted. “I’m thinking of Kim Leehan. The famous Kim Leehan—the one who did Lightphobia.”
A few murmurs ripple through the room
“I noticed he keeps getting heavy characters,” Sungho continues, hands moving animatedly now. “Traumatized, brooding, emotionally intense roles. And he does them well. But I want to be the first to give him a light character. Someone soft. Someone warm.”
Taesan hums quietly, nodding before he even realizes it.
“Yeah,” he says, voice steady, thoughtful. “He mentioned in an interview recently that his characters tend to get into his head. That they affect him even outside of acting. I think this would actually be… good for him.”
The room goes still for a second. Sungho’s eyes flick to him, sharp and amused, and then he points directly at Taesan.
“You know it’s a good idea, when Han Taesan actually says something in a meeting.” Sungho says, half-laughing.
There’s a beat. Taesan blinks. The hell is that supposed to mean?
He resists the urge to frown, instead leaning back in his chair, crossing his arms loosely. He tells himself it’s a compliment. A weird one, sure—but still a compliment. Sungho had always been like that, saying things in ways that felt slightly backhanded even when they weren’t meant to be.
Still, something about the name—Kim Leehan—lingers in his head longer than expected.
Taesan glances back at the presentation screen, suddenly more awake than he had been all morning, and for the first time since the meeting started, he feels that faint, unfamiliar pull of curiosity.
“Well, he’s the only person I thought of right now,” Sungho says, tone light as he claps his hands together once, satisfied. “But if you guys have any other ideas, let me know. We can talk about it soon.”
He looks around the room expectantly, but no one speaks up. A few people nod, some hum in agreement, others already mentally packing up. Sungho seems to take that as his cue.
“Alright then,” he says, pleased. “That’s all for today.”
Chairs scrape softly against the floor as everyone stands, the tension of the meeting dissolving almost instantly. Laptops close, notebooks are tucked away, phones are checked like they’ve been starved of attention for the past hour. Conversations start up again, quieter now, fragmented and low.
Taesan stays seated for a moment longer than everyone else. He reaches for his coffee, now barely warm, and takes a slow sip as he finally stands. Bitter. Not great. But it does the job. He slips his notebook into his bag without looking at what he wrote—he already knows it’s mostly useless lines and half-formed thoughts.
As he steps out into the hallway, the noise of the meeting room fades behind him, replaced by the steady hum of the building. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead. Someone laughs down the corridor. A staff member rushes past him with a stack of papers held precariously against their chest.
God, this is going to be a long project.
Not in a bad way—he’s learned that projects rarely are. Just… consuming. The kind that slowly takes over your schedule, your thoughts, your weekends. The kind that follows you home even when you don’t invite it to.
Kim Leehan.
The name resurfaces again, unprompted, sticking to the back of his mind like it has business being there.
Taesan exhales quietly through his nose, adjusting the strap of his bag on his shoulder as he walks toward the elevator. He presses the button, watching the numbers count down, coffee cup still warm in his hand despite everything.
“Hyung, hyung, hyung, hyung, hyung, hyung—hyung-nim!”
The room is quiet, the kind of quiet that feels earned. The curtains are drawn just enough to let soft light spill in, dust floating lazily in the air. He opens his eyes slowly, unhurried, as if nothing in the outside world could possibly rush him right now. He reaches for his water bottle, twists the cap open, and takes a long sip before finally turning around.
Leehan just finished meditating.
“Yes, Woonhak-ah?” he asks calmly, voice even, still wrapped in that lingering sense of zen.
Woonhak is practically vibrating in place. “New project!” he blurts out, shoving his phone closer to his chest like it might escape. “But this time it’s not one of those traumatic dramas. It’s gonna be a romcom!”
Leehan pauses. Mid-sip, mid-breath, mid-thought.
“A… what?” he says after a beat, lowering the bottle. His head tilts slightly at the word romcom, brows knitting together in quiet confusion, as if he’s misheard it. Or maybe he’s heard it correctly, and that’s exactly why it doesn’t make sense. He searches his memory briefly—scripts, offers, meetings, all the dark and heavy roles he’s done lately—and comes up empty.
Woonhak, clearly interpreting the silence as disbelief, steps forward and holds his phone out properly this time, screen glowing between them.
Leehan leans in, squinting just a little as he reads.
Romantic comedy. Light tone. Warm male lead.
His eyes linger on the description longer than necessary.
“That’s…” he starts, then stops, letting out a quiet breath. He looks up again, disbelief softening into something closer to curiosity. “A first.”
Woonhak grins like he’s been waiting for that exact reaction, clutching the phone tighter.
Leehan caps his water bottle and sets it down beside him, the calm in his chest shifting—not breaking, just rearranging itself. Somewhere between unfamiliar and intriguing, the idea settles in.
“Are you sure it’s not a wrong send to the wrong actor?”
Leehan asks it lightly, half-serious, half-amused, as he reaches for his towel and wipes the back of his neck. There’s a small smile playing on his lips now, the kind that shows up when he doesn’t quite trust what he’s hearing but wants to entertain the possibility anyway.
Woonhak lets out a dramatic sound of protest. “Ah, hyung!” he groans, shoulders slumping exaggeratedly. “I already checked three times. The offer, the production company, the director—everything’s correct.”
Leehan chuckles, the sound soft and easy, a little different from the reserved laughter people usually hear from him in interviews.
“We just need to make sure,” he says, tone teasing as he looks back at Woonhak. “I don’t want to show up on set and realize I stole someone else’s life for six months.”
Woonhak snorts, shaking his head as he scrolls through his phone again, as if proving his point through sheer repetition. Leehan watches him for a moment, then looks away, gaze drifting back toward the window. Outside, the day looks ordinary—too ordinary for something this unexpected.
A romcom.
The idea still feels strange on his tongue, unfamiliar but not unwelcome. He exhales slowly, smile lingering as something warm stirs in his chest.
“Holy shit,” Leehan murmurs, hoping the calm from his meditation survives the curse. “I’m finally going to be in a romcom.”
The words feel strange in his mouth. Light. Almost unreal.
Leehan and his company have always known this about him. Romantic comedies were never just a casual preference; they were the goal. His debut had been in one, technically. He’d played the main lead’s best friend: charming, supportive, there for comic relief and warm advice. It had been fun. Easy. The kind of set where people laughed between takes and went home without the weight of the character clinging to them.
That had been the first time. And the last.
Not long after, he was cast in a drama centered around mental illness. His character was withdrawn, heavy with despair, someone who felt stuck in life, constantly pulled under by his own thoughts. It was the kind of role that demanded everything from him. Emotionally draining. Painfully quiet.
The drama blew up—everyone loved it. Critics praised his performance. Viewers cried for his character. Producers started seeing him differently. Suddenly, that was all they wanted from him.
So he took on more roles like it; dark. Heavy. Complicated.
At first, it felt like growth. Like proof that he was a serious actor. But somewhere along the way, the lines started to blur. He didn’t just play the characters—he carried them with him. Off set. Into his car. Back home. On days when he wasn’t filming, his chest would still feel tight, his thoughts still crowded. On set, his anxiety spiked so badly his hands wouldn’t stop shaking, even when the cameras weren’t rolling.
Then Lightphobia happened. That was the peak of his career.
The response was overwhelming. Everyone loved his character—how vividly he portrayed fear, how convincingly he embodied anxiety. People said he made it feel real. Too real.
In interviews, he was constantly asked how he did it so well, and every single time, he smiled and talked about preparation, research, empathy. Every single time, he swallowed the urge to say, It wasn’t acting. It was just me.
When promotions finally ended, the silence hit him all at once; that was when he realized something was wrong.
He started meditating. Slowing down. Paying attention to himself in ways he hadn’t before. He noticed how tired he was—not physically; but somewhere deeper. How waking up in the morning felt heavier than it used to. How his thoughts kept looping back to characters he was done playing.
So he made a decision. Small at first. Intentional. Take care of himself.
When a magazine reached out for an interview—he was set to be their next monthly issue—they asked him, gently, how he truly felt about the characters he’d played over the years. He thought about it longer than he usually did.
“Honestly,” he said, voice steady but sincere, “the roles I’ve had took a negative impact on me. After doing Lightphobia, it became really hard to wake up in the morning, to do basic things without feeling heavy—I remember days where I’d just wake up with constant anxiety. That role was the heaviest one I’ve done.”
He paused, choosing his words carefully. “There were moments when I kept thinking about the character, even when I wasn’t acting. I remember asking myself, ‘Am I really acting?’ because it felt that real to me. Don’t get me wrong—I love all the roles I’ve played. I’m grateful for them. But I’ve started to realize that I get too immersed. They get into my head to the point where it becomes difficult to live my everyday life.”
He smiled softly at the interviewer after that, polite and composed, but inside, he felt lighter just for having said it out loud.
Leehan exhales, something warm and unfamiliar settling in his chest. Maybe this time, the role won’t follow him home.
“Good news, Leehan-nim said yes to the role!”
Sungho sounds far too happy for ten in the morning. His voice carries across the meeting room, bright and energetic, like this is the best possible way to start the day. Taesan squints slightly over the rim of his coffee cup, already regretting the fact that he’s awake.
This guy has to be a morning person. Taesan thinks absently as he takes another sip, the bitterness grounding him just enough to stay present.
For a second, the room is silent—then it erupts.
Cheers break out from different corners of the table. Someone claps. Someone else lets out a small whoop before quickly covering their mouth. Laptops are nudged aside as people turn to one another, grinning, already talking over each other about possibilities, schedules, timelines.
Leehan-nim. The name lands heavier now that it’s confirmed.
Taesan lowers his cup, eyes flicking briefly to the presentation screen even though it hasn’t changed. There’s something different about this project all of a sudden. Less hypothetical. More real.
“Alright, alright,” Sungho laughs, raising his hands slightly to calm everyone down, though he looks just as pleased. “Now all we need to focus on is finding the male lead.”
That earns a few nods. It shouldn’t be too hard, really. The role is solid. The script has potential. And with Kim Leehan already attached, half the work is practically done. Names are already being thrown around under people’s breaths, quiet discussions starting up before the meeting has even officially ended.
Taesan leans back in his chair, fingers tightening briefly around his coffee cup.
He stares ahead, thoughtful, the earlier fatigue in his body dulled by a faint, unexpected sense of anticipation.
“Taesan-ah, can you be the one to keep contact with Leehan?”
For a second, Taesan is sure he misheard.
What.
The room feels quieter all of a sudden, like the air itself is waiting for his reaction. Sungho’s looking at him expectantly, already halfway through his next thought, as if this is the most natural decision in the world. A few heads turn. Someone pauses mid-typing.
“Yeah,” he says, voice coming out steady despite the way his brain short-circuits, “got it.”
Sungho nods, satisfied, already moving on to the next agenda item.
The fuck.
Taesan exhales through his nose, staring down at his coffee like it personally betrayed him. Keep in contact. With Leehan. Emails, calls, meetings—being the point person, the bridge between production and actor. He didn’t sign up for this part. Or maybe he did, and just forgot that this was how things worked around here.
Across the table, someone shoots him a sympathetic look. Someone else smirks like this is going to be entertaining.
Taesan takes another sip of his coffee, now fully cold, and grimaces. Great. Amazing. Perfect, even.
He rolls the cup slightly between his palms, staring into it like the answer might be sitting at the bottom. He honestly can’t remember if this was ever part of his job description or if Sungho just woke up this morning and decided to personally test his patience.
He exhales quietly, leaning back in his chair as the meeting continues without him, voices blurring into background noise. Contact with Leehan. Keeping things aligned. Communicating schedules, script notes, creative decisions. The more he thinks about it, the more it sounds suspiciously official, suspiciously personal.
Taesan rubs at his temple, eyes briefly closing. This is what he gets for saying something useful in a meeting. This is what he gets for being competent.
Across the room, Sungho laughs at something someone says, already deep into another discussion, completely unbothered by the chaos he’s just handed off.
“And then,” Taesan says, voice muffled, “they make me the person who has to contact him!”
His face is buried in his hands, elbows planted firmly on the kitchen table as he groans like the world has personally wronged him. He rants into his palms, words tumbling out half-coherent, half-dramatic, occasionally lifting his head just long enough to threaten—very seriously—that he’s going to quit his job. Today. Right now. Effective immediately.
Neither Jaehyun nor Riwoo looks particularly convinced.
They’re both there beside him anyway, hovering in that way that feels suspiciously like concern. Like two parents who have seen this exact meltdown before and already know how it ends. They’d let him crash at their shared apartment without question, no conditions attached—just an unspoken agreement that he could rant as much as he wanted, about work, about Sungho, about the universe conspiring against him.
Jaehyun reaches out and pats Taesan’s back gently, slow and steady, like it might calm him down if he does it long enough.
“It’s okay,” Jaehyun says, far too calm. “At least it’s from Sungho.”
Taesan groans louder, lifting his head just enough to glare at him.
“You’re only saying that because you like that guy,” Riwoo cuts in immediately, pointing an accusing finger at Jaehyun.
Jaehyun rolls his eyes, unbothered. “I like competent people,” he says defensively. “And Sungho happens to be competent.”
“Mhm,” Riwoo hums, clearly unconvinced, crossing his arms. “Sure.”
Taesan drops his face back into his hands again, listening to them bicker over his head, and lets out a long, tired sigh. This was supposed to make him feel better.
“I mean,” Jaehyun says carefully, leaning back against the counter, “do you actually have anything against talking to an actor?”
“No—” Taesan lifts his head immediately, defensive, hands flailing a little as he straightens up. “I’m a producer, sure, but I’m not the one who’s supposed to be talking to actors. God. That’s literally Sungho’s job.” He drops back into the chair with a dramatic sigh, running a hand through his hair like the weight of the industry itself is pressing down on him.
Riwoo snorts from the couch. “Dude, relax. This is your third project.”
Taesan shoots him a look.
“You’re still, like, a rookie,” Riwoo continues, unbothered. “Maybe Sungho gave it to you because you’ll be doing this more in the future. You know. Experience.”
Taesan stares at him. Then he points. “I’m quitting once this project is over.”
There’s a brief pause. Jaehyun doesn’t even look up from where he’s pouring himself a glass of water. “You said that two projects ago.”
Taesan opens his mouth, then closes it. He clicks his tongue in frustration and sinks deeper into his chair, defeated. Riwoo bursts out laughing, Jaehyun finally cracking a small smile.
“You’ll be fine, Taesan-ah,” Riwoo says, leaning over just enough to pat Taesan’s head—once, twice—like he’s soothing a particularly grumpy cat.
Taesan swats at his hand half-heartedly but doesn’t actually stop him.
“Sungho will definitely pay you extra,” Riwoo continues, far too confident about it, “especially since you’ll be the one reaching out.”
Taesan lets his head fall back against the chair, staring up at the ceiling like he’s negotiating with the universe itself.
“God,” he mutters, dragging the word out, “he better.”
Jaehyun hums thoughtfully from the kitchen. “If he doesn’t, I’m sending him an invoice on your behalf.”
“That would actually be the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me,” Taesan says flatly.
Riwoo laughs, giving his head one last pat before finally pulling away. Taesan doesn’t stop him this time either. For someone who keeps threatening to quit, he looks suspiciously like someone who’s already accepted his fate.
“Okay, we found the perfect male lead for Leehan! Kim Junseo—he’s three years older than him!” Sungho announces it like he’s delivering a gift, voice bright and confident, already convinced this is a win. A few people murmur in interest, some nodding, some already typing the name into their notes.
For once, the meeting is in the afternoon. Taesan sits a little straighter in his chair, coffee replaced with iced tea, brain actually awake enough to process words as they’re being said. Afternoons are his time. Mornings are for survival. This—this is when he functions like a normal human being.
Kim Junseo.
The name registers cleanly. Familiar enough to not be random, solid enough to make sense. Experienced. Reliable. The age gap is reasonable, the kind executives like to hear about without making it weird.
Taesan glances at the screen, then back at Sungho, nodding slowly. He’s listening. Actually listening. Which is rare.
“This pairing works,” someone says from the other side of the table.
“It does,” another agrees. “Their images won’t clash.”
Sungho smiles, satisfied, clicking to the next slide as if everything is falling neatly into place.
Taesan leans back slightly, fingers tapping against his notebook. No grogginess, no internal screaming—just focus.
“Those two are coming in a few minutes,” Sungho says, glancing down at his watch before looking back up at everyone in the room. “So we’re going to brief them for a bit, then give them the script, walk them through the shooting schedule…”
He pauses, lips curling into a grin that already feels suspicious.
“And it’s going to be a super duper fun four months,” he adds, tapping the table lightly for emphasis, “…estimated.”
That last word hangs in the air.
A few people laugh. Someone groans quietly under their breath. Taesan doesn’t react outwardly, but his pen stills against the page. Estimated is never just estimated. Estimated means overtime. Reshoots. Last-minute changes. Sungho getting inspired at three in the morning.
He shifts in his seat, rolling his shoulders once, mentally bracing himself.
Across the table, someone checks their reflection on their laptop screen. Another straightens their papers. The room subtly tightens, everyone snapping into a more professional version of themselves now that the actors are about to walk in.
Sungho claps his hands once. “Alright, let’s be ready.”
Taesan exhales quietly, eyes drifting toward the door.
Then the door swings open a little too fast, almost hitting the wall.
A very energetic boy steps in, looking like he’s barely in his twenties, all bright eyes and restless movement, like he walked in with momentum he forgot to turn off. He bows quickly—once, twice—then straightens just as fast.
“Hi! Sorry—hi!” he blurts out, words tumbling over each other. “Leehan-hyung will be here in a bit. He just had to use the restroom.”
There’s a brief pause. Taesan blinks, then looks away, pressing his lips together to keep from smiling. Someone else lets out a quiet laugh. The tension in the room eases just a little.
“That’s all good,” Sungho says easily, waving a hand. “No worries at all. We’re still going to wait for Junseo-ssi before we all start.”
The boy nods rapidly, relieved, and shuffles toward an empty chair near the end of the table, still visibly buzzing with energy. He fidgets with his sleeves, glancing around the room like he’s taking everything in at once.
Taesan watches him for a moment longer, curiosity flickering despite himself.So this is Leehan’s manager, he thinks. He takes another sip of his iced tea, letting the cold settle in his chest, grounding him. His gaze drifts back to the door without much intention behind it—more habit than anticipation.
“Woonhak-ah?” The voice comes from just outside the meeting room. Soft. Calm. Unhurried.
The boy reacts instantly, spine straightening as if pulled by a string. He stands up so fast his chair scrapes lightly against the floor. “Hyung-nim! Here!” Woonhak calls out, waving his hand high in the air like he’s afraid he won’t be seen.
That’s when Leehan steps inside. He enters without any rush, posture relaxed, eyes warm as they scan the room. There’s a faint smile already on his lips, something easy and unforced, as if he’s genuinely glad to be here. The kind of presence that quiets a space without demanding it.
The room responds immediately; greetings overlap—polite hellos, smiles, nods. Sungho stands first, welcoming him with practiced ease. Leehan bows, respectful, graceful, returning every greeting with the same calm warmth.
Taesan stands a beat later. He offers a small smile, a light bow. Professional. Polite. Exactly what’s expected of him.
But if you really know Taesan—if you could hear past the composed expression, past the stillness.
Shit.
His eyes linger just a second too long before he looks away.
He’s better looking in real life.
Not in a dramatic way. Not in a way that screams celebrity. It’s subtler than that—the way his expressions soften when he smiles, the way he seems grounded, present, like he belongs wherever he’s standing.
Leehan’s gaze flickers briefly in Taesan’s direction.
Just a moment. Barely anything. But something settles between them in that pause—quiet, unspoken, the kind of stillness that doesn’t announce itself.
Then Sungho claps his hands lightly, breaking the moment. “Alright,” he says cheerfully, “now that Leehan-ssi is here, let’s just wait for Junseo-ssi and we’ll get started.”
The room shifts back into motion.
Taesan sits down slowly, fingers curling around his glass again, heart beating just a fraction faster than before.
A few minutes later, the door opens again; this time, the movement is calmer. Measured
Junseo steps into the meeting room alongside his manager, tall and composed, posture straight without looking stiff. The room reacts almost instantly—chairs scrape back, everyone standing in near-unison. Polite bows follow, respectful and practiced, the kind that comes from years of working in the same industry.
Taesan stands with everyone else, bowing at the right angle, eyes lowered just enough to be courteous.
Junseo bows back, deeper than necessary, then straightens, offering a small, easy smile as he scans the room. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t look overwhelmed. If anything, he looks comfortable, like he’s been in rooms like this his whole life.
He walks up to Sungho, extending his hand without hesitation. They shake, firm but brief, and Junseo bows again right after, instinctive and clean. “Ah, Junseo-ssi!” Sungho laughs, pulling his hand back quickly, clearly flustered. “You don’t have to do that. You’re two years older than me!”
Junseo freezes for half a second. Then he lets out a sheepish laugh, rubbing the back of his neck before bowing again, just slightly this time. “Ah… sorry,” he says, smiling wider now. “Force of habit, you know?”
Sungho chuckles, shaking his head. “I get it. I really do.”
The tension dissolves just like that.
People relax back into their seats, murmurs starting up again. Junseo’s manager exchanges a few quiet greetings with the staff while Junseo follows Sungho toward the table, listening attentively as he’s guided to his seat.
Taesan sits back down, watching from the corner of his eye. Junseo is… different from how he imagined. Polite, yes—but not stiff. Confident, but not loud. There’s an ease to him, the kind that comes from experience rather than ego.
Across the table, Leehan looks up. Their eyes meet briefly.
Junseo smiles first, subtle and friendly, offering a small nod of acknowledgment. Leehan returns it, just as quietly, his expression open, curious.
It’s not dramatic. Not flashy.
Taesan exhales slowly, fingers tightening around his cup of coffee.
Sungho goes on for a while, clicking through the slides with a little too much enthusiasm for someone explaining tentative plans.
He talks about the storyline first—how it’s light, how it’s character-driven, how it focuses on timing and misunderstandings rather than pain and trauma. He emphasizes the word fun at least three times, like he’s trying to convince both the room and himself.
Then he clears his throat.
“So, uh—there is already a script,” he admits, hands raised defensively when a few eyebrows lift, “but it’s not finalized yet. There might be changes. Probably changes. Definitely changes.”
Taesan doesn’t even look up as he writes SCRIPT — NOT FINAL (VERY NOT FINAL) in his notebook.
Sungho moves on seamlessly, rattling off dates. Script reading in a few weeks. First shoot sometime after that. Estimated last shoot four months later, give or take a miracle or two.
Taesan keeps nodding, pen moving quickly.
SCRIPT READING — ESTIMATED
FIRST SHOOT — ESTIMATED
LAST SHOOT — ESTIMATED
He pauses, then underlines the last one twice.
This man plans like the universe won’t interfere, Taesan thinks, sipping his iced tea. Rookie mistake.
Across the table, Leehan looks genuinely invested, leaning forward slightly, eyes bright every time Sungho mentions “romantic” or “comedic.” Junseo listens quietly, arms crossed but relaxed, occasionally nodding along.
Sungho finally finishes, clasping his hands together like he’s just presented the cure to boredom itself.
“So!” he says cheerfully. “That’s the general idea.”
Taesan probably zoned out for most of the meeting, he knows there will be another one when everything is truly final.
It’s weird, if he really thinks about it. He finally has a stable job when all he thought this entire time he was gonna do music—but that didn’t go the way he always planned it to be. Someone got into his head, and he decided that he still wanted to create, and eventually got the offer to be a producer. Not the music kind, though. Sadly.
Maybe it’s because he was never meant for it, or maybe it’s something he’s supposed to do to pass time, and not to earn from, maybe—
“Taesan will be in charge of you, Leehan.” Sungho says, making Taesan get out of his head.
That’s not even part of my job, is what he wanted to say, but maybe not in this meeting room.
Taesan blinks once, then twice—like maybe if he does it enough times, Sungho’s words will rearrange themselves into something else. In charge of you. The phrase settles on his shoulders with an unexpected weight, heavier than any note he’s been taking all meeting. He straightens slightly in his chair, pen still between his fingers, knuckles whitening around it.
Leehan looks over at him then.
It’s not dramatic. Not some grand, movie-like moment. Just a quiet turn of the head, a soft pause—as if Leehan had been expecting this to happen the whole time. His expression is neutral, polite, but there’s curiosity there, faint and unguarded. Taesan meets his eyes a second too late, caught mid-thought, mid-what-the-hell, and for a brief moment they’re just… looking at each other.
Taesan clears his throat, breaking eye contact first. Typical. He nods once, small and professional, like this is completely normal, like his life hasn’t just taken another sharp turn he didn’t plan for. “Right,” he says, more to himself than anyone else. His voice sounds steadier than he feels. “I’ll… coordinate schedules and make sure communication stays clean.”
Leehan nods back, slower. “I’ll follow your lead,” he says quietly. There’s no hesitation in his tone, no resistance—just acceptance. Trust, even. And that’s what throws Taesan off the most.
For a second, the room fades into background noise: papers rustling, someone shifting in their chair, Sungho continuing on about logistics. Taesan’s mind doesn’t spiral this time—it stills. He thinks, absurdly, that maybe this isn’t about being pushed into something he didn’t sign up for. Maybe it’s just another way of creating. Not music. Not songs. But something that still requires care, timing, people.
He exhales through his nose and finally allows himself a small, almost imperceptible smile. “Okay,” Taesan says, softer now, more certain. “Let’s work well together.”
Sungho smiles.
It’s not big or showy—just that subtle curve of his lips, the kind that comes with quiet satisfaction. Taesan catches it from the corner of his eye and immediately looks away. He knows that smile. Knows it a little too well. It’s the smile Sungho gets when things fall into place exactly the way he’d imagined them, when the chess pieces move without him having to push too hard.
Taesan exhales, almost a huff. So that’s what you’re doing, he thinks. Assigning, aligning, pairing people off like this was all coincidence. Like he hadn’t seen the way everyone naturally gravitated toward one another.
“And you, Geonwoo-ah,” Sungho continues, voice light but firm, “will be in charge of Junseo!”
Geonwoo blinks, posture stiffening just slightly as the name lands. He straightens in his seat, hands folding neatly over his notebook like he’s bracing himself. “Me?” he asks, though it’s clear he already knows the answer. His eyes flick to Junseo before he can stop himself.
Junseo, for his part, looks… amused. Not smug—just entertained, like this is a development he’s been quietly anticipating. He tilts his head a fraction, meeting Geonwoo’s gaze with an easy smile. “Looks like I’ll be in your care,” he says, tone polite but warm, bowing his head just a little out of habit.
Geonwoo lets out a small laugh, breathy and nervous. “I’ll do my best,” he replies, returning the bow—too deep, too fast. He corrects himself midway, ears burning. “I mean—yes. Of course.”
Taesan watches all of this without meaning to. There’s something almost funny about it, the way Geonwoo suddenly looks like he’s been handed something fragile and expensive, something he’s terrified of dropping. Junseo, meanwhile, looks completely at ease, like he trusts the hands he’s been placed into.
Sungho claps his hands once, snapping the room gently back into motion. “Good. Then that’s settled.”
The meeting resumes, voices overlapping again, pens scratching against paper. But the air has shifted—just a little. Lines have been drawn, roles assigned, threads quietly tied together. Taesan glances at Leehan, who’s already back to listening intently, then across the table at Geonwoo and Junseo, sitting a careful distance apart.
Sungho leans back in his chair, satisfied.
Taesan resists the urge to shake his head. He knows exactly what kind of story this is becoming. He looks at Sungho for a brief moment, then rolls his eyes and sighs, leaning back in his chair like he’s already tired of whatever is about to happen next.
“Any questions?” Sungho asks, fingers laced together on the table.
Silence aswers him.
No one speaks, no one moves—just exchanged glances and the soft hum of the air conditioner filling the room. Taesan taps his pen once against his notebook, already mentally clocked out. Of course no one has questions, he thinks. This isn’t the real meeting yet.
Leehan slowly raises his hand, not awkwardly, not uncertainly. Just calm, deliberate, like he’s thought about this question for a while and finally decided it was worth voicing.
Sungho’s eyes flick to him immediately, the corner of his mouth twitching. There it is. “Yes, Leehan?” he says, already sounding like he knows what’s coming.
Leehan clears his throat. “I was wondering,” he starts, polite but firm, “since this is a four-month shoot and the characters are pretty emotionally involved… are we doing chemistry readings before finalizing the blocking and intimate scenes?”
The room stills—just slightly. It’s a good question. A very good one. Even Taesan looks up from his notes this time.
Sungho doesn’t hesitate. “Already planned,” he says easily. “We’ll have two chemistry reads. One before the final script lock, and another after the first table read, once everyone’s had time to sit with their characters.”
Leehan’s eyebrows lift a little, impressed despite himself.
“And,” Sungho adds, glancing briefly at Junseo before looking back at Leehan, “we’ll also have an intimacy coordinator present from the second read onward. Boundaries will be discussed early, not on set. No surprises.”
Junseo nods once, appreciative. Geonwoo visibly relaxes, shoulders dropping like he’d been holding his breath.
Leehan lowers his hand, a small smile forming. “Thank you. That answers it.”
Sungho chuckles softly. “I figured someone would ask. If it wasn’t you, it would’ve been me.”
Taesan scoffs under his breath, shaking his head. Control freak, but he can’t deny it—Sungho came prepared.
The meeting moves on, but something settles more comfortably now. Like the foundation has been checked twice. Like, for once, the plan might actually hold.
“Oh, also,” Sungho adds, like it just occurred to him now, “have our two actors met before? If not—wow. First time meeting.”
There’s a tiny pause. Not awkward, just… expectant.
Junseo’s lips curve into a polite smile as he looks over at Leehan. “We’ve met once,” he says easily. “At one of the acting award shows.”
Leehan brightens immediately, nodding. “Yeah! I remember.” He leans forward a little, elbows almost on the table. “You won something—popularity award, right? For that drama.”
Junseo lets out a small laugh, clearly surprised he remembers. “You’ve got a good memory.”
“Well,” Leehan shrugs, smiling wider, “it was hard to forget. Everyone stood up for you.”
Taesan watches the exchange from the coner of his eye.
There’s something… annoyingly nice about it. No stiffness, no weird senior–junior tension. Just two actors smiling at each other like normal people who happen to be very good-looking. Of course, he thinks. They’re already vibing.
Sungho claps his hands once, satisfied. “Perfect, then. Saves us the awkward introductions.”
Junseo turns fully toward Leehan this time, offering his hand properly. “Nice to officially meet you again. I’m looking forward to working together.”
Leehan takes his hand without hesitation. “Me too. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Their handshake lingers for just a second longer than necessary—not enough to be weird, just enough to be noticeable.
Taesan clears his throat and looks back down at his notebook, pretending not to see it. He underlines estimated for absolutely no reason.
Across the table, Sungho smiles like this is exactly how he imagined it going.
“Anything else? Anyone?” Sungho scans the room again, tapping the edge of the table with his pen. “Producers? Writers?”
There’s a brief silence—papers rustling, someone coughing, Taesan clicking his pen a little too loudly—until one of the writers cautiously raises their hand.
“Ah! Update on the script,” Dohoon says, sitting up straighter. “We’ve finalized most of it already. We just need to write the ending and get it confirmed. It should be ready in… two weeks. Maximum.”
There’s a visible shift in the room at the word maximum. A few staff members exchange looks that say we’ll see about that.
Sungho, however, beams like he’s just been given the best news of his life. “Perfect! That’s fast. Thank you, Dohoon-ah.” He nods approvingly, then adds casually, “And tell Anxin to stop moping around, yeah?”
That earns an immediate laugh from the staff—one of those collective, knowing laughs.
“He’s still upset about the rain scene getting cut,” someone mutters.
“It was symbolic!” another writer protests.
“We can symbolize it later!” Sungho shoots back, still smiling.
Leehan laughs softly at that, covering his mouth with his hand. “Woonhak-ah,” he whispers, leaning slightly toward his manager, “I feel like this is going to be chaotic.”
Woonhak grins. “You love chaotic.”
Junseo watches the interaction with amusement, arms loosely crossed. “This already feels… lively,” he says, half-joking.
Taesan writes script – 2 weeks (maximum) in his notebook, then underlines maximum twice. For good measure, he adds a tiny question mark next to it.
Sungho claps his hands again, clearly pleased with how things are going. “Alright! If there are no more questions, we’ll wrap this up.”
No one speaks.
“Well,” Sungho continues, standing, “thank you everyone for coming. Let’s make this a fun project, yeah? A romcom for once. No trauma. No crying—”
“—minimal crying,” a writer corrects.
Sungho pauses. “Fine. Minimal crying.”
Leehan laughs again, shoulders shaking slightly, and Junseo smiles at the sound.
“And if anyone was going to ask about directors,” Sungho adds quickly, as if reading the room before the question could even form, “we already have one lined up! He’s just wrapping up one of his projects right now.”
That earns a few impressed hums and nods around the table.
One hell of a workaholic director, Taesan thinks immediately, pressing his lips together. Of course Sungho would manage to secure someone who jumps from one project straight into another without blinking. He scribbles director – confirmed (busy) in his notebook, then closes it for good this time.
Sungho claps his hands together once, sharp and final. “Alright! That’s it for the meeting. Thank you everyone for your time!”
Chairs scrape against the floor as people begin to stand, the room filling with polite goodbyes and bows. Staff members gather their folders, the writers huddle together immediately, already whispering about the ending like the meeting never really ended at all.
“See you all during the script reading!” Sungho calls out cheerfully.
Leehan bows to the staff, smiling wide, excitement practically written all over his face. Junseo follows, polite and calm as ever, exchanging a few brief words with Sungho before turning to his manager.
Taesan lingers a second longer, watching the room empty out, already feeling like this project is going to be louder—and longer—than it looks on paper.
Four months of filming.
Estimated.