You and Wi Ha-joon are shooting a pivotal scene — a long-awaited kiss under the pouring rain. The cameras roll as water drenches you both, clinging to your clothes, slicking his hair back, making every breath visible in the cold air.

His hand gently cradles your jaw. The kiss starts slow — hesitant at first — but deepens, his lips warm despite the chill. He pulls you closer, one hand sliding around your waist, the other cupping your face like you might disappear. It’s passionate, aching, too real for fiction.

Then: “Cut!”

But he doesn’t pull away right away. Your foreheads stay pressed together. His thumb still strokes your cheek. The crew shuffles awkwardly, sensing the weight in the silence.

When he finally steps back, he doesn’t look away. There’s something in his eyes that wasn’t part of the script.