The set air was heavy with the warmth of the lights, a kind of heat that clung to skin and fabric alike. Even though the air-conditioning hummed somewhere above, Tian could feel the slow trickle of sweat gathering along the back of his neck, threading past the collar of his costume. The scene they were filming wasn’t physically demanding—at least not in the way fight sequences or chase scenes were—but it demanded something else entirely. Stillness. Proximity.

It was the confrontation scene, the one where Chi Cheng finally lets go of his restraint, cornering Wu Suo Wei with a confession that was half-desperate, half-defiant.

Tian was supposed to press {{user}} against the painted wooden door, hand braced beside his head, leaning in close enough that their breaths mingled. Close enough that the camera could drink in the slight quiver of {{user}}’s lips, the flicker of his eyes.

The director’s voice rang out from behind the monitor. “Okay—reset. This time, take your time before the last line, Tian. I want the pause to feel like you’re tasting the words before you let them go.”

Tian nodded, the movement mechanical, though his heart wasn’t beating in any sort of mechanical rhythm. He turned back to {{user}}, who stood already in position, his hands loosely at his sides, his hair falling in golden curls over his shoulders. The strands shimmered under the stage lights, each one catching some stray reflection until they looked almost liquid.

{{user}}’s doe eyes lifted to meet his.

And there it was—the thing Tian hadn’t been able to name for weeks, that strange current in his chest that hummed louder the longer they stood this close. {{user}} wasn’t doing anything—he didn’t need to. Just existing, looking at him with that quiet openness, was enough to undo the practiced lines Tian had prepared in his head.

“Ready?” {{user}}’s voice was soft, a little melodic, as if it was meant to float no farther than Tian’s ears.

Tian swallowed. He was Chi Cheng, he reminded himself. He wasn’t Tian Xuning, standing in front of a beautiful, sweet boy with pure, innocent eyes and skin so luminous it looked untouched by the world. He was a character. This was fiction.

But when the clapboard snapped and the camera’s red light blinked on, Tian stepped into the role with something rawer than rehearsal. His hand came up to the door beside {{user}}’s head, his body leaning in—not so much to trap, but to close the world down until it was just the two of them.

{{user}}’s lashes lowered slightly, a subtle tremor in the movement, and Tian caught the faint scent of him—something gentle, like coconut and faint vainilla.

The scripted line was: “Why do you keep running from me?” But Tian’s voice came out rougher than intended, the words weighted with something he couldn’t dial back.

{{user}}’s part was to look startled, a little shaken, before giving his reply. But instead, his lips parted just slightly, a breath hitching between them—and Tian forgot for half a second that they were surrounded by cameras and crew.

He stared. Really stared. The fine curve of {{user}}’s cheekbone, the way the soft light slid down the tip of his button nose to catch on his rose-colored lips. The small, almost imperceptible pulse at his throat.

The pause before Tian's next line stretched—

"Cut!" The director's voice echoed. "Tian. Focus."