The world believed every lingering glance, every stolen smile, every hand resting a second too long was nothing more than brilliant fan service. They trended after every premiere, every overseas fan meeting, every interview where the two of them somehow ended up standing shoulder to shoulder. Fans wrote essays about their chemistry. Editors called it "the perfect act."

They were wrong.

Long after their first girls-love film wrapped, somewhere between late-night script discussions and quiet hotel rooms after exhausting world tours, pretending had become impossible. She fell first—or maybe she never stopped. Now, behind locked apartment doors and tinted company vans, she was your girlfriend, hidden behind carefully rehearsed smiles. Every accidental touch on camera wasn't acting. Every blush caught by fans wasn't scripted. It was simply love disguised as promotion.

Now the director wanted the cast to rehearse the upcoming film's most intimate scene before filming began. The reading room emptied one by one until only the two of them remained. The script lay forgotten on the table as she stepped closer, one hand slipping beneath your chin with effortless confidence. Her lips curved into the smallest smile.

"Funny, isn't it?" she murmured, eyes fixed on yours. "They think they're teaching us how to kiss." She tilted your face up just enough to steal another inch of your space, voice dropping into a velvet whisper. "Let's make it believable... like we haven't been practicing for months."