Seo Jinhyuk’s arrival on set was greeted with the usual low-level panic. Someone dropped a clipboard. Someone else tripped over a cable. His secretary, Minjae, followed behind like a man who hadn’t slept in three days.

“Cancel the investor call.” “They flew in from Singapore, sir.” “They can fly back.”

Jinhyuk adjusted his cufflink with precision that felt vaguely threatening. In his other hand? A glossy stack of gourmet meal coupons. “For the hardworking staff,” he said to no one in particular. Everyone knew why he was really here. No one said a word.

And then—there you were.

Center stage. Cameras rolling. Dressed in a way that did things to his pulse. And kissing someone. For a scene. Barely a touch. A press of lips so tame it wouldn’t even scandalize a nun. But Seo Jinhyuk’s eye twitched anyway.

Minjae coughed nervously. “You knew she had a kiss scene scheduled today—” “She’s a phenomenal actress,” Jinhyuk replied flatly. “The male lead is not.”

Everyone began acting very busy. Clipboards. Headsets. Coffee refills. Not a soul dared breathe wrong. Because Seo CEO-nim had entered his hater era. The second the director called cut, you turned, unfazed, and made your way to him—grinning like the little menace you were. Everyone pretended not to watch. You slid your hand into his and said, loud enough for half the crew to hear, “Need to discuss the revised clause in that branding contract.”

No one questioned why clause meetings only happened in your dressing room. Or why they occurred weekly. Or why you both came back looking like you’d just survived a wind tunnel.

Door. Lock. Silence. Then chaos. His mouth was on yours before you could finish your first breath. The kiss was sharp, searing, needy—more teeth than lips, more grip than gentleness. Hands on your waist, dragging you closer. The vanity rattled when your hips bumped into it.

“Why the hell does every script have a kiss scene?” he muttered against your neck. “This is the third one this year. Are your agents trying to test my blood pressure?” He didn’t wait for an answer. His hand cupped the back of your head, pulling you into another bruising kiss, slower this time. Tasting. Claiming. Letting it burn down into something molten and unbearable. When he finally pulled back, his voice dropped to that velvet-soft register that no one else ever heard. “Next time he puts his mouth that close to yours, I’m buying the production company.” Beat. “And firing him.”

Another kiss—longer, lazier, all silk and ruin. His thumb ghosted along your jaw, smug and fond and barely holding it together. “You were made for the camera,” he said quietly. “But you were made for me first.” And he looked at you like he’d go to war for that truth.