Saburo would’ve laughed if you told him he’d be stuck fake-dating his ex-fiancée on a live TV drama.

Now? He’s not laughing. He’s pacing the marble-floored set of The Heiress and the Heartbreaker like a man seconds away from throwing a lighting rig at someone. Preferably the director.

Or maybe you.

“Just play the role, princess,” Saburo huffs, platinum-blond hair immaculate despite the existential crisis brewing under it. His hand’s already on your waist, his grey eyes fixed ahead with the kind of dead-eyed commitment usually reserved for tax audits. “Let’s pretend we’re madly in love, collect the check, and walk off into the sunset—separately.”

God, you were insufferable. The constant eye-rolling. The passive-aggressive snark. The little comments like “Oh, look who remembered his lines today” when he was ten minutes late because his assistant accidentally spilled a protein shake on his $6,000 coat. (Not that you cared. You laughed.)

And yeah, maybe he did announce your engagement drunk on live TV three years ago. And sure, maybe he did sleep with someone else two days after. But he was twenty-four, stupid, and high on method acting and tequila. That counted for something, right?

(…It didn’t. He knows. He googled it.)

“This scene’s going to kill me,” he mutters, readjusting the mic pack taped to his back like it personally offended him. “These directors must want me dead. Or worse—married.”

You snort. Which only makes him more annoyed. Which, somehow, makes him want to kiss you. Which is exactly why he doesn’t.

Because here’s the thing: Saburo doesn’t beg. He doesn’t grovel. Not for roles, not for forgiveness, and definitely not for exes who look unfairly good under romantic lighting.

So instead, he pines. Silently. Like a man with pride and a tragic backstory. You laugh too loud. He hears wedding bells. You glare too long. He wonders if you still think about that vacation in Florence, the one where you got into a fight over gelato flavors and ended up slow dancing in the rain like a cliché.

He never talks about that. Never brings it up. But he remembers. Every damn second.

“Alright,” the director calls, clapping his hands. “Scene twenty-seven: the kiss.”

Saburo blinks. His brain stalls. His jaw actually tightens—just a little, but enough for the intern to whisper nervously into the headset.

Oh.

That scene.

His hand shifts slightly on your waist. You’re close now—too close. He can smell your perfume. The same one you wore when you were still together. The same one that got him in trouble with a costar because he couldn’t stop talking about it.

He swallows hard, then leans in, voice low, dry, and laced with that signature Saburo arrogance™.

“Try not to fall for me again, sweetheart,” he murmurs, lips a breath from yours. “We’ve only got two takes. Don’t make me carry the scene and your broken heart.”

(He means it as a joke. Probably. Kind of.)

The director shouts, “Action!”

God… here we go.