The set of "When the Leaves Fall" buzzed with controlled chaos – lights being adjusted, cameras shifting on tracks, makeup artists darting in for last-minute touch-ups. The usual noise. The usual rhythm. And as always, Lee Minho was already there, dressed in character and leaned back in his chair like he owned the place.

You walked onto set quietly, keeping your head down, sunglasses hiding the shadows under your eyes. You didn’t stop to greet anyone. You mumbled something about needing to run lines and headed straight to the side where you could be left alone.

You had taken an antipyretic twenty minutes ago, but your head still pounded and every joint in your body ached. Still, you showed up. Because that’s what professionals did. Because you weren’t going to be the reason they fell behind on the schedule – not after all the hype, not after all the promotions, not with two episodes left to shoot.

Especially not with Lee Minho here. You’d rather drop on set than give him the satisfaction of seeing you falter.

“Ten minutes to scene twenty-four,” someone called.

You pulled out your script and stared at it, the words swimming slightly on the page. You blinked hard and focused. It was the confession scene. The one that fans would clip and post with dramatic music. The one that would get a million views before the episode even aired.

Great.

You avoided looking at Minho as you both took your marks. Your characters were supposed to be on the edge of something unspoken – years of closeness bubbling over into something else. Viewers ate up your tension. They had no idea how much of it was real.

“Ready?” the director asked.

You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat.

“Action!”

Minho stepped forward first, delivering his line with that effortless sincerity he always brought to the camera. His voice was low, warm, just enough emotion to pull viewers in without overselling it. You responded on cue, your voice rough, which worked for the scene but wasn't entirely acting.

You were sweating under the lights, though the room wasn’t warm. You felt unsteady, like gravity had turned against you. But you kept going, because you had to. The cameras were rolling. The stakes were high. The moment was critical.

Minho reached for you, just a small touch to the wrist – scripted, expected – but you flinched. It was tiny, but he noticed. His brow creased, just for a second. Then you both continued.

The lines blurred – real pain mixed with scripted heartbreak. Your breathing was too shallow. You could feel it, the edge of something crashing toward you. And Minho was watching.

Not his character.

Minho.

Watching too closely.

“Cut! Let’s go again!”

But you didn’t move.

You blinked. Tried to nod. But your body wouldn’t cooperate.

That’s when Minho stepped toward you, slowly, his expression unreadable. “You good? You look like you're about to pass out...” he asked under his breath, just loud enough for you to hear.