The script reading wrapped up with polite claps and relieved laughter.
Director:
"Alright everyone, well done. Let's officially begin shooting from next week. The mood we're aiming for is soft, warm, and romantic. Don't forget—chemistry is everything."
He glanced meaningfully at Rabin and Raya, who sat side by side.
They returned to his apartment and settled his things. As she turned to leave, something clicked in her memory.
"Ah, the sipper," she muttered, spinning on her heel and heading back to the kitchen.
"Tch… he always wants this beside him but always forgets to refill the warm water," she murmured under her breath with a small sigh of irritation, though her hands moved with familiar ease.
She set the kettle on, waiting until the water reached the exact warmth he liked—not too hot, just enough to soothe. The sound of the shower running echoed faintly from the bathroom, steam beginning to drift beneath the door.
Once the water was ready, she filled the sipper and cradled it carefully. With quiet steps, she made her way to his bedroom.
The room was dimly lit, a soft glow coming from the corner lamp. She placed the sipper gently on his bedside table, exactly where he always reached for it.
Just as she was about to turn and leave—
Click.
The bathroom door opened.
Dripping wet hair, towel slung low around his waist, steam rolling behind him like a scene straight out of a drama. Y/N froze, eyes wide like a deer caught in headlights.
There he stood—Rabin Angeles. Half-naked. A-list heartthrob. Her boss.
Rabin blinked, equally surprised.
"Y/N?" His voice dropped slightly, husky from the heat of the shower.
"W-What are you—"
She quickly spun around, clutching the now-empty sipper like a lifeline.
"I—I was just… keeping your water! I didn't know you'd be out like that!"
Rabin chuckled under his breath, the sound smug and casual.
"You sure it's just water you came to drop off?"
"Rabin!!" she hissed, not turning around, ears burning.
He stepped toward her, his tone playful.
"Relax, I'll put on clothes before you combust."
She didn't wait. She darted toward the door, muttering a string of flustered words—none of which made sense—and disappeared out of the room like a storm.
"Cute," Rabin whispered to himself, a grin curling at the edge of his lips as he grabbed a shirt.
Rabin POV
I shut the door slowly, my hand still gripping the handle. My heart's not racing—but it's not calm either. It's… confused.
"I'm drawn into her. Day by day."
Everything she does—her awkwardness, the way she overworks herself, even the way she scolds me for skipping breakfast—pulls me deeper.
She's not trying to impress me, and maybe that's why she stands out in a world where everyone does.
But what about me?
Am I not that impressive in her eyes?
Do I not make her heart race like she does to mine?
Is Rabin Angeles just a "boss" to her? A celebrity she tolerates?
Even if I act like I'm teasing… every smile she gives to someone else, especially those male staff, it hits me. She doesn't even know it.
And I hate that.
Maybe… maybe I don't want to be her boss anymore.
Maybe I want to be something else.
But will she ever see me that way?
Y/N POV
Hushh…
I still beat the hell out of my heart.
Calm down, Y/N. Calm down.
I step into my apartment—
Quiet. Still.
Same old feeling again.
It's not the cold weather. It's just… cold.
Atmosphere-wise.
I collapse onto my bed, the only comfort I get nowadays.
Scroll. Tap. Scroll.
Instagram feeds flood my screen—
His face. Everywhere.
Magazine cover shoots. Behind-the-scenes videos.
Fan edits with sparkly filters and dramatic music.
Even fanfiction in the captions.
Seriously… these fans are on another level.
I toss my phone to the side and sigh.
This isn't supposed to be permanent.
I told myself this was just a short part-time job but It's been more than a year now.
And somewhere along the line… I stopped looking for the exit.
My dream wasn't to run around carrying someone else's script.
Not to memorize someone else's schedule better than my own birthday.
Not to chase cars, hold coats, refill sippers, or patch up a celebrity's emotions before mine.
So what happened?
When did I become just an assistant?
…Worse.
When did I become his assistant?
Maybe I got comfortable.
Maybe I got attached.
Or maybe…
Maybe I'm scared to leave because the chaos of this job somehow feels more like home than this quiet room ever did.
My dream… was simpler. But somehow, felt bigger.
To open my own art gallery.
A quiet place.
Filled with color, stories, and pieces of soul hung on white walls.
A space where people could walk in, feel something—anything—and walk out a little lighter.
Sometimes I wonder if I've abandoned my dream… or if I just got too busy surviving to chase it.
Should I change my career?
Should I let this go?
But then I remember the feeling I get when I walk past a gallery…
when I see an artist's work and feel my chest tighten—not out of envy, but out of longing.
A reminder.
That this was my language, long before I ever learned how to assist someone else's story.
No. I don't want to change my dream.
Maybe… I just need to change how I walk toward it.
One step at a time.
Maybe a weekend art blog.
Maybe connecting with young local artists online.
Maybe even curating a small exhibit in a café someday.
Even if I'm not ready to open a gallery now—
I can start preparing the world for the day I will.
Because no matter how far I've wandered,
my dream is still where I left it.
Waiting.
And I owe it to myself to go back.
Set: Still Falling in Love
Location: Artist Lounge – Rabin's Room
The sound of buzzing blow dryers, shuffling boots, and faint directions from walkie-talkies filled the air. The studio was alive—chaotic, but rhythmically so.
Outside the room, crew members ran back and forth—setting lights, taping down floor marks, checking lenses. The set designers argued quietly about curtain placements while extras tried not to wrinkle their costumes.
Inside the artist lounge, the mood was calmer—but still a storm in its own way.
Rabin sat in the makeup chair, a loose hoodie draped around his shoulder to protect his costume. A faint trace of sleep still lingered in his eyes, but he looked composed. Focused.
He took a slow sip from his water bottle, staring at the mirror blankly as the makeup artist gently patted powder onto his cheek.
Makeup Artist:
"Turn a bit to the left… no, your left—yep, there."
He moved without saying a word. The kind of silence you learn in this industry. Efficient. Professional. Heavy.
Stylist Assistant peeked in from the door.
"Rabin-ssi, 10 minutes. Director wants a rehearsal before take."
He nodded once, set his bottle down, and glanced at the script beside him.
His lips moved softly, mouthing a line.
"Still falling… even when I know it might break me."
A voice from the hallway—
"Scene 12, on standby!"
He stood up, shrugging off the hoodie. A final pat on the hair, a dab under the eye, and the chair spun empty again.
Today, Rabin Angeles wasn't just Rabin.
He was the lead in a love story millions would believe in.
Whether he believed in it or not… that was another story.
Y/N stood behind the monitor, her arms folded across her chest, eyes glued to the screen. The glow from the display flickered against her face as the camera rolled. Every tilt of Rabin's head, every blink, every micro-expression—she watched it like it mattered. Because to her, it did.
Director (off to the side):
"Okay, let's try one more with a softer tone. Rabin, look at her like it's the last time you'll see her."
The scene played again.
Rabin leaned forward in frame, eyes deep with restraint, lips slightly parted—he looked like a man breaking quietly.
Y/N's hand slowly tightened on the clipboard she held. She wasn't just watching a performance. She was witnessing the shift in him. Every line he said wasn't just acting anymore—it felt… real.
Y/N's thoughts:
"Why does it feel different when he says that line now? Is he… just that good, or—?"
Raya, the co-star, leaned in onscreen, and the scene transitioned into a moment that looked so heartbreakingly intimate, even the staff fell still.
Y/N stepped back slightly from the monitor. Her heart clenched for a reason she didn't want to name.
PA (passing by):
"Rabin's hitting every beat today, huh?"
She nodded, forcing a neutral expression.
And then, through the lens of that monitor, her eyes met his—just for a split second. As if he knew exactly where she was standing.
Y/N blinked.
The take ended.
Applause came.
Director (clapping once):
"Wrap up for today, everyone! Great work. Next scene's the bar—tomorrow night. Be ready!"
The crew began packing lights and cords, assistants scribbled next-day schedules, and actors filtered out one by one. Rabin stretched his arms, pulling off the outer layer of his costume. He was halfway through sipping water when—
Raya (soft voice, playfully):
"Rabiniee….would you like to have dinner with me?"
Rabin blinked, lowering the bottle.
There it was—that question.
She smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as she stood in front of him, all sugary confidence.
Y/N stood a few feet away, holding his script binder, catching the moment with peripheral awareness but pretending not to.
Rabin (calmly):
"Ah… tonight?"
Raya:
"Yeah. Just something casual. You've worked hard—thought you could use some company."
He glanced at Y/N. She didn't look.
Not once.
Rabin (light chuckle):
"I appreciate it… but I already have dinner plans."
Raya tilted her head slightly, curious.
"Oh? With who?"
Rabin paused, gave a small smile—but didn't answer.
Instead, he casually placed the water bottle on the table, brushing past the question as if it never truly landed.
Rabin:
"Be ready for tomorrow's shoot. Night scene's important."
He nodded politely, then turned and walked away—leaving Raya standing there, lips slightly parted, watching his retreating back.
She blinked once, her smile fading just a bit.
From a distance, Y/N saw the whole exchange.
But like always, she said nothing.
Just scribbled a note on her clipboard.
Y/N's POV
"Waaahh!" I roll my eyes the moment I hear that nickname.
"Rabinie?" I scoff, almost laughing. Seriously? That's illegal levels of cringe.
Just as I'm mid-eye-roll, a sudden tap lands on my shoulder from behind.
I flinch slightly and whip around.
Rabin: "What are you thinking, rolling your eyes like that?"
Y/N: "Tch… fishy. Tchhh."
I brush past him, not even bothering to look back. My footsteps echo softly in the corridor as I head toward the artist lounge.
I know he's following me—I can feel the weight of his gaze, the sound of his slow, playful steps behind me—but I pretend I don't see or hear a thing.
I focus on packing up the scattered items in the lounge