At three o'clock sharp, Noah arrived at the workshop.
The hall was bright, posters of Desire's Kiss hanging on the walls. Staff and reporters moved in and out, the air filled with the mix of coffee and paper.
He sat near the back, chest weighed down by tension. Today the cast list would be revealed. Rumors had been swirling outside, but he didn't dare think too far ahead.
The projector lit up. The producer stepped onto the stage.
"Now, we'll announce the cast for the drama."
First line: Male lead (Top) — Asher.
No surprise. Applause broke out immediately.
The second line appeared: Male lead (Bottom) — Noah.
For a moment, silence. Then whispers exploded across the room.
[An idol?]
[They really cast him?]
[How did he land that? Do we even need to ask?]
The murmurs surged like a tide. Some eyes flicked toward him, filled with mockery, with disdain.
Noah sat stiff in his seat, fingertips digging hard into the edge of the chair.
Yet his face held the same faint smile, as if he'd heard nothing at all.
---
The day before
The day before the announcement, the director, producer, and representatives from the investors gathered for a small meeting.
On one side of the table, Asher sat, calm, idly spinning a pen between his fingers.
Opposite him sat Sarah—red-haired, glasses perched on her nose, flipping through the script. She was both the original author and screenwriter of Desire's Kiss, and Asher's younger sister.
The director hesitated before speaking. "About the bottom role… should we discuss again? Noah is a rookie. He doesn't have much experience. The pressure will be enormous."
The producer nodded. "The investors wanted someone with more traffic, someone guaranteed to draw ratings."
Sarah closed her notes, adjusting her glasses. Her voice was soft but resolute: "Noah is the most suitable."
Though quiet, her tone allowed no room for doubt.
"The bottom role's aura is very specific—it needs a cool, restrained boyishness, and the ability to embody both oppression and awakening. Most seasoned actors can't capture that; they'll only come off as pretentious. Noah carries that quality naturally."
The director fell silent. "But he's too new. The risk is high."
"When I wrote this script, I wanted that exact rawness," Sarah pressed. "Some things can't be acted. They have to be real."
The room shifted. Everyone turned to Asher.
After all, as one of the leads, his voice carried the most weight.
Asher leaned back in his chair, gaze drifting across Noah's résumé lying on the table. His fingers tapped lightly, before he spoke with casual certainty:
"Sarah's right. This role doesn't need perfect technique. It needs truth."
"And Noah has it."
The room stilled. The director and producer exchanged a glance, neither daring to argue further.
The tone was flat, but beneath it ran an undeniable authority.
Sarah smiled faintly, flipping the script open again. "Then it's decided."
---
After the workshop
Gradually, the hall emptied. Actors left in groups, laughing, trading numbers.
Noah clutched his script, heading for the exit, when voices carried from behind him—low, deliberate.
"He got the part because he fits it? Who's buying that?"
"With connections like his, he could play anything."
"Let's be real—he slept his way here."
"Who knows how many beds he's climbed into."
Noah's steps faltered.
He didn't turn around. Just drew a slow, deep breath, forcing himself to stay composed.
His smile stayed faint, unchanged. But inside, something squeezed tight and raw.
Because they weren't entirely wrong.
He had signed that contract.
He had traded away the most vulnerable part of himself for this chance.
But hearing it spat out so crudely by others—it still burned, sharp and merciless.
---
The hallway
He walked to the end of the corridor, where it was dim and quiet.
Just as he was about to steady his breathing, familiar footsteps approached.
Asher.
Noah's spine tensed. Instinctively, he thought of leaving, but Asher stepped into his path, blocking the way.
The man closed in, step by step. Noah retreated until his back pressed against the wall.
The air turned narrow, stifling. At the hallway's end, under the dim light, it was only the two of them.
Noah's breathing quickened. He lowered his eyes, fingers clutching the script until his knuckles turned pale.
Asher stopped before him, gaze heavy, a faint curve at his lips. His voice dropped—lazy, but sharp, like a blade:
"Still sore?"
Noah's breath caught.
Three words, and his body froze.
He knew exactly what Asher meant.
That morning, he had walked with stiffness. Even changing clothes hurt. The dull ache still lingered.
Heat rushed to his face. His eyes flickered in panic, voice hoarse: "…None of your business."
Asher chuckled low, leaning in, breath brushing his ear. "Of course it's my business. I left it there."
Noah trembled, shoulders locked in tension. He tried to turn away, but Asher's arm slammed against the wall beside his head, trapping him completely.
The wall was cold, his space wholly caged by the man's shadow.
Asher studied him, eyes dark, hunting. His voice dropped, edged with command:
"You won't regret signing that contract."
Noah's lips pressed tight, chest squeezing. He told himself this wasn't love—it was only a deal.
Yet under that gaze, his breath faltered, messy and out of control.
He wanted to argue. But nothing came out.
Asher reached down, pinching his chin, forcing him to look up. Noah's startled gaze crashed into his.
"You know," Asher murmured, voice low and deliberate, "this reaction of yours… is far more enticing than when you pretend nothing's wrong."
Before Noah could answer, Asher's mouth descended.
Shock widened his eyes. His back pinned to the wall, lips captured in a hard, devouring kiss. Teeth grazed, tongue pushed through, claiming without pause.
Air vanished from his lungs.
He raised his hand to push back, but Asher caught his wrist, slamming it against the wall. Pain shot up his palm—weak, useless resistance.
The kiss deepened, possessive and consuming, as if to brand him with ownership.
By the time Asher finally drew back, their lips were still wet, breath tangled. His voice was low, threaded with a dangerous smile:
"Now you look like mine."
Noah's face burned, lips swollen, marked red at the edges. He turned his head sharply, unable to speak.
The words I'm not yours stuck in his throat, never leaving.
His fingers crushed the script in his grasp, knuckles bone-white. Shame and humiliation churned with a trembling he couldn't suppress.
—This was the contract.
Even knowing he was only "chosen," he found himself cornered—undone—by nothing more than a kiss.