The first morning of the shoot was filled with a nervous energy that had nothing to do with the cameras. Yuna held her clipboard tightly as the studio doors opened, and a wave of chatter filled the soundstage.
"He's here," someone whispered.
The crew members shuffled as if a sudden breeze had blown through them. Even the tough lighting technicians, usually focused on their gear, sat up a little straighter.
Ryu Jin had arrived.
A pair of tinted sunglasses shielded half of his face, even in the bright indoor lights. His tailored black coat swirled around him as if caught in a private breeze. Two managers and a stylist followed closely, their heads down and arms weighed down with garment bags and bottled water.
"King Ryu," one crew member whispered, low enough for only Yuna to hear. There was a mix of awe and fear in the tone.
"He's gorgeous, though," someone else sighed.
Yuna kept her focus on the call sheet. Still, she noticed how the celebrity barely acknowledged the director before heading to the makeup chair. As he walked by, the conversations around him seemed to fade, the air shifting like it was adjusting to his presence.
The stories about him were legendary. Ryu Jin wouldn't step onto the set unless the temperature was exactly twenty-two degrees. He once halted filming because a prop mirror didn't show his best side. Fans loved him. Critics called him the crown prince of cinema. But many crew members—at least those Yuna overheard—called him a tyrant.
"Intern," the production coordinator snapped.
Yuna jumped. "Yes?"
"Coffee. Four shots, extra hot. For him." The coordinator pointed toward Ryu without slowing down.
"Yes, sir." She quickly set down her clipboard and rushed to the door, already plotting the quickest route to the café and back before rehearsal began.
It was just past 7 a.m., and her legs were already sore from the heavy load of the previous day.
Inside the café, the espresso machine hissed like an angry cat while Yuna gripped the cardboard tray of drinks, speed-walking back to the set. Four shots, extra hot—she prayed the temperature survived the trip or she'd be the one incinerated.
As she stepped back inside, the soundstage buzzed with a frantic energy that only the first week of production could bring. The crew moved the ladders around. Costume racks squeaked across the floor. A dolly camera whined as it rolled into place. The air smelled of sawdust mixed with hairspray and sweat.
"Coffee for Mr. Jin," Yuna announced softly.
A stylist barely looked up as she snatched a cup from the tray. "Good," she said. "You can dump the rest at the coordinator's desk."
Yuna's wrist was sore from yesterday's long shift, but she nodded and turned away. No one ever remembered her name.
Intern was enough.
By noon, her list of tasks had grown overwhelming.
- Return the wrong battery packs.
- Hold a reflector in the sun until her shoulders burned.
- Get more gaffer tape.
- Take notes for the assistant director who didn't bother to look her way.
Every time Ryu Jin stepped onto the set, everything changed. Cameras paused. Conversations fell silent. His voice, smooth and confident, filled the space like music. He didn't shout orders—he just expected everyone to fall in line. And they did.
The scene called for a heated argument between the female and male leads. But after the director yelled cut, Ryu hardly acknowledged anyone. He walked over to a chair draped in black, phone in hand, with managers gathering around him like planets orbiting a star.
"Imagine being worshipped like that," a makeup artist whispered near Yuna as they reset the lights.
"Yeah, well, imagine working for him," someone else replied with a grimace.
Yuna wiped a smear of fake blood from a table and stayed silent. She had heard all the stories: crew members quitting on the spot, assistants crying in the bathrooms, props tossed aside because they didn't meet his standards. But none of it mattered. The movie needed to finish. Her internship had two months left, and she needed the credit to secure a real job in the film industry.
Hours blurred together in a rush of shouts and small crises. By the time the director called wrap, Yuna's legs shook with every step.
The crew cheered with relief. "Drinks at Soul Bar!" someone shouted. Laughter filled the air as people shrugged on jackets and headed into the cool night.
No one looked in her direction.
Yuna stayed behind to tidy up: coiling cables, wiping counters, stacking chairs. The studio lights flickered off one by one until only a few overhead bulbs beamed in the dark. Her reflection in a black monitor looked like a ghost: damp hair sticking to her forehead, shadows under her eyes. There was still more to do. Always more.
The once-busy soundstage had turned silent, the quietness louder than applause. Yuna swept the floor, each stroke sending a dull ache up her spine. Her phone buzzed once in her pocket—probably her mom checking in—but she ignored it. She gripped the broom tightly, as if it would keep her steady.
The final task was the lighting stands: heavy chrome tripods that tangled in every cable. She squatted down to loosen the base of the tallest one. The screw was stuck. She twisted harder, her breath hitching, until the metal finally gave way.
The stand tipped over.
She tried to catch it, but her foot got caught in a coil of cable. Pain shot through her wrist as the stand crashed down. "Ah!" The cry escaped her before she could hold it back. The loud noise echoed through the empty set. She crouched there, dizzy, her palm throbbing, a hot pulse already swelling beneath her skin. No one was around to hear her.
Then, a shadow fell across her.
"Be careful," a deep voice warned.
Yuna looked up and stopped in her tracks. Ryu Jin was right in front of her, half-zipped hoodie revealing a hint of his strong build, hair tousled as though he'd just come from a wild adventure. The harsh overhead bulbs sharpened his chiseled features, but the edge in his expression softened as his gaze landed on her wrist.
"You're hurt," he said, kneeling down slowly.
Yuna's heartbeat quickened. This was the man who made seasoned producers sweat, who glided through movie sets like royalty. To see him off-camera, so close, felt otherworldly—like spotting a rare animal at her side. "I-I'm fine," she stammered, even though the sharp pain in her wrist was clear.
Ignoring her words, he effortlessly lifted the fallen stand and set it upright. Then he extended a hand toward her. His palm was warm, steady, and larger than she'd imagined. She hesitated, her heart racing, but finally placed her fingers in his. He gently pulled her upright.
"Thank you," she murmured.
The silence that followed was thick but comforting. It pressed around them like a warm blanket. Only the faint hum of an air vent could be heard.
Her stomach broke it with a loud, desperate growl.
Yuna clapped a hand over her middle, embarrassed. "Sorry—"
A corner of his mouth curved upward, subtle and amused. "Hungry?"
She swallowed, unsure if this was some kind of joke. "I… guess."
"Come on," he said simply.
Before she could think of a reason not to go—an intern doesn't just hang out with the biggest star in the country—he was already opening the car door for her, his stance leaving no room for refusal.
Outside, the cool night air brushed against her warm skin as Ryu drove through quiet streets that seemed almost unfamiliar, neon lights reflecting off rain puddles like scattered stars.
They turned into an alley dimly lit by a single streetlamp. A small noodle stall stood on the corner, its plastic tarp dripping from the earlier rain, the aroma of broth and garlic wafting into the air.
Ryu parked and walked towards the stall. He then gestured for her to sit on one of the narrow benches.
"You like spicy?" he asked.
Yuna nodded automatically, still half convinced she had fallen asleep on the soundstage floor and this was a fever dream.
At the tiny noodle stall tucked away from the crowds, Ryu ordered with calm efficiency, voice low and smooth. The elderly vendor barely looked up from the pot, oblivious to the nation's biggest star sitting on a worn bench with a production intern.
Yuna wrapped her hands around the warm bowl, letting its heat soothe her sore fingers. The broth was rich and garlicky, and the noodles were perfectly chewy—a delightful change after a day filled with stale vending machine snacks.
"You work hard," Jin said after a moment, focusing on the steam rising from his bowl, now hidden in this quiet spot where he could take off his mask without being recognised.
"I'm just an intern," she replied, trying to downplay it. "It's nothing much."
"Doesn't look like nothing," he said, glancing at her bandaged wrist.
Her pulse skipped. Compliments were rare enough; from him, they felt almost dangerous.
They enjoyed their meal in a comfortable silence. When Yuna finished the last sip of broth, Ryu stood and offered his hand once more. "Let's get you home," he said.
The drive back to her apartment was filled with quiet.
When they arrived at her building—a shabby place with peeling paint and flickering lights—she struggled to find the right words. "You didn't have to walk me—"
"I wanted to," he replied simply, a genuine smile on his face.
Something in the way he said it left no room for protest. She guided him up the stairs to her small studio apartment. It was late enough that they avoided running into any neighbors.
Inside, her studio smelled faintly of lavender detergent, mixed with the scent of old coffee. She had meant to offer him tea or at least water, but the moment felt delicate, as if words could break it apart.
Ryu's eyes roamed the compact space—books piled on the floor, a lone couch wrapped in a faded blanket. "Cozy," he said softly.
Yuna's heart raced so loudly she wondered if he could hear it. She dropped her bag on the table, messy with the remnants of snacks. And when she turned to look back at him, he stood closer. The tension in the air shifted.
His hand brushed against her cheek, gentle as a whisper, almost asking for permission.
She didn't move.
The first kiss was slow and unspoken, saying more than words could convey. Outside distractions—crew gossip, running errands, and her aching bones—faded away, leaving just the warmth of his touch and the steady rhythm of their hearts.
Later, as the city's distant noise came through the window, Yuna lay half-awake next to him, listening to his steady breathing. The light scent of cedar soap and rain lingered on the sheets.
For the first time in months, the tension in her body began to ease.