The sound of the alarm blasts at six, cutting through the gray dawn. Yuna shot upright, her heart racing. The other side of the bed was cold—no hint of cedar, no trace of the man who should have been possible anyway.
She caught her breath and looked around her small studio: piles of books, a single couch, the gentle smell of lavender detergent. Everything was just as she had left it yesterday. There were no shoes by the door, no sign that Ryu Jin—famous star and unpredictable king of the set—had come to her wobbly apartment and kissed her until the city fell silent.
A dream. It had to be.
But her wrist still ached from the lighting stand, and the memory of his warm hand on hers lingered on her skin. Yuna pushed herself to get moving: shower, hair tie, black jeans, and a plain t-shirt under her production jacket. The city outside was barely awake as she hopped on the first subway, but her thoughts were too loud to ignore.
It felt so real.
The soundstage buzzed with energy when she walked in. Electric drills whined as carpenters adjusted a false wall, and someone shouted for more gaffer tape. Everything felt completely normal.
Yuna clung to her routine. She double-checked the day's call sheet, grabbed the order for morning coffees, and hurried to the café. Four extra-hot shots for Ryu Jin—just like yesterday. The paper cup shook slightly in her sore wrist as she made her way back.
Inside the makeup room, Ryu sat in front of the mirror, phone in one hand, with stylists swirling around him like planets. He looked perfect as always—his hair slick and shiny, his jawline sharper than any camera could capture.
Yuna's pulse spiked. She lingered at the doorway, unsure if she should say anything. He didn't look up.
She stepped forward and placed the coffee on the table next to the array of brushes and palettes. "Your drink," she said softly.
Ryu's gaze never left his reflection. Not a flicker of recognition. Not even the curt thanks.
"Okay," she whispered, mostly to herself, and retreated.
By noon, Yuna had convinced herself that the night before was just a tired dream. The work was hard as always—lugging sandbags, fetching props, taking endless notes for the assistant director—but at least reality felt steady. Or so she tried to believe.
The hours dragged on slowly. By mid-morning, the studio lights turned the set into a burning oven. Yuna pulled cables across the floor until her shoulders felt heavy, then held a reflector for twenty long takes. At the same time, the cinematographer searched for the "perfect natural bounce." Sweat ran down her back, and her wrist ached every time she tightened her grip.
Gossip floated around her like a low hum.
"Jin Ryu's in a mood today," a grip said quietly while winding up a cable.
"When isn't he?" a makeup artist replied, rolling her eyes.
Yuna said nothing. She focused on recording notes, grabbing batteries, and racing for extra wardrobe tape—anything to drown out the question beating in her mind: Was last night real?
Every time Ryu walked by, the atmosphere shifted. Camera operators straightened, conversations stopped. He delivered his lines with perfect intensity, eyes smoldering with controlled anger, then stepped off set without a glance at her way. To him, she was as invisible as any other intern.
By late afternoon, her stomach cramped with hunger, but she pushed through. The director called wrap well after sunset. A wave of relief swept through the crew; laughter echoed in the large space as everyone took off their headsets and grabbed their bags.
"Harbor Bar?" someone shouted.
"First round's on me!" another answered, and a cheer followed.
Yuna was very tired but kept stacking chairs. She had long accepted that she was the last one to leave. One by one, the voices around her faded away. The overhead lights turned off, leaving only a few bulbs buzzing in the silence.
She finished sweeping the last corner, finding the rhythmic sound of the broom calming. Outside, a night breeze flowed through the slightly open loading door.
Then, a shadow appeared.
"Done for the day?" the familiar deep voice asked.
Yuna froze, her fingers tightening around the broom handle. Ryu Jin leaned against a support column close by, hands tucked in his hoodie pockets. No entourage. Just him.
For a moment, all she heard was the quick beat of her own heart.
"I… thought you left hours ago," she said finally.
He tilted his head slightly, a hint of a smile on his lips. "I waited."
The broom slipped from her grasp, hitting the concrete with a dull thud. "Why?"
Instead of answering, he pushed himself off the column and walked toward her, calm and steady. The overhead light caught his dark hair, giving it a silver sheen at the tips.
"Hungry?" he asked.
Her breath caught. The same word as last night, spoken softly—an invitation to a world beyond the rules of daylight.
"I—yes," she said, almost a whisper.
"Let's get take-out," he said. "Your place?"
The question landed like a spark—simple, sure, as if the decision was already made. Yuna nodded before her mind could catch up. Something inside her, restless all day, finally relaxed.
The city night smelled faintly of rain and street food—roasted chestnuts, fried dough, and a faint whiff of gasoline from a passing scooter. Ryu walked beside her at a slow pace, his hood pulled low, hands tucked in his pockets.
No one seemed to notice him. Perhaps the darkness was a good cover, or maybe people just couldn't believe the nation's most photographed actor was casually walking down an empty street with a production intern.
They stopped at a small take-out stand squeezed between a laundromat and a closed flower shop. Fluorescent lights spilled onto the sidewalk, turning the wet pavement into a shiny mirror. Ryu ordered dumplings and kimchi stew in a warm voice that made the elderly vendor smile, unaware of his celebrity status.
Yuna found herself studying his profile, sharp and calm against the colorful glow of the neon lights. He didn't carry the weight of fame here—no dominating presence, just a man waiting for food, shoulders relaxed, eyes half-closed in what looked like contentment.
"You work too much," he said quietly, as if the thought had been sitting in him all evening.
Yuna jumped a little. "It's my job.
"It's punishment." He glanced down at her bandaged wrist. "You shouldn't have to bleed for a credit on a resume."
She searched for a response, but nothing came to mind. The dumplings arrived steaming in their container, giving her a moment's reprieve.
They carried the food the rest of the way without saying a word. He drove to her apartment with ease, as if he had memorized it from the night before. When they reached her building, Ryu reached past her to buzz the door open as naturally as if he'd done it a hundred times.
Inside, the small studio glowed with the soft golden light of the hallway bulb filtering through thin curtains. Yuna set the cartons on the low table and got some chopsticks. Her nerves buzzed like electricity, yet there was an odd comfort in the quiet, the scent of ginger from the stew, and Ryu sitting cross-legged on her well-worn rug.
They ate without hurry. He carefully pulled the dumplings apart, dipping them in sauce, and offered her the last one when the carton was nearly empty. She took it, their fingers brushing briefly, sending a tingle of warmth through the air.
After they cleared the containers, Ryu leaned back against the couch, looking at her with an unreadable expression. "Long day tomorrow?"
"Always," she said, a small smile creeping onto her lips.
His eyes softened. "Then sleep."
The word was neither command nor request, just a quiet suggestion that settled deep in her bones.
When he reached for her hand, she let him take it. Everything felt natural—there was an unspoken connection in every look and touch. Outside, the city noise faded into a gentle sound. Inside, their world became small, filled with warmth and the steady sound of their breathing.