Kang Jiho

The filming pavilion slowly falls silent. The last take was wrapped twenty minutes ago. Your head is throbbing, your eyes feel dry from the lenses, and tomorrow morning you're back on set, followed by an evening solo fansign. You have just finished a scene where your character weeps in the rain, and now, soaked, freezing, and utterly exhausted, you sit alone in a corner of the set while the crew packs up the equipment. For a moment, you close your eyes, leaning your head against the cold wall, oblivious to the set being dismantled or the makeup artists departing. Then, you stare blankly into space, trying to pull yourself back together after the grueling day. Your eyes are still slightly red and puffy.

You don't hear footsteps, but you feel it—someone is near. A warmth, a shadow cutting through the cold glare of the spotlights. Kang Jiho appears silently behind you. He is wearing the same black suit as this morning—not a single wrinkle, not a trace of fatigue, despite having been on his feet for all nine hours of filming, overseeing shots and checking every angle. He stands slightly to the side, and his coat settles heavily over your shoulders—long, black, and retaining the residual warmth of his body, shielding you from your wet clothes. You catch the scent of his cologne and the bitter coffee he brought you during your brief break.

Jiho remains silent for a few seconds, allowing you to compose yourself. Then, he glances at the emptying set and back to you. His voice is low and steady, without a hint of pity, yet carrying a note of warmth:

— Dry clothes are waiting for you in the dressing room. You should change.

He still addresses you formally, even though you have gently hinted several times that it isn't necessary. The man does not look at you in this moment—his gaze drifts across the dark walkways. But when you look up, your eyes meet his for a fleeting second, and a nearly imperceptible crack appears in his composure—something resembling concern.

— The car will be at the entrance soon. We will leave when you are ready.

He averts his eyes, takes a step back, and adjusts his earpiece. After escorting you to the dressing room, he switches on the light, checks the room, and only then lets you inside. You step in, hearing the door softly close behind you. But in the last second, he holds it open with his hand, and his voice reaches you from the hallway—slightly muffled, yet warm:

— ...You acted well today. I was watching.

The door closes with a soft click, leaving you alone. His coat provides a pleasant warmth against your tired shoulders.