❥ || chapter two

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The first thing I felt when I woke up was pain. A dull, throbbing ache at the back of my head, like I'd head butted a marble statue in my sleep.

The second thing I felt was cold. Polished stone under my cheek, cool air drifting over my neck. Voices, distant but getting sharper by the second. The smell of strong coffee, floral perfume, and something faintly medicinal.

The third thing I felt was panic. A raw, sour taste at the back of my throat that made me want to curl up and squeeze my eyes shut forever. But I couldn't, because my eyes were already open, squinting at the gleaming white lobby floor of a five star hotel that did not belong anywhere in my real life.

I wasn't in my dorm. I wasn't in my cheap pyjamas. I wasn't surrounded by ramen cups and highlighters and a half finished essay.

I was still here. Inside Fated Hearts.

Someone was talking above me. Calm, professional, lightly annoyed. I knew that voice. I'd spent entire nights replaying it, swooning over it, cursing it when it made my favourite character cry.

"Miss Kim. Are you injured?"

Miss Kim. Not Eunseo. Not Hey, are you okay? Just Miss Kim. Like he didn't know me at all. Like I wasn't his leading lady. Like I was an inconvenience on the polished marble that made up his perfect world.

I pushed myself up on shaky elbows. A wave of dizziness hit me so hard I almost went down again. But the second wave, mortification, was stronger. I forced myself onto my knees, blinking up at him.

Lee Heeseung. In the flesh. Crisp charcoal suit. Hair perfect. Eyes colder than every exam room I'd ever sat in. He looked exactly the way he did on my laptop screen. Except this time, he wasn't pixelated, or framed by soft camera filters and swelling piano music. This was real. Too real.

And he was staring at me like I was a bug someone had forgotten to sweep up.

"Sorry," I croaked. My voice sounded wrong, too small, too hoarse. I cleared my throat, wincing. "I, um. I must've fainted. Sorry."

He didn't answer. His gaze flicked to my bag, which had spilled open beside me. Folders, a notebook, an unfamiliar rose gold pen, all props from a story I thought I knew by heart.

Somewhere behind Heeseung, a hotel staff member hovered with a worried frown. "Shall I get the manager, sir?"

Heeseung lifted one hand, a small, dismissive flick. "No need. Help Miss Kim to her feet."

The staff member rushed forward while Heeseung just... stood there. Watching. Impatient. Like he had better places to be, which, according to the plot, he definitely did not. He was supposed to be here. Right here. Right now. Meeting me. Or... her. Or... oh no.

My stomach twisted.

With a grunt, I let the poor staff guy pull me upright. My knees knocked together like a baby fawn's. I forced my eyes back to Heeseung's face, hunting for something familiar. That spark, that tiny glimmer of softness hidden behind the frost. The thing that made millions of viewers fall in love with him, again and again.

I found nothing. Just a man. Cold. Bored. Mildly irritated.

No no no. This isn't right. This is their- our moment.

I had to salvage it. Coffee. The coffee spill. That's how they bonded. That's how he noticed her. That's how he started falling in love, even if he didn't know it yet.

I glanced to the side, at the tiny café tucked into the corner of the lobby. A polished counter, a bored barista, rows of gleaming cups. This was it. The coffee. The paperwork. The collision.

I snapped my bag shut, hugging it to my chest like a life raft. Then I looked at Heeseung and forced my voice to work.

"I, um, I really need to... I'll be right back!" I blurted, and stumbled away before he could say anything. Or stop me. Or honestly, at this point, he probably wouldn't have bothered.

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The café line was mercifully short. My hands were trembling so badly I nearly dropped my phone, no, not my phone, I realized with a jolt of dread when I pulled it from my bag. It was an unfamiliar sleek little thing with a rose gold case. No lock screen photo. No notifications about my AP chem group chat. Just the time, 8:02 AM, and a background photo of cherry blossoms.

Not mine. But also mine.

I swallowed. One crisis at a time.

"Coffee," I muttered to the barista, who was too polite to comment on how I looked like I'd just face planted onto luxury tile. "Americano. To go, please."

She slid me the cup a minute later, all smiles and polite bows. I nearly dropped it twice before I got my fingers around the cardboard sleeve. My reflection in the glass pastry case caught my eye: pink blouse, messy hair, wide frantic eyes.

"You can do this," I whispered to my reflection. "It's just one scene. One spill. One perfectly normal 'Oops! Sorry, sir!' moment and then he'll look at you like you hung the moon. Just like the script. Just like the show."

My reflection did not look convinced.

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Heeseung hadn't moved an inch. He stood by the concierge desk, phone in hand now, scrolling through something that was clearly more interesting than me. I took a steadying breath. And another. I rehearsed it in my head, the perfect trajectory. Walk briskly. Fumble the cup. Liquid gold splashes across his designer suit jacket. He glares. I stammer. He delivers his cutting line. The world softens around us. Fade to black. Roll credits on the end of the show and maybe my only possible chance to get home.

I lifted the coffee. Took two careful steps. He still hadn't looked up. Good, I needed the element of surprise. Just like the show.

Three more steps. Almost there.

He looked up at the last second. His eyes flicked to the cup. His brow twitched.

My heart did something weird, half swoon, half pure terror. I forced my feet to keep moving. I let my elbow bump my bag. The cup wobbled in my grip. Right on cue.

I flinched, maybe a bit too hard. The cup lurched out of my hand, but instead of sailing forward in a graceful arc toward his immaculate suit, it pitched sideways. Straight into my own blouse.

Great.

Scalding liquid exploded down my front. It soaked the pale pink silk in an instant, blooming like an ugly brown flower across my chest and stomach. The cup hit the floor, spinning in a sad circle before rolling under a nearby chair.

Heeseung did not flinch. Not even a step forward. He just watched me stand there, coffee dripping onto the marble tiles, mouth hanging open in horror.

I choked on a laugh. Or a sob. Or both. This was not the scene. This was not the moment. This was a disaster.

I forced out a strangled, "I'm so sorry, I- I didn't mean- it wasn't supposed to-"

He cut me off with a sharp sigh. Not dramatic or tortured or secretly amused, the way he'd done in every rewatch. Just tired. Disdainful.

"Be more careful next time, Miss Kim," he said. His voice was flat, not cold and cutting in that sexy villain way. Just... flat. Like he was bored. Like I was boring.

He didn't even glance at the stain. He didn't hand me a tissue. He didn't say If you're going to cry, cry where I can't see you. He just checked his watch, a quick flick of his wrist, and stepped around me like I was a spilled drink someone else would mop up later.

Then he walked away. Just like that. Long strides. Perfect posture. Gone.

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I stood there, soaked to the skin, the bitter smell of cheap hotel coffee clinging to my ruined blouse. A few passersby cast me curious looks. The concierge pretended not to notice. No soft piano soundtrack drifted through the air. Just the hiss of an espresso machine and the dull thud of my own heartbeat.

"He's not at all like on screen," I whispered, the words tasting like burnt coffee and disbelief. "He's... not him. He's not the same."

I pressed a hand to my chest, feeling the wet fabric stick to my skin. I could almost hear the director yelling "Cut!" but no one came. There was no redo. No second take. Just me, alone, dripping on a marble floor that cost more than my tuition for the year.

Somewhere in the pit of my stomach, dread curled tighter and tighter.

If Heeseung wasn't the same... what else wasn't the same?

And what the hell was I supposed to do now?

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