❥ || chapter nine

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"If you could do anything," I asked, half joking, half hoping he'd open up, "what would it be? Like, if none of this mattered. No rich family expectations, no drama plot lines. Just you."

Sunghoon blinked at me, mid sip of his coffee. We were seated on a stone ledge behind the broadcasting station, our usual post rehearsal hangout. The late afternoon sun painted his hair a golden brown, the kind of cinematic glow that made me pause more than I should. It was almost criminal how picturesque he looked in that moment, like he belonged in a magazine spread instead of next to me.

"You mean like a dream?"

I nodded, smiling. "Yeah. A dream. Something you'd do just for yourself. No audience, no expectations. Just the thing that makes you happiest."

He tilted his head, thoughtful. "I'd open a café. Not a fancy one. Just... warm. With good coffee, obviously. And bookshelves, mismatched chairs, maybe a lazy cat in the window. Somewhere quiet where people can just breathe. A place that feels like a deep exhale."

I stopped breathing.

Of course.

In episode twelve, there's a brief flashback where Sunghoon tells Eunseo that same dream. It's a short scene, right before his death arc ramps up. The show frames it as a tragic "what could have been." A dream that never gets to be more than a line of wistful dialogue. Something the audience mourns because it was always meant to be impossible.

And now he was telling me.

My stomach twisted.

"You think that's silly?" he asked, catching my expression.

"No," I said too quickly. "Not at all. I think it's... perfect. Really."

Sunghoon grinned and bumped my shoulder with his, light and teasing. "Well, what about you? Dream big, Eun. What's the thing that gets you out of bed in the morning?"

"Go home," I muttered under my breath.

He laughed, mistaking it for sarcasm or melodrama, not realizing I meant it literally. I watched him look out at the sky, his expression quiet and hopeful, and something inside me anchored, like a hook catching in my chest.

I had to save him.

I had to.

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The next morning at work, the air was heavy with whispers. Rumours hung in the hallways like perfume, subtle but sharp enough to sting. People leaned against walls in fake casual poses, eyes flicking toward me when they thought I wasn't looking. The station, once just chaotic and fast paced, now buzzed with something else entirely.

"Did you hear? Minchae and Eunseo?"

"The villainess being friendly? And here I thought she'd claw her eyes out."

"Maybe she's faking it. Playing the long game."

Minchae strolled past the interns like a runway queen, not sparing them a glance. Her heels clicked against the tile with deliberate rhythm. I trailed behind her, coffee in hand, trying not to shrink under the weight of the murmurs. Their voices weren't even hushed anymore, just lightly veiled behind faux casual tones and sideways glances. Every step I took felt like it echoed.

She leaned toward me, voice low. "You're getting popular."

"Apparently being on speaking terms with you is scandalous," I said with a weak smile.

She rolled her eyes. "Please. Half these people would sell their own scripts to have coffee with me."

"I did spill coffee on myself in front of Heeseung. Does that count?"

Minchae laughed, and for a moment, it didn't feel like we were supposed to be enemies. It just felt like two women surviving a high pressure drama set. There was something oddly comforting in her presence. Like she wasn't just playing a role anymore, but showing up as something real.

Rumours or not, she always had my back lately. If I dropped something, she picked it up. If I looked lost in the schedule, she quietly corrected it before anyone else could notice. She didn't act like someone angling for a dramatic betrayal. More like someone watching me closely and choosing kindness. Maybe it wasn't in the script, but she was rewriting her lines, too.

"They're just bored," she said. "When Heeseung ignores them, they create their own drama."

Speak of the devil.

Lee Heeseung stepped out of the elevator, tailored suit sharp as a blade, gaze distant as ever. But when his eyes landed on me, something flickered.

He paused.

I offered a small, awkward nod, trying to play it cool. He tilted his head slightly, almost like he was assessing me.

Odd.

Before, I was invisible to him. Or worse, an inconvenience.

Now he was looking.

Not with affection. Not yet. But with interest. Like he was trying to figure out what changed. Maybe like he could sense a shift in the story that he wasn't a part of writing.

Spoiler alert, Heeseung, I changed. Everything changed.

He didn't say anything. Just brushed past. But his glance lingered longer than usual.

It was the softest shift.

But it was a shift.

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"You're keeping a notebook now," Minchae said later that afternoon, sitting beside me in the break room, sipping tea like a character who definitely wasn't supposed to be this nice.

I froze. "How do you know that?"

"You mutter to yourself when you write in it. Dramatic little sighs. Very mysterious, I will say."

I flushed. "It's just... I like writing things down. Helps me think."

"What kind of things?"

"Scenes," I said without thinking. "Like, the way people act. What they say. Who seems off script. Stuff I want to remember."

She narrowed her eyes. "Like a drama within the drama."

I nodded slowly, unsure if she was teasing or seeing too much.

"Let me guess," she said, "You're trying to rewrite your role."

I almost dropped my pen, inwardly cursing me and my big mouth.

But she smiled, unfazed. "Good luck with that."

Her tone was playful, but something deeper shimmered behind her gaze, like maybe she understood the feeling of wanting to escape the role you've been boxed into. Of hoping the story could go a different way. I didn't know if she meant it seriously, or if she was speaking for both of us.

I didn't respond. Just kept writing. Scribbling notes like a madwoman hoping ink and stubbornness could change fate. I was collecting moments like armour, patching them together in hopes of building a shield strong enough to protect Sunghoon. Maybe even protect myself.

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Later that night, Sunghoon found me outside the building, waiting near the bike racks. He looked surprised. Pleased.

"You waiting for someone?"

"Yeah," I said. "You."

He blinked. "Oh. Cool. Want to walk?"

We fell into step together, the streetlights flickering on around us. The city had a gentle hum at night, like a lullaby meant for the weary. The pavement was still warm from the day's heat, and our shadows stretched long behind us.

"Still dreaming about that café?" I asked.

He smiled softly. "Every day."

We walked in comfortable silence for a while, the kind of quiet that doesn't demand to be filled. A breeze rustled the trees lining the sidewalk. The hum of traffic in the distance softened the edges of the moment.

Then he added, more quietly, "Sometimes I think about the names. Like what I'd call it. Something simple. I want it to feel like stepping into a story. But a peaceful one. No heartbreak, no chaos. Just... space to breathe."

"A space to breathe," I repeated, tasting the words. "I like that idea. It sounds like the beginning of something good."

He glanced at me, his expression gentler than I'd ever seen. "That's the idea."

I didn't tell him that in the original script, he never got the chance. That his dream died with him. That his story was never supposed to reach a second chapter.

But as we walked shoulder to shoulder, a small bag of spicy chips shared between us, I made myself a quiet promise.

Not this time.

Not if I could help it.

I would rewrite everything if I had to.

Even if the story fought me back.

Especially if it did.

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