Fuaiz had worked with a dozen different co-stars. He knew the rhythm of on-screen chemistry like choreography — eye contact, slight tension in the jaw, a perfectly timed inhale. It was part of the job.

He'd been praised for it. "Natural," the directors called him. "Effortless."

So when he heard he'd be paired with a newer actor for the next BL drama, he didn't think twice. A rising name, they said. Intense presence. Stage-trained. The kind of guy who looked like he knew exactly who he was even in silence.

Fuaiz met him at the chemistry read. The first thing he noticed was how still he was — not stiff, just... contained. He sat with his script closed, eyes flicking across the room, unreadable. When Fuaiz greeted him, he nodded, polite. Neutral.

They read a scene. No camera, no lighting, just voices and the weight of the air between them.

Something shifted.

It wasn't explosive — not dramatic. Just undeniable. Fuaiz felt it the way you feel someone staring at the back of your neck. The way your pulse ticks up when a thunderstorm is about to break.

The director called it after one take. "We got it."

Fuaiz left that room already uneasy.

Rehearsals didn't help.

His costar wasn't loud, didn't flirt with the crew or post behind-the-scenes selfies like some actors did. He just showed up, hit every mark, and left people wondering what he was really thinking.

And Fuaiz hated how curious that made him.

He'd catch himself watching when his costar wasn't speaking — when he was just listening, nodding slowly, hands resting lightly on his thighs, brows pulled together like he was somewhere else entirely.

He told himself it was professional interest. They were building characters. They needed that connection to sell the relationship.

But it wasn't just that. Not when he caught himself wondering what his costar looked like when he wasn't performing for anyone.

Not when he found himself reading scenes three, four times over, tracing the lines that called for touches — shoulder brushes, hand grazes, tension-loaded silences that were harder to fake every time they filmed them.

Scene after scene, Fuaiz stopped thinking about his character and started wondering what it would be like if his costar ever looked at him that way — not in front of a camera, not in front of a crew. Just... him.

The problem was, his costar never gave anything away. Not on purpose. But sometimes, there'd be these flickers.

A hand resting a beat too long on his wrist. A glance held across the table at the wrap party that didn't drop right away. A smile — rare, small — when Fuaiz made some off-hand joke.

And Fuaiz, against his better judgment, started cataloging every one of them like evidence.