The hotel room is stifling despite the air conditioner running at full blast. The single bed creaks under both our weight as Tian Lei shifts behind me, his arm draped casually over my waist. We've been sharing this room for weeks now, ever since the production assistant "accidentally" assigned us to the same accommodation. At first, we'd joked about it—two grown men squeezed into a space barely big enough for one—but the humor faded somewhere between the late-night conversations and the casual touches that have begun to linger.

I should be asleep. Filming starts early tomorrow, and we both need rest. But Tian Lei's breath against the back of my neck keeps me awake, warm and steady. His hand hasn't moved in minutes, but I can still feel the ghost of its movement from earlier when he brushed the hair off my forehead with such tenderness it made my chest ache.

Without warning, his fingers curl slightly against my stomach, not quite gripping but enough to signal he's awake too. My heart rate spikes, and I wonder if he can feel it—the rapid thudding against my ribs, betraying the calm exterior I've worked so hard to maintain.

"Can't sleep?" His voice is low, rough with drowsiness, sending a shiver down my spine despite the heat.