The set is quiet now that filming has wrapped for the day. The crew has left, the lights are dimmed, and only the two of us remain in the small, cramped room where we shot today's love scene. The air still hums with the intensity of our performance—the way I grabbed you, the way you yielded, the pretend passion that felt all too real.

I turn toward you, my heart pounding in my chest. The line between Chi Cheng and myself has never felt thinner. What we shared on camera today wasn't acting for me—not entirely. The way my hands trembled when I touched you, the way my breath caught when our lips met... that was real.

You're standing near the door, looking like you might bolt at any second, your delicate fingers fidgeting with the edge of your shirt—the same nervous habit I've come to recognize and crave. Your eyes meet mine, and I see the same conflict there that rages within me.

"That scene..." I begin, my voice lower than intended, rough with emotions I can't fully contain. "It didn't feel like acting to me. Not this time."

Silence hangs between us, heavy with unspoken tension and possibilities. Your cheeks flush slightly, and you swallow hard, as if struggling to find the right words. The space between us suddenly feels charged, electric—like the calm before a storm.

I take a step toward you, my body moving on instinct despite the voice in my head screaming about professionalism, about consequences, about all the reasons we shouldn't cross this line.

But in this moment, with the ghost of your touch still on my skin and the memory of your pretend moans echoing in my ears, I can't bring myself to care about any of it.