After returning from the charity event, the rehearsal room that afternoon was so quiet one could hear the second hand of the clock move. The faint scent of aged wood from the desks blended with the pale yellow light spilling in from the window, slowing the entire room into a languid stillness.

Film sat on a wooden chair, her shoulder leaning slightly toward Namtan, fingers absently twirling a pen as she waited for her cue. Her long black hair draped over one side, half-veiling her face, though it could not hide the depth of her gaze—directed straight at her partner.

“Do you really think… I’ve never cared about how you feel?” Film’s voice was low, each word deliberate, carrying weight despite its softness.

Namtan lifted her head, following the script:
“No, it’s not that… it’s just—”

But the line faltered. She froze, caught by the intensity in Film’s eyes—not the eyes of a character, but her real eyes: warm, searching, layered with meaning. All other sounds—the ceiling fan, the shuffle of papers, even her own breath—faded away.

“Cut!” The director’s voice cracked through the silence, reverberating across the room. To Namtan, it was like a pebble tossed into still water, snapping her out of a dream.

“What happened, Namtan?” the director asked, brows raised.

She forced a small laugh, trying to mask her unease. “Sorry, I must have… lost focus for a moment.”

Film said nothing. She simply held Namtan’s gaze a second longer before turning away, leaving Namtan with the strange sensation of having let something precious slip through her grasp. Her throat felt dry; the tips of her ears burned with heat she couldn’t explain.

---

During break time, Milk spotted Love curled up in a corner of the waiting room, knees drawn up, her eyes fixed on her phone—even though the screen had long gone dark. Milk approached, her familiar smile cutting through the heavy air like sunlight slipping past clouds.

“Love, let’s go grab coffee later. You look way too tense.”

Love glanced up, her voice tired. “But I still have things to do…”

“No worries, I already got you excused. Come on. Think of it as me kidnapping you for an hour. You’ll work better once you’ve had a little fun, right?” Milk teased, tugging her gently by the wrist before Love could protest.

The café just outside the studio gates was tucked beneath the shade of old tamarind trees. A trace of the midday drizzle lingered in the cool scent clinging to the roof tiles. Inside, golden lamplight mingled with the aroma of freshly roasted coffee, wrapping the place in warmth that seemed to invite every guarded thought to soften.

Milk ordered a latte for Love—just like last time—and chose her own usual americano.

“What do you think about Namtan and Film lately?” Love asked, her tone light, but her eyes intent on Milk’s reaction.

Milk tilted her head. “They seem fine. Why?”

Love pressed her lips together, lowering her gaze to the cup in her hands. “I don’t know… they’re just… close. It makes me a little uneasy.”

Propping her chin on one hand, Milk studied her. Beyond the flicker of jealousy in Love’s eyes, she caught something else: a fragile worry, as though Love feared something slipping beyond her reach. Milk smiled instead, breaking the heaviness with a sudden joke.

“Like yesterday—I nearly tripped headfirst into a pitch-dark set. The lighting guy freaked out, thought I was possessed!”

Love burst into laughter, soft but genuine, dissolving the weight between them. “You’re ridiculous…”

“See.? You’re smiling again.” Milk’s voice gentled, her eyes bright. “As long as I’m here, you won’t have to carry everything alone.”

---

Later that day, the crew moved from set A to set B. But the western sky abruptly darkened, heavy gray clouds rolling in. A gust of damp wind swept across the lot, carrying the smell of rain.

“Hurry, everyone!” the assistant called out. But only minutes later, the downpour broke, sheets of rain hammering the pavement as though the heavens had flung open their doors.

Caught between two buildings, Namtan and Film found themselves stranded in the open courtyard. No roof, no shelter—just slick stone tiles and the relentless curtain of rain.

Without thinking, Namtan strode forward and pulled Film close. She spread her coat wide, wrapping it around them both, her own body shielding Film from the storm. Heat radiated from her skin, countering the chill that seeped through.

Rain hammered against the fabric above them, water rushing down gutters in torrents. Their breaths mingled in the confined space—so close that Film could hear Namtan’s heartbeat, fast and unsteady. The scent of rain fused with the faint trace of laundry soap clinging to her clothes, creating a cocoon that felt entirely their own.

Film tilted her face upward. The distance between them was barely a hand’s breadth—close enough to trace the droplets sliding down Namtan’s cheek, to see the damp strands clinging to her forehead. Her lips were pressed together, as though forcing herself to focus on running… yet the moment stretched, holding them in place under the same coat a little longer.

“Come on,” Namtan murmured, her voice low against the roar of rain. But her hand gripped Film’s shoulder firmly, as if she feared letting go.

They dashed beneath the nearest awning. Breathless, their chests rose and fell in unison. Film hugged her arms around herself, but her racing heart betrayed her calm. When she looked up, Namtan’s eyes were already on her—flustered, hiding something unspoken.

And in that instant, Namtan realized… she had never wanted to stay this close to someone before. Her chest tightened, though it was a kind of ache she almost welcomed.

---

That night, Namtan sat alone in her room. The can of soda on her desk had gone flat; the hum of the air conditioner couldn’t erase the warmth still lingering on her skin. Leaning back in her chair, she pressed her fingers absently against her chest—where the feeling from earlier still pulsed, insistent.

What was this? For the first time… she was afraid of hurting someone. And for the first time, she didn’t want to let go.

A knock broke her reverie. The production assistant’s voice came from outside:
“Next week, we’ll be shooting the romantic scene between the leads, out in the countryside. The director wants it perfect, so please be ready.”

Across the hall, Film received the same message. Standing by the window, she watched the drizzle still falling in the courtyard. For a moment, her gaze drifted toward the door that had just closed behind Namtan. A quiet smile tugged at her lips. Her heartbeat quickened—as though waiting for something she couldn’t yet bring herself to name.