As Sa-yoon wandered through the maze-like cultural center, he finally reached the stairs—only to feel a hand tugging at him from behind. He tightened his grip, half-expecting the other to make a last-minute escape, but instead, a somewhat aggrieved voice spoke up.
“There’s an elevator over there.”
“Oh.”
Had it been that obvious? The moment he spotted Shin-jae, he bolted without thinking. Now, with every movement, an uncomfortable sensation rose from his injured knee. It wasn’t exactly painful, just a dull ache.
But walking on flat ground and going down stairs were two entirely different matters. The moment’s hesitation at the top of the steps was enough for Shin-jae to notice.
He must’ve been walking like someone whose body was still sore after an intense workout. Not realizing that, Sa-yoon awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck.
Was he really not planning to run away? Could he let go now?
Still, he couldn’t bring himself to trust him just yet. He had already lost track of him once while getting distracted back at the drama club. If he let go now, this hermit crab might just retreat into his shell for good. He had a feeling about it.
“Alright, let’s go.”
Sa-yoon made up his mind not to release his grip and took the lead. Shin-jae, his partial freedom restrained, followed without resistance. Even after stepping into the elevator, even after making it outside, their hands remained connected.
The sight of two grown men walking hand in hand inevitably drew passing glances. Even though it wasn’t interlocked fingers but a firm grip around the wrist, curious gazes didn’t waver.
Sa-yoon, busy scanning the area for a quiet spot, paid them no mind, but Shin-jae ducked his head, covering his face with his large hand. He muttered under his breath, “Ah, seriously…”
Of course, Sa-yoon pretended not to hear a word of it.
After steering him toward a more secluded area, Sa-yoon stretched out his right arm, pressing it against the wall. Then, he stepped forward with his left leg, effectively trapping Shin-jae in place.
It wasn’t a complete entrapment, but the only way out was to push against Sa-yoon’s body. A perfect restraint.
Only after cutting off any possible escape route did Sa-yoon take a good look at Shin-jae’s face. Though he had his head bowed low, he seemed unaware that Sa-yoon, being shorter, had a clearer view from below.
His lips were curled inward, biting down slightly, and his eyes, damp and slightly shimmering, held an air of injustice.
‘Did I push him too hard?’
Being dragged around like a scolded child must have been more humiliating than expected.
Staring at that gentle expression, Sa-yoon suddenly felt like the villain in this scenario. The posture didn’t help either—it looked exactly like some thug shaking down a poor kid for money. Feeling a sudden wave of unease, he glanced around to check their surroundings.
Luckily, there was no one around. Even so, the discomfort lingered, and Sa-yoon let out a quiet sigh before lowering his arm and stepping back.
Shin-jae exhaled deeply.
“Sa Shin-jae.”
“……”
Watching him, Sa-yoon called his name. “Sa Shin-jae.”
But there was no response.
He tried to catch his gaze, tilting this way and that, but Shin-jae dodged his eyes with practiced ease. The blatant avoidance left Sa-yoon feeling a bit put out.
What do they mean I pushed him too hard? If I hadn’t dragged him back like this, when the hell would we ever have a proper conversation? Besides, sitting around waiting for the other person to come to him had never suited his nature.
“Shin-jae, look at me for a second, okay?”
His tone was softer now—like the fable of the sun and the traveler, trying to coax the cloak off with warmth instead of force.
“…Okay.”
It must’ve worked, because this time, he got an answer—though it was barely more than a whisper, small enough to crawl into a mouse hole.
“Why have you been avoiding me?”
“I haven’t.”
Sa-yoon’s eyes narrowed at the feeble lie. Yeah, right. Even now, they were standing face to face, yet Shin-jae refused to meet his eyes.
If there was something bothering him, he should just say it outright. Bottling it up wouldn’t do anything but pile on more weight. This wasn’t some kind of mileage program—there was no benefit to accumulating grievances.
But more than anything, Sa-yoon had one specific concern.
“Was it because I was being too picky? Did I hurt your feelings?”
He was talking about the shoot.
They had filmed the same scene over ten times in front of an audience of over a dozen people. It didn’t matter if Shin-jae had any pride in his acting or not—it was more than enough to bruise someone’s ego.
“No.”
The response was immediate, but the way his eyes darted around and his lips pressed together tightly made it obvious. His mouth might have said no, but his body was far more honest.
Sa-yoon knew he had been demanding that day. The moment the equipment was set up and the crew was gathered, a strong sense of responsibility had kicked in—We have to get this right. And it hadn’t helped that they were always so close to nailing it.
Filming just two scenes had taken them from early evening past midnight.
So yeah, maybe he had pushed too hard.
What if Shin-jae had gotten sick of it that night? What if he wanted to say, Sorry, but I can’t do this anymore—but couldn’t bring himself to say it, so he had just started avoiding him instead? It might sound like overthinking, but it wasn’t uncommon for this to happen when working on a graduation film.
And the filming schedule he had set? One year.
They weren’t shooting nonstop for a year, of course, but that alone was enough to make an actor bolt.
“…Then, did you start hating me after the shoot?”
“No.”
But this time, all Shin-jae did was open and close his mouth a few times before falling silent.
Why wasn’t he saying anything else?
Sa-yoon felt a wave of unease.
Judging by his reaction, it didn’t seem like he had decided to quit—but he was clearly conflicted about something.
The best move here would be to reassure him, to promise that something like that would never happen again.
But Sa-yoon knew himself too well.
He couldn’t make that guarantee.
The thought that he might lose the actor he had fought so hard to cast left him with a growing sense of desperation.
“Shin-jae. Hyung’s already completely taken with you, but you keep avoiding me—it hurts, you know.”
The words tumbled out before Sa-yoon could refine them. But it wasn’t an exaggeration. He had been captivated by Shin-jae’s acting, after all.
Shin-jae’s eyes wavered slightly at the earnest confession.
“…Really?”
“Of course.”
He must have taken quite a hit to his confidence after that shoot. To hesitate and ask if it was true—that was telling. Since the mood didn’t seem entirely negative, Sa-yoon nodded firmly to reassure him.
“Did my avoiding you upset you?”
“Yeah, hyung got hurt.”
Sa-yoon pressed both hands against his chest dramatically, bowing his head as if he were a tragic figure. He wouldn’t blame Shin-jae for thinking he had a split personality. After pushing him so hard through the night shoot, if Shin-jae suddenly decided he couldn’t do this anymore—it would all fall apart.
So, please don’t quit.
He swallowed those words before they could slip out, afraid that pressing too hard might actually make him run.
“I didn’t avoid you on purpose. I just…”
Shin-jae hurried to explain, his face laced with tangled emotions.
“…I was… embarrassed. And… confused about whether this was really okay.”
He trailed off, biting down on his lower lip.
“…No, never mind.”
And just like that, he shut himself off again.
Without thinking, Sa-yoon grabbed his wrist.
“That’s normal at first.”
For someone who probably hadn’t been on a set since childhood—let alone one where he was being constantly corrected—he must have felt incredibly self-conscious.
Thinking about it, Sa-yoon realized it was largely his fault.
Even if Shin-jae was in the drama club, he had never actually performed on stage before. And yet, Sa-yoon had pushed him relentlessly. He was a far more sensitive actor than he had initially thought.
New rule: No sighing in front of Shin-jae during shoots.
Setting the mental guideline for himself, Sa-yoon spoke again.
“It makes sense to feel unsure at first. But you have to trust that whatever you’re feeling is right. Acting doesn’t have a single correct answer.”
“…You mean my acting?”
“Yeah. Your acting.”
“Ah.”
Shin-jae exhaled softly, rubbing his jaw. Then, a faint smile crossed his lips—though it carried a hint of exhaustion.
Relieved that this wasn’t a conversation about him quitting, Sa-yoon failed to notice the subtle weariness in that smile and pushed on.
“You remember how I kept chasing after you because I was so taken with your performance? So have a little more confidence, okay? And about that night… yeah, hyung was in the wrong. I got greedy. I’ll… try to be more mindful moving forward.”
At the compliment, Shin-jae’s face flushed red. Damn, this kid really gets embarrassed easily.
It was a director’s job to encourage their actors, to bring out their best.
“You’re doing great, and you’ll only keep getting better. So if anything ever bothers you—just tell me, okay?”
Sa-yoon gave Shin-jae’s wrist a light shake.
Shin-jae kept opening his mouth to speak, only to stop himself. His tongue darted out, wetting his full lips a few times. Sa-yoon simply played with Shin-jae’s hand absentmindedly, waiting patiently as he gathered his thoughts.
“…Hyung being too kind is the problem.”
The words came out with a quiet sigh.
“What do you mean kind? You have no idea how important you are.”
“The fact that you say stuff like that is exactly the problem.”
“Alright, alright. I’ll be nicer when we’re filming, too.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Ohhh, so was it because you felt wronged?”
“…Ha… No.”
It seemed like he had been holding in quite a lot, because once he started, the complaints spilled out in a rush. But honestly? None of it was a big deal.
He really is just a kid sometimes.
The way he grumbled reminded Sa-yoon of Sesame whining whenever it felt wronged.
So with an easy smile, he just nodded along. “Mhm, yeah, yeah, I hear you.”
