Chapter Text
The filming day hadn’t even started yet, but Ivan was already leaning against the craft services table, treating his cup of coffee like it was a rare vintage. The steam curled up from the paper cup, mingling with the faint scent of donuts from breakfast Hyuna had brought and stale studio air. His eyes were half-lidded but alert, like a cat watching a mouse hole.
Till spotted him across the crowded set the moment he walked in, hands full of script pages and a water bottle. “You know you have to sing in twenty minutes, right?” he called out, voice teasing but edged with genuine concern.
Ivan didn’t bother looking up. “Yes,” he said simply, taking another slow, deliberate sip, the faintest smirk flickering at the corner of his mouth.
Till’s fingers tightened instinctively around his script, gripping the pages just enough to crease them. He was not going to rise to the bait this early in the morning — no matter how tempting. He had lines to rehearse, guitar chords to memorize (because why hire someone else when Till could already play?), and… oh, who was he kidding? He was already rising to the bait.
“You’re impossible,” Till muttered, more to himself than anyone else, as he brushed past Ivan to head toward rehearsal.
“Good thing I’m charming,” Ivan called after him smoothly, voice dipped in mock sincerity.
Till rolled his eyes but said nothing—not because he was above it, but because Ivan’s grin was disarming enough to make any comeback sound weak.
Across the set, in a corner that looked like it hadn’t seen an actual prop cleaned in months, Mizi and Sua were huddled side-by-side on a battered, worn-out couch. Between lazy page flips of their scripts, Mizi’s eyes never strayed far from Ivan and Till’s brewing battle.
“They’re at it again,” Mizi murmured with a conspiratorial smile, eyes tracking Ivan’s steady stare as he took another sip of coffee.
Sua didn’t bother looking up. “It’s not acting when the tension is that real,” she said dryly, voice low enough not to carry but loud enough for Mizi to hear perfectly.
Mizi chuckled softly, the kind of sound that bubbled from the corners of her mouth. “Do you think they’ll actually admit it before the season ends? Like, say the words out loud?”
Sua’s lips quirked into a tiny smile, the kind that held secrets. “Not a chance. They’d rather torture each other—and us.”
Mizi glanced at her script, pretending to read, but really just enjoying the quiet theater of watching Ivan and Till exchange looks sharp enough to cut glass.
Meanwhile, Hyuna and Luka were supposed to be rehearsing their lines for the next scene. Instead, Luka was holding up a muffin with a dubious look. “Is this… food?” he asked, voice a mix of curiosity and doubt.
Hyuna tilted her head, examining the suspicious baked good as if it might bite her. “Could be blueberry,” she said thoughtfully, “or… alien egg.”
Luka made a dramatic sniffing gesture, nose twitching in exaggerated suspicion. “Only one way to find out.”
He leaned in, sniffed again, and then recoiled with an exaggerated grimace, making Hyuna burst out laughing. “Perfect,” she declared, her grin wide and mischievous. “His name is Greg. He’s our son now.”
“You’re naming the suspicious muffin?” Luka raised an eyebrow.
Hyuna nodded firmly. “He’s the only one here without drama.”
Her chin jerked pointedly toward Ivan and Till, who were now locked in some sort of silent, coffee-related standoff — the kind of quiet war only the initiated understood.
By the time the director yelled for everyone to get into position, the atmosphere was a strange mix of caffeine, low-level irritation, and questionable baked goods. The first take of the day began under the flicker of studio lights and the hum of the cameras.
“Action!”
Ivan and Till launched into the scene from episode three, their characters delivering dialogue with the same familiar rhythm their fans loved — a careful blend of humor and tension. Their delivery was razor-sharp, the subtle undercurrent of their off-camera chemistry lending an extra spark.
But trouble was brewing behind the scenes.
Luka, meant to enter from stage right, was distracted by Greg—the muffin—which Hyuna had dared him to test by dropping it.
The muffin bounced.
Luka’s wide-eyed expression as Greg defied expectations sent the crew stifling laughter.
Meanwhile, Mizi and Sua nailed their lines, sliding perfectly into their scenes. But Sua’s voice faltered when she caught Ivan smirking at Till mid-performance. There was no way they were just friends. Her next line, which she had rehearsed a dozen times, suddenly slipped away like sand through her fingers.
“Cut!” the director barked, face palm firmly planted. “I swear, if I see one more muffin on set—”
Greg sat proudly on the edge of the stage, unbothered by mortal threats.
—
Later, during a short break, Till found himself alone in the cramped costume racks, flipping through pages of his music. The dim light barely cut through the maze of hanging garments, but the silence was a rare balm from the chaos of the main stage.
Ivan slipped in behind him, another coffee in hand, and leaned casually against a rack.
“You’re in my light,” Till said without looking up.
Ivan stepped closer, voice low and teasing. “Maybe I’m here for the shade.”
Till turned his face away before his ears could betray him with a flush. “You’re insufferable.”Ivan just smiled like he’d just won a game no one else knew they were playing.
Back by the makeup table, Mizi and Sua exchanged a glance that was half amusement, half exasperation.
Hyuna wandered past with Luka in tow, cradling Greg carefully in a paper napkin like a priceless artifact. The camera crew had no idea what they’d signed up for.