After the pre-filming meeting ended on a cheerful note, the production team—now more enthusiastic than ever about scheduling—finally locked in the shooting date for mid-May.PD Jeon Jae-yeon, perhaps anticipating that Seo-eul would start feeling anxious, reached out to him personally from time to time.Brimming with confidence about this season’s casting lineup, she used her trademark easygoing warmth to try to ease his nerves. But when her vague reassurances—Don’t worry, everything will be fine—failed to work, she eventually went so far as to say this:“Seo-eul-ssi. Our team isn’t the kind that collapses just because we get one bad rating. Honestly, even if this season flops, we’ll just do better with the next one. I can take responsibility for that much, so really—you don’t have to worry.”It was something that could easily have sounded arrogant, but Jeon Jae-yeon followed up with a laugh in her voice.“Isn’t that how life is, anyway? You build, you fall, you build again. The world doesn’t end just because you stumble once. And even if it does fall apart, you just rise again, right? What’s the big deal? Don’t you think so? Haha.”“……”But strangely enough—That throwaway joke hit Seo-eul harder than anything else.A world that doesn’t collapse when you fall… The idea lingered with him. The confidence in that voice, saying even if it crumbles, you just rise again—it left him silent for a long while. Maybe because it was the kind of story that had never belonged to him.Even after Jeon Jae-yeon ended the call with another cheerful, “So don’t worry too much,” Seo-eul couldn’t put his phone down.Really?He muttered to himself, eyes blank, staring at his own feet. Looking back, he’d only ever imagined falling—never what came after. He’d never planned a way to rise again. Then again, what he always feared wasn’t his own ruin, but the collateral that came with it. This time was no different.Even if we fail, we can just do better next time.He never knew that Jeon Jae-yeon’s words came from the mouth of someone who’d never truly feared failure. He just repeated them silently, rolling the words across his tongue, and somehow—his heart felt a little lighter. Only then did his phone start to feel heavy in his hand.Meanwhile, time flew past.By the time Seo Sa-heon finally wrapped up his packed schedule, the first day of filming was right around the corner.***Beep.Somewhere, a faint alarm went off. Curled up under his blanket, Seo-eul stirred weakly. On a normal morning, he would have forced himself to open his eyes—but today his eyelids felt like lead. He hadn’t slept properly all night, and his consciousness refused to rise. Then suddenly—the alarm cut off.Silence, as if it had never existed. His mind, halfway between dream and waking, began to sink again.Maybe he’d imagined it.Just as he was drifting back into sleep, a sharp chill crept up the back of his neck. Even wrapped in a blanket, he felt cold—unnaturally cold, as if the air conditioner were blasting.Impossible.Unlike a certain someone, Seo-eul almost never used the AC until late July.Sure, early mornings could still be cool, but this was May—there was no way it should feel this cold. He shivered lightly, still trapped between dreams.“Cold,” he murmured.The next instant, warmth pressed against him. Something hot touched the back of his neck, chasing away the chill, and a different kind of tremor ran through him. Like stepping into a heated house after standing outside in winter. He didn’t even have time to make sense of it.The heat against his cold skin made him mumble softly as he rubbed his cheek deeper into the pillow. It was better than before—but still chilly.When he curled up tighter, something warm wrapped around him completely, blanket and all. It was a little stifling, but just as comfortably hot. As he squirmed closer, a soft hand stroked his back.And then—blink.Who knows how long he drifted again.When he finally sensed something off, it was as the backup alarm he’d set started ringing.“Ugh…”Beep. Beep-beep-beep.Louder than the first. His body reacted before his mind did. He tried to reach out and shut it off—but his arm wouldn’t move. It was like he was tied down.There was the faint rustle of sheets—and then the alarm stopped.Not imagination this time. Something was definitely wrong.He lifted his head, trying to open his eyes—and before he could, a quiet, familiar voice spoke.“It's okay. Sleep more…”“……”“Go back to sleep…”The rhythmic patting on his back nearly worked; for a second he really did almost drift off again. But then confusion spread like ink through his foggy brain.Why is he here?Blinking sluggishly, he confirmed the dark walls. This was definitely his room. So what the hell—? Even half-awake, his thoughts were floating somewhere far above him.“What…? Why are you here?”His voice came out thick with sleep.“Mm,” came the reply.What do you mean ‘mm’? He was too dazed to be angry, but the absurdity almost woke him up—until a sudden chill ran down his spine. Not from the cold this time.Because from the corner of the room, a small red light glowed. The camera lens.Right. They’d set it up last night.……The camera? Why—“……!”The realization hit like lightning.He bolted upright—or tried to. But he couldn’t move. The blanket °• N 𝑜 v 𝑒 l i g h t •° was wound tight around him, and worse—he was being held. By a man built like a doorframe.Arm-pillow and all.His face twisted in pure disbelief. No wonder his neck felt sore—his pillow had been replaced.What the hell was this guy doing here?!“Hey! Wake up!”This was not the time for him to be sleeping soundly.Only now did Seo-eul remember why he’d been restless all night. Today was the pre-departure shoot—a short morning segment showing their daily routine before heading to the “Friendly House.” Normally, each guest would start from their own home. But since they lived together, the production team had set up cameras throughout the apartment the previous evening.In other words—this ridiculous scene was all being recorded.Cold sweat ran down Seo-eul’s back.“Seo Sa-heon!”He’d gone to bed alone. When had Sa-heon even come into his room? He tried to move, but it was useless. Wrapped tight like a roll of kimbap, Seo-eul could only stare in horror.Realizing he couldn’t get free alone, he called Sa-heon’s name over and over, but the man didn’t even twitch. Instead, he grumbled and pulled him closer, burying him tighter in his arms.At this rate, they’d be stuck until noon. Seo-eul’s mind raced.How the hell do I wake this hibernating bear…?After a moment of desperate thought, his expression hardened in resolve. He didn’t want to do this, but under these circumstances—he had no choice.“Seo Sa-heon.”“……”“Sa-heon-ah.”“……”He paused, then whispered softly:“I’m sick…”At those words, Sa-heon’s arms twitched.Of all things, that one line never failed. He was pathologically sensitive whenever Seo-eul said he was unwell.Sure enough, after ignoring all his calls before, Sa-heon’s eyelids began to flutter. Still half-asleep, he leaned in, voice rough and low.“…Where.”“……”“Why. Where does it hurt.”The already close distance vanished completely. Seo-eul’s brain short-circuited for a different reason now.He hadn’t expected him to come this close. Speechless, he swallowed, frowning hard to mask the reaction that had flashed across his face. Whether it helped was questionable.Unfair. This was cheating.The shoot hadn’t even started, and he already felt doomed.He shut his eyes in defeat.“Lee Seo-eul,” Sa-heon murmured.“You’re giving me a headache,” Seo-eul muttered back, with more sincerity than intended.The moment the words left his mouth, Sa-heon shot upright—and immediately turned off the air conditioner.When his hand came to feel Seo-eul’s forehead, Seo-eul realized, with bitter irony, that he really did have a faint headache now.

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