Chapter 23

A month passed, and notes from Austin kept piling up on Christin’s table. The frequency dropped to one note a day, but they still arrived consistently—every single day, without fail. And every morning, a dessert from room 113 followed.

Christin hoped Austin would eventually give up, but Austin proved to be stubborn. Every now and then, their gazes met, but they remained silent.

One hoping for a word, the other avoiding it.

The director was pushing for perfection now. As Christin was no longer a novice, several scenes from his early days of acting were re-filmed. The director even critiqued him openly when needed. However, dealing with crowds was still an issue. Christin was fine with small gatherings of familiar crew members, but scenes set in public places were still impossible for him. Intimate scenes were no longer a priority; the director wanted more action and stunts.

Another routine that developed was Austin rushing to Christin’s set after finishing his own work. Unintentionally, his presence put pressure on the shoot—his identity as the producer made it unavoidable.

This is perfect, Christin thought. I hope he stays distant until the end.

But fate had something else in store.

One morning, Christin woke up late. He had barely managed to finish his class project the night before.

Out of habit, he went to the door to look for the note—but to his surprise, there was none.

Did he finally give up? he winced.

He ordered breakfast. No dessert arrived with it this time. He peeked outside his door—Austin was nowhere in sight.

The unusual silence lasted a couple of days. The absence was unsettling.

He went to his shoots and lingered afterward, hoping to catch a familiar figure.

“It seems the producer was badly hurt during his shoot two days ago,” someone whispered.

Christin froze.

“He can’t use his hand for now,” another added.

Christin packed his things and rushed out of the set.

How badly is he hurt to not be able to use his hand?

Soon, he found himself standing in front of room 113. He hesitated, staring at the doorknob.

Then suddenly the door opened.

Austin stood there, eyes widened.

Christin’s breath caught. Those dark brown eyes were filled with exhaustion—and pain.

Suddenly, Austin leaped forward and pulled Christin into a tight embrace.

“Austin…” Christin startled, trying to pull away.

“Let me hold you a bit longer, Christin, please…” Austin murmured, nuzzling against Christin’s neck. “You feel like a dream…” He took a deep breath.

Hearing that deep voice after such a long time, Christin’s heart pounded. He pressed his hands firmly against Austin’s chest.

“Let go,” he said firmly.

“Are you still mad at me?” Austin asked worriedly, loosening his grip. “Are you not here to forgive me?” he asked pleadingly.

“Are you hurt?” Christin ignored his words, “Where?”

“Why do you care?” Austin asked softly—maybe there is still some hope.

“Should I leave, then?” Christin turned away. He was no longer being led by Austin’s word. He held in his emotions.

Fearing he would lose him again, Austin quickly responded, “My hand—my hand was injured.”

Christin turned around immediately, dropped his bag on the floor, and looked at Austin’s right hand—completely bandaged.

“What happened?” he asked gently, reaching for it.

“It was one of the fighting scenes. I broke something and got glass shards in my hand,” Austin replied quietly.

Christin gently held Austin’s injured hand, caressing it with affection.

“That’s not the only place that’s injured,” Austin said.

“Where else?” Christin asked anxiously.

Austin took Christin’s hand and placed it over his chest.

“It hurts here too… ever since you left,” pain and guilt slipping into his voice.

“This hurts more, Christin…” His eyes brimmed with tears. “I’m sorry.”

Christin’s chest tightened, he had never seen Austin in tears. “What are you sorry for…” His voice choked.

“Everything—especially for hurting you.” Tears streamed down Austin’s face.

Christin hesitated. Austin’s eyes were sincere, and so were his words.

He gathered his courage. “Let’s talk inside,” he said, slipping his hand away.

Inside, the room felt nostalgic—both good and bad memories surfaced. Christin looked at the bed; Austin’s blanket lay loosely folded. Then he noticed the desk—blank notes piled up, and one unfinished note lying open, as if abandoned mid-thought:

I miss you, Christin. Could you just see m—

The handwriting was crooked, unlike the usual neat notes.

Austin, following behind cautiously, saw Christin reading it. Flustered, he quickly took the note and folded it clumsily with one hand.

“Um—that note isn’t finished yet,” he stuttered.

Christin sat down on his old bed and asked calmly, “What else did you want to talk about?” He added, “Your notes kept saying you wanted to talk.”

So he read them all…

Austin knelt in front of Christin, his hands resting on Christin’s knees.

Christin was taken aback.

“That night, I didn’t mean a word of it,” Austin said, his head lowered.

Christin stayed silent.

“I—I like you, Christin,” Austin said softly, looking up. “But I’m scared—not because you’re a man, but because it’s my first time falling for someone first.” He hesitated. “You being a man is part of that first experience—that’s all.”

He watched Christin carefully.

“When I said I didn’t want a fifth failed relationship… it’s because I’ve already failed four times. I’m afraid of responsibility now. I don’t want to be abandoned again.” Tears slipped free. “I’m sorry.”

Christin realised he wasn’t the only one afraid of love.

The big, stoic man knelt on the floor, begging for forgiveness.

Christin leaned forward, cupped Austin’s face, and wiped away his tears.

“Next time,” Christin said softly, “make sure you express your emotions and thoughts clearly”. He smiled faintly.

Austin couldn’t believe his ears. It felt as though a heavy guilt had lifted from his shoulders. He rose to his knees and wrapped Christin in his arms once again.

This time, Christin didn’t pull away. He gently placed his arms around Austin and hugged him back. He ruffled Austin’s hair and slowly pulled his face away. Austin was still wailing.

Christin leaned forward and pressed his forehead against Austin’s.
“Stop crying… you look ugly when you cry,” he giggled.

That smiling face—those blue eyes filled with warmth—were what Austin had missed for so long. He felt his blood rush. Lost in Christin’s gaze, he leaned forward, and gently kissed Christin on the lips.

Christin was startled. He pulled away, his face turning red. He looked away and stammered,
“I—I think I should leave.”

Austin froze, fear settling in his chest.
“Why? What’s wrong?”

“I—I want to… I want to go back to my room,” Christin’s words tumbled out.

“Christin… look at me,” Austin said anxiously.

Christin refused to turn.

“Is it because of my feelings?” Austin asked. “Do you not feel the same?”

Silence followed.

Austin took a deep breath and buried his head against Christin’s chest again.
“Even if you were to reject me,” he muttered, “could you please do it after we’re done filming?”

He gasped.
“Let me live this dream a little longer, please. I’ll make sure I don’t cross a line.”

“Don’t leave,” he whispered, clutching Christin tightly.

“When did I say I would reject your feelings?” Christin murmured.

Startled, Austin looked up to confirm.

Still unable to make eye contact, Christin placed a hand behind Austin’s neck and stroked gently.
“But…” he hesitated. “I need time.”

He gathered his courage and peeked at Austin, refusing to let go.
“Make sure you keep your word. You said you won’t cross the line.”

His face was still flushed.

So the feelings are mutual, Austin’s heart pounded.

“How long do you plan on staying down there?” Christin said softly. “Your hand is injured. You should be resting.”

Austin stood up slowly, still watching Christin’s flushed face.
“So… what are we?” he asked.

“We’re still friends, if nothing more,” Christin replied shyly.

Austin’s expression softened. Although the response left him a little unsettled, but he didn’t want to rush him.

Christin leaned against Austin’s shoulder.
“How long will it take for your hand to heal?” he asked worriedly.

“At least three weeks, with precautions,” Austin replied, resting his head against Christin’s.

“Do you want me to help you with anything?” Christin asked.

“Nothing at the moment,” Austin said quietly. “I just want to stay like this a little longer.”

Christin cuddled closer.
“Just tell me if you need anything. I need to go back now,” he said gently.

Austin immediately pulled back.
“Why? Aren’t you moving back in?” he asked.

Christin pinched his nose.
“Stop worrying,” he said firmly. “I told you I need time.”

Then he looked at Austin with a playful smile.
“It’s only a few rooms away anyway… I wouldn’t mind a visit from my friend, Mr. Ivanov.”