The moment she was gone, I sat down hard on the edge of the bed, phone gripped in one hand like it might anchor me. But it didn’t.

It buzzed. Again. And again.

At first, I didn’t look. I knew I shouldn’t look. But I did.

My home screen lit up with notifications like warning signs. Texts from friends. My sister. My agent. Missed calls. A few voicemails I knew I wouldn’t be able to listen to.

My socials were worse. Hundreds of new likes and follows. Comments stacking by the second. A tag I hadn’t even seen before was trending.

His name. Then mine. Then both of us—cracked together in a single phrase, like we’d never existed apart. I clicked one post. Then another. The photo was everywhere. Slightly edited now. Cropped. Brightened. Frozen in time like a painting.

His mouth at my neck. My head thrown back. His hands where they shouldn’t have been—where they’d always found their way. My shirt pushed up just enough to tell the truth. The shadows of trees and water in the background, blurred but too specific. The worst part wasn’t that we’d been caught. It was that someone had waited. Saved it. Held onto it for months like a secret weapon—and decided today was the day to strike.

My fingers scrolled on their own. Comments blinked in and out.

“Is this her??” “She’s not even famous. Who the hell is she?” “Why her?” “God, she’s plain. He could do so much better.” “They look hot together tho.” “Imagine being her. I’d cry too.”

I was crying.

Notifications started popping up on my own posts at rapid speeds. One of my recent selfies had a hundred new comments.

“He’s been hiding this?” “She looks different here?” “She thinks she’s famous now lmao.”

Another post—me on set, smiling, innocent in a way that made my stomach hurt now—was flooded too.

“Her teeth aren’t even straight.” “Plain. Boring. Forgettable.” “No wonder they were hiding it.”

They weren’t just reacting to the photo anymore. They were dissecting me. I’d always known the internet could be cruel. But I didn’t think it would be this sharp. This specific. They weren’t just attacking what we had. They were attacking me.

They dug through everything. Pulled old pictures, screen-capped videos from set, blew up stills where I wasn’t even looking at the camera. Compared me to actresses he’d worked with. Models he’d never dated. One post had side-by-sides with some influencer in a bikini, captioned “Jack fumbled.” Another quoted something I'd said in an interview months ago—out of context, reworked into something pathetic. Someone edited one of my vacation photos, added fake text like a meme. Another circled my smile, pointing out a crooked tooth like it was a crime.

My face became content. My name, a joke.

I hadn’t known it was possible to feel so visible and so invisible at the same time.

Like I was being erased and scrutinized all at once.

I tasted salt in my mouth. My cheeks were wet, chest hitching. But I couldn’t stop. Couldn’t put the phone down.

Every post felt like a stone dropped in my stomach. My hands were shaking. A part of me kept looking for something kind—some stranger in the comments to say she looks happy or leave her alone. Something to hold onto.

But the deeper I scrolled, the more it slipped away.

I was unraveling. In real time.

My phone buzzed again.

For a second I thought it might be him. But it wasn’t.

I wanted to throw the phone across the room. Wanted to disappear. Instead I just curled tighter over the blankets, fists clenched in the sheets, breath coming faster. The walls were closing in, and I didn’t even notice the knock at first.

Not until it came again. Louder. Closer.

And then—his voice, muffled but unmistakable. “Hey. It’s me.”

I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

The knock again. “Can you open the door?”

I stood slowly. My legs felt hollow. The phone was still in my hand when I opened it.

Jack froze in the doorway.

And I was still crying.

His brow furrowed the second he saw me—so fast it was like his face hadn’t caught up with the rest of him yet. He stepped inside slowly, like he was worried he’d break something just by coming into the room. Not a trace of his usual charm. Just tension and concern and the kind of panic that only ever came when it was me.

“I’m sorry,” he said immediately, voice rough. “I should’ve come sooner. I—I was getting calls. Too many. I didn’t think—” He stopped, swore under his breath. “I shouldn’t have left you alone.” 

His eyes darted down to my hand, still clenched around my phone like a lifeline. I knew what was on the screen. I saw it hit him before he even asked.

“Oh, baby.” His voice was too soft. Like it hurt to say. He reached out gently, not even touching me at first—just brushing his fingers over the edge of the phone until I let it go. Then his arms were around me. And I collapsed.

I buried my face in his chest as the sob tore out of me—hot, loud, and ugly. The kind of cry that came from deep in the gut, from places that had been hurting too long. Jack held me tight, both hands pressing into my back like he could fuse us together, like he could squeeze the pain out of me just by being close enough.

His breath was shallow. I could feel it stuttering against the crown of my head. He was trying to hold it together. For me. But I could feel the fury under his skin. The tension in his arms. The way one hand moved up to cradle the back of my neck like he didn’t know whether to comfort me or go find someone to blame.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered into my hair. “This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not like this.”

One particular sob made my knees buckle, but he caught me without flinching. Lowered us both onto the edge of the bed in one slow, careful motion like he was handling glass.

“I should’ve been here,” he said again, more to himself now. “I’m so sorry.” He pulled back just enough to look at me, cupping my face in both hands. His thumbs brushed over my wet cheeks, and he exhaled like he was trying to breathe for the both of us. “This is my fault,” he murmured. “They’re saying that stuff because of me.”

His eyes were shining now too, jaw flexing like he was holding something back. Something sharp and raw.

“I’ll fix it,” he said. “I swear. I don’t care what it takes.”

Jack held me for a long time. Long enough for my sobs to lose their sharpest edge. Long enough for the shaking to start fading from my limbs, replaced by a dull, aching exhaustion that made it hard to lift my head. His hand never left the back of my neck, his thumb tracing mindless shapes into my skin like he couldn’t stop touching me even if he tried.

Eventually, I felt him shift slightly. I thought he was going to say something, but then his phone buzzed in his back pocket. Again. And again.

He exhaled tightly through his nose, jaw flexing. “I should turn that off.”

I pulled back slightly, blinking up at him. “Is it bad?”

He moved to grab his phone from his pocket. “They’ve been texting and calling nonstop. My agent, manager, some PR people. They’re in damage control mode.”

His phone started ringing now, the sound making me jump. He sighed, reluctantly pulling back and looking down at the screen in his hand. “It’s my manager,” he muttered, jaw tightening.

I nodded, wiping at my face, but I didn’t look up. I didn’t want to see it—didn’t want to watch him disappear into the version the world knew. The version who weighed consequences instead of feelings. The one who had to weigh the cost of touching me.

He gently moved me before standing and crossing the room to the window, answering the call with a curt, “Yeah?” His voice shifted just slightly. Not fake, just careful.

I sat on the edge of the bed, head bowed, looking at my phone screen light up every few seconds where it sat on the nightstand. The harsh words flashed through my head. I should feel sad. I just feel numb. I could hear fragments of the conversation—words like contain, strategy, fans, narrative. He didn’t argue. Not really. Just listened. Quiet, tense.

Eventually, he turned back to me, tossing his phone down on the bed with a sigh as he dragged his hand through his hair. 

“They want me to brush it off,” he said, slowly. “Say it’s just fans being fans. A rumor. Or a leak from set. Something vague. Laugh it off if anyone asks.”

He waited. Watching me. I stared at my hands, the floor, throat tight. 

Finally he came to kneel in front of me, head tilting to try and see my face. “They think it’s safer,” he added. “For you.”

That part was harder to hear. Not because it wasn’t true—but because part of me was now screaming that it wasn’t the only reason. Apparently, there were a multitude of reasons I should be kept hidden. 

He reached for my hands to gently still them. I hadn’t even noticed I had been anxiously picking at my fingers, my manicure now chipped at the sides and skin red. “Hey. What do you think?” he asked gently. 

I didn’t move my eyes from the floor. My voice came out thinner than I wanted. “If that’s what they think is best.”

He frowned. “That’s not what I asked.”

And here it was—that terrible ache again. That deep, crawling sadness I couldn’t seem to shake. I didn’t want to beg him. I didn’t want to be the one who said, Please, don’t pretend I’m nothing. I wanted him to want to say it himself. I wanted it to be easy. I wanted it to not have to hurt. But maybe that was too much to ask. Maybe I’d already asked for too much.

“Do what you have to.” It came out less convincing than I wanted it to. 

His posture shifted instantly, like he’d almost flinched. I didn’t look up. I couldn’t. Instead I curled inward, laying down slowly on my side, facing the wall, like retreating might soften the blow. His head tilted, like he was about to say something—eyes searching for whatever he thought he was missing. “Hey, don’t—”

But his phone rang again, loud and cutting. He swore under his breath and looked at the screen like it had betrayed him. “Shit,” he muttered, then rubbed a hand down his face. “I have to take this. Just for a second.”

I didn’t answer. I just pulled the comforter around me and closed my eyes, already too tired to cry again. The AC clicked on with a low sigh, and only then did I realize how cold I’d gotten. It crept in like the rest of it—quiet, unnoticed, all at once. I drew the blanket tighter around me, like it might stitch the pieces back together. I could hear him talking, pacing the room, voice low and serious as he tried to sound collected. But his words blurred. The darkness crept in, thick and heavy, and the last thing I heard was him saying my name—soft and careful, like it was the only thing holding him together.

—

I woke hours later to the quiet hum of the hotel room, shadows cast long across the ceiling. The lamp was off. The city noise filtered in through the window, faint and distant. Jack was behind me, one arm draped over my waist, his body curled protectively around mine. His breath was warm at the back of my neck. I could feel his gaze on me. The kind that lingered. The kind that made my skin prickle with the ghost of touch. I didn’t move.

Then I heard him. Whispering.

“I should’ve said something. I should’ve done more.”

A pause. A breath. Then, softer, “She’s everything. I don’t know how to hold it without breaking it.” 

His fingers flexed lightly against my hip, and I felt his lips graze the back of my shoulder as he breathed the words like a confession. 

“I love you.”

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. It was quiet. Almost afraid. The first time he’d said it not in a letter or over the phone. He thought I was asleep.

So I stayed still.

And I let myself keep it. Just for me.

Just this once.

A single tear slipped down my cheek and into the pillow, silent as the words I couldn’t say.

—

The first thing I felt was warmth. Not sunlight—Jack. Solid and steady behind me, like nothing had broken.

His chest pressed to my back, his breath slow and steady at the base of my neck. For a moment, I let myself stay there, floating in the false safety of it. Just this. Just him. The weight of his arm around my waist. His fingertips brushing absently against my ribs like he was still holding on even in sleep.

Then it all came back.

The picture. The comments. The way I’d cried myself out. The way he’d held me like I was breaking and he didn’t know how to stop it. My eyes opened, slow and sore, and I blinked against the late morning light coming in from the window.

“Hey,” came his voice, quiet and low. “Didn’t mean to wake you. I was gonna let you sleep a little longer.”

I turned slowly, rolling to face him. His hair was a mess, his eyes rimmed red like he hadn’t slept at all. Still, he managed a faint smile, brushing a strand of hair away from my cheek.

“It’s almost time,” he said, thumb lingering at my jaw. “We’ve got a few hours, but you should probably shower before you go to get ready.”

I nodded, barely trusting my voice. He didn’t press. Didn’t mention the photo or the press or what he would—or wouldn’t—say. It hung there between us like a ghost. Something unfinished. But neither of us reached for it.

Not yet.

Instead, he leaned in and kissed my forehead. “Go on,” he murmured. “I’ll see you soon.”

When he left, I stood under the water for a long time. The water in the shower was too hot at first. I let it sting. Let it hit my back until the mirror fogged. Trying to imagine the day ahead without splintering again.

By the time I reached the suite where we were getting ready, Hailee was already there in a robe, her hair clipped up and half-curled. She turned the second I walked in, and I didn’t even have to say anything.

“Hey,” she said, arms already open. “C’mere.”

I went willingly.

She held me tight for a long moment. No questions, no pushing. Just the kind of hug that reminded me there were still people who didn’t want anything from me except me.

“You okay?” she asked softly.

I shrugged.

She pulled back, hands still on my arms. “I came back last night. To check on you. I heard Jack in your room and figured I’d let you two have your moment.”

“Thanks,” I whispered.

She gave me a small smile. “Look, I know it sucks. People are mean. But they don’t know you. Not really. And today is still something you worked your ass off for. You have to enjoy it. Even just for a second.”

I stared at her. Tired. Frayed. “You think I can?”

“I think if anyone can pull off a red carpet moment after a personal apocalypse, it’s you,” she said, grinning.

I laughed. Actually laughed. She beamed.

That was when the team started filtering in—stylists, makeup artists, assistants with garment bags. The room filled with energy and noise, and for the first time in hours, I let myself get pulled into it.

Someone curled my hair while another lined my lips in a deep berry-red. I held Hailee’s hand while we had our lashes done, both of us blinking against the tickle of it. Our stylist unzipped our gowns—both red—and we squealed.

“We’re gonna look like the best kind of trouble,” Hailee said, spinning in her dress.

We took silly mirror selfies. Laughed too loud. Someone snapped a photo of us mid-laugh and I didn’t flinch. For a moment, I wasn’t the girl from the photo. I was just me. Actress. Friend. Human being.

After Hailee was called to get her shoes on, I paused in front of the full-length mirror. Really looked.

The dress hugged me like it had been made for this moment—like it remembered the girl who used to dream about premieres from her bedroom floor. My hair was swept off my face, soft curls pinned just right. The makeup was sharp without being heavy. I looked…hot. Glamorous, even. Like someone who belonged on the other side of the camera flashes. For the first time since the photo leaked, I didn’t feel small. I didn’t feel erased. I looked like a fucking movie star. Jack told me once that I looked dangerous in red. I didn’t believe him then. I almost did now.

I squared my shoulders a little, lifted my chin, and smiled, crooked tooth and all. 

We stepped into the hallway headed down to the lobby, and the cold air of the hotel AC kissed the heat off my skin. My heels clicked with every step, each one louder than the last. The whole cast was gathering now, publicists fluttering around like bees. Cameras already flashing in corners. I looked for him like I always had.

Jack stood near the entrance, dressed in a black suit cut like it was made for sin. He hadn’t shaved. His hair was still slightly messy. He looked unfair. And he was already looking at me, eyes full of admiration. He looked at me like I was the only thing he could see. Like it hurt not to touch me. Like he hadn’t stopped thinking about me since the second we’d left that bed. A blush creeped into my cheeks and I smiled shyly, looking down at the marble floor as I did so. 

And still, that voice in my head whispered: not enough.

Because no matter how much he looked at me like I was everything, I still didn’t know if he was willing to say it out loud.

The cast began to file outside, ushered into their respective cars. Mine was toward the back, grouped with the other girls. I glanced at Jack one last time as he stepped into his own.

He didn’t look away. Neither did I. Not until the doors closed between us.

The car rolled to a stop at the edge of the carpet, and everything went quiet. Not silent—just quiet, in the way a bomb feels right before it goes off. Like the air itself was holding its breath. I could hear muffled crowd noise outside the glass, flashes already starting, the pulse of bass from the speakers thudding like a second heartbeat. Hailee’s hand found mine in the dark.

“You ready?” she asked.

No. But I nodded anyway.

A publicist opened the door, and the lights hit me like heat. It was like stepping into the sun. Voices. Shouts. My name. His name. A thousand overlapping questions. We stepped out together, red gowns catching the light like fire. I straightened my spine and smiled.

You’re an actress. You can handle this.

I’d told myself that a hundred times over the past year. Before auditions. Before crying scenes. Before our first scene, when my hands were shaking and he looked at me like I was already his.

I could handle this. I had to.

The carpet stretched ahead like a gauntlet. Hailee and I posed together, then were separated by publicists pulling us toward interview stations, camera crews, press lines. I answered questions the best I could but mainly I was on autopilot—about the film, the shoot, my character. Most of the questions weren’t about Jack or the photo. Not really. The movie was the headline. My first big role. People smiled at me like they were seeing me for the first time.

But I still felt like a ghost of myself.

A new interviewer stepped in, asking about what it was like to step into such an emotionally layered role. I nodded, smiled, said all the things I’d practiced. But my eyes kept drifting just past her shoulder.

Jack was maybe fifteen feet away, mid-interview of his own, hands in his pockets, brow slightly furrowed in that familiar way. I watched the reporter lean in toward him, microphone tilted. My heart kicked. I tried to keep smiling, answering a question about what it had been like to film on location, but my ears strained.

“…leaked photo—any comment?”

My stomach went cold. The interviewer in front of me didn’t seem to notice. She was still smiling. Still nodding. But my pulse was loud in my ears.

Jack paused. Just a beat too long. Then I saw his mouth move.

“It’s just fans having fun,” he said. “Speculation. Happens all the time.”

It landed like a slap.

Not a lie. Not quite the truth. Just a soft dismissal. Polished and impersonal. My smile stayed on, but my chest went tight. He hadn’t looked for me before he said it. Hadn’t checked to see if I was close enough to hear. I was.

And for a second—just a second—I hated that I had been.

The reporter in front of me was still talking. I nodded, murmured something about learning a lot on set. I kept the mask on. My body did what it was trained to do. But the ache behind my ribs was something new. Sharp and specific in a way I hadn’t known I could feel. Because people weren’t asking me about us. Only him. And he got to decide what story they heard.

“Can I ask one more?” the reporter said, and I nodded. “There’s a lot of love for your friendship with Hailee online. How would you describe that relationship?”

That brought me back, a little. I smiled, softer this time. “She’s become my best friend. She’s…gotten me through more than she probably realizes.”

I hoped Jack heard that. I hoped he understood that not everyone had failed me.

Hailee was suddenly beside me again, looping her arm through mine like she felt the shift. Like she knew. Her hand squeezed mine gently. I didn’t look at her. I couldn’t. Not yet.

You’re an actress. You can handle this.

Hailee steered me across the carpet toward the staging area for press photos. “Almost done,” she whispered. “Just a few more shots, then champagne and oxygen.”

I let her pull me forward. The cameras were still clicking, flashes still popping. Someone behind us called for the cast to gather near the backdrop—a massive, screen-printed version of our movie poster. The PR team was herding people like sheep, trying to assemble some organized chaos before we lost the light.

I was trying to stay upright. Trying to breathe past the burn in my chest.

Then I felt it.

Jack’s eyes on me.

I didn’t look at first. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. But something pulled me—gravity or masochism or maybe just the need to see if he meant it.

I turned my head.

He was already looking. Still in the black suit. Still jaw-droppingly beautiful in a way that made me want to scream. But his expression was unreadable. No smile. No softness. Just guarded. I hated that I couldn’t read him. Hated that he’d whispered he loved me and still said what he said.

I looked away first.

The cast began filing into position for the group shot. Hailee and I ended up toward one side, her arm still looped through mine. She cracked a joke about our dresses clashing with the backdrop and I laughed—louder than I meant to. Maybe because I needed to feel something that wasn’t this gnawing ache in my chest.

Then Michael stepped up beside me.

“Here comes your favorite co-star,” he teased with a wink.

I arched a brow. “Debatable.”

“Oh, come on. I made you laugh the most. I heard you tried to recast me with Jack once, but I forgive you.” His smile was sly and knowing. 

Then—his arm slipped around my waist like it had every right to be there, fingers settling just above my hip. Then sliding a little lower. The grip was playful, almost flirtatious. Like we were in on a joke no one else knew.

He leaned closer as if he were whispering something sensual in my ear. “Relax. Just giving them something else to talk about.”

The cameras snapped.

But Jack saw.

I felt it instantly—his gaze like a lit match against skin. My stomach twisted, pulse spiking. I didn’t need to look to know. I could feel him across the space like gravity.His head snapped toward us, shoulders squaring like a loaded spring. And when I finally glanced in his direction—

His expression wasn’t unreadable anymore.

It was furious.

Eyes dark. Jaw locked. Lips parted just slightly like he was halfway to saying something he shouldn’t. One of the publicists beside him flinched, like they’d picked up on it too. His whole body was coiled—one wrong move away from crossing the carpet. Away from wrecking the carefully staged image that surrounded him.

I stared at him, a challenge behind my smile now.

Because how dare he?

How dare he glare like that now, like I was the one stepping out of line? Like he hadn’t left me bleeding in a hotel room with a whisper of love and nothing else? Michael’s hand pressed a little lower, almost imperceptibly. And still, it jolted something loose in me—a memory, sharp and hot, of Jack’s hand there instead. The way he used to touch me when we were alone. The weight of his body. The sound of his voice when he said my name like it was a secret.

Six months of phone calls. Late night texts. Breathless voice notes. Whispered I miss you’s from across oceans. Him reading me poems. Us.

Not a fling. Not pretend.

And now I was just another rumor he had to laugh off.

I smiled at the camera.

Let him watch.

Let him think about what it would feel like if someone else really did touch me the way he had.

Let him stew in it.

The flashbulbs went off again.

And I didn’t look back at him again.

But I felt him watching the whole time.

—

The lights dimmed, and the opening credits rolled to a burst of applause. I sat frozen in my seat, the hum of excitement around me muffled beneath the weight in my chest. My eyes flicked down the row. Jack sat at the end, posture stiff, jaw clenched tight. He hadn’t looked at me since we came inside.

And then, halfway through the first scene, he stood.

He didn’t make a sound—just slipped out the end of the row, hands in his pockets, head down like he didn’t want to be seen. But I saw him. I always did.

And I knew he wanted me to follow.

My heart slammed against my ribs as I stood and slipped after him, heels muffled on the carpet, eyes burning as I passed rows of glowing screens. The second the doors shut behind me, the air changed. Quieter. Colder. The hallway outside was heavy with silence, the muffled pulse of the film still beating like a distant threat. I turned the corner and saw him at the end, one hand braced against the wall, the other dragging through his hair. He didn’t turn at first, even when he heard me. Just stood there with one hand in his hair, the other clenched at his side, shoulders drawn like a bowstring ready to snap.

“You followed me,” he said flatly, voice low and hoarse.

I stopped a few feet away. “What are you doing out here?”

He let out a bitter laugh, finally turning. “Could ask you the same thing.”

“You left the movie.”

“So did you.”

The silence after that was thick and hot. My pulse was in my throat.

His jaw twitched. “You didn’t have to let him touch you.”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Michael,” he snapped. “Don’t play dumb.”

I scoffed. “Are you serious?”

He pushed off the wall, eyes flashing as he came closer. “He had his hand all over you.”

“Oh, my God,” I snapped. “Are you serious right now?”

He stepped closer. “I’m dead fucking serious. You think I didn’t notice? You think the cameras didn’t catch that too?”

“It was a photo op.”

“Don’t care.”

“Michael was trying to help.”

His laugh came sharp now. “By touching you like that? By putting his hand on you like you belonged to him?”

“He was trying to take the heat off me. Trying to give them something else to focus on,” I tried to explain, frustration seeping out with every word.

“I don’t give a shit what his intentions were.” Jack’s voice rose.

“He’s my friend.”

“He’s not your anything.”

My laugh was bitter. “Oh, but you are?”

His face darkened. “If he touches you like that again,” he said, low and dangerous, “I’m going to break his hands.”

I sucked in a breath. “You don’t get to act like this. You don’t get to be jealous.”

“The fuck I don’t,” he snarled, chest heaving. “You think I didn’t see him grab you like that? You think I don’t know exactly what he was doing? You’re mine.”

“Are you sure?” I snapped, voice rising. “Because you said I wasn’t.”

His mouth opened—but nothing came out.

“I heard you, Jack,” I continued, voice shaking. “I watched you say it. Like none of it mattered. Like I was nothing but another rumor you could laugh off.”

He stepped forward again, hand twitching like he wanted to reach for me but didn’t. “I thought—I thought that’s what you wanted.”

My stomach dropped. “You thought I wanted you to pretend I don’t exist?”

“No,” he said quickly. Too quickly. “Not like that. I just—I didn’t know what the right thing was. I didn’t want to make it worse. You said do what I had to—”

“I shouldn’t have to tell you,” I said, barely above a whisper. “I shouldn’t have to beg you to pick me.”

He flinched.

“I wanted you to want to,” I said, louder now. “I wanted you to want to say it. To be proud. I shouldn’t have to beg you to pick me. Not after everything. Not after the nights on the phone. The nights in my trailer. The woods. The way you would look at me like I was already yours. Tonight you didn’t even look to see if I was there before you sold me out with a smile.”

He took a step closer. His eyes were glassy now. Pained. He looked like he wanted to tear his own skin off. “I didn’t know,” he said, broken. “I didn’t realize. I thought I was protecting you—”

“By hiding me?”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “By not ruining it.”

And suddenly, I saw it—all of it. The guilt. The fear. The grief. It was all there, barely restrained, crouching behind his eyes like it had nowhere to go. He looked at me like I was the only real thing he’d ever touched and he was terrified he’d break it. His hands were clenched at his sides like it physically hurt not to touch me. He didn’t know how to fix it. He hadn’t even realized it was broken.

He looked…stupid with love. And full of regret.

But it didn’t matter.

Not now.

“We’re not in the Mill anymore,” I said quietly. “We’re not Maggie and Remmick. I’m done pretending.”

I turned.

And this time, I didn’t stop.

Behind me, I heard nothing. No apology. No protest. Just breath—

It hit me how many mornings I’d dreamed of something like this. Not just being with him—but the quiet, sleepy part. The part where I didn’t have to pretend. Where I could just exist beside him without hiding, without fear that it would slip away the second someone knocked on the door or called “places.”

My eyes traced his face slowly, trying to memorize the way the light kissed his lashes, the faint wrinkle across his forehead, the angle of his cheekbone. There were still moments when it didn’t feel real—that he was here, in my bed, wrapped around me like I was something safe. Especially when I used to fall asleep to grainy interviews and fan-made gifs of him playing reckless, arrogant Cook—the first boy I’d ever really wanted. It should’ve been embarrassing. And it was, in theory. But he’d laughed when I told him. Said it explained a lot about me.

Maybe it did.

Maybe I’d always wanted something a little dangerous, a little too much. And maybe I was finally learning that didn’t have to mean getting hurt.

I let my fingers drift down the slope of his spine, just to feel the rise and fall of his back. He stirred at my touch, nuzzling into my shoulder with a low groan, his arm pulling me in tighter.

“You staring at me?” he mumbled, voice gravel-rough with sleep, eyes still closed peacefully. 

“Maybe,” I whispered, smiling into his hair. “You were being pretty.”

He cracked one eye open, mouth twitching. “You always this creepy in the mornings?”

“Only when I’m in love,” I said, half teasing. Half not. The words hung between us, fragile and a little reckless. But that was the thing about Jack. He never flinched from too much. He just didn’t always know how to hold it.

His brow lifted slightly, like he wasn’t sure if I was serious. Then he closed his eyes again with a sigh and shifted, pressing a lazy kiss to my bare shoulder. “Well now I can’t go back to sleep. That’s not fair.”

“You don’t have to say it,” I told him lightly. It was true. I didn’t care if I got it back. I just wanted him to know while I was still here to tell him. 

“I know,” he murmured, eyes still closed. A moment passed, then just above a whisper, “You make me want to say things I don’t know how to mean yet.”

I let that hang in the air for a few seconds, a smile tugging at the corner of my lips. “You weren’t going to sleep long anyway.”

“Says who?”

“Says the fact that we’re both leaving in a few hours.”

He let out a long, theatrical groan and buried his face deeper into my neck. “Don’t remind me.”

I held him a little tighter, felt his breath warm against my throat. “I wasn’t going to.”

Because I didn’t want to think about what came next. About the six months of airports and FaceTime calls and aching gaps in my day where he used to be. We hadn’t even said goodbye yet, and already the edges of it were carving into me.

There were things we hadn’t talked about. Questions neither of us had asked. Like what we were going to do with all of this once we stepped off set and back into real life. But I didn’t want to ask those things now. Not while he was still here. Not while the sun was still soft and his hands were still on me. So I lay there and let it be simple. Let myself believe, just for a little longer, as he breathed softly against me, that this version of us could last.

Neither of us moved for a long time after that. 

Eventually, it was the knock that broke us. Not urgent—just a soft rap on the trailer door followed by the faint sound of someone calling out, “Any pieces back to wardrobe in thirty!” Like it was any other morning. Like everything wasn’t ending.

Jack groaned into my neck again, less dramatic this time, like he meant it. “I’ll pay you ten thousand dollars to say I died in my sleep and can't make it.”

I smiled, though it didn’t quite reach my eyes. “Tempting.”

We moved slowly. Neither of us said it, but we were dragging our feet like maybe, if we stayed quiet and deliberate enough, the day might forget about us. He dressed with sleepy little sighs, and I watched him tug on yesterday’s shirt like it wasn’t the last time he’d do it in this trailer.

I changed too, still in a haze, brushing my hair in the tiny mirror while he sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, watching me with something soft and unreadable in his face.

Then, without a word, he stood.

He crossed the room in a few slow steps, stopping just behind me. His hands found my waist. My heart jumped.

I turned to face him—and he kissed me.

Not fast. Not rushed. Not even particularly neat. But deep. Lingering. Like he was trying to memorize it. Like this was the last time he’d be alone with me—and he wasn’t going to waste it. His fingers curled in the hem of my shirt like he didn’t want to let go. His breath was warm and careful against my mouth. No heat, no pressure. Just ache. The type of kiss that made me feel a deep throbbing sadness at its touch. 

When he finally pulled back, he pressed his forehead to mine.

“I’ll see you before we go,” he said, almost a question.

I nodded. “Yeah. Course.”

But even I didn’t sound sure.

We didn’t kiss again. Too risky, too close to the windows. When I opened the trailer door, Jack reached for my hand—just for a second, just a squeeze—and then let it fall away like he hadn’t touched me at all.

Outside, people were already milling around, tossing call sheets, sipping from paper cups, loading boxes into vans. A few looked up as we stepped out. One of the assistants gave me a long, lingering glance. Not unkind. Just curious. Too curious. Another PA across the lot whispered something into someone else's ear, and their eyes flicked toward us before they both quickly looked away.

Jack noticed it too. I could feel it in the way he tensed beside me, his posture shifting, casual but alert.

“You think people know?” I asked under my breath, as we walked toward our separate waiting errands.

He didn’t look at me. Just kept his eyes forward. “I think people talk.”

And that was somehow worse. There was safety in secrets. But the longer you keep one, the louder it starts to echo.

Before we split, he touched my wrist briefly. “If I don’t see you before—call me when you land?”

“I will,” I said.

And then I watched him walk away. No final moment. Just a quiet, unraveling distance as he got farther and farther from me in the morning light.

I didn’t look back again until I was halfway to costumes with my blouse in my hands. And when I did, he was already gone. 

—

It was nearly noon by the time I finished packing.

The trailer looked too clean. Empty in a way that felt deeper than just space. My makeup bag sat zipped on the counter. My jacket was draped over my suitcase. The script—creased and highlighted and dog-eared—sat like a relic on the little table by the window. I kept looking around for something I’d forgotten—something still tucked under the bed or shoved in the back of the closet—but there was nothing left. Not really. Just air and dust and the echo of the last few months humming in the corners.

I crossed to the bed one last time, smoothing the blanket flat.

That’s when I saw it.

A folded scrap of paper, tucked carefully beneath the edge of my pillow.

I knew it was from him before I even picked it up. I didn’t remember him writing anything. But the handwriting was his—slanted and messy, like he’d scribbled it quickly or didn’t trust himself to linger. Still, the words hit like a weight pressed straight to my chest.

Didn’t want to risk the windows. You make it hard to say goodbye. Come visit. I’ll leave the door unlocked. I meant what I said. All of it. Even the parts I couldn’t say yet. Call me when you land. Please. I love you too. –J

I sat down slowly. My throat tightened as I read it once, twice, then folded it in half like maybe that would make it easier to carry. It didn’t. I blinked fast, trying to breathe around the pressure behind my eyes. I hadn’t even realized I was crying until a knock at the trailer door jolted me back.

“Hey,” Hailee called gently through the door. “Van’s here.”

I wiped my cheeks quickly and stuffed the note into my jacket pocket. When I stepped outside, the sun was too bright. Hailee squinted at me, one brow raised. “You get to say goodbye?”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

Instead, I pulled the note from my pocket and handed it to her with shaking fingers.

She read it in silence. Her face softened. Then, wordlessly, she wrapped me in a hug. I buried my face in her shoulder and tried to keep my breathing even, but the tears came anyway—hot and quiet and unrelenting.

She didn’t say anything. Just held me until I pulled away, brushing at my face like I could erase the last five minutes.

“Sorry,” I murmured. “I’m fine.”

Hailee gave me a look that said she didn’t believe me, but she didn’t push it. We loaded into the van without a word, just the two of us and a couple of tired crew members slumped in the back row. The engine rumbled to life, and we pulled away from the lot.

I didn’t look out the window. I didn’t need to. I already knew what I was leaving behind.

The ride to the airport passed in a blur. I heard people talking, but the words didn’t stick. Hailee handed me gum and my boarding pass. I nodded and smiled at the right times. Let her lead me through security, through boarding, through the rows of tired faces and too-small overhead bins.

My body moved through it all like it had a script. But my mind was still in that trailer. Still tangled in sheets. Still on a wooden table. Still in the woods. Still somewhere beside him.

It wasn’t until we were seated on the plane, engines humming beneath us, that my phone buzzed in my hand.

Jack: Did you find the note?

My chest cracked open.

I didn’t reply right away. Just stared at the words until my vision blurred again. Then, for the first time since this morning, I smiled.

And somewhere deep in my stomach, the ache started to feel just a little bit lighter.

—

The first few weeks apart were the hardest.

The silence was too loud. The distance too wide. I kept checking my phone like something might change, like he might suddenly appear on the screen just to say he missed me. And sometimes he did. Sometimes at 3 a.m., blurry and shirtless, with a grin so sleepy it made my chest ache.

We got better at it—eventually. Fell into a rhythm. A routine of morning texts and late-night calls, of sending each other stupid videos just to feel closer. There were weeks where we talked every day, and others where the time zones made it impossible. When the calls were short, we sent voice notes. When the calls were long, we left the lights off and let each other breathe into the phone like it could keep us warm.

We made it work. Even when it was messy. Even when we missed each other so much it turned sour at the edges.

And some nights, it got… creative. The first time was accidental. He texted: “What are you wearing?” I sent back: “Sweatpants. Tank top. Absolutely nothing else.”

His responses came immediately.

Jack: I want to see it. I want to feel it. Bet you’re already wet thinking about me. How long has it been?

I hesitated for half a second before replying: “Too long.”

Jack: Slide your hand down. Slowly. Don’t lie. I want you to touch yourself thinking about the way I said your name last time. The way I held your hips. Tell me what it feels like.

By the time I put the phone down, I was flushed head to toe, heart pounding in the dark. He said he was going to sleep with the image of me in that tank top seared into his skull. I believed him.

There were a few fumbled attempts at phone sex in the early days—calls that ended in flushed silence and nervous laughter. But we figured it out. Or, rather, he got shameless and I stopped pretending not to like it. There were texts I couldn’t open in public. Voice memos I replayed with a pillow over my face. Once, he sent a picture from his trailer—pants suggestively low on his hips, hand braced against the counter, captioned: “Thinking about you. Again.” I didn’t even make it to the end of the workday. That nearly got me fired. It helped. And it didn’t. Because every time I came, I wanted him more. And every time I woke up without him, the craving felt deeper than anything physical.

But it wasn’t just that. 

As the months passed, I started dreaming about him. At first, it was soft, sleepy mornings and lazy touches, his arm slung over my waist. But the more time went on, the more intense they got. Louder. Vivid. I’d wake up aching, confused, already reaching for my phone.

We were in a similar time zone once for a few glorious weeks. He called me once after I didn’t answer a goodnight text. Just to check. Said he’d been staring at the ceiling for an hour, thinking he’d screwed something up. I was already half-asleep, mascara smudged into the pillow, but the second I heard his voice, I woke all the way up.

“I’m fine,” I whispered.

“I didn’t want to wait until morning to hear it,” he said. “I know it’s stupid.”

“It’s not.”

We stayed on the line until one of us fell asleep. I’m not sure who it was first, but the next morning, my phone was warm in my hand and the call was still connected.

He texted later to say it was the best sleep he’d gotten in weeks.

There was no label, no big conversation. But we kept calling. Kept showing up. He sent me photos of his dog with captions like, “Told her about you and now she misses you. I guess I do too.” I sent him pictures from my new set—costume fittings, bad lighting, notes scribbled in the margins of a new script. He always noticed everything. Especially the men in the background.

“Who’s that?” “Director.” “Too close.”

It was ridiculous. And kind of flattering. I teased him for it until he replied: “Not jealous. Just observant. If he touches you like I touch you, I’ll kill him.”

I rolled my eyes. 

But the truth was, I missed the way he touched me too. Missed his hands. His mouth. His stupid, smug smirk when he knew he’d gotten to me. There were whole days where I’d scroll back through old texts or rewatch interviews just to hear his voice again. I kept one of his shirts at the bottom of my drawer. Didn’t wear it, just… kept it. Like an anchor. Like a promise I wasn’t ready to let go of. It still smelled like him. Just faintly. Enough to hurt.

And in the background of it all, I worked. Auditions. Wardrobe meetings. Early mornings and long, hungry days on sets. I buried myself in new characters, new scripts. I was good at it—losing myself. But sometimes, when I caught my reflection between takes, I’d imagine what he’d say. Something possessive. Something sharp. Something soft enough that I’d feel it in my throat hours later. Once, I wore a neckline I knew he’d like. I sent a picture and he replied in under ten seconds: “You wore that on purpose. You’re cruel.”

Then, finally—finally—the planning started.

The premiere was set. Press tour locked in. Travel booked. And just like that, the countdown started.

We started texting more, making plans. He asked what I was wearing to the first red carpet. I asked if he was going to behave. He said no.

The excitement was buzzing underneath my skin now, electric and jittery. I couldn’t believe we were going to be in the same room again. After six long months. After everything.

I didn’t know that the moment I saw him again wouldn’t be the first surprise. That someone else had seen something they weren’t supposed to. And that it was already out there—just waiting for the right moment. 

But for now, I just smiled at my phone and typed: “Two more days.”

And he replied: “You’d better be ready.”

—

The ride from the airport to the hotel was almost too smooth—like everything was trying not to jostle me out of the daze I’d been living in for months. Big city buildings slid past the window like moving glass, and every block closer buzzed a little louder beneath my skin. I sat there practically vibrating with anticipation, my phone clutched in my hand.

Jack: You here yet?

The second I saw his name, my stomach flipped. I hadn’t even checked into my room and already my heart was trying to climb out of my chest. We hadn’t seen each other in six months. Not in person. Not in the flesh. Just blurry FaceTimes and filtered dreams and his voice curling around me through a speaker. And now we were in the same city. The same zip code. The same hotel.

Me: Almost. Don’t start the party without me.

I couldn’t stop smiling. God, I’d missed him. I’d missed this. The fluttery, dizzy, can’t-sit-still feeling he gave me without even trying.

By the time we pulled up to the hotel—glass-paneled and gleaming under the afternoon sun—my hands were sweating. Not from the heat. From everything else. My suitcase thumped onto the curb, and I was barely upright before I heard someone shout my name.

I turned and saw Hailee, hair pulled into a high ponytail, oversized sunglasses perched on her head. She looked exactly the same, like no time had passed at all. We hugged tightly, the kind where neither of us said anything at first. Just that squeeze of familiarity, of recognition, of thank god we’re back.

“You look hot,” she said as we pulled apart. “Famous and hot. I hate you.”

I laughed. “Speak for yourself.”

Inside, the lobby was chaos in a glamorous way. I stood there taking it all in while Hailee went to check us both in. Glossy marble floors, gold accents, too many people talking too loudly. Everywhere I turned, there were familiar faces—actors, producers, assistants, all lit up with reunion energy. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed it until I was surrounded by it. Until I felt like someone stepping back into a dream.

“Jesus,” Hailee said as she returned, handing me my room key and adjusting her sunglasses on top of her head as she looked around. “Fancy.”

I smiled at her, excitement radiating off both of us as we took everything in. And then I saw him.

Across the room, a window casting a shaft of sunlight over him, Jack was laughing at something someone said, his hand resting casually on the back of a velvet chair. His hair was longer than I remembered, messier and warmer now. Same sharp jaw, short beard to match. Same impossible presence—like the gravity in the room shifted just because he existed inside it. My breath caught. Just for a second. Because there he was. Real. Tangible. Laughing at something I couldn’t hear and still managing to knock the air out of me.

I barely took a step toward him when a voice called out, “There they are!” Michael grinned as he approached, pulling both Hailee and me into a fierce hug before I could react. We giggled as he sandwiched us in, and for a moment I forgot about the nerves. About everything. It was just a friend I hadn’t seen in ages, and I hugged him back tightly.

“You look different,” he said, pulling back just enough to scan me, brow furrowed and teasing. “Like a real movie star or something.”

“Must be the lighting,” I quipped, but I smiled. He was harmless—annoying in the way only friends who used to flirt with you could be. Still, his arm lingered a little too long at my waist. A tiny thread pulled tight in the air.

And when I looked past him, I saw Jack watching. Still smiling. But the edge in it had sharpened. Like his teeth were showing just beneath the curve of his mouth. He started crossing the room before I could say anything.

“Hey,” he said, nodding to Michael, then to Hailee. “Didn’t know we were doing group hugs at check-in.” A smile was plastered across his face, but I saw the emotions simmering beneath. Nearly ready to pop.

“Don’t be jealous,” Michael teased. “I’ve missed your pretty face too.”

Hailee cleared her throat. “Look at us, the gang’s all here.”

“Looks like it,” Jack said, eyes locked on mine now. “You just get in?”

It felt like code. A question buried inside a question. Like: Can I touch you yet?

“Just landed,” I answered.

Jack looked at my bags, then back at me. “Let me carry your bags up,” he said, already reaching for one.

Hailee and Michael exchanged a quick glance. Not subtle.

“You don’t have to—”

He already had the handle of my suitcase, wheeling it beside him like it weighed nothing.

“Not negotiable.”

We headed for the elevator. He stood just beside me, his fingers brushing mine, subtle and fast like he couldn’t help himself. Like he’d forgotten how to behave around me in public. I didn’t pull away. Not even close. I’d been waiting six months for that hand. I smiled as I followed him, only looking back once to see Hailee smirking at me, a little wave playing at the top of her fingertips.

And just like that, we were alone.

The second the elevator doors closed, his whole posture changed.

“Michael’s still friendly, then?”

I didn’t even turn around. “Don’t do that.”

“He had his hand on your waist.”

I turned. “It was a hug.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at the floor numbers lighting up above the door. “You think he forgot what he heard at the Mill?” he said finally, voice low. “Because I didn’t. I think about it every night.”

The elevator hummed beneath us, the floor numbers glowing one by one. I could feel him beside me now, sliding up in that oh-so-familiar predator way that I loved. His breath was warm my neck, hands so close he was hovering.

“I missed you,” I breathed.

Jack turned to stand in front of me quickly. “I’m going to lose my mind if I don’t touch you right now.”

And then he kissed me.

Hard. Desperate. Months of waiting poured into it. His hands gripped my waist, tugging me flush against him as my back hit the mirrored wall. I gasped into his mouth and felt his thumb slide just beneath the hem of my shirt, like he needed proof that I was really there.

“I thought about this,” he murmured against my mouth. “So many times I nearly texted you to fly out just so I could taste you again.”

“Why didn’t you?”

His breath hitched. “Because I didn’t trust myself not to keep you.”

I kissed him again, messier this time, until his hands slid down and he groaned softly into my mouth. His heated kisses trailed down my jaw and to my neck, nipping at the exposed skin there before sucking lightly. Not hard enough to leave a mark, but hard enough that I’d feel it echo all night. I roamed his body like it held some sort of answer I’d been desperately looking for. My fingers grazed under his shirt and up his back, scratching lightly when he nipped a particularly sensitive spot, earning a hiss from him that had me biting my lip and tilting my head back harder.

“I’d pull the emergency stop,” he muttered into my neck before letting a deep agitated groan leave his lips, “but I actually have to be somewhere in ten minutes. Fucking suit fitting.”

I laughed, breathless. “You’re the one who offered to carry my bag.”

“Regretting it now.”

The elevator dinged. My floor.

He took a step back, eyes sweeping over me like he wanted to memorize the moment. “Wait up for me.”

“Are you actually coming?”

“I’ll crawl over hot coals if I have to.”

I stepped out, heart pounding. He didn’t move until the doors started to close.

Then he said, “I missed you too.”

The rest of the day passed in pieces. Hair and makeup, wardrobe fittings, press prep. My schedule was full, but I wasn’t really in it. Everything felt slightly off-center—like I was floating just behind myself, watching the day play out while my thoughts stayed stuck in a mirrored elevator, breathless and dazed.

My phone buzzed at least ten times. None of them were Jack.

Dinner was with the full cast, set in a dimly lit private dining room lined with velvet chairs and too many forks. The kind of room meant for pretending everything was fine. Laughter bounced off the walls, champagne sparkled in glasses, and the servers moved like ghosts. I was seated down the table from Jack, but I could feel him anyway. The weight of his stare. The static in the air that only ever prickled when he was nearby.

Every time I laughed at something, I could feel his eyes dragging over me like heat. I tried not to look for him. Failed every time.

Halfway through the second course—something delicate and impossible to pronounce—my phone lit up in my lap.

Jack: That dress is killing me. You know what you’re doing.

I pressed my knees together under the table, biting back a smile as I typed.

Me: Didn’t realize you were paying attention.

Jack: I’m always paying attention when you’re around.

My pulse skittered. I could feel the flush rising in my cheeks, the way my body reacted before my brain could catch up. Dessert arrived—something sweet and airy, barely real—but I could barely taste it.

Across the table, someone raised their glass in a toast to some inside joke I’d missed. Jack's eyes caught mine as he drank, slow and deliberate. I knew that look. I’d dreamed of that look.

By the time I got back to my room, my heart was beating so hard I thought I might pass out. I lit a candle, reapplied my lip gloss, kicked off my shoes, and lay back on the bed like a girl in a romance novel waiting for the story to catch up.

I waited.

The minutes dragged. I counted every sound in the hallway. Every whisper of air conditioning. Every shift in the sheets. I was about to text him.

Then—finally—a knock at the door.

I practically flew across the room, smoothing my hair as I crossed the carpet, heart in my throat.

But it wasn’t Jack.

It was Hailee. She stood in the hallway, backlit by the hotel corridor, holding up her phone with an unreadable expression. Her voice was quiet. “Hey,” she said. “Is this you and Jack?”

My stomach dropped before I even looked.

I stared at the screen. The photo wasn’t perfect, but it caught exactly what it needed to.

Us, tangled in the shadows. Against a tree. My head thrown back. His mouth at my neck. The night in the woods—behind the set. The risk. The way we hadn’t known—or hadn’t cared—who might be nearby. Our faces were blurry, but it was almost unmistakable.

I felt the blood drain from me.

The moment shattered.

I didn’t speak. I couldn’t.

She just looked at me for a long beat. Then her eyes narrowed slightly. “I’m not judging,” she said, “but I need to know what the fuck that was.”

I blinked. “What?”

“In the Mill.”

“Oh my God.” I dropped onto the couch, covering my face with my hands. “Please shut up.”

She let the door fall closed behind her and sauntered in like she owned the place, flopping into the couch across from me with a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “No, seriously. I thought something was being murdered. Michael still won’t make eye contact.”

I peeked through my fingers. “No one was supposed to be around.”

“You weren’t exactly quiet.”

I groaned, sliding sideways into the cushions. “Can we not do this?”

She didn’t laugh. She just watched me, quiet now. “You gonna tell me what’s going on?”

I sat up, rubbed the back of my neck. “I don’t know. It’s complicated.”

“Complicated how?” she asked, not unkindly.

“I don’t think it’s just sex,” I said.

“Yeah, no shit.”

I looked up at her, and she didn’t flinch. No teasing. No eyebrow raise. Just waiting.

“We’ve been circling each other for weeks,” I continued. “Months. The late nights, the intense scenes, the little moments—none of it’s been nothing. And then it just snapped. And now I don’t know where we are.”

“But it wasn’t just last night,” she said, gently. “You care about him.”

I hesitated. Then nodded.

“So?” she asked. “What’s the part you’re scared to say out loud?”

My breath caught a little. “That it’s not real for him. Or that it is, but it’s temporary. That it meant something in the moment, but it’s not going anywhere.” I picked at the seam of the pillow in my lap. “Or worse, he already knows where it’s going, and I just haven’t caught up yet.” I almost didn’t say the next part, but I needed to speak it to someone. “Maybe I’m just reading into everything. Maybe I want it to mean more than it does.”

“You’re not,” Hailee cut in, her voice gentler now. “I was there. I heard it. And I’ve seen how he looks at you when he thinks no one’s watching.” Her face softened. “I don’t think he’s playing you,” she said. “He doesn’t look at you like someone who’s playing.”

“I know,” I said quietly. “But we haven’t talked about it. About what it is or what we’re doing.”

She leaned forward a little. “You think he’s hiding you?”

I hesitated. “No. I don’t think it’s that. I think…” I trailed off, struggling to put it into words. “I think maybe he’s trying to protect something. Or maybe he’s scared of what this is becoming. And I’m scared that if I ask, if I push too hard, he’ll shut down, or I’ll find out he never wanted more to begin with.” That was the truth of it. I wasn’t afraid of Jack. I was afraid of how badly I already wanted him. How deep I was in without knowing where the ground was.

Hailee sat back in the chair. “You know you have to ask him eventually.”

“I know.”

“And what if he says it is something? That it’s real?”

I swallowed. “Then I have to let myself believe it. Even if it scares the hell out of me.”

Hailee smiled then, finally. “That’s what I was hoping you’d say.”

She stood, ruffling my hair on her way to the door.

“And for what it’s worth,” she added, pausing at the threshold, “you didn’t sound like someone having casual sex. You sounded like someone falling in love. Loudly.”

“Get out,” I groaned, chucking a pillow at her. She grinned and ducked out of the trailer, leaving me flushed and very, very alone with the buzzing in my chest. 

The door had barely clicked shut behind Hailee before I heard a quiet knock on the wall beside the bathroom. I turned to see Jack peeking his head out from where he’d been when Hailee burst in. I nodded, and he stepped out slowly, like he half-expected someone else to leap out from under the furniture. 

“They heard us,” I said flatly, dropping my head into my hands.

Jack didn’t answer at first. When I looked up, he was leaning against the wall like he hadn’t just been hiding in my bathroom, arms crossed and looking far too pleased with himself.

“You’re smiling,” I accused.

“I’m trying not to,” he said, but he didn’t try very hard.

“You’re impossible.”

“I’m resourceful,” he said. “Big difference.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Resourceful? You mean loud?”

He gave me a wicked little half-smile and stepped closer. “Loud works.”

I groaned, half into my hands. “You wanted them to hear?”

He shrugged, unbothered. “I didn’t plan it, exactly. But I’m not going to lose sleep over it either.”

I narrowed my eyes. “So you just, what? Thought it’d be fun for Hailee and Michael to get a live performance?”

He didn’t flinch. “I thought maybe he could use the reminder.”

I blinked. “Of what?”

“That he’s not the only one who gets to make you laugh,” Jack said. His voice was low, but not cruel. “He’s been pushing it since week one. All the jokes. All that golden-boy charm.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I know it’s harmless, but it drives me insane.”

I stared at him. “So instead of just telling me you were jealous, you went with the stealth sex-auditorium approach.”

“Stealth is a strong word,” he muttered.

My jaw dropped. “Jack, that’s not funny.” His lips started to tug up at the corners. “You’re actually proud of this.”

Jack stepped closer, a smirk full across his face now. “Only a little.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m obsessed,” he said, no hesitation. “With you. And yeah, I’m jealous. I’ve been jealous since you laughed at his impression of Ryan week two.”

My cheeks flushed, though I couldn’t tell if it was from embarrassment or something else entirely. I folded my arms, trying not to smile. “You know I’m not a prize to be won, right?”

His smile faded, but not the heat in his gaze. “You’re not a prize. You’re the thing I’m terrified of losing.” The words caught me off guard. They shouldn’t have, but they did. Because there was no bravado in the way he said it, just quiet desperation underneath. “I don’t even know what this is yet,” he added. “But I know I want it. And I don’t want someone else pretending they have a shot with you while I’m still figuring out how not to screw it up. I know it’s fucked up,” he continued, quieter now. “I just—there’s something in me that snaps when I see you smiling at him like that, when I saw you dancing with him, laughing with him, when I see how he looks at you sometimes. Like the room tilts, like I can't breathe right until you look back at me. I hate how much it messes with me. I don’t want to be the guy who pushes too hard. Who ruins good things just by wanting them too much.”

Something in my chest tugged, hard.

“And what kind of guy are you right now?” I asked.

“The kind who’s terrified,” he said, looking right at me. “Of how much I want you. Of what it’ll do to me if I lose this before I even get to understand it.”

For a moment, we just stood there, the silence thick between us.

I should’ve shut him down. Walked away for a minute. But the worst part was, I liked knowing it got to him. I liked how much I got to him. I stepped closer. “You’re lucky I think jealousy is hot.”

He grinned, that cocky tilt back in full force. “I know.” He brushed his fingers down my arm, hand curling lightly at my hip.

“Don’t get smug,” I warned.

“Too late,” he whispered, and kissed me—quick, warm, not quite gentle.

I let him.

Because I should’ve been furious.

But mostly I just wanted to kiss him back.

The next three days, we weren’t able to visit each other off set. Filming was nearing the end, and the days were long—most of them not spent together. When we were on set at the same time, we tried desperately not to look at each other. And when we did, it was a glance held too long. A look too knowing. Jack would stand just a little too close. I’d laugh a little too hard when he teased me.

Being around him felt like breathing again. This job had quickly become the best thing that ever happened to me—and these days, working with him like this made for the best days of my life.

And yet, I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. For someone to catch on. For him to change his mind.

Good things didn’t usually last this long in my life.

The few moments we were able to steal were a relief, but last-minute scenes and reshoots were kicking our asses. On the third day, I stepped out of hair and makeup to find Jack waiting for me just outside, that sly smile on his lips as he looked up at me.

“Walk you back to your trailer?” he asked, offering his arm like this wasn’t the highlight of his day.

“Of course,” I said, linking mine through his.

He smiled down at me as we walked, but I could feel it in the way his thumb brushed mine—restless. Like he was trying not to run. He told me once he hated quiet sets—said it reminded him too much of being alone. I thought about that as we strolled back together, how he always found me in the noise.

We didn’t speak much, but the silence between us wasn’t uncomfortable. It was warm. Familiar. Every so often, he’d look at me like he was about to say something—something important—but then he didn’t. At my trailer, he held the door open for me like he had countless times before.

What was different this time was that the second the door shut, his arms wrapped around my waist and his face buried in my neck, inhaling me like it had been days instead of hours since we had last seen each other. His breath was hot and shaky. I leaned into him with a soft sound as he peppered kisses up my neck and behind my ear.

“You have been driving me crazy,” he murmured, voice rough. One hand cupped my breast while the other tugged my hips tight against his arousal. “The past few days have been torture.”

A gasp slipped from my lips. I turned toward him, crashing my mouth to his. His hand trailed down my body, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of my shorts. I moaned his name, legs parting instinctively. He smiled into the kiss like he’d been waiting for this exact moment, like it was the only thing that had kept him sane. There was a question in the way he touched me, a desperation in it too. Like he needed to make sure I was still his—still real.

A sharp knock at the door had us pulling apart fast, eyes wide.

He dropped onto the couch like a stagehand had yelled “cut,” snatching my script off the table and flipping it open in his lap, as if he’d been studying blocking notes this whole time. I smoothed my hair, adjusted my clothes, and wiped my mouth and neck before opening the door. Jack smirked from the couch, watching my frazzled state from the corner of his eye.

A PA I didn’t recognize stood at the top step, clipboard in hand, eyes fixed on it.

“Yes?” I asked, trying not to sound as irritated as I felt.

“Just letting you know, reshoots tomorrow will be at the Mill. Hair and makeup by eight p.m.”

She finally looked up—but her eyes didn’t land on me. They slid past, right to where Jack was sitting. Her expression didn’t change. But the air did. Just slightly. Like something delicate had been jostled.

I shifted my posture, smiling, trying to look normal. We weren’t doing anything wrong. Right?

“You too,” she added to him, then gave me a small nod before walking away.

As she turned, she glanced over her shoulder one last time. It was brief. Casual, almost. But long enough to make my skin prickle.

I closed the door and leaned back against it, exhaling hard.

There was a sharp beat of silence before we both burst into laughter. Mine was more like a breathless wheeze. His had teeth in it, grin wide, unrepentant.

“Smooth,” I muttered, walking over to him.

“Flawless,” he corrected, reaching for my hand as I got close.

With a yelp and a giggle, I was in his arms again—lifted like nothing, carried like he already knew exactly where I belonged.

—

We were still tangled together on my bed, having come down from our highs a while ago now, when the question came. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just a quiet ripple breaking the stillness. Jack’s fingers traced absentminded circles along my ribs. He kissed the underside of my jaw like he was trying to memorize it, not for tonight, but for when the memory would need to keep him warm.

I should’ve let the silence win. But I didn’t.

“So,” I murmured, letting the word stretch, threadbare, into the quiet. “What now?”

He didn’t answer at first. Just kept drawing lazy patterns against my skin like he could delay the question if he stayed soft enough, slow enough. His breath was even but I could tell he was nervous.

“You tell me,” he said eventually, low and unreadable.

I tilted my head toward him. “Jack, we can’t keep doing this and pretending it’s nothing.”

He didn’t flinch. Just looked at the ceiling, eyes tracing some invisible pattern. “I know,” he said. “But what happens if we say it out loud, and it stops feeling like ours?”

My fingers curled lightly in his hair. “You think naming it ruins it?”

“I think once it’s out there, it stops being ours and starts being theirs. Fans. Press. People who think they know us. They’ll take it apart and twist it until we don’t even recognize it.” I watched the way his eyes didn’t quite meet mine. That wasn’t just fear of what people would think. That was fear of himself. Of what he might become if he let this spiral. If he let it own him. The way he watched me, like I was gravity and he’d never learned how to float. Maybe naming it made it real in a way he couldn’t control. Maybe that scared him more than the cameras ever could.

I swallowed. “So we keep it secret forever?”

“No,” he said quickly, like the thought of that hurt him. “Just... not yet.”

I let that sit for a moment. “Because you’re not sure what this is?”

His brows pulled together. “No. Because I am sure. Or I’m getting there. And I don’t want to lose it before I figure it all the way out. I’ve never felt something like this. Not this fast. Not this much.” His thumb brushed my hip again, slower this time. “And maybe I need time to figure out how to not fuck it up,” he added, voice so low I almost missed it.

I hated that it made sense. That if we let people see this, it would stop being ours and start belonging to everyone else. They’d pick it apart until it didn’t feel like the thing that saved me anymore. And I wasn’t ready to lose it like that either.

I let my thumb trace a line along his jaw, rough from a day on set. “It doesn’t scare me,” I said. “You do. A little. But not this.”

That made him smile—a tired, crooked thing that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You scare me, too.”

We lay there for another beat, the room holding its breath around us.

“Then we keep it quiet,” I said. “Not because it’s not real, but because it is. Because we’re not ready for other people’s versions of it.”

“Just for us,” he murmured, brushing his lips against my shoulder.

“Just for now.”

Jack’s hand found mine beneath the covers, fingers interlacing like he was afraid I might vanish. “I’m not ashamed of you,” he said, suddenly. “I need you to know that.”

“I know,” I whispered. And I did. I knew he cared. I could feel it in the way he touched me, the way he looked at me like I was the only thing that made sense. But sometimes I still wondered—if he wasn’t ashamed of me, then what was he so afraid of? What part of this did he not want people to see? I didn’t think it was me.

But some quiet, buried part of me still asked.

“But if we keep hiding it too long,” I added, voice softer now, “I might forget.”

His thumb brushed over my knuckles. “Then I’ll remind you.”

He kissed me again—slower this time, like a promise instead of a secret. And I told myself it was enough. 

—

The days blurred together, exhaustion hanging thick in the air as the final stretch of filming loomed. Everyone was on edge—snappier, tired, stretched too thin. Maybe that’s why no one noticed the two of us slipping between takes, speaking more with our eyes than with our mouths. No one noticed when Remmick’s possessive touches started lingering after the cameras cut. Didn’t notice me not noticing, either.

We were in the last few days now. Nothing left but scattered reshoots—scenes they hadn’t realized were off until the first cuts came through. Tonight’s work was all filler. Exterior background shots. We weren’t even needed for anything specific. Just on call.

We were outside. Again. In the middle of the night. Again.

I sat tucked into a canvas chair beneath the humid tent just off-set, legs slung lazily over one of the arms, head leaned against the back as sleep pressed against my eyelids. The air smelled like wet leaves and burnt coffee. People moved around me in varying states of urgency—lighting grips, camera crew, background extras making conversation to stay awake. Jack was across the tent, fully alert, talking with someone I didn’t know. He was needed more than I was tonight. That seemed to be keeping him wired. Awake. Alive.

He glanced at me across the space and I smiled, slow and easy, a secret shared without a word. He smiled back. Just for a moment. Then turned back to his conversation.

I tried not to think about how long it had been since I’d touched him. How long since his hands had mapped the inside of my shirt, the hush of his breath in my ear. It felt like hunger, but worse—because I could still feel it even when I was full of him.

It was peaceful. Too peaceful. I blinked. Blinked again. My eyes closed for a breath too long.

I was gently shaken awake. A PA murmured that they were switching setups and would need me in place in twenty minutes. I nodded and yawned, stretching wide until my spine popped. When I looked up again, Jack was gone.

How long had I been out?

If I stayed here, I’d fall asleep again.

I stepped out into the open air, stretching again as I tried to get my bearings. The lights around Club Juke had been killed, the warm flood lamps packed up while the crew reset. A knot of people moved around in the half-dark, shifting gear for the next shot. I scanned the crowd for Jack, but the dark swallowed up details and faces alike.

Too hot. My shirt stuck to the small of my back, sweat slick against my neck. The heat clung to everything. I spotted the lake just beyond the swarm of people and the treeline. The wind skipped across the surface, leaving ripples in its wake. My feet moved before I had fully decided, pulling me toward it—off the main path, into the woods where it was darker. Cooler. Quieter. It felt like a place where things could come undone.

Twigs snapped beneath my shoes as I stepped between the trees. Branches brushed my arms. The woods muffled the noise of the set until all I could hear was the hum of bugs and the low, lapping hush of the water. I pushed further into the trees, where the air was cooler, the buzz of the set falling away behind me. My boots crunched softly through the underbrush, and for the first time all night, I let myself breathe.

A twig cracked behind me.

I turned. Nothing.

I waited another beat. Still nothing. Just trees and the distant hum of production.

I took another step.

Another crack.

I rolled my eyes, a small smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. “You do know stalking is frowned upon, right?” I called out, quiet but teasing.

No answer.

I started forward again—slower this time—until I felt it: a breath of heat against the back of my neck, a body hovering too close, the kind of closeness that made the air feel thick.

“You trying to get eaten out here,” Jack murmured behind me, “or were you hoping I’d follow?”

I jumped, heart lurching, but I didn’t pull away. I turned my head slightly, just enough to catch the smirk in his voice, even if I couldn’t yet see it on his face.

“How long were you following me?” I asked.

“Since before you opened your eyes,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Then, lower and amused, “You were asleep for almost an hour. I was bored.”

He shifted into view then, slow and unhurried. The moonlight cut across his cheekbones, catching on the glint in his eyes. He took a step closer, coming to stand behind me, the air going static between us. “You should know better than to fall asleep when I haven’t touched you in days.” Then, almost a whisper against my ear, “Especially not somewhere dark.”

I leaned toward his voice, eyes closing and mouth parting slightly at his sultry tone. My back hit the firm expanse of his chest, his arms wrapped around my waist firmly but carefully. I could feel him breathe a sigh of relief. 

“It was so warm in that tent, made me tired before it made me sweaty. Had to take a walk,” I explained. 

I felt his hum of understanding reverberate through his chest. We stood there pressed against each other for a minute, listening to the sound of the water and the wind through the trees. He started with a kiss pressed against my temple, then my cheek, my jaw, then I was tilting my head to the side to allow him access to my neck. 

His mouth roamed the expanse of skin while his hands grabbed at whatever he could. He was already earning small moans and gasps from me as my hands came up to grab at his hair and I shifted to push myself back against him. He groaned into me. His hands stilled, then slid down to tug my skirt up my legs. 

His hands grabbed at the flesh of my hips, moving to guide me up against the nearest tree. I put my hands forward on it to steady myself, the bark rough against my palms, as I looked backward at him quickly unfastening his belt as he scanned around us, making sure we were alone. 

“Here?” I asked in a hushed tone. 

 “Here,” he responded as he freed himself from his pants. My breath caught as he stepped closer, the sight of him making my pulse stutter. One hand pushed my panties to the side, the air cool against my newly exposed core, the other hand stroked his shaft as he lined himself up with my entrance. 

“I’ve got to be on my mark in ten,” I whispered back to him. 

“Then you better be quick,” he said as he pushed in, bottoming out in one go. The stretch burned—good and familiar. A whine escaped me, louder than I should have been, and his hand came up quickly, pressing over my mouth as he dragged me flush against his chest. “Hey, baby, baby, shhh. As much as I love hearing you, you're gonna have to be real quiet or I’m gonna have to stop.”

My eyes furrowed and I nodded against his hand. Slowly he lowered it, as if testing to make sure I was going to do as I was told. He waited a few beats then slowly pulled out of me, almost all the way, before slamming back in. I nearly bit through my lip to keep from crying out as he began thrusting into me at a relentless pace. What a masochist. The bark scraped my palms, grounding me in a moment that felt wild and reckless. Every thrust drove me forward, every inhale dragged me deeper under.

“Good girl,” he whispered, hands on my hips pulling me back against him again and again. 

The only sounds were the forest floor shifting beneath us and the obscene rhythm of skin on skin. It was a lewd noise, and anyone who got close would immediately know what was happening. It shouldn’t, but the thought of all the people only maybe a few hundred yards away excited me. 

He slowed suddenly, forehead pressed to my shoulder. “I can’t—I need—” His voice broke off as he pulled out, spun me around, and caught my mouth in a hungry, almost desperate kiss. I leaned into it, moaning softly against his lips, one hand fisting in his shirt as the other slipped between us to stroke him. He groaned into the kiss, breaking away just enough to look at me—eyes half-lidded, wild. “Need to see you.”

“Then lay down,” I whispered. 

He did, easing back into the soft earth without looking away. I gave one last glance toward the faint glow of the set before lowering myself onto him. His eyes were still on me, wide with admiration. His hands came down to grab my hips as soon as I was close enough but I shook my head at him, just once. 

“Let me make you feel good,” I said into the night air. Jack’s jaw flexed, his eyes sliding shut with a nod as I guided him to my entrance. I sank down slowly, dragging it out, feeling every inch until he filled me completely. My skirt pooled around us. I started rocking—slow, deliberate—my hands braced on his stomach, rolling my hips almost lazily. His knuckles flexed like he didn’t know what to do with his hands if he wasn’t touching me. I kept my eyes on his face. The way he looked at me, like I was something holy and forbidden all at once, made heat bloom low in my belly.

He groaned suddenly, head tipping back. My hand flew to his mouth, and I leaned close, my breath against his ear, my rocking speeding up as I went. “If I have to be quiet,” I whispered, “so do you.” 

He nodded hard beneath my palm, eyes squeezing shut. My hands found his chest, the new angle sending him deeper, sharper, until I gasped, holding tight to the fabric of his shirt, silently hoping I didn’t crease it too much. He said my name like it was breaking him—rough and reverent, the sound catching at the end like he didn’t trust his own voice.

“God–fuck–I’m–m close,” he panted, hands coming up to grasp at my hips. My orgasm was building in my core, close, but not as close as he was. The thought of not being able to get off right now suddenly pushed a wave of frustration through me.

“Mm–know honey. Just a little bit longer please,” I begged. His hands gripped hard suddenly, holding me in place—but instead of lifting me, he began rocking me back and forth, grinding me down onto him without losing depth. The friction lit me up instantly. My clit dragged against his pelvis with every shift. His thumbs pressed hard into the curve of my hips like he was trying to memorize the shape of me—like he wouldn’t forgive himself if he forgot it.

I threw my head back, mouth falling open in a silent moan, one hand clawing uselessly at his shirt. “Jack,” I breathed out, eyes opening to see him below me, obviously waiting for me to find my release. 

“I know, baby,” he murmured. “Look at me.” His eyes locked on mine, wide and wild, like I was something he couldn’t believe was real.

That was all I needed. I collapsed against him with a whimper, hand flying to my mouth to muffle the sound. But he didn’t stop. He kept moving me, pushing me through it, chasing his own release in the way his hips jerked up, his breath catching just beneath my ear.

Finally we slowed to a stop. I laid there against his heavily moving chest for a few seconds, hearing his heart hammering beneath. His hand came up to rest on my back, rubbing slow lazy circles. 

“You didn’t rip the shirt,” he said softly, almost a joke. I felt his smile against my hair, and for one surreal second, it felt like the world had stopped for us here, just long enough to catch our breath. "You good?” he asked. All I was able to manage was a small nod. His fingers found mine where they’d fallen beside us, lacing them together as we lay in the hush. “We gotta get you back to set.” 

Jack’s breathing slowed beneath me, his chest rising and falling with a rhythm I could finally match. One of his hands rubbed slow, lazy circles across my back while the other combed gently through my hair, occasionally tugging twigs or bits of leaf free with a quiet mutter. “You’re gonna have to explain the foliage in your hair somehow.”

“You’re one to talk,” I muttered, plucking a leaf off his shoulder. “I didn’t rip your shirt,” I mumbled into his chest.

“You were very respectful,” he said solemnly, then ruined it with a smirk. “Would’ve forgiven you anyway.”

I stayed there another beat longer before groaning and shifting to sit up, brushing damp hair out of my face. “God, I probably look like I got jumped by a raccoon.”

Jack sat up too, reaching out to pluck another leaf from the hem of my skirt. “Worse. You look like you got fucked against a tree.”

“Charming,” I said, trying not to laugh. “You’re just mad I wouldn’t let you ruin my hair.”

He grinned. “That was very selfless of you.”

He helped me stand, brushing at the dirt on the back of my thighs with exaggerated focus. I swatted at his hands and made a weak attempt to fix his collar. We both paused, surveying each other like stage moms before a big scene.

“Spin,” he said.

I turned in a slow circle. He stepped in close, tucked a lock of hair behind my ear, then used his thumb to wipe a smudge off my cheek.

“Still look like sin,” he said, voice low. “But you’ll pass.”

I rolled my eyes, but the warmth in my chest said I didn’t mind.

Then he cleared his throat. “Can I ask you something?”

I glanced over. “Yeah?”

He hesitated—just long enough for it to mean something. “The stories,” he said. “The ones you wrote.”

I froze. My hands stilled. “You mean the ones I definitely did not write?”

He tilted his head. “The ones you refused to talk about.”

I said nothing.

He softened. “Look, I didn’t know at first. I had a feeling, sure. But that day we filmed? You were so in your head, I just threw it out there to get a rise out of you. I didn’t think I’d be right.”

“You weren’t. Not exactly.”

“No?”

“They weren’t about you.” His brows lifted, waiting. “They were about Cook.”

Jack blinked. Then broke into a grin. “Seriously?”

I groaned. “He was your first big role. I was fifteen. Give me a break.”

“Oh, I’m not judging. I’m honored. I just never figured my sleaziest role would be your sexual awakening.”

“He was not—” I broke off, realizing I had no defense.

Jack leaned closer, eyes gleaming. “You had a thing for bad boys who smoked too much and couldn’t keep it in their pants.”

“Stop,” I groaned, burying my face in my hands.

“I feel like we should bring a therapist into this.”

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t,” he said, reaching for my hand. “You wrote porn about me.”

“Fanfiction.”

“Porn.”

“Erotic fanfiction.”

“About a character who once drank his own piss.”

“Oh my god.” I couldn’t stop laughing. He was insufferable. “Why are you like this?”

He shrugged, smug and gleaming in the moonlight. “Guess Cook wasn’t the only one corrupting you.” I gave him a shove, which he took as an invitation to pull me in for one last kiss—soft, slow, lingering just long enough to make my knees go weak.

“You good?” he asked when we pulled apart. I nodded. “We gotta get you back to set.”

We started walking, slow at first, our fingers brushing now and then. The quiet between us was easy, even as the lights of the production tents came back into view. He walked me until we were close enough to see people again—then let our hands fall apart. But his eyes stayed on me, warm and possessive, like even in the dark, he wasn’t going to let me disappear.

Someone stood near the edge of the set. I couldn’t quite make out who—but they turned fast when I passed. Too fast. Like they hadn’t meant to be seen. Like they’d already been looking.

Unease curled in my stomach. I squinted, trying to place the shape, but they were already melting back into the thrum of bodies and bustle.

No one else looked at me. No one else seemed to notice. But as I glanced over my shoulder, I caught one last glimpse of Jack stepping out of the tree line, his shirt wrinkled, his hair a mess.

I wanted to ask if he was sure we’d been alone. But the moment was gone. And I had a scene to shoot. Besides—

People think they know us. They take it apart.

He didn’t try to come to my trailer that night. When I heard the knock, my heart skipped. Maybe it was him. Maybe he wanted to talk, to laugh it off, to say I’d imagined everything.

But it wasn’t Jack—it was just a PA coming to tell me that they had to move stuff around and we’d be reshooting some of the "Rocky Road to Dublin" scene on account of the sunrise being in some of the shots from last time. I wouldn’t even have known what to say. “Sorry for being a creep”? “Sorry for liking it too much?” At least thinking about how hard that scene was to shoot the first time helped take my mind off things. It didn’t help me figure out how I was going to manage showing my face tomorrow night. I curled up under the covers, but sleep didn’t come. I kept seeing his eyes—not the red ones, not Remmick’s. His. And I had no idea how I was supposed to look him in the face tomorrow night.

—

The sticky, sweet blood clings to my skin, and the fake teeth and tinted contacts ache in all the wrong ways. But at least I’m not suffering alone—everyone else on set is just as miserable. The first time we filmed this scene we only had an hour and a half before the sun rose. Tonight, we were able to start at midnight. Hailee and I were the last to leave hair and makeup and get to set. When we arrived, Jack was in full, glorious costume, practicing. As hard as it was for the rest of us, this was easily his hardest scene to film.

I was scared for when he’d look at me. I didn’t realize how much it would hurt—how hollow it would feel—until it happened. Not a single stolen glance, not a shared smile, not even a wave. Complete and deliberate avoidance. I must have been brooding too long while we waited on our marks in the inner part of the circle because Hailee looked between the two of us and must have sensed the tension.

She leaned in, the bustle of everyone around us covering her words. “You okay?”

I snapped my attention to her, not realizing how out of it I had been. “Yeah, of course. Why do you ask?” I rolled my shoulders back and started stretching, trying to seem as casual as possible.

“Because you and Jack have been attached at the hip for the past two months, and now you won’t even look at each other,” she said, eyebrows raising.

I let my mouth hang open a moment while I tried to think of something to say. All I could think about was how his breath had felt on my neck, how real it all had seemed. “Filming that scene yesterday didn’t go so well,” was all I managed. A half-truth. It went really well. Too well—for me at least. I guess that was the problem. I enjoyed it too much. God, he probably thinks I’m such a fucking pervert. Flirting is one thing. What I was hiding is a whole other.

Her eyes widened and she nodded, looking away before swinging back to say, “But I heard you guys actually did really good—”

“It didn’t go well,” I cut her off, glancing up at him. Still looking anywhere but where I was.

We started a few minutes later, and I knew we’d all be exhausted by morning—especially Jack. So many angles were needed. So many takes. We all moved and sang the whole time. At least this time they wanted to add some changes from the first shoot. The digital release would have extra scenes, including at this point—Stack and Mary dancing together as the circle spun around, for instance.

We’d become a real family out here. And tonight, we were having fun—the kind you only get once. I tried to forget about him, just for a little while. To enjoy this once-in-a-lifetime experience: dancing and singing with close friends, filming a major motion picture. Ryan said he loved how we were getting into it and to lean more into the enjoyment, so we did. I threw my head back in a full-bellied laugh, spinning through the circle, my skirt swishing wildly around my legs. Even Jack grinned, though Remmick's joy came with a flicker of something darker, more possessive.

The music was loud—Jack at the center, clapping and singing, leading the rest of us with infectious energy. Stack and Mary danced next to me, giggling into each other, when all of a sudden Michael passed her to Bert with a yelp and a giggle and grabbed my waist and hand, pulling me into a dance. I threw my head back and laughed, letting him lead me in the enthusiastic jig. He pulled me in close. We dipped and spun, laughing through it like kids. His arm tightened naturally around my waist, his hand resting low on my hip as he spun me again. It was genuine—we may have been covered in blood and sweating our asses off in the middle of the night, but we were doing it together. Having the time of our lives.

I didn’t feel his eyes at first. I was too caught up in the motion, in the sweat and music. When Michael spun me back into him, still laughing, that’s when I saw it. Jack’s expression had soured. Whatever flicker of joy Remmick had been wearing was gone. He scowled—at me. At us. As soon as we made eye contact, he set his jaw hard and looked away, continuing on with the scene.

We wrapped that scene in the early morning hours, completely exhausted. Everyone still clapped and cheered, whooped and hollered. We’d done it again. I watched from the sideline as so many people praised Jack, and he responded with half nods, polite smiles, and quiet thanks. He looked gracious—maybe even bashful to anyone else. But I saw it. The tension in his jaw. The way his smile didn’t reach his eyes. To anyone else, it looked like he was just being humble. To me, it looked like he was more upset than I’d ever seen him.

I waited for Hailee to walk to hair and makeup with me, needing the extra support. She made her way over, laughing as she came, and let out a relieved sigh as she linked her arm through mine and we began to walk.

We didn’t get far before he stepped into our path, eyes still averted. We stopped abruptly as he said, “Can we talk?” Hailee eyed me from the side, trying to gauge my reaction. I just looked at him, not knowing whether to be frustrated or relieved.

“I’m tired and sweaty and I want to get out of costume,” I said, landing on frustration.

He looked at me then—really looked at me. Soft, pleading eyes. “Please,” he said quietly.

I folded immediately, nodding and slipping my arm from Hailee’s. She didn’t let go right away. Her fingers lingered against mine in a silent warning. I looked at her and said, “I’ll catch up with you later, okay?”

She nodded back apprehensively. As she walked away, she said, “Watch for gators. Or worse.”

We stood there in front of each other for a moment while people continued to file past us off set. He motioned for me to follow him, so I did. We walked toward the dilapidated building that was the old sawmill—Club Juke.

“Where are we going?” I asked as I looked behind us, most everyone having cleared off set. Being all alone over here by the water was creepy, and Hailee's warning rang through my head.

“A private word, please,” he said as he opened the door and let me walk in. It was dark inside, not lit up and staged for filming. The room smelled faintly of dust, wood rot, and old paint. The silence buzzed louder than the music ever had. I walked into the center of the room as he closed and latched the door behind us. I turned on my heel before he could even speak, breath already catching in my throat. 

“Jack, I’m sorry,” I blurted, guilt finally winning out. He started walking toward me, but my apology stopped him cold. Confusion clouded his face—and just like that, my courage drained away.

"You're sorry?" he asked, brow furrowed. I began to feel unsteady, the look on his face melting away the courage I had built up.

"Yeah, for—you know," I said, but he just continued to look at me the same way. I shuffled my feet and averted my gaze, heat rising to my cheeks. "For—you know, not telling you about the smut and stuff." He was silent for a few moments, which did nothing to ease my anxiety. I finally looked up at him when I really started to feel like I was melting under his gaze, and he laughed—really laughed—as soon as our eyes met.

"That’s what you think this is about?"

It was my turn to be confused. "Yes?" He continued to laugh, a sort of exasperated sound, before coming toward me. I hadn’t realized how used to him being in my space I had grown, how much of a relief it was to have him close again. I sucked in a breath and exhaled at the scent of him.

"No," he said. "I mean, confirming that it was me was part of the problem, but not like that." He was just within arm’s reach now, close but still hesitant as he looked me over.

"Then what was it like?" I asked quietly.

"Can’t you see?" he said, sighing when I didn’t respond, just stared at him wide-eyed. "I can’t stop thinking about you," he said, voice low. "Not as her. Not as Maggie. You. I’m fucking obsessed, and it’s driving me mad."

I stood there, too stunned to speak, my mouth slightly agape. My heart stuttered. I thought I was bracing for anger—mockery, maybe. But not this.

"I thought you’d think I was messed up for it—for hiding something like that. I thought you thought I was a pervert," I finally said, earning a chuckle from him.

"A pervert?" He raised his eyebrows. "I mean, you are, I guess. But I—I'm the true pervert. I can hardly be around you without feeling—feeling the way I feel. It scares me."

I stepped forward, almost closing the distance, and raised my hand to his bicep. He closed his eyes and let out a sigh at the touch, the scent, the proximity.

"How do you feel?" I asked softly, looking up at him. Both of us still in all our makeup.

He opened his eyes and looked down at me before responding in the same tone. "I can’t tell where I start and he begins sometimes." I continued to look at him, trying to understand. "You’re all I think about—all day. The next time I’ll see you. The next time I’ll touch you. I get so excited just to film scenes so I have an excuse to be near you. And I—I get so jealous. So angry. It scares me how angry I get. That’s why I’ve been pulling away. I haven’t felt normal. I’ve never felt the way you make me feel, and it terrifies me. Watching him touch you tonight—hold you, dance with you, laugh with you, fucking look at you—made me the angriest I’ve ever been. I told myself it was just the role at first, toeing the line of method acting too closely. But I realized yesterday I’d been lying to myself. I’m utterly fuckin' obsessed with you. Absolutely infatuated. You’re all I think about. All day, all night," he admitted, a slight flush blooming on his cheeks.

I blinked up at him, warmth rising to my throat. How had I not seen it? I’d been so deep in my own head, I missed all the signs. I stared up at him as his eyes searched my face for any of the answers I didn’t have.

"Say something," he begged.

"I feel the same way," I blurted out.

"What?"

"I’ve always been attracted to you, obviously. Getting this role is the best thing that ever happened to me. But ever since I found out it was you I’d be working with like this, I’ve been struggling. I was grateful just to be near you—any excuse to be touched by you, to have your attention. I think about you in ways I shouldn’t. All day. All night, too," I added sheepishly. "Yesterday was the best sex I’ve never had. And that’s saying something."

He continued to look at me as if in disbelief before sharing, "How I felt yesterday scared me. That’s why I pulled away. For the first time, I couldn’t separate myself from him—not unless I pulled away entirely."

Something in his eyes—hope or hunger or heartbreak—I didn’t know. But I wanted to give in to it. Just this once. I waited a few beats before whispering, "Then don’t."

"Don’t what?" he asked.

"We can pretend. For one night, we can pretend," I said, sliding my hand to rest over his blood-covered chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath.

He let out a deep sigh and rolled his head, fighting some internal struggle before looking down at me. Me, staring up at him—doe-eyed and full of trust and arousal. He grabbed my hips and pulled my body flush with his. I could finally feel the proof of just how badly he wanted me.

"Are you sure?" he asked, so quietly I could barely hear. I nodded up at him.

"I need to hear you say it," he demanded softly, his hand going to my hair, gripping gently but firmly.

“Yes,” I breathed out as he pulled my head to the side, “Remmick.”

He groaned, and then he was on me.

At my neck. The sob of relief I let out was palpable—a lifetime of frustration and yearning. He kissed, sucked, bit—blood and teeth be damned. I didn’t care if he left marks. I’d waited too long for this. 

His hands slid from my waist to where my shirt was tucked in and as he moved to kiss me on the mouth his hands slipped under the band of my skirt, and in one smooth motion, he peeled off my blouse and tossed it aside. I knew it was warm but the air against my suddenly exposed skin sent a chill down my back and goosebumps down my arms. The air kissed every inch of skin like it was claiming me.

We kissed fast and feverishly, his teeth gently biting down on my lower lip, demanding entrance, which I gladly granted. I could taste the blood on him—we were both covered in it. We kicked off our shoes before he grabbed me by the hips and lifted me up against him, carrying me to the only open door—the room where Sammy and Pearline fool around. I could feel his hardness pressing against me as we walked, could feel his strong arms wrapped around me. As we kissed, he made quick work of unclasping my bra and slinging it somewhere behind us. We both smiled into each other as we went.

In the room, he set me back down on my feet before him, and I stared into his eyes as he slung his suspenders off and lifted his shirt over his head. I let out a frustrated sigh at the blood running down his neck and chest—at the marks I had left just yesterday. Before he could finish, I unclasped my skirt, letting it drop to the floor, leaving me in just the red panties I had put on that morning. He groaned, low and deep, looking me over from top to bottom.

"Lie down," he demanded, and I obliged. The backs of my knees hit the table as I sat, then laid back, legs still dangling. "Put your arms above your head like you did yesterday." I did as I was told, the movement giving him a better view of the blood covering my breasts. I smiled up at him, all teeth, as he palmed himself while looking down at me. 

I went to move, to say, "Let me take care of that—" but he cut me off by gently but firmly pushing me back down and kneeling before me.

"No, I take care of you first," he said, as he slid his fingers through my waistband and pulled the red panties down my bare legs. Finally, I was laid before him in my entirety—exactly where I was supposed to be. He must have been thinking the same thing because he said, "Look at me. Don’t look away."

I did as I was told and felt two fingers slide through my slick folds. I let out a moan and threw my head back—and immediately, he pulled away. A groan left my mouth as I looked down at him, frustrated.

"I told you not to look away." I nodded in understanding and, this time, held eye contact as he reslicked his fingers. He rose above me, leaning in close as he said, "I want to see you when I enter you for the first time." He hovered just above my face—too far to kiss, just close enough to stare, enthralled. Then, slowly, he slid two fingers into me. I gasped, and he groaned.

"God, you’re so tight. So wet for me too." I nodded as I struggled to maintain eye contact. His eyes searched my face as he pumped his fingers in and out like he was fascinated—enthralled with the control he had over me.

His thumb slid up to begin rubbing circles around my clit, earning a deep moan of satisfaction from me.

"Can I please touch you?" I begged.

He nodded, so I reached up to touch him—any part of him. I tried to pull him down to kiss me, to feel more of him, but he didn’t budge. So I turned my head and began kissing his arm where it was braced next to my head. He didn’t seem to mind—in fact, he moaned at the mess I was making of his arm.

He knew just how to touch me, like he’d spent years figuring it out. My orgasm coiled tighter in my belly, seconds away from tipping over—when he stopped. Just stopped. I gasped, then groaned in frustration. He only smirked as he began to move down my body, his hands trailing over my breasts and down my stomach, smearing blood as he went.

He began to kneel between my legs, spreading me open. The floor creaked beneath his weight, grounding the dizzying heat in something real.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart, but I’m tasting you the first time I make you cum.”

The sight of him between my legs was almost enough to send me over the edge already. I half sat up on my elbows as he placed one of my legs over his shoulder, one hand wrapping under me to rest on my abdomen, the other sliding two fingers into me again. I moaned in satisfaction and threw my head back as he slowly began to pump in and out. He was so close to starting—I could feel his warm breath against where I so desperately needed his mouth—instead trailing kisses up and down my thighs getting closer and closer.

Before he began, he admitted, “I was so close yesterday. I could smell you, see how wet you were for me. I was under your skirt—no one would have known if I had just—”

And there it was, finally. The soft contact I so desperately needed. His fingers pumped into me with perfect rhythm as his tongue lapped and sucked at my clit.

I brought my hand down into his hair and tugged him closer, earning a deep growl that vibrated through me. I was already close, moaning loudly and lewdly, when I looked down and saw him looking up at me. His gaze commanded mine, like he knew every tell I had. I stared into his eyes as I came for the first time.

He didn’t stop. He removed his fingers, raising them to my lips for me to suck clean. I didn’t need him to tell me—I just did. I tried to stay still, but his tongue quickly drove me to overstimulation. That’s what the other arm was for. He held me firmly in place, my thighs squeezing around his head, my hands trying desperately to push him away as I gasped for air.

“Pl–please–Jack–I’m gonna—”

His hand—no, his palm—suddenly covered my mouth. I bit down hard as I came again, the only thing keeping me from truly screaming. White-hot pleasure burst through my body, stealing my vision, making me shake. He kept going just a moment longer, then finally stopped, sensing my limits.

I lay there, chest heaving, staring at the ceiling. After what felt like hours—but was only seconds—I sat back up on my elbows and looked at him. He knelt between my legs, smirking, blood on his face and chin now mixed with me.

“Don’t know how I’m going to explain this to the costume department,” he said.

A confused look crossed my face as I glanced down to where he was looking. His chest was dripping wet, his pants soaked. My eyes widened. “I’m so sorry—I couldn’t control it. I didn’t even know I could do that.”

His smug satisfaction only deepened. “Aye, don’t be sorry,” he said, rising to stand. “I’d rather tell them I pissed myself than have you apologize for that.”

He was still talking, but my eyes locked on the large bulge now at eye level. My mouth watered, all the relief I’d just felt was gone, replaced with raw need. He moved to grab my skirt for me, but I caught his arm.

“Jack, Jack, I need more,” I begged.

He slowed, looking at me as he shook his head. "You don’t owe me anything—"

"Please, Remmick. I need you."

His eyes darkened as he dropped the skirt, hands immediately going to his belt buckle and unclasping it in one swift motion. I reached up to grab at his pants, tired of him doing all the work. Let me do something. I needed to do something. He let me unbutton him, let me pull the rest of his clothes off and toss them to the side. Now we were even. He stood before me, hungrily looking down at me.

And I met that hunger. Reached for it. Owned it. I was fully sat up now, looking up at him wide-eyed. He wasn’t going to make the first move. He wanted me to. So, I reached out and grabbed him, stroking the bead of precum down his shaft tentatively, testing the movement. His head rolled back, eyes closed as he let out a deep groan of satisfaction. I continued for a few strokes, gaining my footing, before I took him into my mouth.

He gasped, hand flying to my hair to rest there, nestled in and guiding me. His groans were loud. I tried my hardest not to hurt him with my teeth—I must have been doing a good job because before I knew it, he was yanking my head away.

"Love, if you want to go any farther tonight, you have to stop that now. If not, I’m going to finish."

My only response was to lay back, scooting my butt as I went until I was fully laid on the table, spreading my legs wide for him and maintaining eye contact.

"Fucking Christ," he breathed before climbing onto the table and over me, nestled between my legs, one arm braced beside my head, his other hand stroking himself lightly.

"Are you sure?" he asked one last time.

I bit my lip and nodded.

"Then beg," he whispered, low in his throat. There he was above me—red eyes and all. The obsessive man I had become obsessed with.

I breathed the words into the space between us, trembling with need. "Please, Remmick. Please fuck me."

His brow pressed into mine as he slid into me, both our eyes going wide. No gasp, no moan—just my mouth hanging open in stunned, stretching pleasure as I adjusted to the size of him. Before I knew it, he was moving, slowly at first, head nestled in the crook of my neck planting kisses and love bites. I turned my head against his cheek, feeling his jaw scrape against my skin, slick with sweat, spit, blood—us. I moaned quietly in his ear. Small, lewd moans only for him.

His thrusts became harder, drawing louder sounds from me as he kissed up my neck to my ear, scraping his fangs lightly as he went.

"Tell me you’re mine," he whispered.

I turned my head to look him in the eyes. "I’m yours. I’m yours, Jack. I’ve always been yours."

I saw the softness return—the man I had spent countless nights with, laughing in my trailer and on set. I saw admiration—more than that—love, as he looked down at me. Then his lips were tenderly on mine, and we stayed there for a while, kissing passionately as our pleasure built.

"Fuck," he groaned, suddenly sitting up. He was now kneeling between my legs, hands gripped tightly on my hips, looking down at me as he thrust. So similar to the position we were in yesterday—his face the exact same, chest heaving hard. The sight of him there, still in costume as Remmick, nearly pushed me over the edge.

He grabbed my legs and lifted them onto his shoulders before leaning down over me again, the position allowing him to reach impossibly deep. I never knew I was this flexible, but God, am I thankful to find out. I was close to my third, and I could tell he was close too.

That’s when we heard it.

"Jack!" Hailee called from nearby outside. He slowed, frustration furrowing his brow. I reached for his hips, desperately grasping for him to keep going, but it was clear he was going to stop. I let out a groan—but then, my name. Not Hailee—Michael called my name from outside.

He stilled, eyes flashing with irritation, the sound of my name on someone else’s lips slicing through the air. They had come to look for us after we didn’t show up to get out of hair and makeup. Jack's whole body tensed over me—and then he began to move again, faster than before.

They were just on the other side of the door. One wrong sound and they'd know. But it did nothing to slow Jack down.

Then they were at the door of the Mill. It was locked from the inside, but they still pulled on it and tried to get in. I was so close—so impossibly close. He was pounding into me at an impossible speed, at an impossible angle. My hand flew to cover my mouth as I began to reach my climax, and immediately it was yanked away and pinned above my head. I bit my lip, hard, looking up at him, searching for answers.

He was moaning loud, seemingly on the edge, and all he said—breathless and feral—before spitting on his fingers and reaching down to rub my clit was, "Mine."

I came—hard—screaming his name. I couldn’t help it. The same white-hot flash tore through me, a thousand times more intense than the last. He must have been waiting, or the feeling of me finishing pushed him over the edge too, because as soon as I was done riding it out, he was right behind me.

From outside, I heard Michael say, "Oh, shit." Hailee's laugh followed, fading as they walked away.

My legs were gently lowered as he collapsed on top of me, chest heaving, still inside me. I breathed heavily too, my hand running gently through his hair as his head rested on my rising and falling chest. Finally, he looked up at me.

I raised an eyebrow. "Was that really necessary?"

He chuckled. "No, probably not—but we were pretending, remember?"

"Hmm," I said, trailing my hand along his chest and arm mindlessly. "And are we still pretending?"

He waited a moment, trying to read my face. "That depends on how badly you don’t want everyone to know about us. Because—they’re gonna know."

"I’m fine with everyone knowing. Just feel like there might’ve been a better way to tell them, is all."

We both laughed, and he brought his hands up to caress my face. That’s when I noticed his hand—the blood. Real blood. I grabbed it to look at the puncture marks where I had bit him.

"Jack, you’re bleeding," I said, worried.

He chuckled, pulling his hand away nonchalantly. "Small price to pay for making you squirt."

We both laughed again, and he added, "Gonna have to explain that to costumes too, ‘cause I definitely got blood on me trousers when I was admiring my work."

I smirked at him. I should’ve felt embarrassed—but instead, I just felt... satisfied. For the first time in a very long time, if ever.

We laid there for a while, me on his chest, his hand in my hair, just feeling each other breathe. Listening to the sound of his heart.

"Sun’s coming up," he pointed out. And indeed, through the open door, I could see the line of sunlight starting to stretch across the room beyond.

I began to move. "Fuck, we gotta get these costumes back—they’re gonna be pissed," I said, rummaging around for my clothes, Jack close behind me.

"Yeah, and these contacts are really starting to hurt my eyes," he said with a laugh, pulling on his pants.

I chuckled at him sideways and tossed him his shirt.

The first scene was on the log with Mary. I didn’t have many lines, Maggie in general doesn’t have many lines after she’s turned. All I had to do was sit there, on his right, his arm possessively around my waist, then later when the scene turned more intense gripped on my thigh. Maggie stares at Mary as if in a love-sick trance, only speaking up when spoken to directly. We filmed that scene many times that day and from many different angles. Hours of close intimate contact, some takes more, some less, but always constant. 

The next few weeks were more of the same. We filmed most of the outdoor scenes and fight sequences—those were tough. One night, we had to cut because of an alligator in the water, and after that, Jack kept very close. Hiding my attraction was incredibly hard especially when the work was already so intimate. I caught myself staring at him—his arms, his chest, his waist, lower. No better than a man. At least I could blame it on method acting, pretend that my lingering stares and flushed cheeks were just part of the role.

When we would wrap for the night he would walk with me to our trailers after we got out of hair and makeup, sometimes asking to come in to work on something and sometimes I think he could tell I was just too tired. The nights were long, and most of our sleep schedules were completely ruined by that point. 

There came a point when I noticed that some of the times I invited him in we talked less and less about whatever we were working on the next day, around this time I also noticed his roaming eyes. I was partial to nightgowns and it wasn’t like I wasn’t already treating him like eye candy, so I didn’t mind. Our scenes were becoming dangerously easy to shoot. I wanted to believe it was just chemistry, but deep down, I knew it was something else, something harder to turn off when the cameras stopped rolling. One particular evening we were sitting across from each other sharing some drinks in my trailer, supposedly giving each other notes, when he let me go off topic. It was so easy to talk to him, and he seemed like he wanted to listen, and my drink had me feeling a little tipsy, so I talked. Rambled, really. He would interject curiously to keep the conversation moving but really I think he just wanted to hear me. That's when it came up that I used to write.

“Oh that’s wicked, a woman of many talents. What’d you write about?” he asked as his lips perked up at the corners. 

“Fanfictions,” I blurted, regretting it the second the word left my mouth. “That was a long time ago though, I stopped when I was sixteen or seventeen maybe.” 

His laugh was low and knowing, not mocking—more like he’d just confirmed a long-held suspicion. “Of course ya did,” he teased, eyes sparkling over the rim of his glass. “Let me guess... scandalous ones?” 

There was no stopping the heat that rushed to my cheeks and my comfortable demeanor immediately fell away as flashes of my stories of him rushed through my mind. Involuntarily I crossed my legs as embarrassment, and slight arousal overtook me. He could see the shift and his eyes and smile widened in a way that reminded me so much of Cook. I tried to take the humility on the nose as I shrugged and we laughed. 

“Who was lucky enough to earn the perverted attention of teenage you?” he asked as our laughs calmed. 

I leaned back into the cushion, his eyes jumping for a split second to the rising hemline of my nightgown. His gaze flicked lower, and I swear I felt the path of it like a physical touch. My skin prickled under the thin fabric. I shifted, suddenly hyperaware of how every small movement seemed like a silent confession. Lifting my drink to my mouth I responded, “That—I’m not sharing,” I shot back, trying to sound confident even as my cheeks burned. “Some things are better left buried in the dark corners of the internet where I left them.” Sure, he could know I was a horny teen—I mean, who wasn’t? The rest stays a secret. 

His smile turned sharp. “Dangerous to leave things buried, love. They’ve got a way of clawing their way back up.” For a beat, the air felt heavier, like the moment just before a storm breaks. He leaned back in his seat, legs stretched out, his eyes dragging over me slow and deliberate. I suddenly became acutely aware of how thin my nightgown really was. He eyed me curiously and smirked before moving back to our scripts.

That was the first night I crossed a line. An imaginary line that only I knew about, but a line nonetheless. By the time Jack retired to his own trailer it was early morning and I was just a little more than tipsy. The alcohol made it harder not to look at him, to think about him, and the time I spent sitting there became incredibly frustrating. As soon as he was gone and I was in my bed alone, I did it. Reading it was bad enough. Finding release to the stories and photos of the man in the trailer next to mine made me feel wrong, and more excited than I had been in a very long time. 

—

I’m proud to say that I’ve held my own as an amateur in this cast of actors by trade. I’m also happy to have built a genuine friendship with my co-stars, especially Jack. We were always together on set of course, but I felt myself gravitating towards him off set as well. An intrusion he did not mind. 

The flirty game of a friendship we had was fun, but the first time I noticed a real shift was when we filmed the scene trying to get into Club Juke. Remmick and Maggie, Joan and Bert, two white couples just trying to sing some music and have a good time. Like always Jack—Remmick’s arm was around my waist and on one particular take Michaels character Stack looked over me in a different way than the previous takes. More intently, with more intrigue. We all tried different stuff many of the takes we did and this was no different than that, just an option to pick later. Completely improvised. 

What was also improvised was the flash of anger that crossed Remmick’s face, just for a split second, blink and you’ll miss it. And the charming smile was back, but not before his grip on my hip tightened to almost an uncomfortable amount. The mood shifted—subtle but sharp, like the snap of a wire pulled too tight. No one else seemed to notice, but I felt it in every nerve under his hand. Still I stayed in character. Still I looked at Jack starry eyed and tried to capture a reason on his face but the character had taken over him again. It was the way his fingers dug into my hips—not enough to hurt, but enough to leave the ghost of pressure behind. His grip said, mine, even if no one else could see it. And the way he looked at me—dark, focused, like he was memorizing every inch—made me feel owned in a way that wasn’t in the script. We finished the scene and that was the end of it, though when our characters walked away slowly I couldn’t help but notice how tense Jack was, how the arm shrugged over my shoulders was not loosely hanging but wrapped possessively. 

Later that evening when I left hair and makeup he was already waiting for me. We walked in near silence this time. The air between us felt heavier than the heat hanging over the set. His hands were shoved deep in his pockets, his head ducked just enough to make me wonder if he was thinking as hard as I was trying not to. Every few steps, our arms would almost brush. Almost. Neither of us closed the gap. As we approached our trailers I went to ask him if he was alright but before I could he turned and asked, “You know what we’re filming tomorrow, right?”

I racked my mind for a moment before my cheeks flushed, yes, our next scene was the one where he turns me, and during a lustful act to say the least. I had been putting off mentally preparing for that day and for the separation I’d have to manage in my head between my own attraction and Maggies and in doing so the day snuck up on me. His words felt like a warning and a promise all at once. I nodded, but my throat had gone too tight to say anything clever back. And wasn’t that just the problem? I never had the right words around him—not when it mattered. He returned the nod as I began to walk up the steps to my trailer, eager to be out of the uncomfortable situation. 

“Will you ever tell me?” he asked up at me. I turned to look at him, confusion furrowing my brow. “Who you wrote your smut about?” 

I laughed lightly and shook my head, again turning to go into my trailer. I stopped at the top of the steps and turned, just enough to look down at him. He stood there, hands in his pockets, rocking slightly on his heels like he wasn’t sure whether to stay or go. For once, I wasn’t the one squirming under his gaze. He was the one hesitating. Waiting. 

“So, I take it you don’t want to invite me in to practice tonight?” he asked. This time when I turned to look at him he was smiling, but I could tell he was nervous. 

I let my eyes drag over him slowly—deliberately. His jaw tightened. His shoulders tensed like he was bracing for a blow or something much worse: rejection.

“Do you want me to?” I asked, voice light, teasing. But it was the kind of tease that knew exactly how much weight it carried. His mouth parted—no sound. His tongue darted out to wet his lower lip, and God, it was almost too easy now. I watched the nerves flicker across his face like he wasn’t used to being the one left standing in the heat of his own want. I asked. I don’t think he was expecting that response because his smile fell away and for the first time he was the one looking at me nervously. “Hmm,” I hummed, stepping back toward the door, letting the screen swing half-closed between us. “I think I’m better at improvising that sort of thing.” Then, with a smile just this side of wicked, I added, “Goodnight, Remmick,” and closed the door behind me, leaving him out there in the thick, humid air with nothing but his imagination to keep him company. 

Later that evening in the comfort of my own bed I did it again. Masturbating to someone you know personally will always be weird, and I am not recommending doing it. But there is something about it that gets me very hot and bothered. Especially knowing he’s right next door, and especially after trying to prepare myself for the next day.

—

The next day was a closed set. Only us, the intimacy coordinator, director, and needed techs. We had already filmed the scene leading up to it days ago. Maggie, walking home from her job in town late at night, unknowing of Remmick watching her from the woods. He could smell her blood and it smelled like his own, he liked that—took that as a sign. That’s what the script says at least. Of course they stumble across each other and he offers to walk her home like a gentleman, it’s dangerous on these roads at night for a pretty lady to walk alone. Maggie isn’t used to the attention, especially not from a handsome man. Her fathers protective and the only interaction she usually gets is from customers at her job, customers who do not like her Irish born father. 

It’s a long walk of course and Remmick asks for a drink of water when we reach the porch. Maggie considers for a moment, her father would not approve, but her mother and father were out of town right now. And Remmick was very, very convincing. So she does what any other girl in her position would do. She lets him in. 

We ran through the rough blocking with Ryan and the intimacy coordinator a few times before we started filming for real, and that was intense enough. Starting in the small living room and moving to the kitchen, the counter, the table. I could do this. This is going to be easy. I’m a professional. Before I know it we are on our marks and someone yells action. 

It’s easy to fall into Maggie especially after all this time, easy to remember my lust as I look at him standing in front of me, and equally as easy to anxiously turn and rush into the kitchen to start filling a glass of water. My back is to him but I know he’s approaching. Predator and prey. 

“So, pretty girl like yourself lives out here all alone?” he asks as he enters the kitchen. 

I turn to look at him, his red contacts are in but I pretend like I don’t notice. “No,” I respond as I hand him the glass of water and continue, “My Ma and Pa are usually here but they’re gone right now.”

He nods his head knowingly and drinks the water, a smile spreading across his face as he starts to approach me. My back hits the counter as he enters my space to set his glass behind me and I—Maggie—suck in a breath. He smells like Jack, like cologne and tobacco. I close my eyes at the realization and hope it fits for the scene. How many time had I imagined that scent late at night? He doesn’t move out of my space. Remmick takes space; he doesn't retreat from it. 

His voice is low as he says, “Hmm, don’t they think that’s kinda dangerous? Leaving you out here all by yourself?” He shrugs a little, the distance between us nearly closed as I come to meet his eyes. I can’t tell who I’m looking at. Jack, or Remmick. 

“I can take care of myself,” I say as I turn my head to the side sheepishly. I know he’s hit his cue to stare at my unknowingly exposed neck when I hear him suck in a sharp breath. 

“Oh, I bet you can.” The scene moves at an agonizing pace, and I can feel the tension rising—between us, in the room, in me. It only breaks when I finally look up at him and for that split second I see him, not Remmick but Jack, before the obsession returns and he closes the distance, lips crashing into mine. 

Being kissed like this feels like possession, feels like melting into him, feels like full surrender. It was hard and fast and heated. His hands grabbing and roaming my middle. Suddenly I’m lifted off the ground by strong arms and set firmly on the counter earning a gasp even though I knew it was coming. He’s standing between my legs now, just close enough to be professional and just far enough to be frustrating. Still we devour each other. His hand goes to my hair and nestles for a moment before pulling my head to the side, exposing my neck to him. 

He kisses down my flesh sloppily, nibbling and sucking in all the right spots. A moan escapes me, a real one, but no one will know. I’m an actress, I’m supposed to be acting. Still at this I feel him groan into my skin before continuing his assault. 

He doesn’t bite, not how Remmick is supposed to. Instead after we know they have more than enough film he pulls away and sucks in a deep breath, composing himself. His hand is still rooted in my hair and his eyes lock onto mine as he says, “I want to taste you.” It’s the closest to a question that he was going to get. I nod my head eagerly and he smiles greedily, as far as he’s concerned he already has me. And as far as I’m concerned he does as well. 

He returns to kissing me, gentler this time, hands sliding up my exposed legs and under the hem of my skirt at an agonizing pace. There's lube spread across the inside of my upper thigh and as soon as I feel him run his fingers through it my eyes widen and I throw my head back in a gasp. Remmick smiles and watches me greedily, finding pleasure in knowing he already has this control over me. We act it out for a few more beats before he finally removes his hand and lifts his glistening fingers for me to see. 

“All this for me?” he asks, lifting his finger to his mouth. He sucks on it slowly, eyes closing, brow furrowing like he’s savoring a delicacy. I watch him, hungrily and enthralled, then when his finger finally leaves his mouth he's dead calm as he lifts his pointer and middle to my lips. “Taste,” he orders. So I do. Slowly at first, then more greedily. The lube is strawberry flavored, but I can taste him as well. Sometimes there is no movie magic for these sort of one shot scenes. He just stands there watching me, heavy breathing and eyes blown out. When he finally removes his fingers with a pop he doesn’t hit his line immediately, for a second he just blinks, as if for just a second he forgot. But then he shakes his head. “Not enough,” is the only warning I get before he's kneeling before me and hiking my dress up, head dipping between my thighs. 

Of course it went no further than that but we still had a job to do. He started miming the intimate moment, just inches away from where I wanted him the most. I threw my head back and moaned, brow furrowing, one hand bracing myself on the counter while the other flew to tangle in his hair and I gently began pulling. This earned a growl from him and he moved more feverishly. I felt him rub his lips and chin across the lube and I could have sworn I felt it, soft kisses moving along the inside of my thigh where the lube was placed, a trick of the mind—heat of the moment. It helped me perform either way, helped me be more believable. His hands held my hips firmly in place, legs hiked over his shoulders, if I wanted to move I couldn’t—I didn’t want to. 

I gently squeezed his head twice—just barely. The cue we decided to use when I’d act like I was reaching climax. And boy, was I acting. I’ve never seen him move so quickly, one second on the ground before me and the next he was up again and lifting me off the counter earning a genuine gasp from me. 

“Not yet,” he said, his mouth and chin glistening with more than just the lube on account of the drool-inducing mints. “Not until I say so.” My legs wrapped around his center and arms around his neck as he turned and walked me to the table, holding me with one strong arm as the other brushed everything off of it in one swift motion before setting me down and standing before me. 

My hands moved hastily to grasp at the buttons of his shirt, but he stopped that with one swift motion yanking it over his head and slinging it on the ground. Chest now bared to me I made quick work of curiously roaming and kissing his newly exposed skin. His head dipped back and he let out a moan. I may have been leaving marks, but I didn’t care, and he must not have either because he didn’t stop me. Just left me to make sloppy work across him while they got their shot. 

Then, more calmly than any man should have been, he grabbed either side of my shirt collar and ripped my blouse open, loosely sewn buttons flying everywhere, leaving me in just the bra. He moved fast on the newly exposed skin, kissing and sucking, nibbling and—biting. There was only one place to go from here and we were fastly approaching that cue. 

His hands hiked my skirt up before fiddling with his buckle. My arms wrapped around his neck, our brows pushed together, eyes locked as we acted out passing that final precipice. We both let out groans of satisfaction before he started to move his hips, hands gripped on my waist. Of course there was fabric between us, but every few thrusts he got just a little too close, brushed up against where I wanted him the most ever so slightly, earning real moans and groans from me—but they were frustration not pleasure. I hope the camera can’t tell the difference. 

I had to move or I was going to explode, so I did. I improvised, laying back on the table, arms stretched above my head, body revealed and vulnerable before him. He didn’t miss a beat, and when I opened my eyes to glance up at him, his brow was sweaty and furrowed with pleasure, mouth hanging open, letting out lewd noises I’d only dreamed of. His chest still glistened, blooming with fresh marks just how I’d left it. His eyes locked on mine, and we shared a few glorious, intimate beats holding that eye contact. It almost felt real. Almost.

Then they yelled cut.

He stopped and backed away immediately, eyes darting anywhere but me. The sudden lack of warmth felt wrong. I felt vulnerable. I sat up and pulled my blouse closed with both hands.

“Was that good?” I called out toward the lights and cameras. The response was an enthusiastic yes. They just had to put in his prosthetic teeth for the final shot. No blood this time- leave that to the viewers’ imagination. I was told to stay put while they got him ready. He didn’t look at me as he walked away. Didn’t look at me when he came back, either. Eyes red, sharp teeth now put in.

He got into position between my legs again, and we waited a minute while they reset the shot. Even this close, inches away, he avoided my gaze. Anxiety twisted low in my stomach and climbed, cold and tight, into my chest. Sitting bare and exposed in front of him, and he wouldn’t even look at me. He’d had no problem looking at me a few minutes ago when he was pretending to fuck my brains out.

“Did I do something wrong?” I whispered, the space between us so small no one else could hear.

His head snapped toward me, eyes wide. “No, no,” he said quickly, in his regular accent. “Just trying to stay in the right headspace is all.” He offered a weak smile. It didn’t make me feel any better. But it didn’t matter. They called for us to get back into position.

I laid back again, and before I knew it, Jack was gone—once again replaced with Remmick’s hungry gaze. So I tried to do the same, to put on the mask that was Maggie just as easily as he did. We picked up right where we’d left off—just a few seconds while they captured the transition. But my mind wandered, anxiety still lodged in my chest.

“Come here,” he commanded, loud enough for the boom mics to catch. I saw his eyes, his teeth, but Maggie’s lust had blinded her, or maybe made her unafraid of the man in front of her. So I rose to meet him.

His arms wrapped firmly around my bare waist, mine went around his neck once again—but that was all I could manage. I was struggling to find the rhythm again, to pull myself back into the aroused state I’d been in just minutes before.

He didn’t falter. He just gripped me tighter and whispered in my ear, low enough that no one else could hear:

“What’d you write about me?”

I gripped his neck harder, and a moan escaped my mouth as images flashed through my head. The stories I had written. The ones I had only imagined. The heat I felt each night in bed, thinking of him—him, the man in front of me.

I was back—lost in it. Moaning, head thrown back, eyes rolling. Then my brow pressed against his again as the camera moved behind him, angling for the final shot. While his face was still out of frame, he whispered:

“I knew it.”

He smiled, sinister with the teeth and contacts, and it only made me act harder.

The camera captured the shot of us, hungry, locked in each other’s gaze. We both began to speed up, reaching our fake climaxes. It was so easy to pretend. That’s when she does it—when I do it. I tilt my head to the side, baring my throat to him, offering myself without hesitation, without fear.

One scene was romantic, almost, with just a hint of tension. It was easy enough to perform for the camera with my agent off to the side. The other scene was—well, eerie. No lines really, just a test to see how I looked if I was in a trance. Then, the next week, they sent me to try on some costumes. Still no script. Still no decision. Just some photos of me in the period style. My contact that day let me in on the fact that the director had a serious vision, and that was the reason for all the secrecy. That’s when I realized this could be big—really big. And that’s when I got nervous.

But then the phone rang. I booked it, and almost immediately, I was flying south to start filming for the next three months. I’d booked jobs before—some film, some theatre, some online, but nothing of this magnitude. I don’t even want to describe my reaction when I walked onto set and saw Michael B. Jordan for the first time. Swooning is an understatement. However, I’m a professional. I’m capable of keeping it cool and acting just as nonchalant as all the other professionals around me. Or so I thought.

I was fifteen when I watched Skins for the first time. All my friends were watching it like some sort of teenage rite of passage, and that’s when I was first introduced to him. Cook was cute—cute enough to be my screensaver and to write and read fanfiction about in my free time. But he was nearly ten years older than me, and overseas. No matter how many times I fantasized about it, I couldn’t imagine any real scenario where my celebrity crush and I ended up together. I forgot about him almost as quickly as I obsessed over him, moved on to being obsessed with some Marvel character probably. Teenage girls, ya know?

The first time I saw him, I had just been given the official copy of my script. I was walking to my trailer and beginning to finger through the thick binder, haphazardly with it in one hand and a coffee in the other. That’s when the door to the makeup trailer opened, and he stepped out—face and neck covered in blood. I stumbled, dropping my binder but managing to save the coffee. He smiled at me as he walked down the steps, scooped up the binder before I could collect myself, and gently handed it back. I’d once written fanfiction about the man standing in front of me now, his blood-streaked costume a far cry from the charming English teen of my daydreams. It was surreal, even disorienting, to be on this side of the screen, and I was shocked. It took me just a millisecond too long to respond for it not to be awkward, but I still managed a grateful smile as I took the binder from his outstretched hand.

“Sorry, I’m still learning my way around a set this big, and my head was in the clouds when I tripped,” I tried to explain. His smile grew as he looked down at me, the blood down his chest a stark contrast to the kindness on his face.

“It’s easy to get turned around, where you headed? I’ll walk you there on my way to set,” he said, his smile still playing at the corners of his mouth.

I blinked at the unexpected kindness before opening to the first page of the binder and the map they had tucked in the front. “Uh, trailer six,” I responded.

It was Jack’s turn to look a little surprised, though his surprise was more humorous where mine was embarrassment. “You’re my Maggie. Nice to finally meet you. I can’t wait to work together.” Maggie was my character's name—a daughter of Irish immigrants who was struggling to settle down in places where she was neither a person of color nor white. That was about as far as I’d gotten with my parts of the script other than the scene where- oh god. He put his hand to his chest to introduce himself, “Remmick, at your service. But you can call me Jack. I’ve been excited to meet you, how far have you gotten?” he asked as he motioned to my script, and we began to walk, him leading the way.

"Uh, not too far yet, just got it handed to me about twenty minutes ago actually." My heart thundered in my chest as my mind raced—Remmick. Remmick. Most of my scenes are with him. The scene I read for was a romance scene with Remmick.

When I was fifteen, I had no idea that the boy I’d once dreamed about would be standing in front of me, covered in blood, and asking about my script. My schoolgirl fantasy felt like a lifetime ago, a harmless fantasy I used to entertain in the corners of my mind. Now, I was about to work with him, in a way that was far too real. I should have been focusing on the script, right? But instead, my mind kept wandering back to the fact that I was walking next to him. My teenage daydream, here, with his blood-stained shirt and charming smile. I had to remind myself—this was my job, not a fanfiction come to life. But my heart didn’t seem to care about that. I have to finish reading this script. Jack walked me all the way to my trailer and had the decency to open the door for me. I was lucky to keep my cool as I walked up the steps and looked down at him to say thank you.

“Not a problem at all,” he said with kind eyes. “And my trailer’s right next door. We can run lines together as soon as you're caught up,” he motioned to the binder. “I know they got you here kinda late, so just let me know if you need anything.” I smiled and nodded my head as he gave a slight bow, signaling his departure and turning to walk to where I only assumed he was about to be filming for the day. I am absolutely not qualified to handle this.

---

The trailer was comfortable, way nicer than what I was used to when working on a project. But I didn’t have time to enjoy my new niceties, not when I was trying to consume the script at record speed. It took most of the afternoon and well into the evening to finish reading, and god, the story was moving. A beautiful horror story, layered within our history, that challenges not only religion but the things we were raised not to question. The diversity of casting is a breath of fresh air, and with that being said, the diverse character plots also point out the fact that the cost of survival isn’t always unity. Reading it again and again, it became clear I hadn’t just booked a horror movie, but a movie about survival, about assimilation or freedom.

Maggie’s role in all of this? To me, there are four romantic foils at play here. Smoke and Annie represent true love, trust, and freedom at the cost of everything. Stack and Mary are the forbidden lovers who search for freedom and family at the cost of those very principles. Sammy and Pearline are lust, a short-lived love that we never get to see blossom and that haunts Sammy for the rest of his life. Maggie and Remmick? They represent obsession masked as love. She’s a link to the place he misses the most, and she’s desperate for fulfillment from a man. Where the other three relationships love truly, Remmick and Maggie’s love is only masquerade, just as his offer to the patrons of the Juke is just a masquerade.

I had been moved to tears a few times this evening, and I couldn’t wait to pick Ryan’s brain while filming. But I was tired now, and I needed to shower and sleep. Still, tickling the back of my mind were anxious thoughts about the scenes I was going to have to film with my teenage crush. As I showered, I recalled all the forced proximity romances I’d consumed through the years. I also recalled the lewd stuff I had written a mere ten years ago about the man I would now be forced to interact with. A nightmare, or a dream come true? I had just pulled on my nightgown when there was a knock at my trailer door. A knock I was not prepared for.

Towel still in my hands, I swung the door open expecting a PA—not him. The air seemed to thicken as I swung open the door, and the heat of the Louisiana night seemed to press in on me. My breath caught in my throat when I saw him—tall, dark, and impossibly close. His smirk, playful yet knowing, sent an unexpected shiver down my spine. This wasn’t the boyish crush from my youth. This was... something else. Standing there, grown, no blood, nothing to remind me of the immature character I dreamed of just a few years ago. But the funny thing about life is it rarely gives you the ‘dream’ version you expect—it gives you this. Reality. With a side of nerves and a dash of inappropriate excitement. I hadn’t been in any sort of frame of mind to notice earlier, but he was clean-shaven for this role, his hair a longer dark ruffle already sticking to his forehead from the Louisiana heat. The sight of him at the bottom of my steps in the dark, with only the lamp from our trailers illuminating him, almost startled me—almost. But there he was, my teenage wet dream, smirking up at me.

“Sorry to bother you so late, I just finished for the day and wanted to check in and see how you’re settlin' in and doin' with the script?” he asked, and Jesus Christ, his accent pulled my mind to a place it absolutely shouldn’t go.

Sheepishly, I dropped the towel from my hair and held it in front of me, a sort of modesty blanket to cover my nightgown. Not that my nightgown was outrageously inappropriate, it was an action more out of self-consciousness than anything.

“That’s very kind of you,” I smiled. “I’m settling in well. I’ve finished the script and begun preparing for my first scene.”

“Aye, our first scene?” he interjected, matter-of-factly.

My smile turned sheepish. “Yes, our first scene.” I only had one scene that wasn’t with him before he turns me, and we aren’t filming that for weeks. That’s kinda Maggie’s whole thing—always right there, always in his reach. The thought of all the scene cues I read where he’s possessively holding some part of me made my cheeks heat. The thought of the scenes where he would be holding me, marking me, doing more with me, made my stomach flip, not just because they were more than intimate, but because I couldn’t help but wonder how much of that would be Maggie and how much would be me.

“I suppose you wouldn’t want to let me in to go over it a few times together?” he asked, a hint of mischief in his tone.

My sheepish smile turned into a smirk. “The irony, you standing at my door in the dark asking to be let in?”

At that, he let out a genuine chuckle. “It is, isn’t it?” God, was he charming.