#actor!will lenney

The table read room always feels the same, no matter the project. 

Too bright. Too quiet. Everyone pretending they’re relaxed while holding onto their scripts like lifelines. 

You arrive early – you usually do – slipping into a seat near the middle of the long table, setting your coffee down beside your name card.               Your script is already creased at the spine. Tabs peeking out from the edges. You’ve read it enough times to hear the rhythm of it in your head, the pauses, the things unsaid between lines. 

You’re calm. You always are at this stage. 

Then the door opens. 

You don’t look up straight away – not until you feel it. A shift in the air, the kind that doesn’t announce itself loudly but still insists on being noticed. 

When you glance up, you see him standing just inside the room.

Will Lenney looks… younger than he does on screen. Less polished. Like someone who still expects to be asked if he’s in the right place. He pauses, eyes flicking over the room, his grip tightening slightly on the script in his hands. 

He looks nervous. 

Not the charming, self-aware nerves he has in interviews – real ones. The kind that are scary and that live in the shoulders and the jaw, you can see it in the way he takes a deep breath before stepping fully inside. 

Your chest warms unexpectedly. 

He catches you looking. For a split second, his expression flickers – surprise, recognition, disbelief – before he smooths it into a smile that’s careful around the edges. 

“Hi,” he says, walking over. “Sorry, I just- this is the table read for Right Place Wrong time, yeah?”

“It is,” you say, smiling. “You’re exactly where you’re meant to be.”

Something in his face eases at that. Just a fraction. 

“Good,” he says, exhaling. “That’s reassuring.”

He introduces himself even though neither of you needs it. His handshake is warm, a little tentative, like he’s unsure how much space he’s allowed to take up. 

“As if I wouldn’t know who you are,” you tease gently. 

He laughs – quiet, genuine – and there it is. That softness people always talk about. The thing that made you notice him before the internet did. 

“You’d be surprised,” he says. “I still feel like I’m on borrowed time with all of this.”

You sit beside each other when everyone’s called to the table. You’re aware of him in a way that sharpens everything. The sound of pages turning. The brush of his arm when you both reach for your coffee at the same time. 

The read begins. 

You slip into character easily, but you don’t disappear into her the way you usually do. Not fully. Part of you stays anchored to the present – to the way Will listens. 

He doesn’t rush his lines. He waits for yours. Responds to the feeling of them rather than the words. When you look up, you find his eyes on you more often than not – intense, not hungry – just attentive. Like he’s genuinely curious about what you’ll do next. 

It makes something in you unfurl. 

You realise you’re smiling during your scenes together. Not because the script asks for it, but because it feels right. 

Between scenes, you catch him rubbing his thumb along the edge of the page, grounding himself. His knee bounces slightly under the table. Every now and then, he glances at you, like checking you’re still there. 

When the director finally calls a break, the room fills with chatter, but he turns to you immediately, relief written plainly across his face. 

“You’re incredible,” he says, and this time he doesn’t trip over the words. “I knew you would be. I just-” He shakes his head, laughing softly. “It’s different when you’re actually in the room.”

You tilt your head. “Different how?’

“Real,” he says. Then, flushing, “Sorry. That sounded-”

“It didn’t,” you assure him. “I know what you mean.”

There’s a pause. A comfortable one. 

“I love you in The Last Summer We had,” you say. “But honestly? I saw you before that?”

His head snaps up. “You did?” 

“Yeah,” you nod. “That little BBC Three drama. The one where you played the brother?”

His mouth falls open slightly. 

“No one’s seen that,” he says. 

“I did,” you reply. “And the short film you did in uni – the black and white one. You sat on that bike the whole time like you were waiting for your life to start.” 

He stares at you, stunned. 

“That-” He swallows. “I didn’t even think that still existed.”

“It does,” you say softly. “And you were brilliant. Even then.” 

For a moment, he looks like he doesn’t quite know where to put himself. Like praise from you carries weight he hadn’t prepared for. 

“You saying that,” he admits quietly, “means more than… it means a lot.”

You hesitate, then say, “You know, there’s a moment in one of your scenes – the way you hesitate before you speak 0 it reminded me of something I try to do in my own work. Letting the silence do the talking.”

His eyes light up at that.

“That’s – yeah,” he says, animated now. “That’s exactly what I was going for. In-” He stops himself, smiling sheepishly. “Sorry, I’m rambling.” 

“No,” you say quickly. “I love this stuff.” 

You find yourself talking – really talking – about the things that matter to you in your films. About choosing when to speak and when to let the silence talk for itself. He listens like every word is gospel, responding with insights that surprise you with their thoughtfulness. 

When someone eventually calls you both back to the table, you’re reluctant to stop. 

At the end of the read, as people pack up and drift away, Will lingers beside you. 

“Hey,” he says, nerves creeping back in. “Would it be alright if we- I mean, just for rehearsals. Or talking about the script. Or-”

You’re already pulling your phone out. “I’d really like that.”

His smile this time is brighter. More certain. 

As you walk out together, the hallway feels quieter somehow.

“This film,” he says, glancing at you. “I think it’s going to matter.”

Call time is 6am, but you wake before your alarm has the chance to go off.

It’s not unusual. Your body is used to early starts, to the quiet anticipation that settles in before the first day of a shoot. Still, there’s a different kind of awareness sitting just beneath your ribs this morning, something sharper than routine and harder to ignore. You lie there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, listening to the faint hum of the city outside your window, and try to name it. 

It isn’t nerves, not in the way you’re used to. You know your lines. You know your process. You know how to step onto a set and find your place within it. 

But this time, there’s already something waiting for you when you get there. 

Someone. 

That thought alone is enough to make your stomach tighten slightly as you finally reach for your phone, silencing the alarm before it can ring. 

The set is already alive when you arrive. 

Crew members move with quiet efficiency, adjusting lights, checking equipment, calling out to each other in low, practiced voices. The café set has been dressed to feel warm and intimate, soft amber lighting casting a gentle glow across the space. Small wooden tables are arranged just close enough to feel crowded, but not uncomfortable, and the windows have been treated to mimic condensation, streaks of artificial rain catching the light like something real. 

It’s convincing. It always is. 

You step into hair and makeup, into wardrobe, letting the familiar rhythm settle your breathing. Conversations drift around you, half-heard and quickly forgotten, and you focus on the small, grounding details – the weight of your costume, the texture of the script in your hands, the quiet murmur of your own thoughts as you run through the scene in your head again. 

You are calm. 

At least, you are until you step back onto the main set and see him. 

Will is already there, standing near the monitor with the director. He’s dressed in costume now, softer tones than you’re used to seeing him in, a coat that frames his shoulders in a way that feels deliberate, intentional. He looks like he belongs in the world you’re about to step into, and yet there’s something in the way he holds himself that gives him away. 

He keeps glancing toward the entrance. 

Not obviously, not enough that anyone else would comment on it, but you notice. You’ve started to notice things about him. 

When his eyes finally land on you, the shift is immediate and unguarded. Relief crosses his face before he has time to hide it, softening the tension in his posture, easing something you hadn’t realised he was carrying. 

He makes his way over without hesitation.

“Hey,” he says, and there’s something warmer in it than there was at the table read, something familiar that settles between you almost instantly.

“Hey,” you reply, taking him in for a second longer than necessary. “You look like you’ve been here for a while.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, glancing back toward the monitor before returning his attention to you. “Too long, probably. I got here early and then just… ended up hanging around. Didn’t want to risk being late on the first day.”

“You wouldn’t have been late,” you say gently.

“I know,” he admits, a little sheepish. “Didn’t stop me thinking about it.”

There’s a pause that doesn’t feel awkward. He studies your expression briefly, like he’s checking for something, and whatever he finds seems to reassure him. 

“You look like you belong here,” you add, softer this time.

He shakes his head, though the corner of his mouth lifts slightly. “I’m still deciding if I do.”

“You do,” you say, more certain than he sounds.

He holds your gaze for a moment longer than necessary, like he’s trying to commit the words to memory, before the director calls you both over. 

The scene is simple on paper.

Two people who have history pretending they don’t. 

You sit opposite each other at a small table, coffee cups placed carefully between you, background extras moving in a soft blur behind the glass. The director walks you through it again, though you already understand it. 

“This is what we want,” she says, looking between you both. “There’s so much they’re not saying, and that’s where the weight is. I need to feel that in this scene.”

You nod, already slipping into the headspace required. Restraint has never been something you struggle with. You know how to hold back, how to let a moment breathe without forcing it.

Still, as you settle into your seat and Will takes his place opposite you, you’re aware of something new threading through your focus.

Him. 

The proximity feels different now. Closer than it was at the table read. More tangible. You can hear the subtle shift of his breathing, see the way his fingers curl slightly around the ceramic mug as he adjusts his grip.

“Ready?” the director calls.

You meet his eyes. 

He nods. 

When the cameras roll, everything else fades.

You fall into the scene with ease, your lines coming naturally, your body language softening into something that belongs entirely to your character. But beneath that, there’s another layer running parallel, something more natural. 

Will doesn’t rush. 

He listens to you like he thinks about every word you say before he responds. There’s a quiet attentiveness that wasn’t there before, something deeper, more grounded. 

At one point, you shift slightly in your seat, and your knee brushes against his under the table. 

It’s accidental. 

It has to be. 

But neither of you pulls away immediately. 

The contact is brief, barely more than a second, but it lingers in your awareness long after it’s gone. You feel it in the way your next line comes out a fraction softer, in the way his gaze holds yours just a moment longer than scripted. 

There’s a flicker of something there, and it’s on the tip of your tongue…

“Cut.”

The moment breaks.

Sound rushes back in as the crew begins to move, adjusting lights, resetting props, calling out notes across the set. You blink, reorienting yourself, but when you glance back at him, he’s still looking at you.

“Sorry,” he says quickly, stepping back as if he’s suddenly aware of the limited space between you. “Was that alright?”

“It was more than alright,” you say, meaning it.

He exhales, some of the tension leaving his shoulders, though not all of it. 

The rest of the day unfolds in a rhythm that feels both familiar and new. 

Between takes, you find yourselves gravitating toward each other without really thinking about it. Conversations pick up where they left off, shifting easily between the scene and everything else. He asks questions, thoughtful ones, and you find yourself answering more openly than you usually would this early into a project.

There’s something about the way he listens that makes it easy. 

By lunch time, you’re sitting beside each other without having planned it, your trays nearly touching as you talk through the next day’s scenes. He grows quieter when the conversation turns to the almost-confession, his fingers tracing absent patterns along the edge of his glass. 

“Timing’s a strange thing,” he says eventually, more to himself than to you. 

You glance at him. “It is.” 

“Feels like it decides everything,” he adds.

“Or, maybe we just let it,” you reply. 

He looks at you like the answer caught him off guard.

By the time the final shot is called, the artificial rain outside the café windows has been switched off, leaving the set feeling oddly still. 

You gather your things slowly, not quite ready to let the day end. 

Will lingers nearby, hands tucked into his coat pockets. 

“First day done,” he says.

“First day done,” you echo.

There’s a quiet satisfaction in it, something shared. 

“I’m glad we talked before this,” he admits, glancing at you. “It would’ve felt… different otherwise.”

“It would have,” you agree.

He nods, like that confirms something he needed to know, and for a moment, it feels like he might say more. Instead, he offers a small smile, says “See you tomorrow,” and turns to walk away. 

As you watch him leave the set, you’re excited to think this is only the beginning. 

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and so it begins...

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WillNE I'm being fueled by coffee and Red Bull, and that's it - yourusername you owe me a coffee still btw xx - WillNE of course that's all you care about 🙄🙄 user1 omg so excited for this movie user2 im sat for this duo, the theatre workers are telling me it's too soon but i'm already sat georgeclarkeey good luck on the project! - yourusername thanks georgie!