#co star

part 1 | part 2 | part 3

A behind-the-scenes story about two co-stars, a slow-burn connection, and the things left unsaid.

Cw: slow burn, emotional intimacy, mutual care, quiet yearning, ambiguous longing, actor!reader, co-star romance, internalized feelings, soft angst.

Word count: 2.6k

The filming process is an intense and tiring one. People get closer than you would expect. There’s no real space for distance—not when you’re spending hours, days, and months together in the same blood-stained costumes, crawling through fake mud, and sprinting from choreographed hordes of the infected. The schedule is relentless. Call times at 4 AM or even 11 PM to get the perfect shots. From the first warm, buzzing hours of morning, to the hollow, delicate quiet of night, where voices soften and glances linger longer than they should.

So it’s no surprise to anyone that you and Abby, your co-star, grow close. A bond forming not with grand gestures, but in the in-between moments: in the makeup trailer where she hands you a granola bar without being asked, during downtime where you're both slumped over a couch flipping through lines, or wrapped in thick coats during late-night pickups in freezing woods. A friendship blooming gently between takes, stitched together with jokes, inside references, and quiet companionship.

During late-night rehearsals, huddled under scratchy set blankets, reciting lines like whispered secrets. Between takes, when she pulls a fake blood smear off your cheek with the sleeve of her hoodie and grins like it’s normal.

She’s always been kind to you, right from the first table read. You remember how that day had felt — fluorescent lights, coffee gone cold, nerves tangled tight in your chest. You remember the first table read—stale coffee, scribbled notes, nerves curled tight in your chest like wire. It was your first big job. The first time your name was printed on a call sheet next to actors you’d watched on screen, in a show people were actually anticipating. You wanted to be good. You needed to be good.

Everyone sat around the long table flipping pages, already slipping into character. You were halfway through your second scene when you stumbled—your tongue catching, a word mangled in your mouth. You laughed nervously, trying to recover, your cheeks burning.

But no one rolled their eyes. No one sighed or looked away. One of the older actors, Joel,  gave you a reassuring nod. Someone else made a light joke to ease the moment. The room softened. The cast—so much more seasoned than you—met your mistake with kindness, and you held on to that.

Still, later, as you gathered your script and tried to disappear into the background, Abby approached you with that soft confidence of hers.

“Want to run lines later, just us?”

You nodded, surprised—and relieved. Her smile lingered as she walked away, and you found yourself wondering what her real laugh sounded like. Not the polite one. The one she'd use when no one else was around.

You’d spent the whole day shooting a chaotic chase—running from stunt actors in torn makeup and prosthetics, tumbling down snowy hills, slipping and swearing and laughing through it. By the time the director called cut, you could barely feel your hands.

Someone tossed you both a blanket. Abby didn’t hesitate to pull it over your shoulders, scooting closer. She handed you her coffee. You sat there, shoulder to shoulder, steam curling between your faces, watching crew members adjust lighting.

Neither of you said anything. You didn’t need to.

You were choreographing a heated argument for Episode 5 — the big turning point for your characters. The fake meeting room was echoey and too bright, the stunt coordinator running through blocking while the director hovered nearby with script notes. Abby’s voice rang out, sharp and electric. You answered, stepping toward her with a force that surprised even you. Her eyes locked with yours—angry, wild, alive. You open your mouth to keep arguing, but no sound came out.

You’d forgotten the next line, vanished from your head.

The silence was deafening.

The stunt coordinator cleared their throat. You blinked. Abby blinked. You both laughed it off. But something had cracked open. A tension neither of you had admitted yet. A moment that shouldn’t have meant anything… but did.

And then, of course, there were the kisses.

Because your characters were one of the central couples. A slow-burn, enemies-to-lovers arc that had the internet foaming at the mouth, spinning wild theories, and counting glances ever since the trailer for season two dropped. It didn’t help that the writers loved to give you every cliché in the book: bandaging each other’s wounds, brushing fingertips over bruised cheeks, forbidden touches, whispered apologies. And then, the inevitable kisses.

They weren’t the fake, peck kind. Real, intense, close-up shots. They were slow, burning, intentional— the kind of scenes that ended with neither of you pulling away fast enough. Then the director would yell “Cut!” and you had to compose yourself for the next take, ignoring the fast pace of your heart and the butterflies in your stomach. 

Your characters weren't meant to be a couple from the beginning, it just kinda happened throughout the filming process. The crew saw the interactions both in screen and off and decided to add the storyline to the show. A fact that you absolutely did not lose sleep thinking about. 

They saw something. Something that maybe you didnt notice, or didn't want to notice.

A few weeks before the season finale wrapped, you did a round of interviews together. Press junkets meant long days in hotel rooms decorated with fake plants and branded posters behind you. One after another, the questions came: plot hints, favorite scenes, behind-the-scenes stories. You answered with practiced ease, laughing at the same jokes you’d already heard in three other interviews that morning.

But then a new interviewer leaned forward, smiling with real curiosity.

“So—what’s it like filming The Last of Us? The tone is so intense. How do you carry that around day to day?”

You started to answer, talking about the hours of emotional prep, the physical exhaustion of action scenes, the night shoots. But the interviewer cut in again, gently:

“And how is your dynamic in real life… What’s the hardest part about playing enemies when you're clearly besties off camera?”

Abby nearly choked on her water. You both laughed— hers easy, yours a little forced.

“That’s a very generous assumption,” you joked, looking at her through the side of your eye.

Abby leaned forward toward the mic, still smiling. “No, but seriously—it’s hard sometimes. I have to scream at this one,” she gestured to you, “and meanwhile, she’s giving me puppy eyes. It’s unfair.”

“Puppy eyes?” you echoed, mock offended. You laugh, shaking your head slightly, now looking at the interviewer, continuing to talk. “ We spent a lot of time together, on set and off. We had seen each other laugh, and we have seen each other cry. “

“Especially you” Abby interrupted.  “Yeah especially me” you said rolling your eyes. You looked at Abby, the beginning of a grin tugging at your mouth. “I think we just got lucky. We clicked early, and it made everything easier.“ Abby nodded. “Yeah. It helped that we took care of each other, I think. Especially on the hard days.” 

After a beat, she turned to you, eyes soft but playful. “It’s weird to pretend to hate you.”She said, tilting her head towards you, her voice a bit more serious all of a sudden, but subtle enough that to the average person wouldnt notice. 

The interviewer laughed, scribbling something on their notepad. But you could feel something in the room shift—just a little. A breath longer than usual between you. A glance that lingered. You smiled down at your lap, hoping the cameras didn’t pick up the heat rising in your cheeks.

Abby was still looking at you when the next question started.

You didn’t realize it at first. Not until a month into the press tour.

You were sitting cross-legged on the floor beside her, the both of you surrounded by wriggling puppies. A bright blue backdrop was rolled out behind you, stretching beneath your shoes and under the soft chaos of fur and tails. Behind the camera, the crew chuckled quietly while the interviewer asked the same recycled questions—your characters, the storyline, your “off-screen dynamic.”

It should have been like any other shoot. But it wasn’t.

Maybe it was the way the light hit her hair, turning it to liquid gold as it spilled over her shoulders. Maybe it was the way your knees kept bumping and neither of you moved away. Maybe it was just the chemical high of being surrounded by small creatures with tiny tongues and too-big ears.Or maybe it was what she said.

She was talking about the show—about the world-building, the weight of grief and survival, the emotional arc of your characters. And she spoke with so much clarity, so much love for the work itself, that it stunned you. Her eyes lit up when she got excited, and she gestured with her hands in these sharp, specific ways, like she was building something real in the air between you.

And as you listened, something inside you shifted.

Because it wasn’t just the beauty of her smile, or the sparks from your every shared glance.

It was admiration. Deep-rooted, overwhelming admiration. You were in awe of her—of the way she thought, the way she cared, the way she saw the world.

And somewhere in the middle of her laugh—her real laugh, the one she only used off-script—you felt it settle into your chest.

A truth you hadn’t let yourself name until now. You were in love with her. With the one person who knew you in ways no one else ever had.

The next few weeks blurred by in a haze of cameras, airports, interviews, hotel rooms, and restraint. You tried not to think about it, tried to bury it.

You told yourself all the reasons you shouldn’t feel this way. You worked together. You spent nearly every waking hour in each other’s space. Every glance, every joke, every shift in body language was being recorded, replayed, dissected online. You had seen the compilations fans made of your every interaction, zooming in the eyes and hands during press tours and behind the scenes leaks. Everything you shared was already under a spotlight.

You couldn’t risk it—not the show, not your friendship, not the fragile, sacred thing that had grown between you. Because if you said something, and she didn’t feel the same— or worse, if she did and it all went wrong— you’d lose her.

That’s what your brain told you—stern, logical, insistent.

But your heart? Your heart didn’t care.

It painted pictures behind your eyes when you weren’t looking. A life with her. Days spent traveling. Nights curled together on a too-small couch. Lazy mornings. Grocery runs. Her head on your shoulder while folding laundry. Mundane things that, with her, felt like magic.

You smiled. You laughed. You answered the same press questions with the same lighthearted rhythm. And all the while, you loved her in silence.

Carefully. Hopelessly. Constantly.

Because she was the closest thing to home you’d ever found— and you couldn’t bear to risk losing her just to find out if she felt it too.

You were completely, hopelessly screwed.

After that day, something in you began to shift. Not all at once. Nothing dramatic. Just small things—subtle acts of self-preservation.

You started keeping a little more distance. Leaning a little less when you sat beside her. Laughing without looking too long. Letting the space between your bodies stretch further than before.

You told yourself it was for the best. Because now, everything felt heightened. Every moment alone with her was laced with tension. Every smile from her made your chest ache in ways you couldn’t explain. You began to dread the softness in her voice when she said your name, because your body heard it as something it wasn’t allowed to be.

So you pulled away. Carefully. Quietly. Hoping she wouldn’t notice.

But Abby noticed.

At first, it was confusion in her expression—tilting her head at you when you ended conversations too soon, when you excused yourself from dinners with the cast, when you sat one chair farther than usual in interviews. You caught her watching you more often, brow furrowed like she was trying to solve a puzzle she hadn’t meant to find.

One night, after a long day of press, she knocked on your hotel door holding two cups of coffee and a movie queued up on her phone. Like old times.You hesitated before opening the door. And when she handed you the cup, you didn’t let your fingers brush hers like you used to.

She noticed that too.

She didn't say anything—not then. Just curled up on the opposite side of the bed, eyes flickering between the screen and your profile in the glow of the hotel lamp. But the silence between you had changed. It wasn’t the comfortable kind anymore. It was full of things unsaid.

You wanted to tell her the truth. That you were pulling away not because you cared less—but because you cared too much. That being around her was starting to hurt. That every small thing she did—every laugh, every spark of passion when she talked about your work—was undoing you.

But you didn’t say it. You stayed quiet. Because loving her from a distance felt safer than losing her altogether.

And so, night after night, you played your part. You showed up to interviews, smiled for photos, answered fan questions. You nodded when someone mentioned your "great chemistry" and kept your eyes on the floor when she talked about your friendship. But still—every time she looked at you like she was trying to read a language you no longer spoke, your heart cracked a little deeper.

The blinding flashes of the cameras, everyone screaming your name to get your attention and capture the perfect picture that would get them their pay/check for that month. It's all too much, but you don't notice it this time, as your focus is set just a few feet in front of you. 

Abby, with her hair styled in a messy shag and a criminal olive green suit, was grabbing the waist of her girlfriend of two years. They look perfect together—picture-perfect. Their bodies angled just right, their smiles wide but effortless. Abby leans in to say something and her girlfriend laughs, head thrown back, fingers tightening around Abby’s.

Suddenly, your outfit feels too tight, the flashes brighter, the shouting louder, and the distance even bigger. 

But then you pulled away. You had to. You told yourself it was kindness. That distance would protect you, both of you. That silence was better than guilt, or confusion, or regret.

But standing here now, a few steps too far from where you wish you were, all you feel is the hollow echo of what you didn’t say.

You feel your heart shatter into a million pieces. You knew she had someone. They hadn't been out together in a while and their last post was over a month ago. You had kinda forgotten about her. Your mind erased her to allow your wishes and fantasies to run wild—stupid, reckless fantasies. 

You take in a deep breath and try to compose yourself, facing the cameras once more and putting on another Oscar-worthy performance, smiling and posing as if you didn't feel a knot forming in your throat, how your eyes burned, and your fingers twitched, trying to stop the little life you imagined with her from slipping away. 

Because she wasn't yours, and she never will.

Hiii! This is my first time ever writing like seriously and in English so please be kind. If you have any constructive criticism or I messed up in something, please let me know! Hope you liked it!