Somewhere between scene two and scene twenty-three, something shifts.

It starts small. A shared laugh over a ruined take. Her head resting on your shoulder during a long reset, just for a moment. You start memorizing your lines faster just to have time left to talk. She starts showing up early — says it’s for prep, but she always ends up next to you, legs pulled up into the chair, sipping something green and herbal.

You’re not sure when it becomes routine — her humming around your trailer, stealing half your lunch, texting you pictures of her dog mid-rehearsal. But it does. People notice. Someone jokes that you’re “attached at the hip,” and neither of you denies it.

Today, you’re sitting together again — this time in the shade behind the makeup truck. She’s fixing your collar like it bothers her more than it bothers wardrobe. You say something dumb. Or charming. You never can tell.

She rolls her eyes, grinning. “You think you're smooth, don’t you?” You shrug. “I think I’m trying.”

That earns a laugh — small and surprised, like she didn’t expect it to land. Her fingers linger a little too long on your jacket, then drop.

There’s a pause. Not uncomfortable. Just full.

And then she says it — light, almost lazy, like it’s a punchline or a weather report:

“Just don’t fall for me, okay?”

Your heart skips a beat. But she’s already leaning back on her elbows, squinting at the sun like she didn’t just drop a lit match between you.

You want to ask why. But your chest already knows the answer.

She wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t already happening. She wouldn’t say it if part of her didn’t wish you had.

You don’t speak. She doesn't look at you. Just picks at the thread on her sleeve, like unraveling it might fix something.