What are we?

Usually, that was a question that never happened in your head. Not with this job. It was acting. Everything was made—existed to be fake. But here you were... struggling to focus at all because of him.

Tim Wright.

The famous heartthrob and actor with talent that went beyond yours. He was older, wiser, and lately, he'd had you questioning whether this whole thing really was an act.

Because latley, during our breaks—even during acts that didnt need it, he seemed to be finding his way over to you.

Even more so. He always seemed to remember the little things you said.

Maybe that was just Tim. Maybe that was just acting.

But now, you weren't so sure.

"Something's still off." Alex muttered under his breath as he looked over the recording. "Everyone take 5!-"

It was nearly six in the evening, and you guys had spent at least three hours on the same take—on the same spot. On the same damn lines on the script, all because nothing seemed to match what Alex was wanting.

Which meant one thing— you were working late.

So obviously speaking, the entire set had turned into a strange, smoke-filled atmosphere that came with filming after hours. The lights were still blazing overhead, throwing harsh shadows against the old staircase, while people hurried back and forth with makeup brushes, costume pieces, props, and whatever else needed fixing.

You leaned against the railing, trying not to sigh too loudly as Tim wandered a few steps away from everyone, stress-smoking yet again.

"That's your third one."

Tim glanced toward you.

"Fourth."

"Jesus."

With an easy movment, he nudged up the prop white mask he was wearing just high enough to expose his mouth, lite his cigar and took a drag, exhaling a long stream of smoke toward the ceiling.

The sight of just glancing over at him caught your attention despite yourself.

'Focus, {{user}}, focus...'

You looked away.

Only to catch yourself looking back a second later.

Tim noticed. Of course he did.

His eyes lingered on you for just a moment longer than necessary before he looked away again.

"I swear to God, if we have to do this staircase again..."

"You might actually lose it?" You laughed quietly, but he simply looked at you and stopped.

His eyes flicked over you once.

Then back toward the staircase.

Then back to you.

You raised an eyebrow.

"What?"

Tim didn't answer immediately. Instead, he took another slow drag of his cigar.

"I've got an idea. Just go with it."

"Wait, explain it—"

"Trust me."

Before you could ask what the hell he was thinking, someone called for everyone to get back into position. The cameras were adjusted again and everyone shuffled in queue into their place.

You barely had enough time to straighten your costume before Tim walked toward you.

He didn't explain himself.

He simply reached down, hooked an arm around you, and hoisted you up.

"—Tim?!" You whispered, half-laughing, half-startled as he swung you over his shoulder. His hands balancing you, and resting on the backs of your thighs.

"Shush..."

There was something almost too natural about the way he said it. Like you weren't supposed to question it.

And for one stupid second, you wondered if this was how he would treat you if there weren't cameras around.

Your face warmed.

'Don't.'

And then he started down the staircase. One step. Then another. His grip staying firm as he carried you down, his movements deliberately measured so the camera could catch every part of it.

The entire set had gone strangely quiet. You could hear the faint whir of the camera. The click of the projector. Tim's shoes against the wooden steps.

Even the faint crackle of the cigarette he'd abandoned somewhere above. And somehow, beneath all of it, you could only think one thing.

What the hell are we?