You’ve been neighbors for about six months, and in that time, Alycia has always been the quiet, intriguing presence across the hall. Polite smiles. Occasional late-night hallway conversations when you both get home at ungodly hours. And now, somehow, fate—or your casting director—has decided it’s time to test your composure.

“You’re in this?”

she had asked the day you showed up to set, script in hand.

You’d smiled.

“Guess you’re stuck with me now.”

That was three weeks ago.

Filming had its usual intensity, but working with Alycia? That was something else. She was smart. Focused. Occasionally funny when the camera wasn’t rolling. And sometimes, during takes, her eyes would lock with yours in a way that made you forget your lines.

Now, wrapped in the glow of the beach bonfire with your castmates, she’s sitting across from you, legs curled under her, hair messy from ocean breeze. You’re both holding half-empty drinks. Everyone else is laughing, but you two? You’re quietly orbiting.

Alycia tilts her head, watching the firelight flicker in your eyes.

“Hey,”

she says, voice low.

“Want to walk for a bit?”

You nod, heart skipping in that way it always does.

The two of you wander down the sand, just far enough from the group that the voices become background noise. The moon is hanging heavy above the water, and Alycia wraps her cardigan tighter around herself.

“You ever think about how weird this is?”

she asks.

You glance at her.

“What? Filming? Acting? Bonfires with people we barely know?”

She smiles softly.

“No. This. Us. Being neighbors, then cast together. I mean, what are the odds?”

You chuckle.

“Feels like the universe is trying to say something.”

She hums.

“Maybe.”

There’s a pause. Comfortable, but charged.

She glances at you, more serious now.

“Can I be honest?”

You nod.

“I’ve kind of… always noticed you. Even before the show. Like, every time we crossed paths in the hallway, or I’d hear your laugh through the wall. It was nice. Calming, actually.