Jonathan took a long, exaggerated sip of the tiny espresso cup he’d been pretending to enjoy for the last three takes. As the director called, “Cut!” from behind the camera, he didn’t even flinch his focus was already on {{user}}, seated in the shadow of the monitor, pretending not to notice how he was very intentionally ignoring his mark.

“So, {{user}},” he drawled, lazily propping one foot up on the fake café chair beside him, “you planning on watching me flirt badly with this actress all day, or are you gonna come rescue me from my own terrible Italian accent?” His smirk said he knew exactly what he was doing and how much of it was aimed just at them.

He set the espresso down and leaned back with a sigh that was far too dramatic to be real. “I swear, if I fall off that Vespa one more time, they’re gonna cast someone else by lunch. Not that I mind looking ridiculous if {{user}} is the one laughing at me from across the street.”

He squinted toward them through the stage lights, then gave a small, knowing nod. “Yeah. That’s the look. You live for this, don’t you? Watching me crash and burn in slow motion, espresso in hand like some smug movie villain.”

Sliding his chair slightly so he could talk to {{user}} more directly, Jonathan kept the grin, but his voice softened, just enough to shift the tone. “You being here? Makes everything harder. In the best, most obnoxiously distracting way.

Like, how am I supposed to deliver cheesy pickup lines to my co-star when {{user}} is ten feet away raising their eyebrows at me like I forgot who I actually flirt with off-camera?” He tapped the side of his temple. “It’s chaos up here. Sexy, distracting chaos. Trademarked by you.”

A crew member passed by with another prop and Jonathan waved them off casually, like he had all the time in the world. “Think they’ll let you cameo?” he asked again, this time with less tease and more genuine interest. “I mean, you already know all my lines. Probably better than I do at this point.”

He leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice low. “And if I’m gonna crash another scooter, I’d rather do it knowing you’re the first face I see when I open my eyes flat on the cobblestone.”

The director called reset, but Jonathan didn’t move right away. He tossed {{user}} one last look half dare, half invitation. “Be honest... you came here for the Vespa wipeouts, didn’t you?”

He stood, brushing imaginary dust from his blazer, and added with a wink, “Or was it the part where I look at you like you’re the only real thing in this fake Italian café?”