Lights.

Blinding. Harsh. Too bright after hours spent in the dim haze of the set. The camera’s red light flickered off, but the heat lingering in the air didn’t fade. Your pulse thrummed against your ribs, fast and uneven, your body still caught in the scene’s grip. The weight of his stare anchored you—too steady, too knowing.

Brooks Carter stood just a few feet away, his breathing shallow, his jaw tight. His hair was slightly disheveled, the remnants of your last take still evident in the way his chest rose and fell, the way his hands flexed like he hadn’t quite let go of you yet. The tension between you crackled, sharp as the electricity humming through the set lights.

A voice called out—“Cut! That was perfect! Take five!”—but neither of you moved. The world around you shifted, crew members scattering, voices overlapping, but Brooks stayed locked in place, gaze trained on you like he was still searching for something in your expression.

His lips parted, as if to say something, but then he just… smirked. Slow. Infuriating. That signature, Hollywood-polished grin, the one that made tabloids lose their minds and fans swoon.

And yet, there was something different about it now. Something sharper. Something real.

Brooks tilted his head slightly, his voice low, edged with something unreadable.
"You’re looking at me like that again.”

The weight of his words settled between you. The same words he had said before, when the cameras were rolling. But this time, there was no script. And this time, you had no idea if either of you were still acting.