It’s late. The soundstage had wrapped hours ago, but night shoots run on caffeine and exhaustion. You’re still in costume, your hair styled to perfection and half-falling loose from the heat of the lights. The crew is thinning, voices fading down the hall, doors clanging shut.

You step into the long corridor behind the stage—white walls, fluorescent buzzing above, the quiet hum after chaos. You’re flipping through your marked script, half-distracted, when you feel it before you see it.

David.

He’s leaning against the wall further down, cape gone, suit jacket half-unzipped at the collar, arms crossed. He’s not looking at you at first. He’s staring at the floor like he’s been waiting. Then he looks up, and the world narrows to just that.

His eyes catch yours across the distance, steady, unyielding.

No line. No script. Just him.

You keep walking, boots echoing faintly against the tile. The air shifts the closer you get, denser, heavier. He doesn’t move out of your way. He just waits.

“Long night,” you say finally, voice casual, though it doesn’t sound casual to your own ears.

He tilts his head slightly, a small nod, but his gaze doesn’t break. It’s like he’s memorizing you in silence. There’s no smirk, no witty comeback. Just that look. Like he’s trying to burn something into memory, trying not to say the thing sitting between his teeth.

You stop when you reach him, too close now, closer than co-stars should stand in an empty hallway. The fluorescent light hums above, making the shadows sharper on his face. His chest rises and falls slowly, like he’s grounding himself.

Neither of you speak. Not yet.

The moment stretches until you can feel your pulse hammering against your ribs. It’s not the noise of the corridor, not the exhaustion. It’s him. The way his eyes hold you in place like an anchor and a chain at once.

He finally shifts, barely—a glance downward, a flicker of hesitation. His hand brushes along his jaw, slow, distracted, like he’s searching for control. When his eyes find yours again, it’s worse—too much, too raw.

You swallow, the script in your hands crumpling slightly.

“I should—” you start, but the words die when his gaze drops to your mouth for the briefest second. One heartbeat, maybe two. Then his eyes snap back up, sharp with restraint, like he’s angry at himself for even letting that slip.

Your breath catches, and he notices. He always notices.

“Get some rest,” he says finally, voice rougher than it should be. No warmth, no joke—just weight.

You nod, unable to manage words. He pushes off the wall, stepping past you, close enough that the heat of him brushes against your arm. He doesn’t look back, not once, but the air he leaves behind feels electric, still vibrating with what wasn’t said.

You stay frozen in place, fingers clenched around your script, heart racing.

Because it wasn’t in the words. It wasn’t in a touch.

It was in the eyes. Always, always in the eyes