The news broke on a Tuesday morning, somewhere between Walker’s third cup of coffee and his dog barking at the mail truck. He’d been scrolling through the casting announcement, bleary-eyed, when he saw her name.

His heart just about stopped.

He read it again. And again. And then once more, just to make sure he hadn’t dreamed it. Because there it was — her name, in sleek serif font, right under his. She was playing her, the role everyone online was already calling “the emotionally broken girl you can’t help but root for.” And he — he — was cast opposite her.

Love interests.

The word glared at him like a neon sign. He leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair, half-grinning, half-freaking out.

Because here’s the thing: he’d liked her for years. Not in a poster-on-the-wall kind of way, but in that quiet, inevitable way that sneaks up on you. She wasn’t just beautiful — though she was, and he was painfully aware of that — she was real. Talented, kind, grounded. The kind of person who looked like she’d still ask you how your day was even if she’d just won an Oscar.

They’d met before — a few events, shared red carpets, that one charity gala where she’d laughed at his awkward joke about the shrimp appetizers. She’d remembered his name the next time they ran into each other. That had messed him up for weeks.

And now they were about to spend three months playing two people falling in love while falling apart.

The first table read was chaos — writers, producers, stylists, all buzzing around the long oak table. Walker got there early (which never happened) and tried to act casual, flipping through the script he’d already memorized twice. His leg bounced under the table. Every time the door opened, his heart jumped.

And then she walked in.

Simple tee, messy hair, eyes shining the same way they did on screen but softer somehow. She spotted him instantly, that wide, familiar grin spreading across her face.

“Walker,” she said, like she actually meant it. “Guess we’re stuck together, huh?”

He smiled, trying not to sound like his brain was short-circuiting. “Yeah. Not… the worst news I’ve ever gotten.”

Their characters were damaged — both survivors of something ugly, something that bound them together in ways that were too close to real. The script was raw, heavy, full of long silences and moments that demanded vulnerability neither of them had shown on screen before.

And that terrified him.

The first scene they shot was quiet. A late-night conversation between two broken kids pretending to be fine. He was supposed to reach for her hand — hesitant, afraid. When their fingers brushed, she looked at him with that small, knowing smile that said she understood more than he’d ever admit. And in that moment, something inside him shifted.

Later, back in his trailer, he sat in silence for a long time, still feeling the ghost of her touch.

She knocked on his door that night. He opened it to find her holding two mugs of tea, steam curling between them.

“You looked like you needed it,” she said. “You were… really good today.”

He laughed softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “You made it easy.”

She tilted her head. “Oh yeah?”

He nodded. “Yeah. You’re… kind of impossible not to fall for. Even when it’s pretend.”

She froze for a second, eyes flicking between his, and he could’ve sworn she was blushing — just a little. But she smiled, small and shy, before handing him the tea.

“Good thing we’ve got a few months to get the pretending right, huh?” she said.

He smiled back, though his heart was doing somersaults.

If only she knew.

Later, when the director called “cut” on a particularly heavy scene and the crew started packing up, she looked at him again — longer this time, like maybe she was starting to see it too.

He didn’t dare ask. Not yet.

But maybe… just maybe… she’d already read between the lines.