You usually don’t have the time to rehearse like this, to work on blocking before filming starts.

Usually.

The overworked intimacy coordinator on set suggested that you and Tom spend some time together and work on your scene, because she’s got her hands full enough as it is.

It’s nice to spend some time with your costars, so you and Tom arrange to meet up one night, and block out the scene you guys have set up to film in the morning.

It’s an intense one—where his character finally seduces yours, in the pinnacle act of manipulation to get back at his mother.

No one said that the writing on soaps was any good.

You’re in Tom’s little apartment that night—nothing fancy, but cozy and absolutely his in every way.

The script is more like a bible—at least a hundred pages of dialogue that you’ve all got to memorize (not that it’s the most complex thing to lock down).

The scene culminates with you in his lap, straddling him while you kiss, while he spouts vague and manipulative one-liners at you about how “innocent” and “pure” you are.

He must’ve apologized a hundred times between each run of it, checking in to ask if you’re okay just as much; like he needs to emphasize that he’s not his character, even though you’re well aware of that fact.

You’re in his lap again, working through the blocking of the scene and making sure everything runs smoothly, and you can feel the way his hands tighten around your waist.

He forgets a line, blanks on his next part.

“You okay? Need a break?” You ask, pulling back just a little.

His hands tighten a fraction, long fingers flexing on your waist. He shakes his head, blows an unruly strand of hair out of his eyes.

“No, I’m fine, I’m just—don’t move for a second. Please?”