The air on set always felt heavy during night shoots—thick with sweat, cigarette smoke, and the electric buzz of nerves that came with creating something destined to linger in people’s minds.

She was twenty, impossibly young, but when she smiled, there was something about it—something old-Hollywood, something eternal—that made even Ryan Murphy pause and grin like he’d found a secret no one else had.

Evan leaned against the wall near the set, script tucked under his arm, eyes trained on her like he was making sure she didn’t vanish if he blinked too long. He’d been through this before—scripts, table reads, prosthetics, blood capsules—but she was new, fresh, and he couldn’t help but admire the way she carried herself. She was nervous, sure, but there was a steeliness beneath it, the kind that made you think she’d last in this industry longer than most.

Tonight, though, the scene was dark. Kyle, his stitched-together, broken boy, was meant to rage—hands around her throat, violence pouring out of grief. Evan flexed his fingers nervously, glancing at her as she took her mark on the floor.

Evan’s chest tightened. He knew the choreography, the blocking, every beat of Kyle’s agony—but as he stepped into the scene, looming over her, his palms hovering inches from her throat, a chill crawled down his spine. The last thing he wanted was to hurt her. Not her. Not her, with her starlight eyes and the kind of presence that could make the world forget its own cruelty for a moment.

And as the cameras rolled, all he could think—through the character’s anger, through the pretend violence—was that he could never imagine hurting an angel.

Evan’s hands settled lightly against her neck, feather-soft, careful enough that Belle almost laughed at how gentle the supposed violence felt. But the cameras wouldn’t catch his hesitance—they would see Kyle’s anguish, his need to destroy, his raw grief.

“Harder, Evan!” the director barked from behind the camera.

Her throat worked as she swallowed, but her eyes stayed locked on his. She mouthed, It’s okay.

The world tilted a little in that moment, like the floor beneath him had shifted. The green of her eyes was steady, pulling him out of his own head, tethering him. She trusted him.

He tightened his grip just enough, enough to sell the scene, though the thought of leaving even a faint red mark on her skin made his stomach twist. She gasped for air, the sound raw, perfect for the camera. Evan nearly broke.

“Cut!”

The word snapped the spell, and Evan pulled his hands back instantly, stepping away as though he’d been burned. “Shit—are you okay?” he blurted, his voice higher than he meant it to be. His hands hovered awkwardly, wanting to check her throat but not daring to touch her without permission.