Michael stood behind the monitor, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

The scene played again—your lips brushing against your co-star’s, the chemistry undeniable.

—“Cut,” he muttered.

Your co-star threw their arms up.

—“That was perfect!”

Michael rubbed his temples.

—“It’s not right.”

Franklin, munching chips, raised an eyebrow.

—“If it was any more ‘on,’ it’d melt the lens.”

The co-star stormed off.

—“One more take and I’m throwing the script at his face.”

In the editing room, Franklin leaned against the wall.

—“What’s your problem, man? Those takes are gold.”

Michael stayed quiet.

—“You’re jealous,” Franklin said.

Michael scoffed.

—“Of what?”

—“Of them. Kissing. You hired someone you watched in every film, interview, and award speech. Be honest—this isn’t about the scene.”

Michael hesitated.

—“…I watched everything they’ve done. Even the indie shorts no one saw.”

Franklin smirked.

—“So you admire them.”

Michael exhaled, eyes on the screen.

—“I don’t know if I hired them because of their talent… or because I just wanted them close.”

Franklin clapped his shoulder.

—“Figure it out soon. ‘Cause if your co-star has to fake one more kiss, that script’s going airborne.”

Michael knew: maybe the issue wasn’t the scene.

Maybe it was that he wasn’t in it.

Meanwhile, at the snack table, you chatted with your co-star, laughing with a cookie in hand—completely unaware that just a few feet away, Michael was watching you like you were the only thing in the frame.