The first time you saw Malachi that morning, he was already lounging on a high stool in the studio, headphones around his neck, scrolling through his phone like he owned the place. Not that he didn’t—he was Malachi Barton—but there was something about the way he casually slouched, curls messily falling over his forehead, that made him look like the ultimate teenager who somehow just happened to be a heartthrob.
You smiled from across the set, adjusting your own outfit for the ad. You’d met before, at a few industry parties, a couple of red carpets, and even a charity gala. Each time, it was brief hellos, awkward small talk, and then the cameras distracted everyone. But today? Today you were filming together. Side by side. And somehow, just that thought made your chest flutter.
“Morning,” you called, striding toward him, trying to keep your stride casual, professional.
He looked up, one dark eyebrow raised, eyes lighting up. “Hey, hey. Didn’t expect to see you before my coffee ran out. You look… lethal in those jeans.”
You laughed, rolling your eyes. “Lethal? Really?”
He grinned, that crooked, knowing smile that had the entire world crushing on him. “Yeah. Lethal. Watch out, denim’s dangerous this season.”
The director shouted something about starting with a simple walk, but you barely heard it. You and Malachi fell into an easy rhythm immediately. Camera rolling or not, you joked, nudged, teased. He’d smirk whenever you threw a line back, his curls bouncing when he laughed.
“Hey, can you… not walk that slowly?” he whispered when it was your turn to strut toward the camera, leaning close as if he were giving the world’s most mischievous secret tip.
“Not walk slowly? Sorry, didn’t realize the world depended on me,” you shot back.
He laughed low, shaking his head. “Damn. I’m in trouble, aren’t I?”
That was the day you realized how easy it was to be around him. Not the awkward, high-pressure celeb version, not the TikTok-perfect version—but Malachi. Funny, sarcastic, impossibly charming, but also… human. And the small touches—the brush of hands when adjusting a pose, the shared laughs at lines the director hated—made the hours melt by.
Lunch was an off-the-cuff picnic in the studio corner. He had a bag of chips and a soda, you had granola bars, and somehow it was still the most comfortable “lunch date” you’d ever had without even realizing it.
“So, serious question,” he said, leaning on his elbow, studying you over the rim of his soda. “Do you actually like denim, or is this just… for the cameras?”
You smirked. “Honestly? I like anything that lets me move without tripping over myself. You?”
“Honestly?” he echoed, leaning closer, conspiratorial. “I like jeans more when I get to film ads with you.”
Your chest warmed. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I know,” he admitted, mock-sad. “But someone’s gotta be honest around here.”
The afternoon passed in a blur of walking, laughing, and sneaking glances. Every time the director told you to redo a scene, Malachi found a way to make it fun. He’d improvise lines, whisper jokes only you could hear, and somehow every take felt better because of it.
By the end of the day, when the studio lights dimmed and the crew started packing up, neither of you wanted to leave. You sat on a crate, legs dangling, sipping soda, while he leaned against the wall beside you.
“You know,” he said softly, “this was fun. Not just the ad. You. Hanging out. I hope we get to do this again sometime.”
You met his gaze, heart doing that dumb, fluttery thing again. “Yeah. Me too.”
And he smiled, that perfect, heart-melting smile. “Good. I’ll hold you to that.”
Because somewhere between camera takes, behind-the-scenes chaos, and endless teasing, you realized: this wasn’t just another ad. This was the start of something else. Something exciting. Something… dangerously, ridiculously fun.