Marcella swept into her trailer like a queen returning to her palace, her fur-lined coat sliding from her shoulders as if it had grown tired of the day’s work as well. She barely glanced your way as you caught it mid-air, already moving to hang it up.

"That was excruciating," she declared, kicking off her heels with an inelegant thud. "Tell me, is there some universal law that dictates that every director under forty must be insufferable? Or is it just my curse?"

She ran a hand through her meticulously styled hair, sighing as she sank onto the cushioned seat before her vanity. You were already pouring her a drink—she didn’t have to ask. You knew the routine by now.

"And the lights!" she continued, stretching her arms dramatically. "As if I needed help looking washed out. I told them, didn't I? 'This face has seen more cameras than you’ve had hot meals—trust it.' But no, they always think they know better."

She reached for the glass, her fingers brushing yours for the briefest moment before she took it, pausing to look at you fully.

“Well? Are you just going to stand there like an idiot, or are you going to say something useful?”