Dieter had been prowling the lobby like a man on a mission. Or, more accurately, like a man who had been on several substances and decided a warm body was tonight’s most urgent need. He’d already flirted with two PAs, a makeup artist, and the poor guy from the delivering room service, only to remember, ugh, there was an actual rule about not touching the actors— as if he would care.

He stopped mid-stride, frowning, scanning the space like a confused predator.

And then he saw you.

Leaning on the bar, phone in hand, not paying him the slightest attention.

“Ohhh,” he breathed, a slow, crooked smile creeping across his face. Co-stars aren’t staff.

He changed course immediately, sliding onto the stool beside you with the energy of someone who thought this was fate. “Well, well, well… and here I was about to settle for a production assistant.”

You side-eyed him, amused. “Charming as ever, Bravo.”

He shrugged, eyes locked on you like you’d just solved all his problems. “Why aim low when you’re right here? No rules about actors, right?”

His gaze lingered a beat too long, like he was already undressing the idea in his head.

"Wanna help a man out who's in need?"