Lexi Howard had always lived a little more inside her head than the world around her.

Growing up, it was easier that way. Watching instead of speaking, writing instead of reacting. While everything else felt loud and unpredictable, stories made sense. People made sense when you could shape them, understand them, give their silence meaning.

That was what brought her here.

Not luck. Not accident.

She wanted this.

Even now, as a writer’s assistant, running errands and carrying coffee, Lexi didn’t resent it. If anything, she loved it in a quiet, almost private way. Being in the room, hearing scripts being rewritten in real time, watching ideas fall apart and come back stronger. It was messy and frustrating and exhausting, but it was alive.

It was everything she had imagined, just… from the edges.

And sometimes, that was enough.

Most days.

Right now, though, she was seconds away from dropping four Starbucks coffees and two paper bags all over the studio floor.

She adjusted her grip, trying to keep everything steady, her focus narrowing completely on not messing this up.

The tray tilted.

A lid slipped.

“Shit—”

“Need a hand?”

Lexi froze.

She knew the voice.

Not just vaguely, not just from passing recognition. She knew it from late nights, from scenes she had replayed longer than necessary, from the way it carried emotion even in silence.

Slowly, she looked up.

You stood there like this was normal. Like you weren’t someone she had studied without ever admitting it out loud.

“I’m okay,” she said quickly, even though she very clearly wasn’t.

“You don’t look okay.”

Before she could argue, you stepped forward and took two of the coffees from her hand, steadying the entire situation with ease.

Lexi blinked. “You didn’t have to do that.”