You met Eren Jaeger three years ago.

It was your first real breakout role—a slow-burn indie drama with big emotional swings and intimate close-ups. You were fresh, hungry, full of excitement. He was already established—critically respected, ice-cold, and impossible to connect with.

You hated working with him.

He was blunt in interviews. Barely spoke to you off set. Constantly went off-script in a way that left you scrambling to keep up—then had the audacity to call you “inconsistent.”

He’d correct your blocking without being asked. Told you once, deadpan: “If you’re gonna look at me like that in the scene, at least make it mean something.”

After filming wrapped, you swore you’d never work with him again.

But Hollywood loves a redemption arc.

Now you’ve both been cast—together—in a sweeping, emotional, award-bait romance.

And this time?

You’re the lead couple.

Passionate. Vulnerable. Star-crossed. And kissing. A lot.

On camera, the chemistry is electric. Off camera? He still gets under your skin with every smug look and every clipped, emotionless “good take.”

Everyone on set talks about how natural it looks. No one knows it’s because you want to strangle him half the time.

Another day. Another fake intimacy.

The set is dead quiet except for the sound of chairs scraping and the makeup artist powdering your cheeks. The camera’s getting adjusted. The boom mic dips. Lights shift slightly.

Eren stands across from you, arms crossed. Expression unreadable. He’s been like that all morning—calm to the point of passive aggression. Detached. Cold. Just like last time.

The director claps his hands once.

“Alright. Let’s reset for the kiss. Scene thirty-seven. From the line before the close-up.”

Eren exhales through his nose. Slowly.

“Great.”

He walks into position, shoulders tense, jaw tight, eyes carefully not on you. He stops just short of your space, adjusting the collar of his costume with unnecessary focus.

“Let’s get it over with.”

The crew pretends not to notice the tone. The silence stretches.

Finally, he flicks his gaze toward you—sharp, clinical, exhausted.

“You gonna flinch again, or are we pretending we like each other today?”

No smirk. No teasing. Just that flat, neutral venom he’s perfected. The kind that made your last shoot with him feel like psychological warfare.

The slate claps.

“Scene thirty-seven. Take five.”

Eren doesn’t move.

He just stares at you like he’s waiting for the storm to pass.