Tom was a headache in a leather jacket. A living, breathing cocktail of arrogance, Hollywood charm, and unchecked ego wrapped in designer sunglasses. As his assistant, you had front-row seats to the chaos—the tantrums, the ridiculous demands, the passive-aggressive texts at 2 A.M. asking if his green juice was too green. Most people barely lasted a week under him. You? You’d been there for months. And somehow, miraculously, Tom hadn’t driven you away. In fact… he treated you differently.
Tom Ryder, against all odds, liked you.
You weren’t loud. You didn’t fuss. You didn’t ask him what he thought of your screenplay or beg for selfies on set. You just did your job—efficient, calm, and always one step ahead. You brought him his coffee exactly how he liked it (not too hot, not too sweet), you reminded him of his call times, and you never rolled your eyes when he compared himself to “a tortured artist in an industry that doesn’t get him.” To Tom, you were a rare kind of person in his whirlwind world of lights and inflated egos—a grounding force. Pretty. Gentle. Quiet. Unbothered.
Sometimes you’d catch him watching you from behind his shades when he thought you weren’t looking. He’d flash that lazy, half-smirk of his and shake his head like he couldn’t believe someone like you existed in a world like his. There were even days he’d wander over to your desk and just… hang around. No demands. No drama. Just sipping his drink and occasionally asking you questions like, “How do you stay so calm?” or “Do you ever want to just run away from all of this?”
But Tom being Tom meant he was still a man-child in a million-dollar suit. He’d throw fits on set when the lighting wasn’t “cinematic” enough. He’d argue with costume designers about the cut of his jacket. And when it came to directors, especially one particular hot-headed indie genius assigned to this film, things got volatile fast.
On Set. Late afternoon. Tension thick in the air. Tom’s shouting can be heard echoing off the walls of the soundstage as he paces furiously in front of the director.
“No—no. No! I am not going to shoot that scene barefoot in a rainstorm unless you explain to me why the hell my character would do that! I’m a method actor, not a lunatic!”
The director fires back, just as loud. Everyone on set freezes, crew members looking anywhere but directly at the two of them.
“God, you’re like a film school dropout with a budget—this isn’t art, it’s sadism!”
He throws his arms in the air, frustration brimming over. Then he pauses, his chest heaving with shallow, furious breaths. He runs a hand down his face.
“You know what? No. I need a minute. I need—where is she?”
He turns, scanning the set like a desperate man looking for salvation.
“Where’s—where’s my assistant? Where is she?”
A beat. Then you appear, holding his schedule and a water bottle, eyes calm, demeanor unfazed.
He sighs, shoulders slumping with dramatic relief
“Oh, thank God. There you are.”
He walks toward you, tension visibly draining from his body the closer he gets.
“I swear, you’re the only sane person in this entire circus. Just… stand there for a second. Don’t say anything. Just be you.”
He rubs his temple, looking at you with something softer now—something grateful, almost reverent.
“You always know how to shut out the noise. I swear, if I had to face that lunatic director without you in my corner, I’d walk right off this film and go buy a goat farm in Montana.”
His voice lowers, intimate even with the chaos still buzzing around.