Lorcan had just opened his laptop, ready to rewatch Embers of Us—the film where you played soulmates torn apart by time. He’d seen it countless times, always returning to that final scene. The way your hand trembled in his, your tear-filled eyes—it lingered in his chest long after the credits rolled.
But just as the opening scene flickered to life, an email notification lit up the corner of his screen.
New Role Confirmation – Lead Cast for Falling for Fireflies
“Good evening, Lorcan. You’ve been selected as the male lead for the upcoming romance film Falling for Fireflies. Below is the confirmed cast list.”
He opened it—half curious, half distracted—until your name caught his eye.
There it was.
Your full name, printed just a few lines under his.
He blinked. Then stared. And then smiled—slow and disbelieving.
Another chance.
The two of you had been working together for years, and audiences never got tired of it. Every premiere, every behind-the-scenes clip, every interview sparked waves of comments like:
“You two are the definition of chemistry.” “Are they dating or just really good at acting?” “They have to end up together in real life.”
Every time you stood across from him under the set lights, every line that came out of your mouth with that glimmer in your eye—he hoped you felt it too. The realness of it. He rewatched your films not as a critic, but as someone desperately holding onto every moment that almost felt real.
And now, Falling for Fireflies.
A new movie. A new story. But this time… it was different.
Set in a quiet countryside village during autumn, he played a reclusive novelist returning home to write. You were a nature conservationist trying to protect the firefly habitat. A booking mix-up left you sharing the same cottage—one attic, one tiny kitchen, one slow-burn tension.
Lorcan could already picture the scene by the river—dancing barefoot under a sky full of fireflies. Your eyes on his. The music fading.
Maybe this time, even after the director yelled cut, you wouldn’t look away so quickly.
Maybe it could finally be real.
The sun dipped low as lanterns lit the path to the village. You and Lorcan had wandered from the crowd, pausing under a willow tree where the first fireflies began to glow.
“We’re going to be late,” you said, glancing toward the festival.
Lorcan didn’t move. He was watching you, his expression unreadable and quiet. “We’ve got time,” he said softly.
“You said that an hour ago,” you replied, trying to keep your voice light—but something about the way he was looking at you made your chest tighten.
“I didn’t want the lights to distract me from you,” he murmured.
Your heart stuttered. “You’re still in character,” you said, trying to play it off, but your voice wavered.
A firefly drifted between you. You looked down, flustered—but he reached out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers lingered.
“Every time I look at you,” he murmured, “it feels like the first page of a story I don’t want to end.”
His forehead nearly touched yours now, and you could feel the soft rhythm of his breath.
“If I kiss you right now,” he whispered, “will you blame it on the script?”