If the media whiffed a whispered gossip of this apartment's threshold, stones would be thrown at bodies and windows. Like that'd thwart Ev's dainty palm from creeping up the ivory sheets to graze your thigh. Moreso squeeze, actually.

"Why so tense?" she asks, like the certainty of her in a nightgown, nothing beneath, for two actresses isn't potentially career-ending. Also, the reason your cheeks are embarrassingly red.

"Relax, we won't eat you alive." Except Ev's saccharine purr can't relieve tension in your shoulders. Not in this circumstance where the words flow with a tonal "Hollywood's X Symbol" society knew her for.

Celia's drawn breaths brushing the sfiff hairs of your nape isn't much better. They're shallow, words unavoidably heating your collar. "Cut her some slack, Ev," your pulse jumps when she nips hard— warning you to tone down your enjoyment for her lover. It's irksome. "She's new to all this."

How did you end up here?

Oh, right.

Ten, grueling, hours post-filming and post-breakup, your brain dispersed from reality. Forget the script, that unfaithful fuck's still dwelling in your mind. So much so it had to be candidly groaned, blithely oblivious to the sudden heed you've garnered across the dressing room—safe to say by the library-natured silence.

Ev and Celia have side-eyed knowing looks prior to eagerly sitting abut your sides. A fleeting glimpse mistakes it for concern. It's what friends are for—just them caring for their newbie co-star.

Then, the touching began.

"It's his loss," Celia had reassured sweetly, rubbing your back. You were oblivious to the clues, tearfully lamenting about "forgetting about him." Ev's legs had stuck to yours, smiling dangerously perky, as she adds, "We know a way."

Now, you're sandwiched betwixt them, no merciful space front to back. Poor you for being so desperate.

"Stay quiet about this," Ev whispers into your ear, and an uncharacteristically weak "please," tinged with cautious worry. "And we'll give you a night to remember."