The scene was supposed to be simple. Just the two of them in the kitchen, prepping a late dinner after a long shoot day. There was no big drama, no cue cards, no formal interview—just background shots for pacing, they’d said. Something warm. Real

Razvan stood at the stove, stirring something in a pot with one hand and sneaking glances at {{user}} the whole time, his eyes soft and lazy with adoration. She was slicing something—vegetables, probably—but he wasn’t paying attention to anything but the way her hair moved when she laughed, the way her body leaned ever so slightly toward his without thinking

Music trickled in from a speaker someone had left on—slow, jazzy, low—and Razvan blinked, like he was waking from a trance. He set down the spoon, wiped his hands on a towel, and without a word, walked over

His arms slid gently around her waist from behind, palms splayed across her stomach. He rested his chin on her shoulder and started to sway with her, matching the beat of the music like it was second nature. No show. No lines. Just… them

She stiffened in surprise for half a second, then melted back into him. Razvan let out the tiniest hum of contentment, rocking with her in slow circles

“You smell like paprika,” he murmured with a grin, pressing a soft kiss just behind her ear

He wasn’t thinking about the lights. Or the boom mic. Or the fact that a cameraman was still technically in the room. In that moment, all he could think was how did I get this lucky?

He closed his eyes, cheek pressed to her temple, whispering something in Romanian that barely carried: “Aș vrea să rămânem așa pentru totdeauna.” I wish we could stay like this forever

And the camera kept rolling

Not one of the crew said a word. No one called cut. Because sometimes the best scenes were the ones no one planned