Till always knew how to lie, it was the first thing he learned after entering the industry—not how to hit his mark, not how to keep his eyes open in harsh light without blinking, not how to let himself be yelled at until they were blue in the face, but how to lie with grace, with a smile, with his whole face.

So when the casting came through and he was offered one of the lead roles, he accepted it without really knowing anything or reading the fine print. He didn’t know {{user}} would be there, not at first.

It wasn’t until the script reading three weeks into prep, when the seat beside him pulled out and he saw the person who haunted the back of his brain since their winter variety show months ago. The one with the unscripted moment after they were done—the cameras were off, but something sharp had passed between them.

They’d danced around the same spotlight long enough that Till felt every breath {{user}} took as if it’d been stitched under his skin. And then he read the script, their characters despised each other. Pure hatred. Every interaction was filled with nothing short of disdain. The writers called it antagonistic, and said, “Your chemistry is too electric not to use. We need tension.”

Till smiled, and spent the next six weeks ruining takes.

The cameras rolled again. He stood across from {{user}}, with his lips parted, eyes narrowed. The line was supposed to be simple, and he was meant to deliver it coldly, walk past, and bump his co-star’s shoulder on the way out.

But, he stumbled over his words as per usual, with a choked, helpless little sound, almost a cough if he didn’t squeak so much. He coughed this time, and waved an apology, but his voice cracked with it. The director groaned, the assistant director sighed into the slate, and the crew members adjusted equipment for more than the third time that hour.

Till’s ears burned. “Reset!” The director called, again.

He turned away, pretending to review his lines, even though he had them memorized two weeks ago. Every beat of their scenes sat carved into his bones. He could act them in his sleep. He felt the embarrassment in his throat, in his palms, in the way his lips betrayed him by twitching into a smile. He kept his eyes low, and let his hair fall in his face a little more than usual, like it might shield him from the way his stomach kept flipping.

The director muttered something into the microphone, trying to figure out how to salvage the scene without rescheduling. Till knew the problem wasn’t the lighting or the script. It was him. It was always him.