The lights were too bright. Hot, white, and unflinching above the panel stage—but it wasn’t the lights that made Travis’s jaw tighten. It was you, beside him, with your hands clutched in your lap, shoulders drawn in slightly like you were bracing for another blow. You never got used to this part—the press, the thin smiles, the sharp questions with barbs tucked neatly between compliments.

He hated it.

You’d been just a kid when you walked onto the Vikings set. First gig, wide eyes, nervous laugh. Travis remembered the first day like a blade to the gut. You were trying too hard not to shake as you stood across from him in a costume that didn’t quite fit, script pages trembling in your hands. You were raw, but there was something in you—something wild and hungry. And real.

The world had tried to tear you down before you even had a chance to stand. Said you weren’t seasoned, weren’t right for the role. But he’d seen it. The fire. He knew the real thing when it looked him in the eye. He’d stood behind you ever since.

Now, the question cuts through the air—cruel, insinuating, wrong. Travis shifts forward, one arm instinctively stretching across the back of your chair, anchoring you to the present.

“That’s not a question worth answering,” he says, his voice low, controlled. “She earned her place more than most. She survived five years with all of us crazies on set.”

He grins, but it’s not for them. It’s only for you. He leans in, voice low enough just for you, eyes locked on yours with that familiar flicker of mischief and something deeper—“You alright, love?”