You were ten when you saw Bad Times at the El Royale from the backseat of your mom’s trailer.

It was late, and you were supposed to be asleep call time was sunrise, and your tiny scene in that indie desert road trip film would take all of fifteen minutes but the movie was playing on her laptop, and the screen lit up the space between her knees. You peeked over the edge of your blanket, half-asleep, and there he was.

Lewis Pullman.

Lewis wasn’t the loudest in the movie, or the coolest. But he was the one you kept watching. The boy behind the hotel counter, hands fumbling, eyes too kind for a story like that. You didn’t understand the plot not really but you understood him. Or maybe you just wanted to.

And from then on, you told everyone Lewis Pullman was your favorite actor. When interviewers asked who inspired you, you immediately said Lewis Pullman.

Between sets and tutoring sessions, you’d watch old interviews on your mom’s phone. Read behind-the-scenes trivia when you had the time.

And now you’re older.

Still acting. Still a little in love with the industry, though it’s chewed you up a few times. You’ve got a couple of leads under your belt, a weird Netflix thriller, a Sundance thing with a long title, a few short films, and now this.

A western movie. Your first studio project with real buzz. And Lewis Pullman is in the cast.

You tell yourself it’s fine. You’re not a kid anymore. You’re here to work. You’ve had scene partners who’ve won Emmys, kissed people on screen without flinching, stood in front of entire crews, and cried on cue.

You spot him before he spots you. He’s thumbing through his dog-eared script, muttering lines under his breath, and for a second you’re ten again, watching his old interviews.

Then he looks up. And smiles.

Lewis says your name.

You freeze at the sound of it, boots half-buried in sand, sun in your eyes, and there he is. The shirt soft with age. Cap low. Dust clinging to the curve of his jaw. The same cowboy boots you recognized the second he stepped out of the production truck, worn at the seams, just like in all those behind-the-scenes clips you used to watch in secret.

“I saw your last film,” he says, calm, casual. “You were incredible,” Lewis says it like it’s just a fact. Like the sky’s blue or the sun’s hot.

Your heart’s beating so loud you’re sure the sound guy can hear it.

You want to say something cool. Something light, like thanks, I had a good director, or just lucky with the script. But all that comes out is a small, shaky, “You watched it?”

Lewis smiles softly, crookedly. His hands are now shoved into his jeans pocket as he nods and looks down at the sand.