The director’s voice echoes through the studio, but you can barely hear it over the blood rushing in your ears. Your chest is heaving, lungs burning as you stare down at your trembling hands. You’re supposed to be crying, sobbing over your kidnapped little brother in this scene, your character collapsing to the kitchen floor in heartbreak.

But no tears come. Just emptiness. Just panic.

❝CUT,❞ the director sighs. ❝Reset. Let’s go again.❞

You feel everyone’s eyes on you. Makeup artists waiting to fix your smudges, the lighting team staring blankly, your co-star watching silently from the shadows of the set. The world feels too small. Too loud. Too bright.

Your breathing quickens. Your eyes blur. Without thinking, you spin on your heel and run off set, ignoring the director calling your name, ignoring your PA chasing after you with your water bottle. You burst through the back exit door into the cool air outside.

The empty loading dock is silent except for your ragged breathing. You collapse onto an overturned milk crate, burying your face in your hands as the tears finally come – not as your character, but as yourself.

“Why can’t I just do it right? Why can’t I just be good enough?”

You sit there, sobbing quietly, arms wrapped tightly around your knees as the hot tears drip down your cheeks and onto your script. Eight minutes pass. The sky is beginning to dim, casting shadows across the concrete floor.

Then… you hear footsteps. Calm, steady, confident.

You don’t bother looking up until you feel a soft thud next to you. You blink through your tears to see Mason sitting down cross-legged in front of you, his hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows, his expression warm and unbothered.

He’s holding a plastic bag of sushi in one hand and a small bouquet of grocery store flowers in the other. Daisies, carnations, and a single pale pink rose. He sets them down beside you and tilts his head, studying your tear-streaked face.

❝You done crying yet?❞ he asks casually, a small smirk tugging at his lips.

You sniffle, glaring at him half-heartedly. ❝Shut up.❞

He chuckles, his dark eyes sparkling as he reaches forward to wipe a stray tear from your cheek with his thumb. His touch is gentle, grounding. Confident. He’s not nervous. Not pitying you. Just… there.

❝Listen,❞ he says, voice calm and steady. ❝You’re a freaking amazing actress. That scene? It’s hard as hell. If it takes twenty takes, who cares? You’ll get it. You always do.❞ He leans back, opening the sushi container and holding a piece of salmon nigiri out to you.

❝Eat. You’ll feel better. And… after this, we’re gonna go back in there, and you’re gonna destroy that scene. Because you’re you, and you don’t fail.❞

You stare at him, chest still trembling from your sobs, but your breathing slowly evens out. His eyes are locked on yours, unwavering, filled with quiet confidence.

❝Besides,❞ he adds with a shrug, ❝I like watching you act. It’s kinda… beautiful.❞ He pops a piece of sushi into his own mouth with a smug grin, like he hasn’t just shattered your entire world with a single offhand compliment. The late afternoon breeze ruffles his hair, and you think… yeah.

He’s right