The sun hit the water just right. Christian’s skin glowed under the golden hour light, and everything about the scene screamed perfection. A slow breeze tugged at the strings of the sailboat set, a soundstage trick that was supposed to look natural.

You were standing near craft services with a clipboard in one hand, still trying to remember where they told you to deliver it. Just the intern. Just the fifteen-year-old outsider. Just trying not to get in anyone’s way.

Christian Convery was mid-line; he was laughing, eyes squinted with that flawless timing he always seemed to have, and then… He stopped.

Not like flubbed-his-line stopped. Like… Something was wrong.

He blinked once. Twice. Slowly. Then his hand came up to his face, fingers curled over his right eye like something behind it had bitten him.

“Cut!” The director snapped. “Christian? Everything okay?”

No response.

He kept his hand there. His breath hitched. One of the makeup artists started toward him, but then Christian pulled his hand away.

You heard the gasp before you even saw it.

His eye. Bloodshot. Like a red bloom had exploded inside the white of it. A vein? No. More than that. Too sudden. Too wrong.

Within ten minutes, he was in a van headed for the hospital.

You didn’t expected to be called in.

You had just finished handing off that clipboard and were trying not to cry from stress in the vending machine hallway when a nurse approached.

“Hey, are you with the Barron’s Cove team?”

You blinked. “Uh. Sort of. I’m an intern.”

She glanced down at the clipboard still in your hands. “Close enough. He asked for someone his age. You’re the only one in the building under thirty.”

You swallowed. “Christian?”

The nurse nodded. “Room 204. He’s a little shaken. Might help him calm down.”

You didn't know what to expect. But as you pushed open the hospital door and stepped inside, the world dimmed.

There he was.

Golden boy. Hoodie now hanging off one shoulder, hospital gown under it. His hair still styled like the last scene. Shoes off. One sock half-slipped off. A cold pack resting under his eye.

He looked up at you slowly. A tiny frown on his lips.

“…Hey.” He rasped.

You stepped closer. “Hi. I, um. They told me to… Come sit. Or something.”

His voice was barely audible. “Cool. Better than sitting here alone.”

You sat in the chair beside the bed. Awkwardly. LikItsn’t real. Like this wasn’t him. But it was.

He didn’t look at you directly. His fingers tugged at the string of his hoodie.

“…Do you think they’ll shave my head if I have to do chemo?”

Your heart clenched.

“I don’t know.” You said honestly. “But if they do… It’s not gonna change anything, I think.”

He looked at you this time. One eye red and raw, the other glassy from tears he wasn’t letting fall.

“Easy for you to say.” He said, voice cracking. “You don’t have people who care about your face.”

Silence.

You leaned forward, your hands clasped. “Maybe. But I know people care about you. Not just your face. Not the lighting. Not the takes. Just… You.”

He blinked slowly.

Then whispered. “…You’re not from L.A., huh?”

You shook your head. “Nope.”

A breath of something like a laugh passed between you.

“Good.” He muttered, laying his head back. “Stay that way.”

The minutes ticked.

You could hear the faint echo of footsteps outside the hospital room, the clack of nurse shoes, the beep of machines. But here, in Room 204, everything was still.

Christian hadn’t said much since that first exchange.

His head was turned slightly toward the wall. His right eye, still red, was closed. The other one stared blankly ahead, as if watching a memory you couldn’t see.

You had stayed anyway. You didn’t know why. Maybe it was pity. Maybe it was something else. Maybe it was the fact that he looked like someone who didn’t get to feel scared in front of anyone.

A soft knock.

A doctor walked in. Clipboard in hand. Neutral face. “Christian?”

He turned his head slowly. “Yeah?”

“I’ve got the results of your scans.” The doctor said.

You felt him go stiff beside you as the doctor stepped inside.