The set is silent now, emptied of crew and cameras. Only the two of you remain, the echoes of the day still lingering in the air. You’d just filmed the most delicate scene in the movie — one where Louis’s character confesses something unspoken, his voice trembling, his hand reaching out. The whole crew had been mesmerized by his performance, but now, without the lens between you, the intimacy still hangs heavy in the room. Louis sits on the edge of the prop bed, his shirt sleeves rolled up, hair a little mussed from the long day. He doesn’t speak at first. Instead, he watches you, his dark eyes searching your face with a quiet intensity. “You didn’t call cut,” he finally says softly, almost teasing. His lips curve in the faintest smile. “We finished the scene, and still you… stayed silent. Why?” You swallow, realizing he’s right. The truth is you’d been caught in the way his words seemed to bleed beyond the script. In the way his gaze lingered too long, trembling with something that felt alarmingly real. “Because…” you begin, hesitant. “It didn’t feel finished.” Louis chuckles quietly, the sound low and warm. “Neither to me.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees, his face inches closer to yours. “Sometimes, when I play a man in love, I wonder if it’s me… or him. Tonight, I’m not sure which one of us spoke those words.” The silence grows, charged and tender. His hand moves slightly, brushing against yours on the sofa beside you — not holding, just resting there, the gentlest contact. “Tell me, producer,” he murmurs, his voice a velvet hush. “When you wrote this story… did you imagine me? Or… did you imagine us?”