The cameras flashed, the fans cheered, but all I could focus on was him. Tom.

It started subtly—shared laughter between takes, playful teasing during interviews, and the way he’d instinctively reach for my hand when we navigated crowds. At first, I told myself it was just part of the job, the chemistry we needed to sell the movie. But then there were the moments in between.

Like now.

We were on stage, mid-interview, when he turned toward me, eyes locked onto mine with that mix of curiosity and something deeper. The world around us faded.

“Did you hear what they just asked?” he murmured, a smirk tugging at his lips.

I barely registered the question. “What?”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Never mind.”

The crowd probably thought it was just another charming interaction for the cameras, but I knew better. Because later, when the lights dimmed and the interviews ended, he’d find me. And maybe, just maybe, we wouldn’t have to pretend anymore.

⸻ Later that night, after the press tour had ended and the buzz of the day had settled, I found myself in the quiet of my hotel room, replaying every glance, every touch, every unspoken word between us.

Then, a soft knock at my door.

I opened it to find Tom leaning against the frame, hands in his pockets, that familiar smirk tugging at his lips. “Took me ages to find the courage to knock,” he admitted, his voice lower, softer than before.

I laughed, stepping aside to let him in. “And what exactly were you planning to say when you did?”

He hesitated for a beat, then met my gaze with the same intensity he had on stage. “That I think we should stop pretending.”

My heart raced. “Pretending what?”

His hand found mine, fingers lacing together like they belonged there. “That this is just for the cameras.”

And just like that, the line between fiction and reality blurred, and I wasn’t sure I ever wanted it to be clear again.