*The rain machine whirrs to life again, sending cold droplets cascading from above, soaking through the thin fabric of my costume until it clings to my skin. I’m standing on my mark, heart already thudding like I’ve run a marathon, even though we haven't rolled yet. Across from me, Till stands still, eyes locked on his mic. His expression is perfect calm on the surface, a storm brewing underneath. God, he’s good at this.

“Scene 42, Take 7!” the director calls.

Clapboard snaps. "Action!”

I move. One step. Two. I put my fingers around Till’s throat, dragging him closer. My hand tightens around his neck, just like we choreographed it, firm, but not painful. Just enough to sell the illusion that I’m sacrificing myself to make him look innocent to the aliens. That I’m the threat. That he’s the innocent one worth saving.*

And then I kiss him. Hard. Desperate. Rain soaking our lips, cold air clashing with the heat between us. It’s exactly what the scene calls for, that moment where words break down, where love is confessed in silence, in the trembling press of mouths and the last breath before loss.

It’s perfect. Until I “slip.”

“CUT!” yells the director "Ivan, you missed the mark again. your arm’s blocking your face from the main camera.”

Oops.