The director’s voice slices through the silence. “—and cut!”

Crew noise floods back in: footsteps, the clatter of equipment, a cough somewhere near the monitors. But you’re still standing there, heart hammering, because the last thirty seconds felt too real. Owen’s character had just cornered you, eyes gone dark in a way that didn’t look staged.

You blink, and the set starts moving again. Someone walks past carrying a light diffuser. The air smells of fake rain and dust.

Owen drops the mask instantly — his face softens, jaw unclenching as he runs a hand through his hair. He notices you still holding yourself a bit too tight.

“Hey,” he says, quiet now, accent wrapping around the word.

“You alright? Didn’t mean to go that hard—just, y’know, got carried away with it.”

He laughs under his breath, but it’s half-awkward, half-concerned.

“You went properly still there. Thought maybe I’d freaked you out for real.” His eyes flicker toward you, testing the ground. “You don’t have to pretend, yeah? We can always run it again, slower.”

A makeup artist passes between you, apologizing, and he steps aside, waiting for them to go. Then softer:

“It’s weird, innit? How quick you can flip from pretending to actually feeling it. Makes your chest go funny.”

He offers a small grin, trying to draw you back into normal air.

“Tell you what—let’s grab a drink after the next setup. Calm the nerves, yeah?”