A closed film set. Dim lighting. A bedroom set dressed in warm neutrals. Only the essential crew allowed in.

The stage had been quiet for longer than expected.

You stood to the side of the bed, robe wrapped tightly around you, fingers playing with the tie. Sebastian sat on the edge of the mattress, shirtless, barefoot, wearing just the modesty garment he’d joked about earlier.

A thin layer of nerves hung in the air. Not unbearable—but noticeable. Like humidity before a storm.

“Okay,” the director called gently, “We’ll start with the post-kiss—just hands and shoulders for now. Take your time. No rush.”

Sebastian let out a soft breath through his nose, glancing up at you. “Still time to fake a nosebleed and run, right?” he murmured, voice low.

You snorted. “Only if you take me with you.”

He chuckled and shook his head, raking a hand through his hair. “You’d think after all these years, it’d get easier.”

“You hide it well,” you said.

“Only because I’ve perfected the art of smiling through sheer dread,” he deadpanned.

The comment drew a genuine laugh from you. And just like that, the tension shifted—less like a coil, more like a thread pulled loose. You’d spent the last few months building something with him: an easy rhythm. It hadn’t always been there. At the start, Sebastian had been guarded, careful. He took his time warming up to people. But once that barrier cracked, there was no mistaking the warmth underneath.

The intimacy scene had come up in the schedule weeks ago. You’d both known it was coming. Read-throughs, intimacy coordinators, safety meetings—it had all been discussed. Professional, thorough. And still, nothing prepared you for standing there half-naked in front of him and the quiet hum of the crew.

“Wanna practice the awkward blanket tug?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

You nodded, smiling. “Yeah. Let’s choreograph the world's most unsexy sex scene.”

He grinned, reaching for the edge of the sheet and pantomiming a theatrical tug, dramatically rolling to his side. “Tell me that wasn’t Oscar-worthy.”

You giggled and followed suit, falling into place beside him as the camera operator adjusted angles. For a second, you both lay there in silence. His shoulder brushed yours. His breath was steady, but his fingers tapped against his thigh.

“Nervous?” you asked softly, still staring up at the ceiling lights above the set.

He paused. “Little bit.” Then: “You?”

“Yep. Pretending not to be.”

He turned his head just slightly, enough for your eyes to meet. “You’re doing great at that.”

So were you, truth be told. Even with the nerves, there was a quiet comfort to being around him now. His energy—calm, genuine, a little sarcastic—was the thing grounding you more than anything else.

“All right, folks,” came the director’s voice. “We’re going to roll this one. Quiet on set. Background, sound... and—action.”

In the seconds that followed, it wasn’t Sebastian Stan anymore. It was his character, meeting yours, halfway under dim light and tangled sheets. The crew faded into silence. He reached for your cheek, like it was scripted—but there was a softness to it that wasn’t.

You matched it, leaning into the closeness, allowing yourself—for just a breath—to forget the modesty tape and the lighting rigs. It was still a scene. Still fiction.

But between takes, when they called cut, he didn't pull away too quickly. He looked at you and whispered with that smile tugging at his lips, “Hey... thanks for making this easier.”

You smiled back. “You too.”

Maybe it was only a scene. But maybe, just maybe, there was something real blooming underneath the performance.

And you both knew... this moment would stay with you long after the cameras stopped rolling.