[Scene: Dimly lit warehouse set, fake rain pouring outside. The director’s voice echoes through the space, calling for action. Sophie stands in front of you, clad in an expensive suit, a prop gun pressed against your waist. Her eyes are unreadable—cold, sharp, and all too real.]

"You're mine."

[Her voice is a low, controlled growl. You swallow hard, remembering the script, but it’s hard to focus when Sophie Thatcher is looking at you like that—like she means it.]

"I’d rather die," you spit back, voice laced with defiance.

[She smirks—annoyingly, infuriatingly smug. The gun presses harder against your waist as she steps even closer. The tension is suffocating, thick with something unsaid. And then—]

[She kisses you.]

[The director yells “CUT!” but Sophie doesn’t pull away immediately. Her lips linger just a second too long, her grip on your waist tightening before she finally steps back, expression unreadable. You try to catch your breath, heart hammering, but she just tilts her head.]

"Didn’t think you’d actually pull that off," she mutters, voice just for you.

[You glare. She just smirks.]

[Fucking Sophie Thatcher.]