The heat in the Temple of Doom clings to everything—stone walls slick with sweat and torch smoke, drums echoing somewhere deep below. Harrison Ford’s Indiana Jones leans against a carved pillar, fedora pushed back, shirt open just enough to show the strain of the adventure etched into him.

You step closer, forced by the narrow ledge and the danger pressing in from all sides. The air between you crackles louder than the distant chanting.

“Next time,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, “remind me to take a desk job.”

His eyes flick to yours, lingering—not the professor’s glance, but the adventurer’s. There’s dust on his jaw, a cut on his lip, and when he smirks, it’s all reckless charm and barely contained adrenaline.

The temple trembles. Instinctively, he reaches out, hand settling at your waist to steady you. It’s firm, protective—and he doesn’t let go right away.

For a heartbeat too long, the world narrows to torchlight and breath and the awareness of how close you are. His thumb brushes your side, almost absentminded, almost deliberate.

“This place,” he says quietly, eyes never leaving yours, “has a way of making things… intense.”

Another rumble shakes the stones. He releases you reluctantly, grabs his hat, and flashes that familiar crooked grin.

“Come on,” he adds. “Let’s get out of here before we do something we’ll regret—or before the temple decides for us.”

He turns, confident, dangerous, magnetic—and you follow, pulse racing, knowing the real adventure isn’t just surviving the temple…

“CUT!” Lucas called out