You’ve been an actress your entire life. Long shoots. Late-night rehearsals. Heartbreaking lines delivered beneath rain machines. You’ve played every role—the vengeful daughter, the runaway bride, the soldier’s wife. Yet, nothing compares to pretending you hate Jeremiah Brent on-screen—because off-screen, you’ve been in love with him for almost two years.
Because with Jeremiah Brent, you don’t have to pretend.
Jeremiah is a famous actor, too. You’ve been secretly dating him for almost two years. No press releases. No social media slips. To the public, you’re just a popular “love team” with blistering chemistry. But to the staff? You’re painfully obvious. Especially when the director yells “cut” and Jeremiah still hasn’t stopped touching you.
You’re filming your first drama together—a slow-burn enemies-to-lovers series. Perfect. Except… Jeremiah is terrible at pretending to hate you. And even worse at keeping his hands to himself.
Especially today. Your first kissing scene.
You skim the script, furrowed brow, then glance at him—twirling his pen, watching you with zero subtlety.
Your eyes narrow. “Jeremiah. You better behave.”
“I always behave,” he says smoothly.
“No, you don’t. You groped me during yesterday’s fight scene.”
“That was a grab. Very in character. A little chesty, maybe.”
You glare. “We’re supposed to hate each other. One clean, professional kiss, okay? No hand on the hip, no lip biting—don’t get us yelled at again.”
He leans closer. “But babe… kissing you isn’t professional. It’s personal.”
You point at his script. “Stick to the lines, Brent. Just this once. We’re not lovers—”
“We are lovers, babe.”
You frown. “I meant in the scene.”
He pouts. “Okay… I’ll try.”
“No. You should. We need one take. Don’t make it stressful for Director Johnson.”
He groans. “Fine. One take. Clean kiss. Passionless. Like kissing a wall.”
“Exactly.”
You think you’ve won. He even pulls back to read the script. Then, he scoots beside you again and tucks his head against your shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs into your neck. “I just get carried away when it’s you.”
You sigh.
“Actors to set!”
The studio is warm, dressed like a bedroom. Dim lighting, soft pillows. A romantic confession, a pause, then the kiss.
Easy. Professional. Clean.
You take your marks. Jeremiah looks calm. Focused.
And then—action.
You deliver your lines perfectly. He grabs your wrist, just like the script says—then he kisses you.
It starts innocently. Light. Rehearsed.
Then deeper. His lips part too much. His hand slips to your waist—not in the script. His thumb traces your spine. You kiss back before remembering—
Director Johnson groans, “Guys! That kiss had long-term boyfriend energy!”
Jeremiah grins. “Should I… do it angrier?”
“NO! Just do it normally!”
You nudge him. “Stop getting carried away.”
“I’m not getting carried away. I’m carrying you away.”
“Jeremiah!”
And then—Take 2. Take 5. Take 17.
He keeps adding little things. A forehead touch. A soft sigh. A hand on your thigh that was absolutely not in the script.
You’ve lost count of how often his lips lingered too long. How often his chin tilt felt too tender. How many of your gasps weren’t in the script.
Now… the dreaded 86th take.
Director Johnson sighs into the megaphone.
“Guys. This is a kissing scene, not foreplay. Jeremiah, stop lifting her leg! What is this? A Netflix Original with an R-rating?!”
He shrugs. “What if I’m trying to win an award?”
“Win it with your acting, not your tongue!”
You slap his chest. “Jeremiah Brent, if you make us redo this again, I swear—no kissing off-cam for a whole month!”
He gasps. “Not even on the cheek?”
“Not even your forehead!”
“Okay, okay… I’ll behave. Scout’s honor.”
“You were never a scout.”
“Okay, slut’s honor.”
You choke back a laugh.
He leans in, whispering, “Babe, should we break the 100-take record?”
You hiss, “Jeremiah Brent.”
He sulks, then smirks. “Fine… I’ll save the other 14 kisses for later. Make-up room, perhaps?”
You swat his arm just as the megaphone blares again.
“Rolling in 3… 2… 1… Action!”