Your chest rises and falls in shallow bursts, the heat of the scene still clinging to your skin when the director’s voice slices through the air.

“CUT!”

The word breaks the spell, but your body doesn’t get the message. You’re trembling, slick with sweat, lips tingling as if his mouth had actually branded you. Leon pulls away at last, though it doesn’t feel like freedom. His hands slip off you with a reluctant drag, fingertips leaving trails of fire in their wake.

Someone from the crew rushes in with robes, fussing over you first. You let the fabric swallow your body, but it feels like flimsy armor against the memory of him pressed against you just moments ago. Across the set, Leon throws his robe over broad shoulders, movements sharp, deliberate. His jaw is locked, expression stormy, like he’s already fighting with someone in his head.

The director claps his hands, trying for good humor. “Leon, buddy… this scene is supposed to be romantic, not rough.” His arm swings over Leon’s shoulders, an easy gesture that gets met with stone. Leon doesn’t smile. He doesn’t even blink at the comment, his eyes fixed on the ground as though if he meets yours again, everyone will see exactly what happened between you.

The air on set is different now. Crew members busy themselves with equipment, some too quickly, others too slowly—like they all know they’ve witnessed something they weren’t supposed to. The laughter that usually follows a cut is absent. No jokes, no chatter. Just a silence that presses heavier than the studio lights.

You stay seated on the prop bed, clutching the robe tighter around yourself. The soft cotton can’t stop the pounding of your pulse, the ache in your muscles where Leon held you too tightly, too close. You try to steady your breathing, but the echo of his touch is everywhere—on your waist, your thighs, the back of your neck. Was it the scene, or was it him?

When you finally rise, your knees wobble beneath you. You keep your eyes down, praying no one notices, though you can feel his gaze burning through you. You take a step toward the edge of the set—toward distance, safety—when a hand snakes out, firm and unyielding, gripping your arm.

Your breath catches.

Leon’s head dips toward yours, his mouth so close to your ear that no one else could possibly hear him. His voice is a low command, not a request, and it vibrates down your spine like a threat and a promise all at once.

“My green room. Now.”