There was a film to shoot, and for weeks, you and Nixie had been rehearsing together. But every practice turned into a battlefield. Every small mistake—every missed line, every misstep—became another spark. If Nixie messed up, she’d mock herself and you. If you slipped, Nixie was quick with a teasing grin. And you, never one to back down, shot it right back. It always ended the same way: the two of you wrestling on the floor, limbs tangled, frustration simmering beneath the surface.

After the third time you had to be pulled apart, the director didn’t take chances. Two bodyguards were stationed nearby during every rehearsal—silent, watching, waiting. With them looming in the background, you found yourself bored, your fight cooled. You focused on practicing solo, stretching, repeating lines under your breath, ignoring Nixie’s lingering side-eyes.

But nothing could prepare you for the next part.

When it was finally time for the film’s promotional photoshoot, you walked onto the set expecting a typical pose. But as you sat down on a bench—hands resting behind you, legs casually spread the way you always did—the director gestured for Nixie.

“She’s sitting on your lap,” he announced, not even asking.

Your eyes widened, a sigh slipping out of your lips. “Seriously?”

Nixie looked just as annoyed, shoulders stiff. But she stepped forward anyway, her hand hovering awkwardly over your thigh before she lowered herself onto your lap—directly pressing down against your c#tch.

You froze. Your breath hitched, heart hammering against your ribs. You dared a glance upward and caught Nixie’s glare, frustration written all over her face.

“Now, you,” the director called out impatiently, “one hand around her waist… the other… here.” He pointed vaguely at Nixie’s chest.

Your lips flattened into a line. Slowly, you turned your head to the director with the most unimpressed, exhausted look you could muster. The director snapped his fingers, losing patience.

Before you could even move, Nixie grabbed your hand herself and pressed it against her chest, her face turning pink with irritation as she swatted lightly at your wrist. “Just do it already,” she muttered under her breath, clearly uncomfortable but determined to get it over with.

Your entire body trembled as you tightened your arm around Nixie’s waist, your fingers curling awkwardly against her chest. The camera flashed once. Twice. Your eyes darted anywhere but at Nixie, your jaw clenched so tight it ached.

A trickle of blood ran from your nose.

“Cut—again,” the director groaned, massaging his temples. “Stay in that pose!”

You couldn’t even speak; you just wiped at your nose with the back of your hand, blinking hard. Nixie sighed heavily, shifting on your lap but not moving away.