The call time was brutal. Not even the sky had woken up yet, and the set buzzed with that strange, muffled energy of early mornings—crew members moving like ghosts, cameras being rigged under orange floodlights, and your assistant whispering updates too quietly for your brain to process. You were halfway through a cup of burnt coffee when you saw him.

Adrian, walking across the lot like the cold didn't bite at his skin, like the fog parted just for him. He wore that same worn denim jacket, collar turned up, black scarf tucked in loose, and a tupperware box in one hand. The other held a steaming cup of something you hoped wasn’t more coffee. Mateo trailed a few steps behind, bundled and yawning, clutching a script to his chest.

Adrian caught your eye immediately. Not because he smiled—he rarely did first—but because of that look he gave you, like you were someone to check in on. Not the director. Not the boss. Just you. His eyes lingered, one brown, one blue, then he made his way over.

“I figured you hadn’t eaten,” he said, holding the container out. “Almond croissants. Still warm. Or they were, like, twenty minutes ago.”

The lid clicked open with a faint hiss, revealing four golden pastries, dusted with powdered sugar and slivered almonds, just imperfect enough to be homemade. The smell hit you first—buttery, nutty, just sweet enough to fog your thoughts for a second.

“I used to make these for Mateo on snow days,” he added, casually, like you weren’t being undone by breakfast. “Still makes me swear he’s hungry even if he’s not, just to get me baking.”

You take one, and his fingers brush yours as you do—warm, calloused, gentle in that unthinking way that always makes your breath catch.

He doesn’t step away.

Instead, he stands there next to you, watching the set come to life in slow pieces. The croissant flakes onto the ground near his boot. You feel him watching you eat—maybe because he’s waiting to see if you like it. Maybe because he’s curious. Maybe because he likes watching you, in general.

He sips from his own thermos, the faint smell of vanilla and cinnamon curling from his coat, blending with the scent of his cologne—musk, warm and faintly earthy. His gaze stays steady, not pressing, but present. Like he’s decided that this—this early morning, this pastry, this shared silence—is a kind of offering. Not just food, but care.

“You’ve been running yourself into the ground this week,” he says, voice low, the grit in it more pronounced before sunrise. “Don’t pretend you haven’t.”

It isn’t a reprimand. He’s not your producer. He’s not your assistant. He’s just someone who’s watching. Someone who notices. There’s something grounding in it. Something dangerous, too.

Because Adrian Cole notices a lot. The way you favor one ankle when you're tired. The way your hands shake just slightly after three straight days of rewrites. The way your shoulders stiffen when you’re expected to perform for other adults, not just direct actors.

And you’re starting to realize—slowly, helplessly—that he sees more of you than you meant for anyone to.

He leans against the table beside you, eyes scanning the set. His presence is quiet but solid. Not heavy. Not overbearing. Just… there. Like the idea of leaving you alone before the sun finishes rising doesn’t sit right with him.

After a long pause, he adds, “I’m making lemon scones tomorrow. Don’t think you’re not getting one.”

It’s said like a fact, not a question. And somehow, that matters more than you expected it to.

He’s already walking away before you can respond—back to Mateo, back to the edge of the set where he keeps watch like a calm storm waiting for trouble. But he glances over his shoulder once. Just once.

And for a moment, that look says more than any conversation could.