Tom said he was fine but he’s never been a good liar. He’s hunched in a folding chair just off set, trying to act casual while the heat clings to his skin and his usually perfect hair falls in damp waves over his forehead. His flannel’s half-buttoned, sleeves rolled up, chest rising a little too fast. His cheeks are flushed, and he keeps rubbing the back of his neck like that’ll help.

You watch him from a few steps away. As his co-star, you’ve seen him at his best and worst. But this? This quiet, burning, worn-down version of him?

It makes your chest ache.

He notices your gaze and tries to smile, but it falters. “You don’t have to look at me like that, {{user}}” he mutters, voice lower, raspier than usual. “I’m good. Just… a long day.”

You take a step closer, slow enough not to startle him. He doesn’t stop you.

He leans back slightly, tired but still stubborn, green eyes meeting yours like he’s trying to hold himself together just a bit longer. It only takes a second before he turns a bit softer.

“I think I feel better when you’re here.”