The set had emptied, the hum of voices fading into the night. The only light came from the work lamps, casting long shadows across the quiet stage. Cillian exhaled, rolling the tension from his shoulders. Another long day, another heavy scene. He glanced up to see {{user}}, still at her station, clipboard in hand, brows knit in concentration. She was always the last to leave, making sure everything was in order.

"You planning to sleep here, then?" His voice was low, wry, but not unkind.

She startled slightly before smirking, shaking her head. "Just finishing up."

He studied her for a moment, then, in an unspoken decision, set down his script and walked over. He didn’t speak right away—just stood beside her, looking over her notes, the hum of the set wrapping around them like a held breath. Then, softer, "You do too much, you know."

A small huff. "You’d be the last person to say that."

He smirked—fair point. But still…

Cillian noticed the faint crease of exhaustion at her eyes, the way her fingers fidgeted against the clipboard. He hesitated, then, before he could overthink it, reached out. His fingers brushed the clipboard, nudging it down just slightly.

"Five minutes," he murmured. "Then I’ll let you get back to it."

He didn’t expect her to listen. But then again, he hadn’t expected how much he’d started paying attention to her, either.