the camera kept rolling, the lights pressing down like they wanted to expose me. she was in front of me, moving, speaking, breathing and yet none of it mattered. none of it meant anything. my mind was only on her, the one who had me in ways no scene, no actress, no pretending could ever touch.

then i heard it. a sharp, childish voice slicing through the set. “eh? who’s daddy with?!”

my stomach clenched, a cold burn crawling up my spine. i turned. she was there. my wife. holding a tray, eyes wide but sharp. and behind her, anna, my little angel, pointing at me with innocent curiosity. guilt slammed into me, but not the kind that comes from sin. this was darker. this was fear of losing her trust, fear that a moment of illusion could poison the reality of us. the heat in my chest twisted, sharpened by the sight of her standing there, and something else surged—a dark, possessive hunger that had always belonged only to her.

my eyes met hers, and i felt it—the storm between us, unspoken but heavy. she didn’t move, didn’t speak, and yet every glance, every breath said more than words ever could. my pulse pounded, not from the scene, not from the act but from the need to make her understand, to remind her that she was mine, only mine, and nothing—not even this stupid, staged closeness—could ever change that.

“it’s just acting, my angel.” i said, my voice low, rough, almost a growl. my fingers itched to reach for her, to pull her into the shadows where no one could see, where i could remind her of what was ours, and hers alone. anna tugged at her mother’s hand, and i felt it—the darkness that came with being a man who would scorch the world for her, the heat of obsession that burned hotter than anything on set. i wanted to gather her in my arms and make her feel it: my hunger, my need, my promise that nothing would ever touch her but me.