The first time Drew kissed you, it was in front of the entire cast and crew. Cameras rolling, lights blinding, your heart hammering against your ribs like it wasn’t just a scene—like it was something else entirely.

And maybe it was.

Because even after the director called cut, Drew didn’t pull away immediately. His breath fanned over your lips, his hand still resting against your jaw like he forgot it was all supposed to be pretend.

“Good take,” he murmured, voice thick with something unspoken.

You swallowed hard, nodding. “Yeah. Good take.”

But the truth? It wasn’t just a good take. It was the start of something neither of you saw coming.

—

It started slow. Inside jokes on set. Late-night script readings that somehow turned into deep conversations about everything and nothing. A lingering touch here, a stolen glance there. You swore he was just being friendly. He swore he wasn’t flirting.

Until the day he showed up at your trailer, drenched from the rain, his hoodie clinging to his frame, his eyes searching yours like he was finally ready to admit what had been building for months.

“I can’t keep pretending,” he said. No preamble, no hesitation—just raw honesty.

Your breath caught. “Pretending what?”

His lips twitched into that damn smirk—the one that made your stomach flip in ways it had no business flipping. “That this is just work. That it’s just the script making me feel this way.”

You exhaled sharply, heart in your throat. “Drew—”

“Tell me you don’t feel it,” he cut in, stepping closer, his fingers brushing against yours. “Tell me I’m crazy, and I’ll drop it.”

But you couldn’t. Because you felt it, too. The late nights, the stolen moments, the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the room even when you were surrounded by a hundred people.

So you did the only thing that made sense. You kissed him.

And this time, there were no cameras.