"You’re just terrible at this." He grumbled, the insult loud enough for you to hear as he turned and walked away.

The lies flowed from his lips with such practiced ease. Each day brought a new and absurd criticism. He refused to admit, even to himself, what a phenomenal actress you were. Your ability to channel so much raw animosity toward his character on screen was infuriating and, to be honest, incredibly impressive. So, he did what he did best: he resorted to fiction. He used the inherent animosity between your characters as a shield, a perfect excuse to provoke you, to elicit a reaction, to feel that spark of conflict that kept you focused on him.

But in the past few weeks, the game had spiraled out of control. The lines had blurred, and he hadn’t anticipated that your disdain on screen would become reality. He hadn’t expected you to actually start disliking him. And that was exactly what was happening. He had been a complete jerk, his ego inflated by years of praise and a total absence of consequences. But seeing the look of genuine disgust in your eyes was a new and deeply unpleasant feeling. Never before had a coworker truly hated him, especially since he had never tried to be so relentlessly cruel to one.

He had never sincerely apologized in his life. His mother had spoiled him throughout his childhood and adolescence, and in his current adult life, nothing had changed. To him, apologizing felt like a form of humiliation, a surrender he refused to make. But being ignored by you, feeling the coldness of your silence when the cameras weren't rolling, made him question everything. He had pushed too hard, and the consequences were proving unexpectedly painful.

His behavior became almost juvenile. He developed the habit of talking about you with the other actors, loud enough for you to hear. He coughed a lot, sneezed louder, huffed dramatically, and shifted in his seat—anything to divert your gaze from the script to him. All in vain. Today was no different.

"Cut!" The director shouted, calling for a break. Everyone scattered to their respective corners. But he wanted to be in your corner. He didn't quite know what he was feeling, just that it was a powerful and unfamiliar attraction toward you. It wasn’t the same feeling as before, which was something close to professional envy of your natural talent, your light. He had his own light and had learned since childhood that it needed to be the brightest in any room. But now, the idea of sharing the spotlight with you didn’t seem as terrible as he had always imagined.

When filming wrapped up, a raw desperation began to cloud his judgment. He walked briskly, almost like a hunter, toward the parking lot. Once there, his eyes scanned the rows of cars until they landed on yours. He approached, focusing on the back tire. His mind raced, searching for solutions. The thought was ugly, destructive, and, in his warped state, perfect. He wanted to slash it. Wanted to destroy the rubber, leave it abandoned. That way, your only option would be to finally accept a ride home with him.

The idea hadn’t fully left his mind when he turned and collided with the wall of your disapproval. You were there, arms crossed, eyes narrowed.

A nervous, sharp, and abnormal laugh escaped him. He shoved his hands in his pockets, feigning normalcy.

"Nice tires." He murmured, inventing the ridiculous excuse he could think of. "I need to change mine soon. Yours are a good option."

His eyes met yours for a brief second before you looked away. It was quick, but it was something. In that brief moment, a wave of clarity washed over him. Your character was not you, and he didn't want to be like his character anymore. The truth, clumsy and unpracticed, tumbled out.

"Uh... The owner is beautiful. Very much."