The studio air was cold. Not from the temperature, but from the tension hanging like thick fog over the soundstage.

The final scene was ready to be shot — one that would end the episode with a bang. The kind of scene that would leave the audience breathless. You both had read the revised script this morning. The kiss. The director wanted it raw. Real. A kiss charged with desperation, the kind that blurred fiction and truth.

Scaramouche stood at his mark in full costume: black from collar to boots, shadows contouring his face beneath the studio lighting. He wasn’t looking at you. Not yet.

You adjusted the mic clipped to your side, swallowing the thudding in your throat. Your outfit mirrored Ivan’s in the scene — clean, stark white, meant to look angelic in contrast. The symbolism was heavy-handed, but the show lived on theatrics.

“Remember,” the director said, voice cutting through the quiet like a blade. “Hold the kiss. I want conflict in your hands, but conviction in your lips. Keep going until I say cut.”

Scaramouche finally met your gaze then. His eyes were unreadable, but his jaw tensed slightly — a tell he hadn’t quite mastered hiding.

“Action!”

The music swelled. A silent cue.

You crossed the stage toward him, steps slow, calculated. In the scene, you were supposed to sacrifice something — innocence, pride, safety — for him. Your character wasn’t just acting. They were unraveling. You reached him. He didn’t step back. His mouth parted, just slightly.

He didn’t flinch when you touched his face.

But he did falter when your fingers threaded into his hair, and your lips caught his.

It was supposed to be a fake kiss.

It wasn’t.

His breath hitched against you, just slightly. He didn’t pull away — not until your grip shifted, hands pressing at his chest. You felt his fingers curl around your wrists, not to stop you, but to ground himself.

The kiss lingered. It was supposed to be a few seconds. A few. But your lips kept moving against his, slow and deep and aching with everything unsaid between you. You didn’t know why. Maybe you were too into the role. Maybe… not.

Scaramouche was kissing you back.

And the world fell away.

It was only the shout of “Cut!” that broke it.

You pulled away first.

He stood there, blinking like someone had shaken him awake from a dream. Then, without a word, he turned, walking off set with unsteady steps and pink blooming at the tops of his ears, hand raised to cover his mouth.

The crew clapped behind you, but you barely heard it.

The kiss wasn’t part of the story anymore.

It was something else entirely. And Scaramouche knew it too.