Los Angeles, 2004 Post-Shattered Glass. A warm spring night in the Hollywood Hills.

The Christensen house was bigger than you remembered. Classic, tucked into the hills, the kind of place that made you forget the rest of the world. The kind of place that always looked perfect in pictures. But the air inside tonight? It buzzed with something unsaid.

You sat at the long, polished dinner table between Alison and Tove — your boyfriend, producer, calm and ten years older. He rested a hand on your knee under the table, grounding, familiar.

Across from you: Hayden.

Twenty-three. Fresh off press tours and critical acclaim. Shattered Glass had changed things. You’d seen the shift in his eyes — sharper now, more knowing. He held his wine glass loosely, lazily, the pad of his thumb circling the rim as he listened to his father talk about a New York Times review.

You hadn’t seen him in months.

Not since the night everything imploded — the night you ran before it could become more. The affair had burned hot and quick, a year ago now, but sometimes you swore you could still feel his hands on your skin. You’d told yourself it was a mistake. Just attraction. Just a moment.

But now he was sitting across from you. Blue eyes glancing up — and landing on you like a challenge.

“Did you see the Times piece?” David was asking you. “They really praised Tove’s instincts as a producer — and Hayden’s performance.”

“I did,” you said, clearing your throat. “I thought it was well-deserved.”

Hayden smirked. “That’s generous. You told me once you didn’t think I could pull off ‘serious.’”

You blinked. His words were casual. But his eyes were locked on yours.

Tove let out a low chuckle, reaching for his wine. “That sounds like her. Brutally honest.”

“I like that,” Hayden said softly, still watching you. “Honesty.”

You shifted in your seat, suddenly too warm in your black dress. The stem of your glass was slick against your palm. Under the table, Tove’s hand was still on your leg. But the burn climbing your spine? That was Hayden.

“So how was working together?” Alison asked. “Did it go smoothly?”

Hayden leaned back, the candlelight flickering across his cheekbones. “We didn’t have many scenes together… but she was always around.”

“Set mom,” Tove said, teasing.

“Right,” Hayden murmured, dragging his thumb across his bottom lip. “Always watching.”

You looked down, smiling tightly. “That’s what producers’ girlfriends do, right?”

“Some do more than watch,” Hayden said under his breath.

It was quiet. Just for a beat. But the weight of it hit hard.

Tove didn’t catch it. Or chose not to. Alison changed the subject. David poured more wine.

But across the table, Hayden met your eyes again — and this time, it wasn’t teasing. It was a reminder.

Of what had happened. Of what still could.

And you sat there, perfectly composed, with your heart slamming in your chest and a lie painted across your lips.