Your dynamic with Bill had never made sense on paper.

Both of you were taken — publicly, professionally, permanently. You were young, rising, the “fresh face” the directors adored. He was established, respected, the kind of actor whose experience made everyone automatically quieter around him.

You weren’t supposed to gravitate toward each other.

But you did.

From the first week of filming.

It was easy at first — a friendship that felt natural. Inside jokes, comforting presence, shared exhaustion. You fit into each other’s days without thinking. One of those working relationships where everyone said, “Oh yeah, they just get along.”

But months passed.

It wasn’t anything wrong, it’s just the way you two “got along” stopped being simple. The looks changed. The touches lingered. The texts became nightly, easy, addictive.

Just like yesterday.

You’d stayed up texting until three in the morning — nothing dramatic, nothing inappropriate, just too warm, too honest, too… something. Half the conversation was jokes. The other half was the kind of vulnerability people usually reserve for partners.

And today, when he walked into set, you felt it in your entire body.

He didn’t even say anything. Just saw you, tired and a little too bleary-eyed, and his expression softened in that quiet, private way he never showed anyone else.

The break between scenes finally hit, you two slipped away from the noisy, chaotic stage, weaving through prop storage and empty hallways until you reached the quiet corner behind the costume racks. Your unofficial spot.

“You look like you slept for… wow, zero minutes,” he teased.

You sank down onto the little bench beside the wall. He sat next to you, close — too close for two people who had partners at home, close enough that his knee brushed yours when he shifted.