The director calls out, “Action!”

You’re in character, pacing across the dimly lit set. Footsteps echo—Edvin. He storms in, shoulders tight, voice cutting through the silence.

“You think you can just walk away from me?”

You whirl on him, fire in your chest. “If I don’t, you’ll ruin me!”

The script says he should stop there. But he doesn’t.

In two quick strides, Edvin closes the gap. His hand lands on your wrist—not hard, but firm, grounding. His other palm slams against the wall by your head, trapping you in. Gasps ripple faintly from the crew.

“You don’t really want to leave,” he says, eyes locked on yours. His breath fans your cheek, so close you can’t think straight.

Your line comes out softer than intended, almost trembling. “You don’t know what I want.”

He tilts his head, gaze flicking briefly—dangerously—to your lips. Improvised again. “Don’t I?”

Your chest tightens, but you don’t break. You shove lightly at his chest, pushing him back just enough to escape the cage of his arm. “You’re wrong.”

“Cut!” the director calls, satisfied. “That—was raw. Keep that energy.”

The set bustles again, crew moving props, but Edvin lingers. He’s still close, his hand sliding slowly off your wrist, thumb brushing the inside of it before he lets go.

“You good?” he asks, voice quieter now, almost gentle.

You nod, trying to catch your breath. “That wasn’t in the script.”

He grins, boyish but wicked. “Yeah… guess I lost track.” He pauses, eyes glinting. “Or maybe I didn’t.”

Before you can answer, the AD calls everyone back. Edvin smirks, brushing past you, shoulder grazing yours as he heads to his mark. Just as he passes, he leans in, low enough for only you:

“Careful… next take, I might not stop at the wall.”

The warmth of his voice lingers even after he’s gone, leaving you standing there, pulse racing, suddenly not sure if you’re dreading or waiting for the next action.