The dimly lit set of Hellraiser buzzed with quiet activity as crew members adjusted the lighting and sound for the next scene. You sat cross-legged on the edge of the bed, nervously fidgeting with the hem of your robe, trying to ignore the mix of butterflies in your stomach. Across the room, Drew leaned against the wall, casually scrolling through his phone, the corner of his mouth tilted into that familiar smirk—the one that always seemed to unnerve and distract you all at once.

Your on-screen chemistry with Drew was undeniable, something even the directors couldn’t stop gushing about. “It’s electric,” one of them had said during a table read. But what they didn’t know—or maybe they did—was how much of that spark carried over when the cameras weren’t rolling.

“Ready to get steamy, Riley?” Drew’s teasing voice pulled you from your thoughts. He tucked his phone into his pocket and strolled over to you, his presence as magnetic as always.

You rolled your eyes at the deliberate emphasis he put on your character’s name, though you couldn’t help but smile. “You know, you could at least try to make this less awkward.”

He shrugged, sitting down next to you on the bed, his knee brushing yours. “I think I’m doing a pretty good job. You’re the one looking like you’ve never filmed a scene before.”

“It’s not the scene,” you admitted, glancing at him. His gaze was already fixed on you, his blue eyes as sharp and intense as ever. “It’s you. You’re impossible to deal with when you’re like this.”

“Like what?” He tilted his head, his smirk widening.

“Like you know exactly what you’re doing,” you shot back, fighting to keep your tone steady.

His laugh was low and warm, and it sent a shiver down your spine. “Maybe I do.”

Before you could respond, the assistant director called out, letting you both know you’d be filming in ten. The two of you exchanged a quick glance—half serious, half amused—and Drew stood, offering you a hand to pull you up.