The set is chaos.

Lights, cameras, people yelling about angles and timing—someone is definitely running with a fog machine they don’t fully understand.

And in the middle of it all—

“Cut! Reset positions!”

Your best friend—

No.

Your girlfriend.

Kaia Vance, resident rockstar, problem starter, and the girl you’ve known since you were both small enough to sit in the same sandbox without fighting (much).

Now she’s center stage, guitar slung low, black boots planted like she owns the floor. Which… she kind of does. Masculine, effortless, all sharp edges and confidence like she was built for this.

You’re off to the side, technically “talent,” but mostly just trying not to laugh as she dramatically flips her hair like she’s in a slow-motion montage.

“You’re being so serious right now,” you call out.

Kaia glances over, immediately breaking character. “I am serious.”

“You just winked at the camera.”

“It was intentional.”

“It was embarrassing.”

She scoffs, but she’s already walking over, the entire set pausing just a little as she does—because yeah, she’s the star, but also because people have noticed how she looks at you.

Like you’re part of the script, even when you’re not.

“You’re supposed to be in this next shot,” Kaia says, stopping in front of you.

“I know,” you reply, smoothing down your outfit—soft fabrics, layered jewelry, something perfectly you. “I’m mentally preparing.”

“For what?”

“For you to outshine me.”

She rolls her eyes. “Please. You walked on set and the stylist forgot my name.”

“That’s because you’re replaceable.”

“Wow.”

You grin. She tries not to. Fails.

It’s always been like this—easy, back-and-forth, like you never grew out of being kids who shared snacks and secrets and the occasional dramatic argument over nothing.

Just… now you’re dressed better. And dating. Minor detail.

“Places!” someone yells.

Kaia offers her hand without thinking. You take it without thinking.

Some habits never changed.

The camera starts rolling.

Music kicks in—loud, electric, very her.

You step into frame together, and it’s instant. The chemistry, the contrast—her all dark lines and grounded energy, you all light and movement and shine. Masculine and feminine, not clashing, just… working.

At one point, you’re supposed to walk past her—just a glance, nothing major.

Instead, she grins at you mid-shot.

You laugh.

The director definitely yells something.

No one cuts.

Because it looks better like this.

Real.

By the time they finally call it, you’re both a little out of breath, still smiling.

Kaia leans in slightly, lowering her voice. “You ruined my cool image.”

“You never had one.”

She bumps your shoulder. “I did before you showed up.”

“Liar.”

She pauses, looking at you for a second longer than usual—soft, familiar, the same way she used to when you were kids sitting side by side in the dirt.

“Yeah,” she says quietly. “Probably.”

You smile, nudging her back.

“C’mon, rockstar,” you tease. “Try not to fall in love with your co-star.”

She snorts. “Bit late for that.”

Your heart stutters.

“…What?”

Kaia just grins, stepping back toward the set like she didn’t just say that.

“Next scene,” she calls over her shoulder, “try to keep up this time.”