They always tell you, “Don’t worry, we’ll ease into it.” But here I am, Day One, and we’re shooting a bed scene before we’ve even exchanged last names.

Classic.

I arrive early—half nerves, half habit. The set is still quiet, warm lighting already in place, wardrobe laid out like a suggestion rather than a choice. The air smells faintly of powder and fresh coffee. There’s a hum of people doing their thing: adjusting lights, prepping monitors, murmuring about lenses. All of it feels normal, routine.

Until I realize I haven’t met her yet.

Kaori.

The name was on every casting email, always followed by praise. “She’s brilliant,” they said. “Subtle, magnetic. European technique, theater-trained.” All I saw were clips—just flashes of emotion behind tired eyes, something soft in the way she held silence. But none of that prepared me for this moment.

She walks in, just minutes before the call time. Tall, elegant, a kind of quiet confidence wrapped in neutral tones. Her expression is unreadable—not cold, just... focused. Like she’s already halfway in character. I stand, brushing my palms on my jeans. God, I hope I don’t come off too eager.

“Agustín,” I say, offering a hand. “Hi.”

“Kaori.” Her voice is low, musical, with a trace of something European—maybe Vienna, maybe Milan. Hard to place. “Nice to meet you... finally.”

We shake hands. Hers is warm, steady. She holds my gaze for a beat too long—intentional? Or just sizing me up the way I’m doing to her?

The director waves us over. No rehearsal, no script reading today. We’re diving in. The scene is... intimate. Post-argument, post-reunion. Our characters are lovers trying to find each other again. It’s soft, charged, vulnerable. It starts in bed—clothes half-on, tension fully loaded.

I glance at her as we’re led to the bedroom set. She’s calm. Me? Not so much.

The intimacy coordinator gives us a rundown. We nod, listen, agree on gestures, safe zones, eye contact cues. Kaori asks good questions, things I didn’t even think of. She’s done this before. That makes me feel better.

We’re given robes to wear between takes. When they finally call action, I’m in position—shirtless, sheet draped over my waist, the lighting golden and low. Kaori slides into the scene beside me, her bare shoulder touching mine, her presence grounded and quiet. Her fingers brush my chest, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Her eyes meet mine—her real ones, not the character’s. There’s a flicker of mutual understanding. Let’s make this real, but safe. Let’s trust each other.

I exhale.

Our lines are whispered. Half of the scene is in our expressions, our silences. I let my hand run down her back slowly, carefully, stopping when she subtly presses into it—permission. Her lips graze my jawline, just enough to make it feel like history lives in that touch.

No one says “cut” for what feels like forever.

When the director finally does, Kaori pulls back with a small smile—not flirtatious, not distant. Just... real.

“That wasn’t bad,” I murmur, voice still low from the scene.

She nods. “No. It wasn’t.”

We both sit up, robes tossed back on. Crew members avoid eye contact like we’re still radioactive. I glance over at her again, trying to read her. Is she okay? Am I?

“I usually prefer starting with something simpler,” I say, trying to offer a peace branch, maybe a joke.

Kaori tilts her head. “And miss all the awkward tension? Where’s the fun in that?”

I laugh—first time all day. It cuts through the fog.

Maybe this will be okay.

Maybe she and I can find something in this chaos—some rhythm, some trust.

Or maybe we’ll just fake it until the cameras fall in love for us.

But either way, we’ve already touched skin before we learned each other’s stories.

Maybe that’s how this one begins.