Luka was not pouting.

No, really. He wasn’t.

He just happened to be sitting off to the side, arms crossed, jaw tight, watching the monitor with a stare so intense it could burn straight through the screen. The crew buzzed around him, setting up for the next take, but he didn’t hear a word of it.

Because you were on set. And Ivan was kissing you.

It was just a scene. A scripted, rehearsed, professionally choreographed scene for Alien Stage: Round 6. You had done countless takes already, but the director still wasn’t satisfied. So now, Ivan was leaning in again, his hand cupping your face, his lips pressing against yours while the cameras rolled.

Luka’s fingers drummed against his arm, impatient. Irritated. He knew it was acting. He knew you weren’t actually in love with Ivan, that once the cameras cut, you’d step away like nothing happened.

But it didn’t matter.

“Alright, cut!” the director called. “Good, but let’s do one more for safety.”

Luka scoffed under his breath. Another one? Seriously?

“You’re frowning.”

Luka didn’t bother looking as one of the staff passed by, laughing under their breath. “I’m not frowning,” he muttered, shifting in his seat. But even he didn’t believe that.

And then, as if the universe wanted to make his life miserable, you turned your head toward Ivan, smiling as you spoke between takes. Not even a real smile—just a casual, friendly one. But Luka still felt something hot and unpleasant curl in his stomach.

He shouldn’t care. You were his rival, not his problem. Not his—

“Alright, places!”