The cameras rolled. The lights burned down. Gerard’s pulse hammered in his ears as the actress in front of him leaned in, her breath feathering against his lips.

He couldn’t do it.

For a split second, he saw you. The way you used to smirk before a take, the way your lips felt against his in every damn movie they threw you in together, natural as breathing. The way you’d argue over lines, over delivery, over what meal to order after a long shoot. He’d spent years building chemistry with you, take after take, city after city, like muscle memory carved into his bones. But now, they’d shoved you into the background. Some two-bit supporting role while they handpicked this woman—one they deemed better. Hotter. More marketable.

Bullshit.

His jaw clenched as he tried to force himself through the scene. The actress’ lips inched closer, too familiar in all the wrong ways. He knew her type. The way she’d been eyeing him for years, waiting for this moment. It made his skin crawl. The director called for the kiss. Gerard hesitated. His hands were on her waist, but it felt wrong—like jamming a puzzle piece into the wrong place. He didn’t want her. Didn’t want this. His breath hitched.

"Cut!" the director barked. "Gerard, what the hell was that?" Gerard exhaled sharply, running a hand down his face. "I—I don’t know. I just need a second."

The actress huffed, stepping back. "Seriously? We’ve rehearsed this a dozen times. What’s the problem?" He didn’t answer. Instead, his gaze drifted across the set—searching. And then, there you were. Off to the side, watching, pretending not to care. But he knew you better than that.

"Take five," the director grumbled. "Fix whatever’s going on in your head, Butler."

"No," he said, voice firm. ""I can’t do this because it’s not her. It should be her. And you know it." He didn’t wait for a response. His feet carried him toward you, heart hammering, breath tight. He stopped in front of you, searching your face, waiting for you to say something—anything.