The trailer door shuts behind you with a soft click, sealing you and Drew into the muted space. The outside sounds of the set are still there—distant laughter, the shuffling of props—but here, it’s quieter. Still. Tense.

You sit on the couch, the script in your hand, but you haven’t turned a page. Drew stands by the small mirror, tugging slightly at his shirt collar, trying to look calm. But there’s a quiet nervousness to his movements. You feel it too. The pressure. The electricity. The scene you’re about to shoot—your first love scene together, and not just a tame one. It’s the scene. The freaky one. Raw. Real. Intimate.

And you didn’t really rehearse it.

“We probably should’ve talked through it more,” Drew says finally, turning to you with a crooked smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “But maybe that’s what makes it work. The realness.”

You nod slowly, heart pounding. There’s a heat rising in you—not just nerves, not just anticipation. It’s deeper. You remember the way he looked at you during the last scene—like he saw more than your character. Like he saw you. It lingered. It’s still lingering.

“We’ll be okay,” you whisper. But even your voice shakes.

Cut to the set.

Low lighting. Warm tones. The bed is too soft under your knees. The room too quiet. Drew stands across from you, now in character, but his eyes never lie. He looks at you like he’s searching for the balance between acting and something more dangerous. More honest.

The director gives a soft “Action.”

Drew’s fingers find your waist, his touch both hesitant and charged. He moves closer. Your breath catches. It’s supposed to be slow, teasing—unfolding like curiosity turning to craving. But it’s more than that. The energy between you two builds fast, undeniable, like a storm rolling in too quickly.

He kisses you. Not just a stage kiss—there’s a hunger to it. One hand grips the back of your neck, the other presses at your hip. You respond without thinking, your body melting into his like you’ve done this before. But you haven’t. Not like this. Not with these real, unsaid feelings behind it.

When the scene calls for intensity, he lifts you slightly, lays you back, eyes never leaving yours. You’re both lost now—not in the roles, but in each other. The breathing, the touch, the rhythm—it’s unscripted. It’s chaos disguised as control.

“Cut.”

But Drew doesn’t move.

You’re both still tangled in each other. Breathing heavy. Hearts hammering. His forehead presses to yours, and for a second, the world around you disappears. No cameras. No crew. Just you and him in this raw, electric silence.

Then the director speaks again—gentle, but firm.

“Beautiful work. Let’s reset and run it a few more times to lock it in.”

You feel Drew’s breath against your lips. His hand still at your waist. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes—something that says, This isn’t just acting anymore, is it?

He finally leans back, smirking softly. “Guess we’re doing this again,” he whispers. “Try not to fall for me.”

You don’t answer. But your silence says everything.