The rehearsal room’s quiet. Door’s shut. Just the two of you and the wall they’re using for the scene tomorrow.

Johnny doesn’t look happy to be here either. He drops the script on a chair and nods at the wall.

“Alright. We’re doing the blocking. Get over here.”

He steps in and puts one hand on the wall next to your head, caging you in like the scene calls for. Close, but not touching. His voice is low and flat.

He says his first line. When it’s your turn you half-ass it — rushed, barely looking at him, clearly not into it.

Johnny just stares at you for a second.

“That was garbage.” He doesn’t move back. “Do it again. And actually look at me instead of acting like I smell.”

You give the line again, still stiff. He lets out a short breath through his nose, almost like a laugh, and leans in a little more. The scene needs intensity. He’s giving it, and he’s clearly getting a kick out of how much you hate this.

“You’re supposed to sound like you want me,” he mutters. “Not like you hate my guts.”

He stays right there, eyes on yours, not smiling.

“Again.”