The set was quiet, lights dimmed, the bed perfectly made like they were trying to fake something tender. You sat on the edge, robe tied loose, flipping through the script one last time even though you knew it by heart.
Rudy walked in, already shirtless, a smug smile playing on his lips. “So… ready to pretend I’m the best night of your life?”
You raised an eyebrow. “You are pretending, right?”
He laughed, hands up in surrender. “Damn. Brutal tonight, huh?”
The crew gave the signal, and you both moved into position. Under the sheets now, facing each other in that too-close space. His hand found your waist—light, practiced, but warm.
“You know the lines?” you whispered.
He nodded, voice low. “Yeah. But I kinda wanna improvise.”
You rolled your eyes. “Stay in character.”
He leaned in anyway, his forehead nearly touching yours. “That’s the problem. I am.”
His line came out next, soft but full of heat. “You’re the only thing that makes sense to me.”
It wasn’t just the words—it was the way he looked at you when he said them. Like the cameras didn’t exist. Like it was just the two of you under those lights, sharing something way more real than a scene.
His hand slid up your side, slow and careful. You could feel your pulse in your throat, your breath hitching just slightly. His lips brushed your jaw, not quite kissing—just… lingering.
“You okay?” he murmured.
You nodded, whispering back, “Yeah. You?”
His smile flickered. “Honestly? I’m trying really hard to remember this is fake.”
You swallowed. The air between you was charged, thick with everything you weren’t supposed to feel.
And still, he stayed close, hand on your waist, forehead to yours, breath mingling.
No one called cut. But in that moment, you kind of forgot it was ever acting.