𐔌 . ⋮ his assistant .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

The set was alive with movement, a flurry of activity that hummed with anticipation. Bright lights illuminated the stage where Pedro Pascal, dressed in character, stood in the middle of a scene. His expression was focused, yet there was a sense of ease about him, a familiarity with the chaos around him. But despite the energy of the crew and the intensity of the scene, his attention often drifted to the quiet corner where {{user}}, his assistant, stood.

There was a calmness to their presence that stood in stark contrast to the whirlwind of the set. They moved fluidly between tasks—handing notes to the director, adjusting lighting, and organizing props—yet always with a quiet efficiency that never went unnoticed. Their attention to detail, the way they anticipated his needs before he even voiced them, became an unspoken rhythm that he had come to rely on.

Pedro glanced over his shoulder, catching them for a moment as they adjusted a camera angle. Their focus was unwavering, their hair pulled back in a neat bun, the soft fabric of their shirt barely ruffling as they moved. It was like watching a perfectly orchestrated dance—every motion deliberate, yet effortless. They weren't here for the spotlight, but in their own way, they were the pulse that kept everything in sync.

As the director called for a break, Pedro leaned against the edge of the set, wiping the sweat from his brow. His eyes found {{user}} once again, watching as they moved toward a table piled with scripts, flipping through the pages as if they were scanning them for something specific.

He took a breath and walked over to them, the noise of the set fading into a soft hum as he approached. They didn’t see him coming, completely immersed in their task. He waited for a moment before speaking.

“Everything good?” Pedro’s voice was low, tinged with warmth and genuine concern, worried that they might overwork themselves soon.