Summer's POV
The meeting took place in a glass building overlooking the city—clean lines, expensive air, and the faint hum of ambition.
Summer hadn't been in a network office since before the island show. The smell of coffee, paper, and pressure was the same. She glanced at Ethan, who looked calm, almost too calm.
"Feels familiar?" she whispered as the elevator doors closed.
"Familiar," he said. "But not the same."
They reached the 18th floor, where a producer in a sleek gray suit greeted them. His handshake was firm, practiced. "Summer, Ethan—thank you for coming. We've admired your work on Home Project. It's refreshing, grounded… authentic."
Summer smiled politely. The word "authentic" always made her cautious.
They were led into a conference room with panoramic views. On the table lay a few printed outlines and a glossy presentation deck. The producer began his pitch.
---
Ethan's POV
"Picture this," the producer said, clicking through slides. "A travel-based docu-series—modern creators visiting communities that challenge their comfort zones. You two host, guide, and reflect. It's empathy meets entertainment."
He spoke like a man selling sunlight.
Ethan listened, trying to separate the genuine idea from the gloss. It wasn't bad—actually, it sounded inspiring. But he knew how words could warp once cameras started rolling.
"So it's unscripted?" he asked.
"Mostly," the producer said with a smile. "We'd shape moments to keep flow, but the emotion stays real."
Shape moments. There it was—the soft synonym for control.
Summer noticed too. Her posture shifted slightly, her expression composed. "What do you mean by shape?" she asked.
The producer hesitated. "You know, structure. We'd ensure each episode has a clear arc. Tension, resolution—something audiences can hold onto."
"Tension," Ethan repeated, quiet but firm. "Even if it's not there naturally?"
A small pause filled the room. The producer cleared his throat. "Storytelling needs rhythm. Viewers respond to feeling."
Ethan smiled without warmth. "So do we. That's why we stopped manufacturing it."
---
Summer's POV
There was a delicate silence after that—professional but thick.
Summer leaned forward slightly. "We appreciate the invitation," she said. "It's a good idea. But for us, authenticity can't be half a promise."
The producer adjusted his tie. "Of course. We'd want your creative input. You'd both have editorial say."
She studied his expression. He believed what he was saying, she thought—but maybe not in the same way they did.
Ethan added, "If we did this, it would need to stay documentary in spirit, not performance."
The producer nodded quickly. "Absolutely. We can discuss format details."
Summer smiled, kind but measured. "Then we'll send you a proposal."
The meeting ended smoothly, with polite handshakes and hopeful glances.
But as they walked back to the elevator, Summer exhaled slowly. "You heard that too, right? The word 'shape'?"
Ethan chuckled. "Loud and clear."
---
Ethan's POV
They found a quiet café near the building and ordered black coffee. The contrast between the boardroom and the small wooden table felt grounding.
Summer stared out the window. "It's strange. A few years ago, I would've said yes before the meeting even ended."
"I know," Ethan said. "Back then, I thought saying yes meant opportunity."
"And now?"
"Now I think saying no is one too."
She smiled, eyes softening. "You've gotten poetic."
"I blame you," he said lightly.
They both laughed, but there was an undercurrent of gravity beneath it—an understanding that what they were protecting wasn't just a reputation, but a way of being.
---
Summer's POV
That night, they sat in the studio and sketched out what their version of the show would look like.
Ethan drew rough boxes and arrows on a whiteboard:
No artificial challenges
Real communities, real stories
Hosts as listeners, not performers
Minimal editing, raw conversations
Summer added her notes beside his:
Highlight small acts of kindness
Include local voices as narrators
Keep the camera secondary, invisible when possible
When they stepped back, the board looked messy but alive—like a blueprint for integrity.
"This," she said, tapping the board, "I would do."
He nodded. "Then this is the only version we'll offer."
They wrote the proposal together, word by word, line by line. The email they sent the next morning was brief but clear:
> We're interested in the concept—but only if we can shape it into something honest.
If that doesn't fit your format, we'll wish you the best.
It was polite. Firm. The kind of boundary that used to terrify her but now felt natural.
---
Ethan's POV
Two days later, the reply arrived.
> We respect your vision. Let's build it your way.
He read it twice, then turned the laptop toward Summer.
She blinked. "Seriously?"
He nodded. "Looks like they actually listened."
For a long moment, neither spoke. Then Summer smiled, slow and bright. "Then I guess we have work to do."
He smiled back. "The good kind."
---
Summer's POV
That night, as they outlined the first episode, she realized something profound—
They hadn't just gotten an offer.
They'd earned the right to define what came next.
And maybe that was what growing up in front of cameras had taught them:
You can't control who watches,
but you can control what you give them to see.