Elves
I spent the weekend barricaded in my condo, the script spread across my dining table like a surgical map. Each scene was a system to be decoded—intonation, body language, emotional temperature. I wasn't just reading; I was dissecting.
I practiced in front of the mirror, letting the vanity lights cast harsh clarity over my reflection. Sometimes I imagined my co-star standing opposite me, but it always fell flat. The chemistry wasn't there. Probably because chemistry requires firsthand experience.
How does one play love when they've never actually felt it?
I could replicate the gestures, the gaze, the rhythm of a confession—but not the pulse behind it. That truth lingered at the edges of every line I rehearsed, an ache disguised as curiosity.
By Monday morning, anxiety had evolved from background noise to full accompaniment. Even in the car, it sat beside me, seatbelt fastened, whispering worst-case scenarios.
This was Director Justine Dizon. The Justine Dizon. My lifelong professional benchmark. The idea of showing up underprepared felt like blasphemy.
When I arrived at the hotel, I took a deep breath before stepping out of the car. The air smelled like rain and polished marble—sterile and expensive, exactly the kind of place where reputations are built or destroyed.
Inside, the reception desk gleamed like a movie prop. I approached, careful to keep my expression neutral—pleasant, but efficient.
"Excuse me," I said. "Could you direct me to the conference hall for the 'Hidden Confession' script reading?"
The receptionist looked up. Recognition flared instantly. Her gaze lingered—too long, too intently.
That kind of staring always makes my skin itch.
I raised an eyebrow—just slightly. A silent cue to redirect her attention to literally anything else.
She startled, as if yanked out of a trance, and pointed toward the far-left corridor.
"The conference hall is over there," she said quickly, voice stiff with embarrassment.
I nodded once. Politeness achieved, conversation concluded.
As I walked away, I replayed the interaction—not out of vanity, but analysis. I do that a lot.
People often mistake my restraint for arrogance. It's not. It's self-preservation. I've never known what to do with admiration that feels like intrusion. Compliments confuse me; stares unsettle me. Maybe that's why no one ever sticks around long enough to know me past the surface.
Or maybe I just don't respond the way people expect me to.
I shook the thought off. It wasn't useful. There was work to do.
Straightening my jacket, I continued toward the conference hall. My pulse had steadied into a quiet, focused rhythm—the kind that comes before every performance.
Whatever waited for me behind those doors—director, co-stars, or ghosts of embarrassment past—I was ready to meet it head-on.
As I reached the door, I stopped for a breath—deep, deliberate, the kind meant to keep my pulse from hijacking my composure. My hand lingered on the handle for half a second before I pushed it open and stepped inside.
Light hit me first. Bright, clinical, too direct. I blinked several times, letting my eyes recalibrate. My brain always needs a moment to adjust when the environment changes abruptly; I've learned not to rush it.
The hum of chatter that filled the conference hall faltered almost immediately. A few gasps. A handful of whispered names.
I could feel the shift—the air thickening as attention tilted toward me.
Predictable.
My appearance in a project like this wasn't exactly expected. Horror-dedicated actors don't usually walk into romance readings. I could practically hear people recalculating my career trajectory in real time.
I ignored the stares and moved forward, each step steady, measured. My focus locked onto Justin Dizon, seated beside Josh near the far end of the long table. They were leaning toward each other, talking quietly. Even from across the room, their connection was obvious—easy, unforced, something that didn't need explaining.
Their relationship wasn't a secret. Five years together, maybe a little more. And yet, Josh had never once used that connection to involve me in Justin's projects. Professional boundaries. Admirable. Annoying, but admirable.
I stopped a few paces away and waited. I've never been good at interrupting people mid-conversation; it feels like walking into a moving current. So, I stood still until Justin noticed me.
When he did, his eyes lit up. He stood, crossed the space between us, and pulled me into an embrace that was both unexpected and… sincere.
"Thank you for accepting the offer," he said, his excitement bright and unfiltered. "I've been pestering Josh nonstop just to get you on board for this project."
I allowed myself a small smile. Physical affection usually startles me, but this one was anchored in genuine gratitude. It didn't feel invasive—just warm.
As he released me, I glanced toward Josh. He was already looking away, pretending to be deeply interested in a stack of production notes. His sheepishness gave him away. He could've told me about this collaboration days ago—weeks, even.
But I decided not to start a conversation about it here. Turning back to Justin, I nodded.
"Thank you for the offer," I said, keeping my voice steady but letting a trace of genuine warmth bleed through. "It's an honor to work with you."
He smiled so brightly it bordered on contagious, patting my shoulder in approval.
"Who is my partner?" I asked, remembering the one detail everyone else seemed to be avoiding.
"Oh, he's on his way," Josh finally said, acknowledging me just long enough to sound nonchalant.
I studied him for a beat—silent, evaluating whether the energy it would take to call him out was worth it. It wasn't. Not yet. Instead, I gave him a look that promised future reckoning and followed Justin's gesture toward a seat near the table.
I took the seat with my name placard in front of it—clean typography, centered alignment, Helvetica. I appreciated the order. Across from me sat another placard: Kane.
That must be my co-star, I thought.
The name looked neat, confident. Unfamiliar.
Justin was on the phone, his voice low but animated, so I used the pause to return to my script. Focus is my default defense mechanism; it helps filter out the noise.
Then the door swung open with a loud thud. The kind that makes everyone in the room flinch, except me—I just stopped breathing for a second. My eyes went straight to the source of the noise.
And there he was. Dressed in black again—hoodie, baggy pants, sneakers. Effortlessly unbothered. Even with the sunglasses, I recognized the outline of his face instantly.
There are some people you remember for all the wrong reasons.
He carried himself with that same careless confidence that irritated me more than it should've. The kind that says I didn't plan to be late, but I'm not sorry either.
The room fell quiet, whispers replacing words. Even in a crowd, he commanded attention without trying. It annoyed me how naturally he did that.
Josh's voice broke the silence.
"You're late," he said, sharp, clipped.
Must be Josh's bodyguard or something, I thought, turning back to my script.
I wasn't about to waste energy decoding someone else's punctuality issues.
Around me, chairs creaked, pens tapped, people pretended not to listen to the hushed exchange between Josh and the newcomer. Their body language screamed curiosity, even if their eyes stayed glued to their scripts.
I focused on mine, tracing the lines with my finger, repeating them quietly under my breath until the words felt real in my mouth.
Then Justin's voice cut through the noise. "All right, everyone, let's get started."
I looked up—only to meet a pair of very familiar eyes staring right back at me.
My breath hitched. My mind blanked.
It took half a second too long to process that the man now sitting across from me—the one in the seat marked Kane—was the same man whose car I'd vandalized, whose hand I'd licked, and whose opinion of me was already somewhere between mild disgust and cosmic irritation.
For a moment, neither of us said anything. The tension between us could've generated its own electricity.
Justin began, "Let's turn to Chapter Four, scene—"
I raised my hand. "Why is he here?"
My tone came out sharper than I intended, but I didn't regret it.
Every head turned toward me. Justin blinked in confusion. "He's your co-star for this series. Haven't you two met? I was told you're labelmates."
Labelmates?
I turned slowly toward Josh.
He looked back at me, face unreadable, voice steady. "Oh, he's our new artist, Elves. His name is Kane—my brother."
I shot up from my seat. "Brother?"
The word burst out before I could filter it. My thoughts tangled into static.
Josh's brother. The man whose car I'd defaced. The man who'd barged into my condo. The man who'd seen me panic, yell, and—dear god—lick his hand.
I turned to Josh, demanding an explanation with my eyes.
Before he could open his mouth, Kane stood up abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor.
Without so much as glancing in my direction, Kane turned and walked straight toward the door. The room went still.
"Kane! Where are you going?" Josh's voice cracked slightly, a rare loss of composure that told me this wasn't part of the plan.
"I don't like the genre. I'm a straight man, brother," Kane said, cool and deliberate, his tone carved out of ice.
He didn't slow down.
The sentence landed like a stone in the middle of the room.
A few people muttered under their breath—disapproval, surprise, confusion. He didn't react. Just walked out, shoulders loose, posture too casual for someone who had just detonated a social bomb.
I clenched my jaw. My patience had reached its expiration date. If he wanted an exit, I'd happily open the door for him.
"I can't work with a newbie, Director," I said, crossing my arms as I leaned back in my chair. The words came out clean and firm, no hesitation.
Justin let out a sigh that carried the weight of several unspoken expletives. His hand rubbed the bridge of his nose.
"Elves—"
But I wasn't backing down. I couldn't. Arrogance irritates me on a molecular level. And Kane's brand of it? Dense, careless, deliberate. It grated like static.
I was still simmering when a sharp scrape echoed through the room.
I looked up.
There he was. Kane. Sitting down again in the seat across from me—calm, collected, as if the last two minutes had been a figment of my imagination.
"On second thought," he said casually, not even bothering to look at me, "there's no harm in trying new things."
My jaw tightened. I glared at him, waiting—hoping—for him to meet my eyes so I could deliver the scoff burning at the back of my throat. He didn't. He just sat there, perfectly still, the human equivalent of indifference.
"That's settled, then," Justin said quickly, his voice carrying that brittle edge of forced diplomacy. "Let's start with the scene where Ken offers to help Vest with his company… in exchange for his hand in marriage."
I exhaled through my nose, the universal sign for fine.
The reading began.
Since it was only a preliminary run-through, Justin tolerated our lack of emotional depth—mine leaning too restrained, his bordering on nonexistent. I could feel Justin's gaze flicking between us, silently evaluating, recalibrating his hopes for the project.
When it finally ended, he offered a polite round of applause to signal closure. The rest of the cast followed suit. Everyone clapped—except Kane. He stayed seated, unmoved, expression unreadable. Then, without warning, he stood, chair scraping again, and left the room without a backward glance.
I refused to watch him go. Instead, I turned to the actress beside me—warm eyes, graceful posture, an easy smile that didn't demand interpretation. She played my sister in the series, and unlike him, she knew how to be civil.
We talked for a while, and for once, conversation didn't feel like a minefield. When she excused herself, she smiled kindly and walked away with quiet elegance.
"She likes you," Josh murmured from behind, voice smug.
I turned to him, unimpressed. "She's married, dumbass."
Justin's laugh rang from across the room, deep and amused, and I couldn't help the small smirk that crept onto my lips.
Still, the amusement didn't follow me out of the hotel.
By the time I got into my car, the weight in my chest had returned—heavy, quiet, persistent. I couldn't shake the sense that I'd failed to leave the right impression on Director Dizon. And that bothered me more than I wanted to admit.
As I drove off, my thoughts circled the same conclusion.
It's all his fault.
With just a week left before filming, I went into full preparation mode. Structure brings me comfort, and immersion brings results—so I did both, relentlessly.
My acting coach started coming to my condo daily. We spent hours in the living room dissecting Vest—his thoughts, posture, rhythm, and how love shaped his decisions. She guided me through exercises that, in theory, should have made me understand passion and attachment.
"Imagine yourself in love," she said during one session, voice calm, almost meditative. "Someone you'd give everything up for."
So I tried. And failed. Because the moment I imagined Kane's face as my supposed partner, my chest tightened—not with affection, but pure, undiluted irritation. His smirk. His voice. His existence. Any trace of romantic energy instantly died.
Strangely, my coach called that "progress."
"Whoever that person is," she said, smiling thoughtfully, "they clearly have a strong emotional pull on you. You should try approaching them. Understand why they affect you so much. It might help you channel that intensity into your character."
I nodded politely but said nothing. Internally, I wanted to scream. He's the most aggravating person I've ever met.
And now, to add insult to injury, he's also holding my financial stability hostage.
A few days earlier, a postman had delivered an envelope addressed to me in neat, confident handwriting. Inside was a liability agreement and the repair receipt for Kane's car. The total cost: several hundred thousand pesos. My stomach twisted at the sight of it. I had the money, but spending that much on someone I couldn't stand felt like karmic robbery.
By the time my acting coach wrapped up our session that evening, my mood was fraying. Still, I managed a polite smile as she gave her parting notes. Routine courtesy—walk her to the door, wave goodbye, maintain civility.
I'd just lifted my hand to wave when I saw him.
Kane.
Standing in the hallway, looking every bit as smug as a man who believed gravity worked in his favor. His gaze met mine—steady, unreadable, infuriating.
My brain reacted before my mouth got clearance. "Are you stalking me?"
He smirked. Didn't answer. Just brushed past me, the faint scent of his cologne trailing like an unwanted punctuation mark.
I turned, ready to continue the argument, only to watch him stop at the unit beside mine. He punched in a code, door unlocking with a quiet beep. Before stepping inside, he looked back—one more deliberate smirk—and disappeared.
I stared at the closed door, processing the revelation.
He's my neighbor.
For several seconds, I just stood there, caught between disbelief and existential fatigue. Then a single laugh escaped me—short, disbelieving, absurd. Of course he was my neighbor. Of course fate had a sense of humor.
"How am I supposed to face him now?" I muttered, retreating into my condo.
My face burned, not from anger this time, but embarrassment. My emotional processor was overheating.
I went straight to the small bar near my kitchen, grabbed a bottle of vodka, and poured a shot.
Just one, I told myself. For composure.
One turned into two. Two turned into let's stop counting.
By the time the bottle was empty, the room felt pleasantly distant, my thoughts softer around the edges.
I collapsed onto the sofa, letting exhaustion and alcohol pull me under. Somewhere in the haze, a small, rational part of me tried to remind the rest that tomorrow was the first day of shooting.
I ignored it completely.
The shrill ring of my phone's alarm jolted me awake like an explosion. I blinked at the screen, my brain lagging behind my body, until the numbers finally registered. Then my stomach dropped.
First day of filming.
Call time: 7:00 AM.
Thirty minutes from now.
For a full second, I sat there in silence, my mind completely blank—like a system crash. Then panic flooded in, sharp and physical. I scrambled to get dressed, muttering a series of curses that would've made my PR manager faint. My head throbbed from last night's vodka marathon, and my coordination was about as stable as a camera on a windy day.
This was new territory for me. I'd never been late. Not once. Not in decades of work.
"This is all Kane's fault," I grumbled as I shoved my keys into my pocket. "He's the reason I got so frustrated. He made me want to drink."
The universe, apparently unable to resist irony, responded with a voice directly behind me.
"You not only lack accountability," it drawled, "but you also lack a sense of culpability."
I turned sharply.
Kane.
Leaning against his car like a scene out of a commercial no one asked for. Hoodie again, arms crossed, that same infuriatingly calm expression that screamed unbothered.
I glared. Words lined up in my head, demanding release, but I held them back—barely.
He opened his car door, looking ready to leave, then paused. The quiet between us stretched, his gaze locked on me with the kind of unreadable stillness that makes you feel examined.
"I was going to offer you a ride," he said finally, voice deceptively polite, "since my car can get there in less than five minutes. But since you find me so frustrating and irritating—and I assume you were referring to me—"
He didn't even finish the sentence before I was already sliding into the passenger seat.
His brows lifted, clearly startled.
The moment he'd said less than five minutes, my priorities had rearranged themselves. Pride could wait. Punctuality couldn't. Better to ride with the devil than arrive late to set.
He sighed—audibly, dramatically—and climbed in beside me. The seatbelt clicked, followed by a long silence heavy enough to press against my eardrums.
He looked at me once, that slow, assessing stare that seemed to last too long. I didn't return it. Instead, I turned to the window and focused on the blur of passing buildings. Feigned disinterest is a skill I've perfected over the years.
Neither of us spoke. The silence wasn't awkward, exactly—just dense, like static waiting to crackle.
When the car finally pulled into the set's parking area, I unbuckled before the engine even stopped.
A thank you would have been polite. Logical, even. I didn't say it. Instead, I got out, shut the door, and started walking toward the set with brisk efficiency.
"You're welcome!" he called after me, his voice dripping with theatrical sarcasm.
I didn't turn around. But I heard the smirk in his tone, and it made my jaw tighten.
There was something about him—something magnetic in the worst possible way—that dragged irritation out of me like a reflex. His voice grated on my nerves. His smugness set off every alarm in my head. His calm dismantled my own. It was maddening. And I hated that I couldn't stop thinking about it.
Kane was scheduled to film first—a solo monologue where Ken tries to convince himself that his manipulative plan is actually noble. I sat beside Justin, my arms folded, watching through the monitor.
Despite everything I felt toward him, I couldn't deny the truth: he was good. Annoyingly good. His presence on camera was effortless—fluid, unforced. His words didn't sound memorized; they sounded lived in. There was a rhythm to his tone, a small shift in breath that made the performance believable.
Justin's approving nods said everything.
When the crew burst into applause, I stayed silent. I didn't clap. My hands stayed where they were, crossed over my chest like armor.
Kane noticed. Of course he did. His eyes found mine through the crowd, and that insufferable smirk appeared—the same one that made me want to throw something. He looked pleased with himself, which made my skin prickle.
I clenched my jaw, holding back the urge to remind everyone that smugness wasn't an acting skill.
"Let's move to Vest and Ken's proposal scene," Justin announced.
His eyes flicked to me expectantly.
I nodded once, stood up, and tried to shake off the irritation.
The makeup team swooped in immediately—touching up foundation, fixing my tie, brushing invisible lint from my jacket. It was a ritual I usually found calming. Routine always steadies me.
When Justin called me to set, I took my place behind the desk, flipping through the stack of prop documents until my brain started shifting into character. Vest: composed, calculating, emotionally repressed. A role I understood all too well.
"Action."
The door slammed open.
Kane strode in—commanding, self-assured, completely immersed in Ken. His energy filled the room instantly. The arrogance suited him; it wasn't even performance at this point—it was autobiography.
According to the script, he was supposed to walk past me and sit down on the sofa across the room. I was supposed to sigh, glance up, and follow with detached annoyance.
That was the choreography. That was the plan. But Kane doesn't follow plans. He kept walking—right past his mark, right up to me.
Before I could react, his hand closed around my wrist and pulled me to my feet.
"What—"
I didn't finish. His other hand found my waist, steady but possessive. My breath hitched. My brain scrambled to catch up.
This wasn't in the script. None of it was.
He stared at me—too close, too intense. The kind of gaze that demands attention, makes it impossible to breathe evenly. I could feel the heat from his body, the faint scent of cologne mixed with the studio's recycled air. My entire focus narrowed to that single point of contact.
Then his thumb brushed the small of my back.
That tiny, thoughtless gesture sent my nerves into full rebellion. My skin burned. My pulse misfired. My carefully constructed professionalism collapsed under the weight of sensory overload.
And before I even thought about what I was doing—my hand moved.
Smack.
The sound echoed.
"You're going off-script!" I snapped, voice louder than I meant.
"Cut!" Justin barked, his tone sharp with frustration.
I glared at Kane.
He rubbed the side of his face, grinning like I'd just given him an award instead of a slap.
"That was perfect!" Justin exclaimed, walking toward us. "Why did you stop?"
Perfect. Of course.
I turned to Justin, jaw tight, eyes burning. Tears hovered at the edge of my vision, threatening to betray me.
"It's off-script," I snapped, voice low but sharp. "That's not how it was written."
Justin exhaled, frustration radiating from him. "That's called improvisation, Elves. You're a veteran—you know these things happen. The emotional flow was perfect. I can't believe you stopped it."
His tone wasn't cruel, just honest. Which somehow made it worse.
My throat tightened. I bit my lip hard enough to sting, forcing the tears back. Crying on set was unacceptable—especially in front of Kane.
"Give me five minutes," I managed, cutting Justin off before he could say more.
I turned and walked off the set, posture rigid, hands trembling just slightly.
The moment I closed the dressing room door behind me, the composure cracked. I pressed a hand over my mouth and let the tears come silently, controlled, measured. My reflection blurred in the vanity mirror.
I hated this—hated the weakness, the loss of control.
Justin was right. I knew that. Improvisation is part of the craft. Acting isn't about following the script word-for-word; it's about preserving the emotional truth of the scene. And Kane had done exactly that. He'd seen the subtext—that Ken's proposal wasn't meant to be polite or formal. It was meant to seduce, to provoke, to challenge Vest's restraint.
I should've adapted. But instead, the moment he touched me, my mind short-circuited. I reacted, not as Vest, but as myself—a man completely out of his depth when it comes to intimacy. It wasn't his fault the moment felt real. It was mine for not being prepared for it.
The knock on the door startled me.
Before I could compose myself, it opened, and Justin stepped in with Josh close behind.
Justin's expression softened when he saw me. Without a word, he crossed the room and pulled me into a hug. His hand rubbed slow circles against my back. The contact was steadying—predictable enough for me not to flinch.
"I'm sorry for yelling," he murmured. "I shouldn't have snapped. You were overwhelmed, and my yelling didn't help."
Josh nodded, settling on the edge of the vanity. "It's not your fault, Elves. Kane should've talked to you first. Going off-script without warning is unprofessional, no matter how good it looked."
Justin pulled back slightly, his thumb brushing away the stray tears under my eyes. A small, teasing smile curved his lips. "I knew you'd be crying here, blaming yourself. Still the same crybaby, huh?"
A weak laugh escaped me. "I should've realized what he was doing. It made sense for the character. I just… reacted wrong."
"Wrong?" Justin tilted his head. "Or too honestly?"
I frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"
He grinned, eyes narrowing with mischief. "Hold on… do you like Kane?"
I blinked. Once. Twice. My brain froze.
"What? No!" I said quickly—too quickly. "Of course not!"
Justin looked unconvinced. He studied me for a moment, like a director watching an actor break character mid-take.
I lifted an eyebrow, trying to regain my footing. "I would never—ever—have feelings for that j*3rk."
That last word came out with more force than necessary.
Justin just chuckled and gestured for Josh to follow him.
"Five minutes. Then come out," he said, closing the door behind them.
I turned back to the mirror. My face was blotchy, my eyes rimmed red. I grabbed the compact powder sitting at the edge of the vanity and dabbed a little under my eyes until the evidence of my breakdown faded into something passably neutral.
I stared at myself for a long time, studying the calm surface.
"Professional," I whispered. "Stay professional."
But the truth was already echoing in my head, soft and insistent—an admission I refused to say out loud.
Kane had gotten under my skin. And I hated it.
Once I'd managed to collect myself—and disguise the evidence with a thin layer of powder—I went back to the set. Kane was already there, standing near the desk, arms crossed, posture dripping with impatience. He looked like he'd been forced to stand in a place that personally offended him.
I took my seat behind the desk again, focusing on my breathing, counting the beats to calm the jitter under my ribs. Professional. Composed. Precise.
Then he opened his mouth.
"You must think you're so important," he muttered under his breath, pretending to listen to Justin's directions. "You wasted ten minutes of my time, and yet you had the audacity to call someone else a newbie while acting like one yourself."
His voice was quiet enough that no one else would hear, but sharp enough to find every nerve ending I had left.
I gritted my teeth. He wasn't wrong, technically. But I'd rather swallow glass than admit that to him. Instead, my pride—unhelpful, loud, and fully awake—decided to retaliate in the pettiest way possible. If he thought I'd wasted his time before, I'd show him what real wasted time looked like.
During the next take, I deliberately fumbled my lines. Once. Twice. Then again. Every time he reached his cue, I'd misstep just enough to force another reset. Justin's patience thinned audibly, his sighs getting longer with each retake.
By the fifth attempt, the tension in the room could've cut glass.
Kane's composure cracked first. He grabbed me a little too roughly, yanking me out of the chair. His hand slipped from my waist, and before I could steady myself, my foot caught on a cable. The next thing I knew, I was on the floor. Hard. Pain shot through my lower back, followed by an embarrassingly loud gasp. My eyes stung immediately.
I looked up, glaring. "You—!"
Kane froze, his expression flashing from anger to shock. He hadn't expected me to fall; that much was obvious.
"I didn't mean for that to happen," he said, offering his hand.
I hesitated, then took it—partly because it seemed sincere, partly because my pride wouldn't let me stay on the floor any longer than necessary.
Halfway up, he released me.
I dropped back down with a dull thud.
The second fall hurt less physically and more… existentially.
I stared up at him, mouth hanging open in disbelief.
He was smirking. Amused. Pleased with himself.
"Oh, for goodness' sake!" Justin's voice rang out, finally snapping. He stormed toward us, his footsteps echoing across the set.
I scrambled to my feet, brushing imaginary dust from my clothes, while Kane just stood there like the embodiment of boredom.
"A day," Justin said, face red with frustration. "One entire day wasted because of your childish behavior! How are we supposed to shoot if you two can't even stand to be in the same room?"
"He started it!" I blurted out. "He got physical because the shoot was delayed—which, for the record, was his fault in the first place!"
Kane scoffed, tone maddeningly calm. "I wouldn't have done that if you hadn't been deliberately forgetting your lines to annoy me."
I blinked. He knew?
He'd known all along and just let me dig my own hole?
"I wouldn't have reacted if you hadn't gone off-script in the first place," I shot back, crossing my arms.
"Just admit it—you're unprofessional," he said smoothly. "You're the newbie here, not me."
That was it. My restraint snapped.
"I've been an actor for over a decade," I said, voice cutting like glass. "I won't tolerate you insulting my experience."
He raised an eyebrow, looked me up and down with infuriating nonchalance, and muttered, "I don't see why people like you. You're not that appealing to me."
My jaw dropped.
"Oh, now we're talking about looks? Fine," I snapped, pointing at him. "You're not that great either. Your eyes are so squinty you look like a girl. Your nose is too high—it looks sculpted. And your jawline is so—"
"Stop! Stop right now!" Justin's voice thundered across the set, cutting through the chaos like a blade. "Or you're both off the show!"
The room went dead silent.
I turned to him immediately, guilt hitting me like cold water. Kane, for once, stayed quiet.
Justin's eyes narrowed. "You two need to resolve whatever this is. Don't come near me again until you've figured it out. I want peace on this set. Is that clear?"
I swallowed hard and nodded.
Beside me, Kane gave a small, silent nod too—though I caught the faint curl of his lips, like he was barely containing another smirk.
"Let's resume next week," Justin said flatly before walking off.
Josh followed, pausing only to shoot us a look that could peel paint.
I sighed in frustration, ready to argue, but when I turned back, Kane was already heading for the exit.
"Where are you going?" I called after him, startled.
He didn't even slow down. "The basketball game I was planning to watch is about to start."
He said it so casually, as if walking out on an argument—and an entire day of chaos—was the most normal thing in the world.
I stood there, jaw tight, feeling a ridiculous mix of irritation and abandonment.
Then he stopped by the door, turned slightly, and arched an eyebrow.
"Josh and Justin have left," he said. "Are you planning to walk home?"
It took me a second to understand what he meant. Then the realization hit me like a punch to the gut.
His car. I rode with him to the set.
I gasped softly and hurried to catch up, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of pointing it out again. He waited just long enough for me to reach him—then I walked straight past him, muttering under my breath, and headed toward his car. The click of his remote unlocked the doors, and I slipped inside without a word. Seatbelt, straight posture, eyes forward. The definition of composure.
He said nothing as he got in. Just started the engine and drove. The silence was heavy, but not uncomfortable. More… strategic. Both of us pretending the other didn't exist.
Even when we stood side by side in the elevator of our condo building, the quiet held. No words. No glances. Just the hum of the floor numbers lighting up one by one.
When we reached our floor, I moved quickly toward my unit.
But before I could swipe my access card, his hand caught my shoulder—firm, steady.
I froze, then turned to face him, heart hammering.
"I really liked the script after reading it," he said, tone serious for once. "I want this to work. I need your cooperation. We need to work on our chemistry—this is a love story, after all."
I blinked, caught off guard by how rational that sounded.
"All right," I said slowly. "What do you suggest then?"
"Let's live together."
I stared at him. "Wha—what?"
His answer was immediate, almost clinical. "Vest and Ken are married. They live together. The best way to portray them convincingly is to experience it. Simple logic."
"Simple—?" I echoed, my voice climbing an octave.
He didn't seem to notice my disbelief. Or maybe he did and just didn't care.
Then his expression shifted, the seriousness slipping into something wicked. "Or would you prefer we sleep together first?"
Before I could even form a sentence, he stepped closer—fast. His body pressed against mine, pinning me to the wall beside my door. His hands gripped my waist, strong enough to hold me still but not hurt.
My breath caught.
His gaze was locked on mine—sharp, analytical, almost studying the way my pupils dilated. His hand slid up, brushing my neck, then cupping my jaw in a gesture that felt both intimate and unnervingly steady.
When he leaned in, his breath ghosted over my lips. My chest tightened; my thoughts scattered like papers in the wind.
Then—just barely—his lips brushed mine.
That was all it took.
Instinct screamed louder than reason. I shoved him back with both hands, heat rising in my face, body trembling from the adrenaline surge.
"L–let's live together instead!" I blurted out, voice breaking halfway through the sentence.
And before he could respond, I bolted inside my condo and slammed the door shut.
For several seconds, I just stood there, back against the door, gasping quietly. My pulse was so loud it felt like it was echoing off the walls.
I pressed a hand to my chest, trying to steady it.
"He's dangerous," I muttered under my breath. "Really dangerous. Don't lower your guard again, Elves."
My reflection in the darkened window looked unconvinced. Because no matter how many times I repeated the warning, my heart refused to listen.