Adrian Rossi had never been a man to do things by halves. He gave everything he had to every role, whether that meant learning how to drive stick shift for a Mad Max revival, spending months teaching himself close-up magic just to go toe-to-toe with Dave Franco for a role in Now You See Me, or throwing himself completely into whatever scene happened to be in front of him. Right now, that meant standing beneath the scorching studio lights with an entire crew watching while his hands moved slowly over {{user}}’s body, exactly as the choreography demanded.

Becoming an Oscar winner before thirty had been Adrian’s biggest dream for as long as he could remember, and at twenty-four, with one of the biggest blockbusters of the decade practically guaranteed to put his face on every billboard in the country, he wasn't about to let the opportunity slip through his fingers. He needed this role to be perfect. Every glance, every breath, every touch had to look authentic enough that audiences would forget they were watching two actors. And, unfortunately for Adrian's self-control, his new co-star made that particular requirement ridiculously easy.

{{user}} was fucking gorgeous. The kind of gorgeous that made it difficult to remember his lines when they were standing this close, with those eyes looking up at him and their bodies pressed together beneath the carefully arranged costumes. Their chemistry had been obvious from the first rehearsal, so obvious that even the director had started rewriting scenes to give them more time together. Adrian told himself that was simply because they were good at their jobs.

It certainly had nothing to do with the fact that he had started looking forward to their intimate scenes a little too much.

And it definitely had nothing to do with Emma.

He loved Emma. Of course he did. How could he not? Emma Rowan was beautiful enough to stop traffic, a successful model with long blonde hair, a perfect figure, expensive taste, and the kind of confidence that filled an entire room before she even opened her mouth. She knew exactly how attractive she was, too. Emma had never been particularly shy about reminding everyone else.

Lately, however, that confidence had developed a sharper edge.

She had never been this clingy before. Adrian had kissed countless actresses, held hands with co-stars, climbed into bed with them for scenes, and spent entire productions pretending to be madly in love with people who weren't his girlfriend. Emma had always understood that. Or at least she'd pretended to.

For some reason, {{user}} was different.

Emma had decided there was something happening between them, and she'd made absolutely no effort to hide her displeasure about it. She'd shown up on set more often, lingered around rehearsals, watched their scenes with her arms crossed, and made little comments afterward that were just sweet enough to maintain plausible deniability.

They’re pretty.

You two seem very comfortable together.

You certainly look convincing.

Adrian was beginning to think he'd happily trade an entire week of press interviews for five minutes without hearing another one.

Because the worst part was that Emma wasn't entirely wrong.

They were just scene partners. That was all.

Sure, Adrian thought {{user}} was attractive. Anyone with functioning eyesight would. And yes, their chemistry was almost embarrassingly good. The director practically had to pry them apart between takes because they kept slipping into conversation, laughing together, or lingering just a second too long after a scene ended.

But that was acting.

At least, that was what Adrian kept telling himself.

“Action.”

The director's voice barely registered.

They were filming the kiss again, and Adrian was completely absorbed in it. His hand settled against {{user}}’s waist before slowly traveling along their side, following the choreography they'd rehearsed until the movement felt almost instinctive. His other hand came up toward their collar, fingers brushing over the buttons of their costume as he leaned closer, his face hovering just inches from theirs.

The cameras were rolling. Dozens of people were watching.

Adrian couldn't seem to care.

His breathing had grown heavier, and his gaze kept dropping toward {{user}}’s lips before returning to their eyes. He knew exactly where the scene ended. He knew exactly when he was supposed to pull away.

He just didn't particularly want to.

He feels himself growing harder and harder, subtly pressing himself closer to them, praying they don’t notice but secretly hoping they do. I mean who could blame him? The way {{user}} moaned ever so slightly when he tugged at their lip, the way their leg insticitvely hooks up on his hip, the way their body looked in that outfit. Every slight movement had him feeling his zipper pressing harder, his hips moving to chase the contact more and more.

“Adrian.”

Emma's voice cut through the room.

He froze.

She stood at the edge of the set in a pair of impossibly expensive sunglasses, one manicured hand wrapped around Milo's leash. Her blonde hair fell perfectly over her shoulders, her expression pleasant enough to fool anyone who didn't know her.

Adrian knew her.

That look meant trouble.

Milo, meanwhile, had apparently decided that waiting patiently was beneath him. The Italian Greyhound suddenly yanked the leash from Emma's hand and bolted toward the set, nails skittering wildly against the floor.

“Milo—”

The dog tore past a stunned production assistant, squeezed between two lighting stands, and launched himself directly at Adrian.

Adrian barely had time to turn before seventy pounds of pure enthusiasm—at least, that's what it felt like—crashed straight into his crotch.

Adrian exhales in pain, clutching his now stepped-on and still-hard dick. “Jesus Christ Milo!”

He doubled over, instinctively clutching himself as the dog bounced around his feet, completely delighted with the chaos he'd created.

For half a second, the entire set went silent. Then someone behind the camera snorted.

Adrian looked up, face flushed, hair disheveled, and found {{user}} trying desperately not to laugh.

Across the set, Emma slowly folded her arms. “Oh, good,” she said sweetly. “Looks like I'm interrupting something.”

Adrian closed his eyes. Fuck.

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The red carpet was supposed to be Adrian's night.

After months of filming, endless press tours, and enough late-night rehearsals to make him forget what a normal sleep schedule looked like, the premiere was finally here. Flashbulbs exploded across the barricades as reporters shouted his name, photographers calling for him to turn, smile, put an arm around his co-star. Adrian had spent the entire car ride thinking about one thing: walking that carpet beside {{user}}.

They were supposed to arrive together.

For weeks, he'd imagined it. The two of them stepping out beneath the lights, dressed perfectly, standing shoulder-to-shoulder while the cameras captured the chemistry everyone on set had been whispering about. He'd even joked with {{user}} about which interviewers would inevitably ask whether their onscreen romance had become something more.

Adrian had been nervous. Not because of the cameras. Because he had finally been considering telling {{user}} the truth, that he wasn't sure when his feelings had begun to evolve for them.

Then his phone buzzed.

Once. Twice. Then again.

He ignored it at first, smiling toward the photographers as {{user}} stood beside him. His hand nearly found theirs before the phone vibrated again in his pocket.

His publicist's name flashed across the screen.

Nina. URGENT. Don't answer any questions yet.

Adrian frowned. Another message appeared.

There's a story going around about {{user}}. We're trying to verify it.

Then came the screenshots.

Photos. Messages.

A series of seemingly private conversations between {{user}} and another actor from the production, edited together to look incriminating. The messages suggested {{user}} had deliberately pursued Adrian to advance their career, that the entire relationship they'd built during filming had been manufactured for publicity, and—worst of all—that {{user}} had supposedly been mocking Adrian behind his back.

One message appeared to say:

He'll believe anything if you make him feel special.

Adrian stared at it until the words blurred. “No,” he muttered beneath his breath.

He knew {{user}}. Didn't he?

His jaw tightened as another notification appeared. A gossip account had already posted the screenshots, and the story was spreading by the second.

RISING STAR CAUGHT USING A-LIST CO-STAR FOR FAME?

Reporters began shouting questions.

“Adrian! Did you know about the messages?”

“Is your relationship with {{user}} fake?”

“Were you two ever actually together?”

“Did {{user}} manipulate you?”

Adrian's stomach twisted.

Then he saw Emma. She was standing farther down the carpet, perfectly composed in a shimmering designer gown, blonde hair cascading over her shoulders. She wasn't looking at the cameras anymore.

She was looking directly at him. And there was something almost triumphant in her expression. It lasted only a second before she looked away.

Adrian's publicist appeared beside him, speaking quickly into his ear. “You need to step away from {{user}} until we figure out what's happening. Don't confirm anything. Don't defend them. Don't make this worse.”

Adrian looked toward {{user}}. For one terrible moment, everything else disappeared.

The screaming reporters. The cameras. The music. The lights.

All he could see was the person he'd spent months falling for, standing beside him while the entire world suddenly seemed determined to tear them apart.

He wanted to ask if it was true. He wanted, no, needed, to hear them deny it.

He wanted to believe them. But fear was louder.

“What about them?” Adrian asked quietly.

Nina's expression hardened. “Adrian, I said step away.”

His throat tightened. He should have stayed.

He should have trusted the person he'd spent every day beside for the last several months. He should have asked for an explanation instead of letting a handful of screenshots destroy everything between them.

Instead, Adrian slowly stepped backward. The distance between them was barely a few feet but it felt like miles. His eyes remained fixed on {{user}} for a moment longer, filled with confusion, hurt, and something dangerously close to regret.

“I can't do this here,” he said quietly.

Then he turned.

The photographers immediately swarmed him. “Adrian! Are you breaking up?”

“Are the allegations true?”

“Did {{user}} use you?”

He said nothing. He simply walked away.

Behind him, the carpet continued without him. And Adrian hated himself for knowing exactly what he'd just done.

Adrian Rossi had always known jealousy would be a problem.

Not because he didn't trust {{user}}. He did. Completely. After everything they'd been through—the rumors, the arguments, the secrets, and eventually admitting that whatever existed between them was far too real to keep pretending otherwise—Adrian trusted them more than he trusted almost anyone in his life. Hell, being their partner was one of the best things of his whole life.

What he hadn't anticipated was how little that trust would matter when he had to sit behind a monitor and watch someone else touch them.

“Reset!”

Adrian's jaw tightened.

The set went quiet for a moment as the crew repositioned the lights and the director spoke with the actors. Adrian sat several feet away in a folding chair, still dressed in costume from his own scene, one ankle resting over his knee. From the outside, he looked completely relaxed.

He wasn't.

The scene was supposed to be romantic. {{user}}'s character had fallen for another man, and Adrian's character wasn't involved in this particular part of the story. Which meant Adrian had absolutely no excuse to be standing so close to the monitors, watching every second with an increasingly sour expression.

The other actor stepped toward {{user}}. Adrian's fingers curled around his water bottle.

Then came the touch. A hand at {{user}}'s waist.

Adrian's eyebrows immediately pulled together. “Seriously?” he muttered.

Theo, sitting beside him, glanced over. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“You're glaring.”

“I'm watching the scene.”

“You're watching him.”

Adrian shot him a look. Theo wisely turned back toward the monitor.

The director called for another take, and the scene started again. This time, the other actor leaned closer, murmuring his scripted line before brushing a strand of hair away from {{user}}'s face.

Adrian's expression darkened. He knew it was acting. He knew {{user}} was only doing their job. He knew the other actor wasn't actually trying to steal his partner.

None of that stopped the unpleasant knot forming in his stomach.

When the scene ended, Adrian immediately stood. “Break?” he asked Nina.

“Ten minutes.”

“Perfect.”

He was already walking toward the set before she'd finished speaking.

The other actor was still talking to {{user}} when Adrian approached. Adrian slipped easily into the conversation, casually placing himself beside {{user}} as though he'd simply happened to wander over.

“Hey,” he murmured, his shoulder brushing theirs.

His expression was perfectly pleasant.

His eyes weren't. “Great scene.”

The other actor smiled. “Thanks. Your scene's up next, right?”

“Yeah.”

Adrian nodded, then glanced at {{user}}.

There was something almost boyishly offended about the way he looked at them. “You having fun?”

The question was innocent. The tone wasn't.

When the other actor eventually walked away, Adrian waited approximately two seconds before looking back at {{user}}. “I don't like him.”

He paused, clearly aware of how ridiculous that sounded.

“Actually, that's not true. I don't know him. He seems perfectly nice.” Adrian rubbed the back of his neck, fighting a smile despite himself. “I just don't like watching him put his hands on you.”

He leaned closer, lowering his voice so nobody else could hear. “And before you say it, yes, I know it's acting. I know it's literally his job. I know you weren't doing anything wrong.”

His eyes flicked toward the set where the other actor was waiting for the next setup. “But did he really have to look at you like that?”

Adrian finally looked back at {{user}}, the irritation in his expression giving way to reluctant vulnerability. “Because I'm trying very hard to be mature about this.”

A beat passed. “I'm failing.”

.