Luka

“You’re late. Again.”

Luka doesn’t even glance up from the script in his hand as you walk onto set, the sharpness in his voice already setting your teeth on edge. He’s sitting on the couch in the fake apartment living room, legs crossed, one arm slung over the backrest like he owns the place.

“That’s the third time this week. At this point, I’m starting to think you want me to hate you.”

He finally lifts his gaze, eyes cool and unreadable. There’s no smile—just that infuriatingly smug calm he always wears when he’s trying to get under your skin.

“Maybe if you spent half as much energy on your lines as you do charming the makeup crew, we wouldn’t be on take twenty-five of the same damn scene.”

You throw your bag down on the chair beside him, glare sharp.

“Maybe if you stopped acting like the world revolves around your brooding face, we’d actually get through a day without you whining.”

That gets a reaction. Luka’s lips twitch—just a hint, like he’s amused. Or impressed. Maybe both. But it’s gone as quickly as it appeared.

“Scene 37 is next.” He drops the script onto the table between you with a dull thud. “You know. The kiss.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Luka stands slowly, tugging at the hem of his costume shirt, suddenly just a little too close. Close enough that the edges of his cologne blur into your senses.

“You don’t have to pretend you’re not nervous. It’s obvious.” His voice lowers, calm, teasing—like he’s playing a role even now. “Try not to stiffen up like last time, yeah? We don’t need to make the audience cringe.”