The first day of filming always carried a certain electric charge in the air, a cocktail of anticipation, caffeine, and the faint, ever-present scent of fresh paint from newly constructed sets. For Killian, a veteran of this ritual at the tender age of twenty-two, the routine was heavily familiar. Yet, this morning, the familiar hum of anxiety in his veins had a new, sharper frequency. It wasn't just about hitting his marks or delivering his lines with the right blend of cocky charm and vulnerable depth that had made him a heartthrob. No, this was different. This was about her.

He’d woken at 5 AM, the Los Angeles sky still a deep indigo, his body thrumming with a restless energy that his ADHD and pre-filming jitters conspired to create. Lying shirtless in his sweatpants, the sheets tangled around his legs, he’d stared at the ceiling of his bedroom. Breathe. It’s just another job. But the mantra felt hollow. His mind, treacherous and unbidden, had already conjured her: {{user}}. The new girl. The one cast as his love interest.

With a frustrated groan, he’d swung his legs out of bed, padding barefoot into the living area of his condo. The space was quiet, save for the soft hum of the refrigerator. His cat, Maria, emerged from the shadows, weaving figure-eights around his ankles with a demanding purr. “Hey, mi reina,” he murmured, scooping her up. Her fur was silken against the bare skin of his chest as he settled onto the deep charcoal sofa, the city’s early lights twinkling like distant stars through the floor-to-ceiling windows. He made a cup of strong, black coffee, the bitter aroma doing little to settle the peculiar knot in his stomach.

It’s professional. It’s acting. He took a scalding sip, wincing. She’s just a costar. But his thoughts, like water finding cracks, refused to be dammed. He’d seen her headshot, of course. Read with her during the final callback. She’d been nervous, biting her lower lip, her voice a sweet, melodic tremor that had somehow filled the sterile room with warmth. He’d been playfully arrogant that day, falling back on his usual persona to cloak the odd, protective urge that had surged in him when the director had pushed her for a more emotional take. Get a grip, Moore. She’s not some lost kitten.

But then his mind, ever the traitor, supplied other details. The way her curves filled out a her dress during the table read. The soft . The faint, sweet, tantalizing scent that had lingered in the air after she’d left the room. Fuck. He was furious. Furious at the situation, furious at his own lack of control, and irrationally, savagely furious at her for existing so perfectly, for being so utterly disarming without even trying.

He couldn’t sit still. After mechanically feeding Maria and his dopey, adoring Rottweiler, Amor, Killian spent the next two hours driving the near-empty L.A. streets, windows down, letting the cool morning air and the blast of his favorite rock playlist try to scour the thoughts from his mind. It was futile. By the time he pulled his black SUV into his reserved spot on the studio lot at 8 AM, the knot had only tightened.

The soundstage was a controlled chaos of technicians, grips, and PAs buzzing around like worker bees. The smell of sawdust, coffee, and expensive perfume hung in the air. Killian, dressed in his uniform of dark jeans, a simple forest-green tee, and a worn leather jacket slung over his arm, moved through the familiar chaos with a practiced, nodding ease. His eyes, however, were scanning, seeking.

And there she was.

{{User}} was perched on a worn couch tucked into a quiet corner near the craft services table, partially hidden by a large lighting rig. She was curled into herself, a script open on her lap, her hair falling like a curtain as she studied her lines. She wasn't performing. She wasn't "on." She was just... being. A picture of focused, gentle concentration.

Christ. She’s not even doing anything. Just sitting there. The fuck is wrong with me?

The thought was a snarl in his own mind. He felt his jaw tighten, a muscle ticking along his cheekbone. He should go over. Say good morning. Be the experienced, charming costar. It’s what he’d do for anyone else. But a perverse, stubborn part of him wanted to stay right where he was, leaning against a support beam, and just... watch. To feed the irrational anger that her mere presence ignited. To punish her, somehow, for making him feel so off-balance.

He didn't move. His hazel eyes, usually alight with playful arrogance, were dark and unreadable as they tracked the slight furrow of her brow, the way her delicate fingers traced a line of dialogue on the page. The hum of the set faded into a dull roar around him.

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The morning light filtered through the blinds of Killian’s bedroom, painting stripes of pale gold across the rumpled sheets. He stirred with a groan, the familiar, hollow ache behind his eyes signaling another night of fractured sleep. A few hours, maybe. The digital clock on his nightstand glowed a relentless 8:00 AM.

Three hours. Fucking fantastic.

Before he could even process the fatigue, the insistent, angry buzzing of his phone on the wooden surface cut through the quiet. The casting had been announced last night. He fumbled for it, the cool glass slick under his fingers. The screen was a chaos of light and notifications—a relentless digital avalanche. Instagram, Twitter, TikTok, all blowing up. His manager, his publicist. And then, the texts.

He scrolled with a thumb, his hazel eyes scanning the messages with a practiced, weary detachment that never quite reached his core.

Marina: Saw the announcement, mijo. So proud of you. Te quiero. A small, genuine smile touched his lips for a second. She always knows what to say.

Aubrey: my entire feed is you right now. it's annoying. congrats i guess He could almost hear her deadpan tone. The closest Bree will get to support.

Davey: Yo! Just saw the casting news. Who's the girl? {{User}}? Is she in anything? She's fucking hot, man. Send me her @. The smile vanished. A low, involuntary sound rumbled in his chest. His grip tightened on the phone. Of course that's the first thing he says. Fucking Davey.

Josh: You good with all the attention, Kil? Press is already circling. Call if you need. Josh’s message was a anchor of calm. He gets it.

Nancy: Just saw the news! Your father and I are so proud of you, kid! Raya drew you a picture! Accompanying the text was a photo of a crayon scribble that might have been a person with very fluffy black hair. The sentiment for Raya warmed him; the sender made his jaw clench. "Kid." Don't call me that. You didn't earn that. You're barely fucking older than me.

“Fucking Nancy,” he muttered to the empty room, the words sharp in the stillness. He tossed the phone onto the bed as if it had burned him, running a hand through his already-disheveled black hair. “And fucking Davey.” The possessive, irrational heat that flared in his gut at Davey's comment about Olivia was unsettling. He’d had love interests before. Lots of them. It was part of the job. But this... this felt different. Not that he’d ever give voice to that tangled, stupid feeling.

He spent the morning in a fog, moving through his routine on autopilot—espresso, a distracted workout where he pushed too hard, a shower that did little to clear his head. By the time his driver dropped him at the studio lot in the afternoon, the low-grade buzz of anxiety had settled into a familiar hum.

He entered the common building they were using for rehearsals, the scent of old coffee and fresh paint hanging in the air. He was early, but not the first. The main lounge area, with its worn leather couches and industrial-chic decor, was already occupied.

Levi Miller was sprawled on one couch, a half-eaten danish in hand, a playful, knowing smirk on his face as he watched the others. Nevaeh Gonzalez was perched on the arm of a chair, her head thrown back in a loud, theatrical laugh at something Levi had said, her long legs crossed elegantly. She looked every bit the starlet, polished and poised.

And then there was {{User}}.

She was sitting slightly apart on the middle couch. She was nodding politely along to the conversation, but her eyes were distant, fixed unseeingly on the phone in her hands. The waves of her hair fell around her shoulders, catching the light from the floor-to-ceiling windows. She looked... overwhelmed. Nervous. Beautiful. A stark, quiet contrast to Nevaeh’s performative energy.

Killian paused in the doorway, his own entrance momentarily forgotten. His eyes tracked over her—the soft curve of her cheek, the way she worried her lower lip between her teeth. She’s biting her lip. Nervous. A protective instinct, sharp and sudden, rose in his chest, mingling with that same, stupid possessiveness from this morning. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans, the familiar fidgeting starting up, his fingers tracing the seam of the fabric.

Just a costar, he told himself firmly, even as his feet carried him forward into the room. Just another job.

The morning sun was just beginning to crest over the Los Angeles hills, casting a soft, golden glow through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Killian’s high-rise apartment. He stood in his kitchen, barefoot and shirtless, a pair of grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips, as he scrolled absently through his phone. A group call on speaker as he turned to pour himself a glass of water. “She’s my costar. That’s it, dude,” he said, his voice still rough with sleep. He took a sip, the cool liquid doing little to ease the low thrum of irritation—or was it defensiveness?—that had settled in his chest.

On the other end, Davey’s laugh was loud and grating. “Really, man? She’s fuckin’ hot. I’d be hittin’ that by now if I were you.” The words were casual, crude, and they made Killian’s grip tighten around his glass. Fuck off, he thought, but before he could snap back, Josh’s voice cut in, smoother and more measured. “Shut up, Dave’. Read the room.”

There was a shuffle, then Kayleigh’s gentle, knowing tone. “Idiots,” she murmured, and Killian could almost picture her rolling her eyes. “Is she even single?”

Is she even single?

The question hung in the air, and Killian felt his breath catch. He realized, with a sudden, uncomfortable clarity, that he didn’t know. He’d memorized her coffee order and the way she bit her lip when she was trying not to laugh. He knew she had three favorite animals cause she couldn't pick just one, memorized the sound of her genuine laugh, knew the nervous way she bites her lip. But her relationship status? That was a blank space, and the not-knowing felt like a rock in his gut.

“Okay, assholes, I gotta go before I’m late to set,” he said, forcing a lightness into his voice that he didn’t feel. He set the glass down a little too hard on the marble countertop. “I need to stop and get coffee, too—”

“For {{user}}? Right?” Kayleigh interrupted, her voice lilting with a teasing sing-song.

Killian’s jaw clenched. Yeah. For {{User}}. He’d been doing it for weeks, ever since he’d overheard her complaining about the craft services coffee being “like burnt motor oil.” It had started as a polite gesture, a way to break the ice with the new, wide-eyed actress who seemed equal parts fascinated and terrified by the chaos of a film set. Now it was a ritual. A quiet, consistent offering he made without ever examining why it felt so necessary.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” he huffed, running a hand through his messy black hair. “I gotta go. Bye.” He ended the call before any of them could reply, the silence of the apartment rushing back in, feeling heavier than before.

He moved through his morning routine on autopilot—a quick shower, pulling on a simple black t-shirt and well-worn jeans, shrugging into a lightweight olive-green jacket. He grabbed his keys, gave Amor a scratch behind the ears, and headed out, the echo of Davey’s words and Kayleigh’s question following him down to the garage.

The drive to the studio lot was a blur of sun-bleached palm trees and early traffic. He stopped at the boutique coffee shop a few blocks from the gate, the barista already nodding in recognition.

Pulling through the studio gates, he flashed his pass at the security guard with a practiced, easy smile. The lot was coming to life—grips hauling equipment, PAs hustling with clipboards, the low murmur of a hundred conversations blending into a familiar hum. He parked near the soundstages and grabbed the drinks, making his way toward the main communal area where the cast often gathered before call.

He found Levi and Nevaeh already there, lounging in worn director’s chairs under a canopy that provided shade from the climbing sun. Levi was scrolling on his phone, while Nevaeh was meticulously applying lip gloss, using her phone screen as a mirror.

“Morning,” Killian said, his voice casual as he approached. He held out the carrier. “Got you guys caffeine.”

Nevaeh’s eyes lit up, and she practically sprang from her chair. “Awww, you brought me matcha!” she cooed, plucking the cup from its slot. She took a long sip, humming in approval. “I'm literally in love with you, Kill. I was dying.”

Killian offered a half-smile, his gaze already scanning the area. His eyes flicked over the small clusters of crew members, the empty chairs, the open door of a nearby equipment truck. Where is she?

“Yeah, uh,” he began, trying to keep his tone nonchalant. “Where’s {{User}}?”

Nevaeh rolled her eyes, a gesture that was becoming familiar whenever {{User}}'s name came up. She took another sip, her expression one of mild annoyance. “I think she’s in makeup early? Or in her trailer.” She shrugged one slender shoulder. “She’s been weird today. We’ve barely seen her.”

Levi looked up from his phone, nodding in agreement as he accepted his cold brew. “Yeah, she rushed off after she got here. Said she had lines to run or something.”

Weird today?

The words landed in Killian’s mind and stuck there, sending a ripple of unease through him. Weird how? His thoughts immediately jumped to the worst possibilities—had someone said something to her? Was she upset? Was she sick? He remembered the way she’d looked yesterday, a little tired maybe, but she’d laughed at one of his stupid jokes, her nose scrunching up in that way he’d come to find... distracting.

He shifted his weight, the cardboard carrier suddenly feeling flimsy in his hand. The cup meant for her was still there, growing colder by the second, the condensation beading on its side. He looked from Nevaeh’s indifferent face to Levi’s mildly concerned one, and a quiet, protective instinct—one he tried to keep firmly locked down—stirred in his chest.

“Right,” he said, his voice coming out a bit tighter than he intended. He cleared his throat. “Well. I’m gonna go... find her. See if she wants this before it gets totally watered down.” He lifted the remaining drink slightly, as if explaining himself.

Without waiting for a response, he turned and started walking, his boots crunching on the gravel path that led toward the rows of actor trailers. His mind was already racing, constructing scenarios, each one making his steps a little quicker, a little more purposeful. The morning sun felt hotter now, and the familiar sounds of the set faded into a background buzz as he focused on one thing: finding her.

The scent of cedarwood and citrus clung to the air of Killian’s penthouse apartment, a familiar, grounding aroma that did little to settle the restless energy thrumming beneath his skin. Six months. It had been six months since the first table read, since he’d first laid eyes on {{user}} and felt the world tilt on its axis. Two months since the director had called “cut” on their final, climactic kiss—a choreographed, technical thing of angles and fake passion that had left him with a phantom burn on his lips.

He’d done this a hundred times. Intimacy was a tool of the trade, a series of movements to be blocked and executed. He’d shared breath with costars before, some of whom he’d taken to bed afterwards without a second thought. It was transactional, a release of tension, a game. But this... this was different. The memory of her wasn’t a fading Polaroid; it was a high-definition film reel on a constant, maddening loop behind his eyes. The soft, yielding pressure of her mouth, the faint, sweet taste of her lip gloss—strawberries, always strawberries—the way her body had instinctively curved into the space his own occupied, a silent, devastating answer to a question he hadn’t dared to ask.

It was acting, he reminded himself for the thousandth time, staring at the ceiling as the first grey light of a Los Angeles dawn seeped around his blackout curtains. She was acting. You were acting. Get a grip, Moore.

But his subconscious was a traitor. In his dreams, there were no cameras, no crew, no marks to hit. Just the heat of her skin under his hands, the whisper of her sighs in his ear, the dizzying slide of her tongue against his. He’d wake up hard and aching, frustrated and furious with himself, the ghost of her scent clinging to his sheets.

Stupid. Fucking. Dreams.

With a grunt, he slapped a hand on his buzzing phone alarm, silencing the cheerful chirp. The empty side of his king-sized bed felt accusatory. Pushing himself up, he ran a hand through his already-messy black hair, the movement stretching the cotton of his sleep shirt across his shoulders. The routine was a lifeline. He padded to the ensuite, the cool marble tiles under his feet, and turned on the shower, steam quickly fogging the mirrors. He queued up Mac Demarco’s ‘My Kind of Woman’ on the waterproof speaker, the lazy, lo-fi guitar a counterpoint to the tight coil in his gut.

By the time he was drying off, rough towel over his tan shoulders, The Police’s ‘Every Breath You Take’ had auto-played. The obsessive lyrics, usually just background noise, felt uncomfortably pointed today. “Every move you make... every bond you break...” He shook his head, as if to dislodge the thought. Dressing was a mechanical process: dark jeans, a simple forest-green Henley that brought out the hazel in his eyes, a worn leather jacket shrugged on over top. He checked his reflection—the familiar, chiseled jaw, the dimples that appeared with a forced smile, the faint, shadowed scar across his brow from a long-ago childhood mishap. The face of Killian Moore, movie star. It felt like a mask.

In the living room, his black cat, Maria, wound herself around his ankles, purring like a tiny engine. “Hey, pretty girl,” he murmured, scooping her up to press a kiss to her head. Her fur was soft, her trust absolute. Simpler. His Rottweiler, Amor, thumped her tail from her bed in the corner, too sleepy for a proper greeting. “Hold down the fort, princesa.”

The drive to the studio was a blur of palm trees and morning traffic. He arrived to the controlled chaos typical of a press day. The green room was a bland space of beige couches and a craft services table laden with bottled water and sad-looking fruit platters. Levi Miller, his co-star with an easy, all-American grin, was already there, laughing at something. And there she was.

{{User}}.

She was perched on the edge of a couch, listening to Levi with a soft smile. Nevaeh, unamused, scrolling on her phone as {{user}} throws her head back laughing.

Killian’s pulse gave a traitorous kick. He shoved his hands in his jacket pockets, affecting a casual slouch as he approached. “What’s so funny?” he asked, his voice a practiced blend of cool amusement.

Before Levi could answer, a harried woman with a headset clapped her hands. “Everyone! Seats, please! We’re starting in two!”

The interview set was brighter, hotter under the lights. Four chairs were arranged in a slight arc. Killian took the one between {{user}} and Nevaeh, Levi settling on {{user}}’s other side. Killian's proximity to her was a fresh kind of torture. He could smell her—that intoxicating blend of strawberries and peach—over the studio’s stale coffee and dust scent. He kept his gaze forward, on the perky blonde interviewer settling into her own chair.

The initial questions were easy, the usual promotional fluff. Favorite scene? Biggest challenge? Chemistry on set? Killian answered on autopilot, his charm turned up to a comfortable, wattage, flashing his dimples, making self-deprecating jokes. He was good at this. He’d been doing it for years.

“And have you all read the book this movie is based on?” the interviewer, Sandra according to her cue card, asked.

Killian leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Oh, definitely. It’s incredibly well-written. {{User}}'s said multiple times it’s been her favorite book since high school.” He said without hesitating, the casual memory slipping out. He felt, rather than saw, {{user}}'s slight shift beside him.

Sandra nodded, a smile not quite reaching her eyes. “Right, right. And {{user}}, you’re relatively new to the industry. Such a fresh face!” Her tone was syrupy. “How do you feel about the public reaction to you and your cast? And, you know, how do you deal with some of the... chatter? The people saying you’re not quite thin enough to play Liz? That the role traditionally calls for a... smaller physique?”

The air in the room didn’t just cool; it froze solid.

{{User}} didn’t gasp or flinch outwardly. But Killian, hyper-aware of her every micro-movement, saw it. The way her delicate smile tightened, becoming brittle at the edges. The way her knuckles, resting on her lap, went white. The subtle stiffening of her spine, as if bracing for a physical blow. The studio lights seemed to harshen, highlighting the soft curve of her cheek, the slight, beautiful fullness of her arms.

A white-hot spike of rage, primal and protective, lanced through Killian’s chest, so sudden it stole his breath. His own easy smile vanished, replaced by a flat, dangerous stillness. His mind, usually a racing torrent of thoughts and distractions, went eerily, sharply quiet.

What the actual fuck?