Jacob gave a small nod, like that was all there was to say, and turned. His footsteps were quiet as he disappeared behind the set wall.
He didn’t look back.
***
Early mornings in the Wolfe house were sacred.
Not because of some rigid tradition, but because Caroline had drawn the line years ago—no staff before nine a.m. No soft-soled footsteps ghosting down hallways, no polite questions about toast or tea, no silent bodies blending into the background and pretending not to hear. “This is family time,”she’d told him once, when Jacob suggested letting the housekeeper handle breakfast.
She stood barefoot at the stove, drowning in an oversized sweatshirt, blond hair twisted into a bun that hadn’t bothered tohold. Pancakes flipped golden on the skillet, the air thick with butter and sugar.
Rose was perched on a kitchen stool, babbling to her stuffed unicorn between bites of banana. Across the marble island, Asher’s plate held no pancake yet, only a flood of syrup. He drove a toy truck straight through it and declared, with great pride, that the syrup was a river of lava.
Jacob stood with his coffee, saying little. He rarely did in the mornings. Not because he was tired—he was always up before dawn—but because he liked to watch. To take in the kind of warmth that didn’t come from money. The security he hadn’t known growing up.
He remembered chaos and a kitchen that reeked of mildew and cigarettes, where the fridge was empty and the linoleum clung sticky to his bare feet. He remembered yelling that rattled the walls, a mother who loved hard in all the wrong ways, and a parade of strangers who never stayed long enough to bother with his name.
This wasn’t anything like that; he had made sure of it.
Caroline glanced up, catching his gaze, and smiled. “You’re staring.”
He only hummed, a low acknowledgment that she was right.
She didn’t press. She never did. That was one of the things he loved about her—sharp as hell, but never invasive. She knew when to let silence be its own kind of comfort. He watched her slide a pancake onto a plate and ruffle their son’s hair as she placed it in front of him. He didn’t look up, too intent on his toy truck.
His daughter, all sticky-fingered, held up her stuffed animal. “Daddy, Sparkle says she wants more ‘nanas.”
Jacob walked over and dutifully peeled another banana, slicing it into pieces with mechanical precision and placing it on her plate. “There. Tell Sparkle she’s welcome.”
“She says thanks!” she sang, returning happily to her game, tiny bites vanishing into its plush face.
Caroline slid a plate in front of him without asking how he wanted it. She already knew: two pancakes, no syrup, and black coffee. He pulled out a chair and sat, fork in hand, letting his gaze drift across the room. This was his—every inch of it. He had built this life from nothing.
Still, some mornings the memory of what he’d come from pressed in close, echoing like it might find a way back in if he so much as blinked. He knew better than anyone how fast stability could collapse and how fragile safety really was. So he held on tighter. In his mind, control was the only thing standing between his family and the chaos waiting on the other side. He understood it was a scar left by trauma, but understanding didn’t make the grip loosen.
Except lately his control was slipping, and Liam was the cause of it. They had been shoved into a string of private rehearsals, one after another, and they’d been brutal. Not because of the pages—he’d walked through darker scripts without flinching—but because of him. Liam got under his skin in ways he couldn’t name or shut out.
The pull between them was insane, raw and consuming, sparking hotter each time they circled a scene. He carried it with him afterward, even now, bleeding into the peacefulness of his kitchen. He hated that. Hated that Liam followed him home when nothing and no one else ever had.
Chapter 7
Liam
Liam loved a good mixer. At least, he usually did. He liked the social part—the rhythm of it. People to charm, hands to shake, names to remember. It was his safe ground. He knew the dance, and he was good at it.
Tonight, the rhythm faltered. Every laugh scraped false in his throat, every drink tasted like air. Nearly two months had passed since the kiss at their chemistry read, four weeks since pre-production began, and Liam still hadn’t stopped thinking about Jacob Wolfe. Not once.
Okay, that wasn’t true, not entirely. He’d slept, occasionally. He’d eaten, technically. But Wolfe had taken up permanent residence in his overactive brain and wasn’t paying rent.
Thank God they hadn’t kissed again. The director had kept the rehearsals in safe territory, focused on blocking and emotional beats. Kisses were discussed but never performed. Unfortunately, the reprieve was almost over. Tomorrow the Intimacy Coordinator would put them through it—no more pretending, no more space to breathe. Liam was already unraveling at the thought of Jacob’s mouth against his again.
Jacob had changed lately, just enough to make Liam notice and to make him obsess over every tiny shift. He was still gruff and closed off, but sometimes he spoke beyond the safeground of stage directions and scene breakdowns. Sometimes he said things that felt like real thoughts, unguarded comments and small flickers of dry humor. Fleeting glimpses of a man who wasn’t all stone and silence. Liam wasn’t sure what those moments meant, but he collected them like something precious anyway.
Tonight was the cast and crew mixer. Casual, nothing official—just a way to grease the wheels before filming started. It was happening in some modern rooftop lounge with too many fire pits and not enough chairs. The place had sleek black tile, glass railings, and a skyline that sparkled like LA had something to prove.
Liam had arrived early, slipping into the familiar rhythm on instinct. He laughed when expected, remembered names, and said things like: “So excited to be part of this,” and “The script just really hit me, you know?”
It wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t the truth either. The honest version would’ve been:Hi, I’m Liam, and I might be losing my goddamn mind because my co-star kissed me like he wanted to consume me, and I haven’t stopped replaying it since. I can’t stop wondering if he thought about it once, but I can’t fucking think about anything else.
