“What soft side?”
He says it so deadpan that I laugh. “I see we’re aiming for comedy.”
When I don’t even get a smile for that, I smack a pillow into his head.
Finally, he laughs.
Then something shifts in his expression.
“So,” he says evenly, “can I come with you in the morning?”
It’s not the over-the-top begging that usually happens when people are desperate for an invite on set.
And it’s refreshing. Like he's not a fan, but a friend.
I eye him pointedly. “You won’t cause a scene?”
“I won’t cause a scene,” he repeats, suffering through each word.
“It’s not all fun and games,” I warn. “Tomorrow will be work. And not the kind you’re used to. Chopping wood for hours on end,” I tease.
A faint smile quirks at his lips. “That’s disappointing.”
I look up at him. At those piercing blue eyes.
“It can take an emotional toll,” I say seriously. “Working like this. It’s not for everyone. And it’s not all fun and games. Sometimes it’s not fun at all.”
I tighten the blanket around my arms, wishing I could take back the last thirty seconds.
Something changes.
His gaze darkens, and it’s like the armor he’s worn his entire life finally gives way.
“I didn’t understand what it took for you to do what you do,” he says quietly. “I respect you for it. And I want to be there for you, Pix. I really do.”
He brushes the hair from my cheek, and heat presses in from every direction.
The silence between us feels loaded. Alive.
And forbidden all at once.
I open my mouth just to break it. To breathe.
“So, you’ll be shadowing me,” I say, biting my lip. “Like an intern.”
“More like a bodyguard,” Harrison replies.
“Lockstep?” I ask, the sound coming out with the trace of a laugh.
His thumb brushes away a tear I didn’t realize had fallen. My pulse sprints in my chest.
“You move,” he says. “I move.”
“Like glue?” I whisper, breathless.
“Like. Fucking. Glue.”
My eyes flutter shut. His breath still ghosts my lips.
