GRANT
Just cast, crew, and some of the Wonderland team. No press. Also, it's casual dress – nothing fancy.
ME
Time?
GRANT
I thought we could head out at 7pm.
ME
Meet you there?
GRANT
I can drive us. No need for two cars. We can park at my office and walk over.
ME
I'll be ready at 7.
I look up, and he's still standing in the doorway, looking this way with his hands in his pockets. I wonder if he's contemplating the same things I am. We keep pushing the boundaries of whatever this is, and I'm not mad about it.
The studio lot is quiet on our walk over to the wrap party, which seems to inspire Grant to lead us slightly off course.
"This isn't the way to the party," I say, but I don't stop walking.
"Just a quick detour."
We step onto the deserted New York Street set, our own private world bathed in soft amber streetlights. Grant walks beside me, his presence warm and steady. He's dressed like this is his version of a casual weekend—button-down shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms, top button undone, dress pants just relaxed enough to be comfortable. He looks effortless. Comfortable in his skin. It's disarming.
"This is surreal," I say, trailing my fingers along the edge of a vintage-looking newsstand prop. The texture of the worn wood is oddly grounding. "An entire street just for us."
The set is a marvel—brownstones, fire escapes, perfectly aged storefronts. It looks like a slice of Manhattantransplanted to our studio lot. But right now, it feels like a different kind of space—suspended, timeless.
"Sometimes, the most genuine moments happen in the most artificial places," Grant says. Then he makes a face like he wants to take it back immediately.
I laugh, and it comes easier than I expect. "Deep thoughts from a studio executive?"
He bumps my shoulder lightly, and though brief, the contact is distracting. "I'm not just about balance sheets and greenlighting projects."
We walk slowly; the air between us feels charged with something neither of us wants to name yet. I can still feel his lips on mine. He hasn't touched me tonight. Not really. But there's a moment—when our arms brush, when our steps slow at the same time—when I think he might. When I think we both want to.
"Can I ask you something?" I stop near the old-fashioned ice cream shop, hesitating before meeting his gaze. "Why this project? Why my film?"
Grant exhales and looks down for a moment like he's choosing his words carefully. "Because it reminded me of why I got into this business in the first place. Not the money, not the power, but the stories that actually mean something."
I hold his gaze, trying to see if there's anything more beneath his words.
"I was terrified of making this film," I admit, my voice softer than I intend. "Not because I thought I'd fail, but because I wanted to prove I was more than just an actress. That I could create something. Shape it. Tell a story the way I've always wanted to."
His expression shifts, and his focus sharpens on me in a way that makes my breath catch.
"You already have," he says, his voice low and edged with something protective, something I shouldn't like as much as I do.
We've stopped walking now and are standing beneath the streetlight. It casts a soft glow over us, and for a second, I wonder what we must look like to an outsider. Two people standing too close, caught in something we don't quite want to admit yet.
