“Still,” he says softly. “My dad gives me hell about my career choices, but at least he’s around to do it. I can’t imagine losing a parent that young.”
It catches me off guard, this version of Lucas. Not cocky. Not defensive. More caring.
We’re having a moment, an actual human moment, when a sharp knock at the door jolts us both back to reality.
“Showtime,” Lucas mutters.
Dylan Reeves bursts in with the energy of someone who’s had way too many espressos and hasn’t slept since Sundance. He’s wearing black skinny jeans, scuffed boots, and a graphic tee under a worn Army surplus jacket, also known as filmmaker camouflage. A pair of round tortoiseshell glasses has slid down the bridge of his nose, and his dark curls are pulled into a messy half-bun that somehow looks intentional. He’s got a vintage camera bag slung crossbody like a satchel of genius.
He’s trailed by a surprisingly large crew for what’s supposed to be an “intimate” documentary. There are cameraoperators, sound people, a lighting tech, and what appears to be a stylist in all black, carrying a garment bag and three different shades of setting powder.
“There they are! America’s new favorite power couple!” Dylan beams, clasping his hands together. “We’re just going to capture some natural moments of you two unpacking and settling in together. Just be yourselves!”
Be ourselves. Right. Myself would be back at my apartment, scrolling through tips from sources, not pretending to move in with Hollywood’s most infuriating spin doctor.
Lucas and I awkwardly begin unpacking boxes. I arrange a few books on a shelf while he makes space in his closet for clothes I’ll never actually wear here. Dylan hovers nearby, his smile fading as he watches.
“Ok, let’s try something else,” he says finally. “Lucas, why don’t you show Jess where to put her toiletries in the bathroom?”
We comply, moving to the master bathroom, where I place my toothbrush into the holder next to his, careful not to let them touch.
“You two are standing like there’s an invisible force field between you,” Dylan says. “I need you to be closer. You just got married! You should be in the honeymoon phase!”
Before I can protest, he physically guides Lucas to stand behind me at the mirror, repositioning us like we’re mannequins in a store window. Lucas’s hands land on my waist, and I stiffen at the contact, instinctively pulling my shoulders back before I remember I’m supposed to like him.
His touch is warm through the thin fabric of my shirt, and for a second, I forget we’re being watched. I forget thecameras. I forget the crew. Then I shake the thoughts from my head. This is just acting. A job. Six months.
“Perfect!” Dylan calls, backing toward the door. “Just stay like that for a moment.”
In the mirror, I catch Lucas’s gaze. It’s uncertain, guarded, but there’s a flicker of vulnerability that presses against the edges of my resolve, tight and sudden in my chest.
We’re the definition of contrast: his dark hair and tailored frame towering behind me, my lighter, softer silhouette against his. Somehow, though, we fit, with my back to his chest and the sculpted ridges of his pecks pressing gently into my shoulder blades each time he inhales.
I feel his breath where it hits the loose hair at the nape of my neck, warm and maddening. His thumbs flex slightly on my waist, just enough to send awareness rippling across my skin.
His gaze drops from mine, trailing down my reflection. I watch the way his throat bobs with a swallow, the way his lashes lower like he’s trying not to look but is failing miserably.
Every nerve in my body is on high alert. I can feel the moment wrapping around us like a warm, tight blanket.
“Sorry about this,” he murmurs, his voice low, the breath of it grazing my ear.
“Just part of the deal,” I whisper back, trying—and failing—to ignore the flutter blooming in my stomach.
“Great chemistry!” Dylan calls from the doorway. “Now let’s move to the living room for some questions, ok?”
The sound of a chair scraping snaps us both out of it. Westep apart like we’ve been burned, and the absence of his hands is somehow louder than the moment itself.
We separate quickly, like teenagers caught doing something they weren’t supposed to, and follow Dylan out into the living room.
The crew has arranged the living room into an interview setup. Lucas and I sit on the couch, a careful space between us, until Dylan gestures emphatically for us to move closer. Lucas drapes his arm along the back of the couch behind me, not quite touching but close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from him.
“So, tell me about when you two first met,” Dylan says, settling into a chair across from us.
“College baseball game,” Lucas answers smoothly. “Jess was there covering a celebrity player for some gossip publication.”
“I was also there to see my brother play,” I interject, unable to help myself. “And then Lucas insulted me.”
Lucas shifts beside me. “And you fired back with your own insults.”
