“I’m fine,” I say automatically. “Just tired. The schedule’s brutal, and I’m not sleeping much, and—“
“But we’re not doing this here,” she says, cutting me off again, her voice soft but firm, leaving no room to argue. “We’ll talk later. When you’re not surrounded by fifty people and pretending this is nothing.”
She holds my gaze for a moment longer than necessary, something knowing flickering in her expression.
“Soon,” she adds. “Before it gets worse.”
Before I can answer, she steps away, heading for the hair and makeup station at the far side of the set. I watch her go, unease settling heavily in my stomach.
Nadia has known me too long.
Long enough to see through every excuse I come up with. Long enough to recognize when I'm struggling before I'm ready to admit it myself.
“We’re going again,” the director calls, drawing my attention back to him. “Scene twelve, take five. And... action.”
The scene plays out again—same staging, same movements, same emotional beats hitting at the wrong moments. Adrian starts forward, Bash meets him halfway, their conversation technically perfect but missing the edge it needs. The tension builds but never quite breaks, the emotional climax arriving before the physical distance between them has fully closed.
“Cut,” the director says, frustration evident in his tone. “That’s... we’re still not there. Something about the timing’s off. The tension isn’t...” He gestures vaguely, unable to name exactly what’s missing.
I know what it is—I’ve known since the first take. They’re too far apart physically, their movements too controlled, the emotional beats landing before they’ve had time to build. Adrian’s closing the distance too quickly, Bash’s reaction coming a beat too late. The emotional beats are there, but the blocking is too cautious. If these characters are angry enough to be screaming at each other, they should be invading each other's space, not stopping short every time they get close.
But it’s not my place to say so. Not my job to direct the scene or adjust the blocking or tell two professional actors how to do theirs.
My job is to keep things running, not tell people how to fix them.
Except...
Except Adrian’s looking at me from across the set, his eyes finding mine immediately. He says something to Bash, too low for the microphones to catch, and then they’re both moving—not toward the director or the monitors or any of the people actuallyresponsible for fixing what’s wrong—but toward me. Toward the edge of the set where I’m standing.
“Hey,” Adrian says when they reach me, his tone casual. “You got a second?”
I swallow, suddenly aware of how many people are watching—the director by the monitors, the script supervisor with her clipboard, and the crew members resetting equipment for another take. All of them tracking the movement of the two leads as they cross the set to speak with the assistant production coordinator instead of addressing the actual problem.
“Sure,” I say, my voice calmer than it has any right to be. “What‘s up?”
Adrian glances at Bash, something passing between them—that same wordless communication I’ve noticed before. “We’re stuck,” he says finally. “Something about this scene isn’t working, and we can’t figure out what. The director says tension, but...” He shrugs. “It’s not landing. And we thought maybe you could help.”
The assumption catches me off guard.
Not that I’d be willing to help, but that they genuinely believe I can.
“I’m not really—“ I start, then stop, not sure how to finish the sentence. Not really qualified? Not really part of the creative team? Not really in a position to offer advice to professional actors about how to do their jobs?
But the words die in my throat as Bash steps forward. “You watch,” he says simply. “You always have. The way we move, theway we connect, the beats that work and the ones that don’t. We need your thoughts on this, Maya.”
The request should make me uncomfortable.
Instead, something inside me leans toward it.
Because part of me—a part I’m not ready to examine too closely—wants to help. Wants to be part of fixing what’s broken. Wants to have my input valued. Wants to matter in a way that goes beyond keeping the schedule running or the coffee flowing.
“You’re too far apart,” I say, the words coming out before I can stop them. “Physically. You meet in the middle, but the tension doesn’t build because you’re starting from too far away. Adrian should start closer, Bash should react faster. And when you do connect, you’re softening the moment. Holding back. Like you’re afraid to really push.”
The words hang between us for a moment. Adrian studies my face for a long moment, then nods once.
“You’re right,” he says simply. “That’s exactly it.” He turns to Bash without hesitation. “Let’s try it your way. You stay where you are, I’ll start closer. And when I call you on the lie, don’t hold back. Really go for it.”
Bash nods. “Makes sense,” he says. “And Maya’s right about the reaction. I’m holding back too much.”
