The set hummed with nervous energy, lights high and sharp as midnight bit at the corners of the soundstage. Emrin moved among clusters of crew, soft-voiced but absolute, a silhouette in battered jeans and an old blue henley, sleeves shoved up over forearms streaked with graphite. His hair was dark, mussed from his hands, eyes gentle behind smudged glasses—yet every order from his lips was gospel. He swept his gaze across the cables, the floodlights, the lingering shadows, then landed on Lyriin.

She stood by the fake subway doors, script clutched like armor, green jumper hanging loose on her frame. Her hair was pulled up in a messy halo, escaping in soft waves she kept tucking back, a nervous gesture she repeated every few minutes. She watched Emrin from beneath impossibly long lashes, caught between eager hope and the dread of not being enough. When he finally looked over, she pretended not to notice, but her whole body straightened, breath catching in her throat.

“Ready, Lyriin?” Emrin asked, his voice low, a smile flickering in the corner of his mouth. She nodded, but her voice faltered—“As I’ll ever be.” The words should’ve sounded brave, but she couldn’t hide the tremor. His eyes softened. He crossed the set, radiating calm, and gestured for her to step into the circle of light.

During the first run-through, Lyriin second-guessed every movement. She fumbled a cue, then another. Emrin stepped in, gentle. “Try again. Forget the lens—just let yourself breathe.” He adjusted the rig above her head, arm brushing hers, hands steady but shy. His touch lingered, just barely—electric, charged, and gone too soon. She noticed the scar on his wrist, thin as thread, wondered what left it, wondered if he ever let anyone see his own trembling.

He corrected her stance with quiet warmth, almost whispering: “Trust yourself.” Her gaze dropped to his lips, to his hands, and for a second she was sure he felt it too. He smelled like old leather and coffee and something hopeful.

The rehearsal dragged long after midnight. By the time most of the crew drifted out, only Emrin and Lyriin remained—two shadows oscillating between confession and restraint. He picked up her pages when she dropped them, smiling shy and crooked. At the door, she hesitated, heart in her throat.

Later, cold and restless in her tiny rented room, Lyriin stared at her phone, thumb hovering. Thank you for not giving up on me tonight. She almost deleted it—sent. His reply came fast: You make it easy. Wish I could say everything I’m thinking. You could, she typed—then: I want to see you. Now? The ellipsis blinked forever. Meet me by the blue dressing room.

The set was black and quiet except for the light under the dressing room door. She slipped inside, breathless. Emrin’s jacket was off; he leaned against the mirror, watching her enter with equal parts anticipation and apology. Neither spoke. Lyriin reached for him first, fingers sliding into his shirt, dragging him down to her lips. Their kiss was hungry and hesitant, hands greedy but still uncertain—shirts rucked up, skin finding skin. His palm cradled her cheek as if she were breakable; his other hand found the hollow of her back, holding her as though afraid she’d disappear.

She pulled him closer, undoing buttons with trembling hands, pressing her body to his. Desire built, quick and overwhelming. His mouth went to her neck, words lost between kisses—“We don’t have to, not if—” She silenced him with another desperate kiss, but when his hands lingered at her waist, she froze.

Her breath came ragged; her face flushed. “Wait—” Her eyes shimmered, raw with fear and longing. Emrin stilled instantly, searching her face. “I’m sorry, I—” she stammered, tears pressing at the edge of her voice. Emrin’s softness wrapped around her, his arms pulling her to his chest, just holding, silent, nothing demanded, only warmth. She buried her face in his shoulder, letting herself breathe.

They stayed there, tangled on the cheap dressing room couch, letting the heat and shame and hope settle around them. As dawn cracked faint gray through the high-set windows, Lyriin slipped from his embrace, heart pounding wild. She checked her phone, screen flickering: one new message, number blocked. Be careful who you trust.

Her throat closed. She looked over at Emrin, still sleeping, arm thrown over his eyes. She didn’t know if she could wake him. Or if she should.

To be continued...