The set is a haze of buzzing halogens and shifting bodies, the low hum of whispered instructions filling the air with tension. Lyriin’s hands tremble on her script, knuckles white, as she scans the latest call sheet—her face half-lit by the reflected glow of her phone. Strands of dark hair slip from her hurried low bun, curling against her neck, damp with stress. She tugs at her oversized denim jacket and tries to quiet her breath, but her pulse flinches every time a camera flashes.

Emrin spots her from across the set—he’s unshaven, pale blue shirt rolled at the sleeves, worry creasing the edges of his mouth. The paparazzi leak hangs between them, the whole crew pretending not to notice the way everyone glances at her then looks away. Emrin’s camera hangs loose from his shoulder, one hand stuffed deep in his pocket, as he makes his way toward Lyriin, his gaze unwavering.

She tries a smile, too sharp at the corners. “Guess we’re famous now,” she murmurs.

He touches her elbow gently, a barely-there anchor. “Let them look. I’m not going anywhere.” There’s a fierceness under his gentleness; he leans in, voice low, catching the cinnamon in her breath, her lip quivering. “I believe in you. Us. No matter what spin they put on us.”

Her eyes dart away, glassy with held-back tears. “You really shouldn’t,” she whispers, blinking fast. “They’re going to ruin you too.” She wants to kiss him right there, wants to vanish.

Solmyra surveys the chaos from behind a clipboard, her suit bone-white and severe, eyes cutting across the room. Her stride is clipped, posture rigid, but her gaze lingers on Lyriin—assessing, measuring. With a sharp nod to the assistant, Solmyra pulls Lyriin aside under the pretense of discussing notes, her tone cold as glass. “You’re needed here, alone,” she says, then draws the curtain closed between Lyriin and the rest of the set. The isolation settles heavy.

Lyriin sucks in a breath. “Did you—did you tip them off?”

Solmyra’s jaw tightens. “You think I’d waste time on petty sabotage?” Something dangerous flickers beneath the brittle calm. “You should learn who your real threats are. Not everyone’s as forgiving as he is.”

Their eyes lock for a second too long—Lyriin sees the crack, the flicker of hunger and loneliness, before Solmyra turns away, spine steeled.

Later, Emrin finds Lyriin in his trailer, huddled on the edge of his bed, hoodie pulled tight around her small frame. Her mascara’s smudged in constellations beneath her eyes. He kneels in front of her, running a thumb over her wrist, voice barely above a heartbeat. “Come here. Let me take it away,” he breathes.

She reaches for him, fingernails scraping his shoulder, her laugh wet and broken. He presses his lips to her forehead, cheeks, then mouth, slow and reverent. Clothing peels away—her jacket, his shirt—exposing skin that’s tender, needful. Steam from the compact shower clings to the windows, fogging the world away. He carries her to the bathtub, water warm, her body arching against his as she sinks into his lap. Their movements are languid, desperate, every caress a promise, every gasp a confession: “I want all of you. No hiding.”

They make love in the muffled hush, hands discovering every trace of old pain, new hope. Afterwards, nestled together, Lyriin murmurs, “Don’t ever let me go, Em.”

Drowsy, peace blooming between heartbeats, Emrin brushes strands from her cheek. “Never.”

A sudden clatter outside—Lyriin jolts upright. In her scramble, an earring, gold and delicate, slips off and vanishes beneath the bench. They laugh at the silliness, clinging tighter, neither knowing who’s listening.

Hours later, Solmyra’s heels tap down the hallway, her expression granite. She notices the glass fogged white, the faint outline of silhouettes inside. On the floor, something glints—Lyriin’s earring. Solmyra stoops, picks it up, her fingers trembling around the filigree. Her face—usually impassive—closes in on itself, emotion wrestling with calculation.

She takes out her phone, breath shaky, and types a message: It’s time.

To be continued...