Solmyra’s blazer is cut sharp enough to draw blood, the dark navy setting off the pallor of her skin and the frost in her gaze. She stalks the corridor beside Oriane, whose neon-orange pyrotechnics tee is half-tucked and laugh lines bracket her mouth, but her eyes linger too long on Solmyra’s clenched jaw. Their footsteps echo in the hush, tension bristling between old lovers forced into proximity by the snarled scheduling of a chaos-stricken shoot.

Solmyra pauses outside the loading bay, palm pressed briefly to the wall as if steadying herself. Oriane flicks a glance, muttering, “No one’s making you bleed for this place.” The hint of a smile ghosts Solmyra’s lips—a crack in the ice, gone almost before it’s real. “Someone has to care what burns down,” she replies, voice flat but softer than she means. For a moment, their hands nearly touch, sparks leaping across an inch of empty air before Solmyra tucks hers firmly behind her back.

Inside the editing suite, the lights are low, screens flickering blue. Lyriin sits at the console, arms wrapped around her knees, delicate in a threadbare band tee and battered jeans. A nervous chew marks her lower lip. She watches Emrin through the glass wall as he nurses a mug of coffee, the veins in his forearm shifting under the rolled sleeves of his workshirt. It’s maybe the fourth time today she’s caught him looking at her like she’s the only thing in the room that matters, even when her own self-doubt is screaming too loud for her to hear anything else.

When Emrin enters, he closes the door quietly and leans against it, the exhaustion in his posture warring with longing. “You okay?” he asks, voice gentle. She manages a nod, but her eyes shimmer. Everything feels fragile—her reputation, his faith, the thread that keeps pulling them together no matter how many times she knots it up with guilt. She opens her mouth, then closes it, swallowing a confession.

He sits beside her, their knees brushing. His fingers find hers under the desk, thumb tracing circles over tense knuckles. “You don’t have to tell me everything,” he says. “But I want you to know—there’s nothing you could say that changes how I look at you.” It’s too much and not enough; Lyriin pulls away, stands, paces with a nervous energy almost explosive.

“I slept with him,” she blurts, voice shattering, “the producer. That’s why I got the role. I shouldn’t…I shouldn’t even be here.”

The words hang heavy. Emrin’s jaw tightens. He looks gutted, but when he stands and crosses to her, he catches her face between his hands, brushing her hair back. He leans in, kisses her forehead—slow, deliberate, forgiveness burning through the cold shame.

“I know,” he breathes, voice rough. “You’re here now. With me.”

She kisses him before she can second-guess her own audacity. Her fingers fist in his shirt, tugging him backward until his spine hits the cool glass. Heat surges between them as she kisses him hard, desperate. His hands slip beneath her shirt, relearning the warm lines of her back. Lyriin fumbles with his buttons; they laugh, breathless, her nerves dissolving under the certainty of his touch.

He lifts her onto the console, bodies tangled between careless stacks of scripts and blinking monitors. She wraps her legs around his waist and buries her face in his neck, inhaling the scent of midnight coffee and old cologne. “Don’t let me go,” she whispers, and he answers with a promise etched into skin, into the space between each kiss, each gasp, each tangle of limbs and whispered plea. All the guilt and longing shatter, replaced by aching, honest need.

After, Lyriin leans against him, flushed and trembling. Emrin’s hand strokes her hair, almost reverent. On the other side of the glass, Solmyra’s shadow flickers past, eyes catching on the silhouette of bodies pressed together. She swallows, envy and regret twisting her features, before she pivots and retreats into the corridor—where Oriane waits, arms folded and gaze knowing.

“Why do you do this to yourself?” Oriane asks quietly. Solmyra’s voice shakes. “Because I can’t let anything fall apart. Because I already lost you once.”

Oriane’s mouth softens. “You haven’t lost me—not really.” Their eyes lock, charged with everything unsaid.

Back inside, Emrin wipes a tear from Lyriin’s cheek. “You don’t have to be perfect. I love you as you are,” he murmurs, not quite realizing the tremor in his own voice.

As dawn breaks, Solmyra finds a stark white envelope on her desk. She tears it open with shaking fingers.

Inside: Studio letterhead. An ultimatum. “Get your set under control—or you’re finished here.” Her hand curls around Lyriin’s lost earring, the metal biting her palm.

She looks up, eyes rimmed with feverish rage and fear, the walls closing in.

To be continued...