Solmyra sat cross-legged on the battered sofa outside the edit bay, her sharp black blazer swallowing her slight frame, heels abandoned beside her. Her hair had slipped loose from its usual impeccable knot. Under the low fluorescent glow, her face looked drawn and tired, fine lines catching shadows she’d spent years pretending didn’t exist. Across from her, Emrin perched on the armrest, sleeves rolled to his forearms, collar open, dark hair in need of a cut—eyes refusing to meet hers. Tonight, exhaustion made him vulnerable; his laughter didn’t reach his eyes. The stack of dog-eared script pages between them might as well have been a wall.

“I don’t know why I’m even pretending to care about Scene 64,” Solmyra muttered, fidgeting with a cheap pen. Her bare feet curled against the upholstery, hinting at the rare comfort she allowed herself this late. Her voice, normally steel, cracked at the edge.

Emrin offered a gentle half-smile. “Because you care about all of it. Even when you pretend you don’t.” He spoke quietly, the cadence of his words slow and careful, as if afraid any sudden move might puncture the delicate truce between them.

She scoffed, but glanced upward, meeting his gaze for once—green eyes flickering with something that might have been hope, or hurt. “What I care about has wrecked everything I touch,” she said, looking away quickly.

Emrin studied her, taking in the soft line of her jaw, the trembling fingers she tried to still. “That’s not true.”

Tension shivered between them, filling the silence. Solmyra’s lips parted, tongue wetting them, a shaky breath escaping. The pen rolled from her hand. “I don’t want to be alone tonight,” she whispered, startling herself. Tears rimmed her eyelids, biting as she forced them down. “I can’t keep being this… empty.”

Emrin shifted closer, the warmth of his presence a balm and a wound. He touched her wrist, grounding her. “You’re not empty. You’re scared.” She blinked at him, caught between wanting and defiance. “You don’t have to—" he started, but she leaned in, pressing her mouth to his—clumsy, hungry, desperate for an answer.

For a moment, he didn’t move, caught off-guard by her trembling lips and the taste of gin on her breath. Then, very gently, he broke the kiss, hands cupping her jaw. The rejection was soft as silk. “Sol,” he breathed, “I care about you. But I can’t give you what you want. My heart’s already gone.”

Her face twisted—a snarl of pain, pride, and shame. She clenched her fists, knuckles white, fighting not to shatter. “Of course,” she managed, standing so abruptly the scripts fluttered to the floor. “God, I’m pathetic—”

He reached for her, but she stepped away, shoulders rigid, jaw clenched. She grabbed her shoes and stalked barefoot down the hall, blinking away tears she hated. The air felt too thick. Her vision blurred.

Oriane found her on the balcony, hair wild around her face, mascara smudged. Oriane wore a faded crew t-shirt, grease stains on the hem, arms crossed—watchful, but her usual smirk gone. “Looks like you fought the script and the script won,” Oriane said, voice lazy, but her eyes softening as she slowly closed the distance between them.

Solmyra swallowed, so tired she could barely muster her usual edge. “Don’t start.”

But Oriane only leaned beside her, letting silence stretch between them—complicated and forgiving. After a beat, Oriane slipped an arm around Solmyra’s waist, tentative at first, then firmer as Solmyra broke. Shoulders shaking, face hidden in Oriane’s shoulder, she let herself be held.

Elsewhere, Emrin drifted through the darkened set, heart raw, searching for Lyriin. He found her curled in the props room, knees hugged to her chest, face pale and anxious. She wore his old hoodie, sleeves dwarfing her hands. The vulnerable way she looked up at him—like hope and apology bundled together—undid something in him.

He crouched, brushing her hair from her face. “I’m here,” he said. She grabbed his shirt, clinging as if holding on could change anything.

Wordlessly, their mouths found each other. Lyriin’s hands roamed beneath Emrin’s shirt, the cold bite of metal zippers and tangled costumes forgotten as they sought reassurance in touch. She whimpered his name, lips grazing his jaw. With aching tenderness, he laid her back on a pile of velvet cloaks, kissing her as if he could swallow her sadness. They moved slowly, rediscovering each other—clothes pushed aside, skin to skin, every motion a promise that they wouldn’t run, wouldn’t give in to fear. Raw need washed between them, breaking over the wounds of every near-miss and misunderstanding. Emrin traced the lines of Lyriin’s hip, memorizing her.

Afterwards, breathless, they tangled in a heap, Lyriin pressing her cheek to his chest, Emrin’s hand gentle atop her hair. “We’re going to be okay,” she whispered, not quite believing it, but needing to say it out loud.

Far away, Solmyra stared at her phone’s glowing screen. Her reflection was all sharp edges and regret. She dialed—Oriane answered in two rings.

“I don’t want to be alone. Not tonight.”

A heavy silence on the line. Then, Oriane: “I’m coming.”

The studio clock ticked toward dawn. Outside, a shadow moved through the loading dock—a figure lurking, carrying a folder of damning secrets, ready to ruin everything when the sun rose.

To be continued...