The private hire venue is packed—cast and crew spilling between leather booths and the makeshift dance floor, fairy lights strung across the ceiling like captured constellations. Laughter cuts through the music, someone’s already spilt champagne near the bar, and the energy is the kind that only comes after wrapping a hellish week of seventeen-hour shoots.

For the first time in what feels like forever, I’m not wearing cargo pants with twenty pockets.

No headset. No running order clipped to my belt. No coffee stains on my sleeve.

So I do.

My body sways before I think about it, hips moving to the hypnotic rhythm, arms lifting as the warmth of the room and the alcohol buzzing in my veins melts away every wall I’ve built this month.

Tonight, I’m no one’s errand girl.

I let go.

The dress hugs every curve as I move, the dim lighting catching the shimmer in my hair, and I forget about call sheets and crafty orders and the ache I’ve been carrying behind my ribs for weeks.

Across the room, near the far end of the bar, a conversation stalls.

Stephen’s hand freezes halfway through reaching for his drink.