The soundstage had gone quiet in the way it always did during a break—equipment humming, someone's walkie crackling two sets over, the distant clatter of the craft services cart being wheeled back into place. But Y/n didn't hear any of it. Not really. Their coffee had gone cold in their hand twenty minutes ago, and they were still holding it like it might do something useful.

Across the set, under the warm glow of the lighting rig, Christian Rousseau was leaning against the fake New York fire escape with the same easy confidence he brought to everything. The co-star—Ellie, her name was Ellie—stood close. Too close. She laughed at something he said, tilting her head, touching his arm like she had every right to.

Then she leaned in.

Not a kiss. No, that would have been too obvious. Just close enough that her lips nearly brushed his ear when she whispered something. And Christian—Christian just stood there, smiling that slow, knowing smile, looking for all the world like he was enjoying every second of it.

Y/n's grip tightened around their coffee cup.

The paper crinkled. A little brown drip slid down the side onto their fingers.

God. They wanted to march over there. Dump the whole thing in her perfectly styled hair. Or maybe his. Maybe both.

The worst part was that Christian glanced over at exactly that moment. Like he'd felt their stare. And that smile of his widened, just enough to say he knew.

No. That wasn't the worst part.

The worst part was that Y/n still couldn't look away.