You were halfway zoned out on your couch, TV murmuring in the background more for noise than entertainment, when your phone lit up with your agent's name. You answered without thinking, still staring at the screen.
"Y/N, I have good news and bad news."
That alone made your stomach tighten. "Okay..." you said cautiously, finally sitting up a little straighter.
"Good news is-landed you a role in a new movie."
Your heart jumped. "What-seriously?"
"And the bad news?" you asked, already bracing yourself.
There was a pause. Too long. "You're cast as Tyriq Withers' love interest."
You sat completely upright, eyes darting around your apartment like there was a hidden camera waiting to jump out. "You're joking."
"I'm not. And look, I know you and him have y'all differences but-"
"Absolutely not," you cut in immediately, shaking your head hard. "No. No way."
"No," you repeated, firmer this time.
"You're not even letting me speak," your agent said patiently.
"What could you possibly say right now that would make me agree to working with that man again?" you snapped, pacing the length of your living room.
She sighed, then softened her tone. "I can say that this role will blow your career wide open. I can say that you and Tyriq are exactly the look they need for this film. I can say the chemistry on paper is undeniable-even with the tension. And I can say that whatever dislike you two have for each other, you're going to have to put it aside...for the sake of your career."
Silence stretched between you. You pressed your lips together, jaw tight, because the worst part was-you knew she was right.
Finally, exhale, rubbing your forehead. "If this goes wrong," you said quietly, "it's going to be your fault."
She squealed on the other end of the line, all professionalism gone. "Oh my gosh, yes! You're going to thank me for this."
You barely had time to react before she added brightly, "Tomorrow morning. Chemistry read. Ten a.m. Don't be late."
The line went dead before you could get another word in.
You stared at your phone, heart pounding, one thought looping through your mind-
Working with Tyriq again might be the worst decision you've ever made.
You decided you didn't like Tyriq Withers within the first hour.
He walked onto set like owned it-late, unbothered, greeting people by first name like the world naturally made room for him. Confidence rolled off him in waves, effortless and loud. The kind of man who's never been told no and couldn't imagine why he should start now.
You watched him joke with the crew, charm the director skip right past rehearsal.
Must be nice, you thought.
When it was time to shoot, you were already in position, script dog-eared, mind locked in. Tyriq slid across from you at the last second, grin easy, eyes flicking over you like he was sizing you up.
"Relax," he murmured. "It's not that deep."
You didn't look at him. "It is if you care."
His smile dimmed-just a little.
The scene started. You hit every beat. Every emotion landed. When Tyriq responded, he leaned into the moment like instinct alone would carry him through.
"Cut," the director said. "Let's reset."
You exhale through your nose. "Maybe try saying the lines as written."
Tyriq turned to you slowly. "You always this... intense?"
"You always this underprepared?"
He laughed, sharp and incredulous. "Wow. You really think you're the authority in the room."
"Oh look who's talking." You tilt your head, "No, I just respect the work."
He scoffed. "You respect control."
You finally looked at him then. "And you confuse arrogance for talent."
A beat passed. His jaw tightened.
"You're stuck up," he said bluntly. "You act like everyone needs to prove something to you."
"And you act like no one ever has," you shot back. "When's the last time someone checked you?"
Silence fell heavy between you, the air buzzing with something dangerous and unspoken.
He stepped closer, lowering his voice . "Careful. That attitude's gonna get you labeled difficult."
You met his gaze without flinching. "I'd rather be difficult than forgettable."
His eyes flicked down, then back up-heated, irritated, caught.
To you, Tyriq was everything you hated: Too cocky. Too careless. Too used to being praised for doing the bare minimum.
And to him? You were stubborn. Rigid. Unwilling to bend or let anyone in. Every interaction lingered too long. And neither of you had the slightest intention of backing down.
The dislike didn't fade-it settled in. It grew in the little things.
Tyriq would show up five minutes late to rehearsals like it was a joke, flashing that easy grin like the world should be grateful he made it at all. He'd improvise line without warning, throwing off scene you spent hours perfecting, the shrug when you called him out. "It worked though, didn't it?" he'd say, like effort was optional when talent came naturally to him.
That alone drove you crazy.
What really got under your skin was how unbothered he was. How nothing seemed to matter as much to him as it did to you. He'd lean back in his chair during table reads, feet stretched out, eyes on you like he was waiting for you to snap. And when you did-when your mouth got slick and sharp- he'd smile like he'd won something.
But deep down, he hated that about you. The way your words always landed clean and cutting. The way you never backed down. The way you could shut him up without raising your voice.
Behind the scenes, you argued about everything. Blocking. Delivery. Tone. Even music choices. You wanted structure; he wanted freedom. You wanted intention; he relied on instinct. Every disagreement turned into a standoff, neither of you willing to give an inch.
And yet, somehow, the tension followed you everywhere-thick, buzzing, impossible to ignore.
Crew members noticed. Whispers started. They don't get along, people said. They clash.
By the time filming wrapped, you were exhausted-not from work, but from him.
So you made a decision. That would be the first and last time you ever worked with Tyriq Withers.
You sat in the sudden silence of your living room, phone still warm in your hand long after your agent had hung up. The TV kept playing, some meaningless show running in the background, but you weren't watching it. You were already somewhere else-back then.
Working with Tyriq had irritated you in a way no one else ever managed to. He had a talent for getting under your skin, for knocking you clean out of character with a look, a comment, a smirk that felt deliberate. You'd be locked into a scene, grounded, focused-then he'd change the cadence of a line, step closer than rehearsed, lower his voice just enough to throw you off balance. He always noticed too. Always clocked the split second your composure cracked.
You hated that he could disrupt you so easily, that he made you feel reactive instead of in control. Acting was supposed to be your safe place-measured, intentional-but with him, it felt like walking into a scene without knowing the blocking. Unsteady. Exposed.
It had been a while since you'd worked with him, long enough that you'd convinced yourself it was over, that you'd never have to deal with that kind of frustration again. But now, just the thought of being on set with him- of sharing space, scripts, scenes-had irritation already curling in your chest.
You leaned back against the couch, staring at the ceiling, jaw tightening.
Maybe he wasn't the same arrogant, cocky man who thought talent excused everything. But you doubted it.
And somehow, that made the pit in your stomach sink even deeper.
You were early. Painfully early.
The hallway outside the casting room was quiet except for the low hum of production chatter somewhere down the hall. You sat with your legs crossed, posture perfect, fingers tapping once against your knee before you forced them still. You didn't need to check the time again-you already knew.
You exhale through your nose, annoyed but not surprised.
You were just about to stand and ask the assistant if they wanted to reschedule when air shifted-subtle, but familiar. Like the room suddenly knew he'd arrived.
Tyriq was walking toward you like he owned the place. Jacket slung over his shoulder, steps unhurried, expression relaxed in that way that always made you want to knock it right off his face. He didn't look rushed. He didn't look apologetic.
He looked exactly the same.
You stood as he stopped in front of you, arms folding instinctively over your chest.
"You're late," you said, voice calm but sharp. "I see some things didn't change."
His lips curved into that slow, infuriating smirk. "And you're still you," he replied easily. "On time. Serious. Already annoyed."
Your eyes rolled so hard that almost hurt. "Amazing how you can be late and still act like you're the one being inconvenienced."
He chuckled under his breath, leaning back slightly like this was entertainment. "Relax. I showed up."
"The bare minimum," you shot back. "Congratulations."
His eyes flicked over you-not lingering, not respectful, just enough to make your jaw tighten.
"I'm surprised you actually agreed to doing this," he said, head tilting slightly. "Figured you'd turn it down."
"Trust me," you said cooly, "I didn't at first."
That seemed to catch his attention.
"Oh yeah?" he asked, curiosity slipping through the arrogance. "What changed?"
"My agent," you replied instantly. "And my desire to keep my career moving forward."
He hummed, amused. "So I'm just collateral damage?"
"You've always been," you answered flatly.
A quiet laugh left him, low and disbelieving. "Damn. Still stubborn."
"Still cocky," you fired back. "Still late."
"Still got that slick mouth," he said stepping a little closer now, voice dropping. "You know that's what gets you in trouble."
You smiled-tight, unimpressed. "Funny. I was about to say the same about your ego."
For a split second, something unreadable crossed his face. Then the smirk returned, sharper this time.
"Guess we're really doing this," he said. "Again."
"Unfortunately." You stepped past him, shoulder brushing just enough to be intentional. Heels clicking down the hallway, not giving him the satisfaction of another word.
Behind you, Tyriq watched you go, jaw tightening, smirk lingering.
Tyriq stayed exactly where he was when you walked away.
Didn't follow. Didn't react. Didn't give you the satisfaction of knowing you'd landed a hit.
But his jaw tightened all the same.
Your heels echoed down the hallway, and he hated that the sound lingered longer than it should've. Hated that his eyes followed you before he caught himself and forced them forward. Hated that, even now, you had a way knocking him off balance without touching him.
Your mouth was still slick. Too slick. Always had been.
You talked like you were above him, like he was an inconvenience instead of a co-star. Like his presence was something you tolerated rather than respected. And that little look you gave him-slow, deliberate, unimpressed-felt like a challenge he never asked for and never wanted.
You thought he was everything you hated in a man. Arrogant. Loud. Too sure of himself.
And he thought you were exactly what he couldn't stand-stubborn, stuck up, always acting like you were the smartest person in the room.
Tyriq clenched his fists at his sides, forcing himself to breathe through the irritation crawling up his spine. You always did this-walked in, disrupted his rhythm, then disappeared like nothing happened. Left him standing there looking like the one who cared.
Which only made him angrier.
He'd worked with difficult people before. Divas. Egos.
People who ran their mouths and folded the second they were checked.
That was the part he despised the most.
He shook his head once, sharp and annoyed, before finally moving toward the casting room.
This chemistry read was already a mess.
Not because you didn't have chemistry-but because whatever it was between you had teeth.
And Tyriq had a feeling that if he wasn't careful, you'd draw blood before the day was over.
The kind that made every breath sound loud.
You stood on your mark, script loose in your hand, posture professional even though your patience was already thinning. Across from you, Tyriq leaned back against the table instead of standing where he was supposed to. Relaxed. Unbothered. Like this was just another thing he'd stroll through and dominate.
The casting director clapped once. "Alright, let's take it from the top. Scene three. This is the moment they finally let their guard down."
You lifted your gaze to Tyriq, slipping into character-softening your expression, lowering your voice, reaching for something open and vulnerable.
Your jaw tightened immediately.
"I can't believe I agreed to doing this," you muttered, the line bleeding out sharper than intended.
"Yeah," Tyriq replied easily, eyes locked on yours. "Me either."
Your head snapped toward him.
You shot him an irritated look, eyes rolling so hard it was a miracle you didn't pull something. The tension in the room spiked instantly.
"That wasn't the line," you said, voice clipped.
"Felt honest though," he replied, unfazed.
A chair shifted behind the monitors.
You took a step closer, anger buzzing just under your skin. "If you're going to half-ass it, at least pretend to respect the work."
Tyriq straightened then, finally stepping into your space.
His voice dropped-too low, too calm.
"Funny," he said. "I was thinking the same about you." Mocking the statement you said earlier.
You laughed once, sharp and humorless. "Please. You stroll in late, act like this is beneath you, and now you wanna talk about respect?"
"Late doesn't mean unprepared," he shot back. "And maybe if you weren't so busy being... whatever this is—"
"Professional?" you cut in.
"Stuck up," he corrected without hesitation.
The director cleared her throat. "Let's-let's pause for a second."
But Tyriq wasn't finished.
"You walk in here like you already decided you're better than this," he said, quiet enough that only you could hear.
You stepped forward, closing the distance completely. "I don't think I'm better," you said through a tight smile.
"You just keep proving it."
The silence in the room was deafening.
"Cut," the director said quickly. "Let's take five."
You broke away first, turning on your heel before your mouth could get you in more trouble. Your hands were clenched at your sides, heart racing for reasons that had nothing to do with nerves.
Behind you, Tyriq scoffed.
"No chemistry," the producer said carefully. "It feels... combative."
You paused, glancing back at him over your shoulder.
Combative didn't even begin to cover it.
By the third chemistry read, the room felt cursed.
Changing your body language.
Standing closer. Standing farther. Sitting. Touching. Not touching.
Every read ended the same way-too sharp, too tense, too loaded with irritation that bled straight through the script. If anything, it got worse the more you were asked to "connect."
Tyriq paced near the window now, jaw tight, arms crossed like he was holding himself back from saying something reckless. You stood on the opposite side of the room, script folded, nails digging into the paper so hard it crinkled.
The director pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Again," he said, already sounding tired. "From the middle."
You locked eyes with Tyriq.
You barely made it three lines in.
"That's not-" Tyriq cut in.
"That is the line," you snapped back.
"Yeah, the line," he said, smirking. "Not the attitude."
"Cut," the director barked.
Silence slammed into the room.
He stood slowly, chair scraping loudly against the floor.
When he spoke again, his voice was low. Controlled.
Dangerous in the way calm always was before an explosion.
"You know what?" he said. "Enough."
"You two are acting like children," the director continued, eyes flicking between you. "And I don't mean passionate actors clashing-I mean stubborn, egotistical, refusing-to-budge children."
Tyriq scoffed. "With all due respect-"
"I don't want to hear it," the director cut him off sharply, holding up a hand. "Not from you. Not from her. Not from either of you."
He took a few steps forward, closing the distance like he needed you to feel this.
"You are both good actors," he said firmly. "Great, actually. That's why you were picked. Not because of your faces. Not because of your names. Because you can act."
Then he pointed between the two of you.
"But this?" he said. "This has to stop."
"We've done three chemistry reads," he continued.
"Romantic. Casual. Emotional. Even improvisational. And every single time, instead of connection, all I see is resistance."
"There is something here," the director admitted.
"Something real. And instead of leaning into it, you're fighting it like it personally offends you."
You opened your mouth. "We're professionals-"
"I said I don't want to hear it," he repeated, sharper this time. "Because professionals don't let personal feelings sabotage a film."
The word personal hung heavy in the air.
"So," he said finally, folding his hands together. "Here's what's going to happen."
"I'm sending you away. Two weeks. No crew. No press. No excuses."
Your head snapped up. "Excuse me?"
"Vacation," he said plainly. "Somewhere quiet. Somewhere you can't avoid each other."
Tyriq let out a disbelieving laugh. "You can't be serious."
"I am very serious," the director replied coolly. "You will spend time together. You will talk. You will exist in the same space without scripts or cameras or an audience."
"And if we say no?" you asked quietly.
The director met your gaze without blinking.
"Then I'll find someone else," he said. "Both of you are replaceable. Don't mistake talent for immunity."
"You want this movie?" he continued. "Then figure it out. Because I don't care who started it, what happened before, or whose ego is bruised."
"But when you come back," he said, voice firm, final, "I expect chemistry-or you won't have a career to argue about."
He turned toward the door, then paused.
"And for the record," he added over his shoulder, I didn't pick you two by accident."
The door clicked shut behind the director, the sound echoing through the room like a gunshot.
You didn't move. Tyriq didn't either. You could feel him vibrating with it, the anger rolling off him in waves.
His voice was sharp, accusatory.
You turned slowly. "What / did?"
He snapped his head toward you, eyebrows lifting. "Oh, don't start. You walk in with that attitude, that mouth, and suddenly we're getting sent away like we're the problem."
You laughed under your breath. Bitter. "You really believe that, don't you?"
"Believe what?" he shot back.
"That you're untouchable," you said. "That nobody ever checks you. That people just work around you because you're Tyriq Withers."
"You think you can say whatever you want," you continued, heat building now, "show up whenever you feel like it, derail entire rooms, and nobody's supposed to react."
He took a step toward you. "Watch your mouth."
"No," you snapped. "You hate that I don't fold. You hate that I don't look at you like everyone else does."
Tyriq crossed the distance in three long strides, his hand coming up fast, rough, gripping your cheeks and forcing your face up to his.
"Say that again," he growled, voice pure venom. "Say it again."
Your heart slammed against your ribs, but you didn't flinch. Didn't blink. You held his gaze, face tight with anger and something else neither of you wanted to name.
"You're not mad at me," you said quietly. "You're mad because I see right through you."
His grip tightened instantly, fingers pressing harder into your cheeks as he pulled you closer-nose brushing yours, breath hot against your skin.
"Keep talking," he warned lowly. "That mouth is gonna get you in so much trouble."
Your skin prickled at the sound of his voice, the threat threaded with something dark and charged.
"I think," he continued, voice dropping even lower, "I have a way of fixing that."
For a split second, neither of you breathed.
Then he shoved your face back abruptly, breaking the contact like it burned him.
He stepped away, jaw clenched, eyes dark.
"Get ready," he said, already heading for the door. "Two weeks is a long time."
The door shut behind him.
You stood there frozen, chest heaving, your face still tingling where his hand had been-every nerve awake, every thought spinning.
As soon as you stepped into your apartment, the quiet barely had time to settle before your phone started ringing.
You glanced at the screen and scoffed.
You answered immediately. "Heard the great news?" you asked, sarcasm dripping from every word.
Your agent laughed on the other end. Actually laughed.
You kicked your shoes off harder than necessary. "Did the director call you?"
"Then it was that bad," you replied flatly.
You dropped your keys onto the counter and started pacing. "I told you. I told you this wasn't gonna work. Now I'm being forced to go to God knows where with a man I can't stand-for two weeks. Two fucking weeks-or my career is over."
Your chest felt tight as the words spilled out. You didn't even wait for her to respond before yanking your bedroom door open and pulling your suitcase from the closet. It hit the bed with a dull thud.
"What time is the flight?" you asked sharply, already unzipping it.
Your eyes darted to the clock on the wall.
You let out a breathless laugh, shaking your head as you dragged a hand down your face. "Of course. Of course it's today."
"Cheer up, babe," your agent said, still trying. "It's not the worst situation in the world."
"Feels like it," you muttered, yanking open drawers and tossing clothes onto the bed with no real system. Jeans. Dresses. Anything that didn't require thinking.
"Start packing," she added. "Don't be late."
You scoffed. "Yeah, I know," you said mockingly. "You don't have to tell me."
She laughed again before hanging up, leaving you alone with the hum of your apartment and the reality crashing down all at once.
You closed your eyes and took a slow, steady breath, forcing yourself to calm down. You needed a clear head if you were going to pack two weeks' worth of your life into one suitcase on a ticking clock.
No matter how much you hated it—
There was no backing out now.
The word left your agent's mouth earlier like it was supposed to soften the blow. Like a tropical destination somehow erased the fact that you were about to be trapped on an almost twelve-hour flight with the one man you couldn't stand.
You didn't even need to look at your boarding pass again to know how cursed this trip was. The universe had a sense of humor, and it was cruel.
You spotted Tyriq before he saw you-already seated, long legs stretched out, relaxed like this wasn't about to be the most inconvenient flight of his life. When you stopped beside his row, he glanced up slowly, eyes dragging over you like he had all the time in the world.
His brow lifted. "Well... this just keeps getting better."
You exhaled through your nose, unimpressed. "Move."
He leaned back instead, smug. "No hello? No 'safe travels'?"
You shoved your bag into the overhead bin, ignoring him completely. "If you want pleasantries, try someone who doesn't know you."
That earned a low laugh. "Still hostile. Consistency is admirable."
You slid into the seat beside him, buckling in with a sharp click. The proximity was instant and irritating-too close, too warm, too aware. Your elbow brushed his arm and you pulled away like you'd been burned.
He tilted his head slightly. "You act like sitting next to me is a personal attack."
"It is," you replied flatly. "I requested peace. This is the opposite."
The plane began to move, engines humming beneath you.
You stared straight ahead, counting your breaths, already tired and you hadn't even left the ground.
"I didn't think you'd actually come," he said after a moment. "Figured you'd fight it harder."
You turned just enough to look at him. "Don't flatter yourself. This isn't about you."
That wiped the smirk clean off his face for half a second.
Not enough to feel good about it, but enough to notice.
"Good to know," he said coolly.
"Please," you said finally, voice tight as you reached for your headphones. "I've had enough of you today. Sit back, shut up, and let us get this flight over with so we don't have to be practically on top of each other anymore since the plane is so small."
You didn't wait for his response.
You shoved the headphones over your ears and turned toward the window, jaw clenched, watching the city blur past as the plane lifted into the air.
But even with music playing, you could feel him.
His gaze burned into the side of your face-unapologetic, unblinking. You shifted slightly, irritation crawling under your skin. You rolled your eyes, shaking your head because of course he was staring. Of course he couldn't just let it go.
The flight dragged on painfully slow.
Thankfully, Tyriq kept to himself for most of it. No commentary. No snide remarks. Just quiet tension and stolen glances when he thought you weren't paying attention. You pretended to sleep. He pretended not to notice.
By the time you landed, your patience was threadbare.
You grabbed your bags without a word, moving through the airport like muscle memory took over. Outside, a driver waited, ushering you both into a sleek black car.
The ride to the villa was silent.
Tyriq stared out the window, jaw tight, hands clasped together like he was holding something back. You mirrored him, headphones back on, eyes focused on the scenery passing by, pretending the man beside you didn't exist.
When the car finally stopped, you were out before the door was fully open.
You grabbed your bag and made a beeline for the front entrance, pushing inside and doing a quick scan of the space. Beautiful-open, airy, all white and wood and ocean views—
Your heart skipped, panic flaring as you moved quickly through the space, opening doors until-relief.
A second bedroom. Directly across from the first.
You let out a breath you didn't realize you were holding and stepped inside, dropping your bag onto the bed. The room was stunning-large windows, soft linens, ocean just beyond the glass. You took it in quietly, exhaustion finally catching up to you.
You didn't notice him at first.
Tyriq stood in his doorway across the hall, leaning against the frame, arms crossed as he watched you.
There was something unreadable in his expression-tight, dark, simmering.
You lifted your gaze and met his.
Then you walked toward your door, plastered on a sarcastic smile, eyes flicking over him before rolling them.
And you slammed the door in his face.
You leaned back against it for half a second, chest rising and falling, before pushing away and collapsing onto the bed.
The travel exhaustion hit you all at once.
Sleep took you before you could even think about what tomorrow-and two weeks alone with him-was going to bring.
Hey my loves🫶🏾 thank you so much for reading the first part of Off Script. this is very much a slow burn (like... agonizingly slow), and we are truly just getting started. There's so much tension, angst, banter, and emotional chaos coming, so stay tuned because things are only going to get messier from here😌🔥 I appreciate every like, reblog, and comment more than you know it-its means everything to me. If you'd like to be added to the tag list, just met me know! 💌
@shellyyy177 @2fab4utheatrediva @shimmeringsunshinestars @yourleogf
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