summary: you meet will for the first time at the table read | Will x fem!reader
notes: part 2 of lights! camera! action! series <3 ok so im obsessed with this au already. I love actor will
content: actor!will, fluff, awkward and nervous will, slight flirting
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The table read room always feels the same, no matter the project.
Too bright. Too quiet. Everyone pretending they’re relaxed while holding onto their scripts like lifelines.
You arrive early – you usually do – slipping into a seat near the middle of the long table, setting your coffee down beside your name card. Your script is already creased at the spine. Tabs peeking out from the edges. You’ve read it enough times to hear the rhythm of it in your head, the pauses, the things unsaid between lines.
You’re calm. You always are at this stage.
Then the door opens.
You don’t look up straight away – not until you feel it. A shift in the air, the kind that doesn’t announce itself loudly but still insists on being noticed.
When you glance up, you see him standing just inside the room.
Will Lenney looks… younger than he does on screen. Less polished. Like someone who still expects to be asked if he’s in the right place. He pauses, eyes flicking over the room, his grip tightening slightly on the script in his hands.
He looks nervous.
Not the charming, self-aware nerves he has in interviews – real ones. The kind that are scary and that live in the shoulders and the jaw, you can see it in the way he takes a deep breath before stepping fully inside.
Your chest warms unexpectedly.
He catches you looking. For a split second, his expression flickers – surprise, recognition, disbelief – before he smooths it into a smile that’s careful around the edges.
“Hi,” he says, walking over. “Sorry, I just- this is the table read for Right Place Wrong time, yeah?”
“It is,” you say, smiling. “You’re exactly where you’re meant to be.”
Something in his face eases at that. Just a fraction.
“Good,” he says, exhaling. “That’s reassuring.”
He introduces himself even though neither of you needs it. His handshake is warm, a little tentative, like he’s unsure how much space he’s allowed to take up.
“As if I wouldn’t know who you are,” you tease gently.
He laughs – quiet, genuine – and there it is. That softness people always talk about. The thing that made you notice him before the internet did.
“You’d be surprised,” he says. “I still feel like I’m on borrowed time with all of this.”
You sit beside each other when everyone’s called to the table. You’re aware of him in a way that sharpens everything. The sound of pages turning. The brush of his arm when you both reach for your coffee at the same time.
The read begins.
You slip into character easily, but you don’t disappear into her the way you usually do. Not fully. Part of you stays anchored to the present – to the way Will listens.
He doesn’t rush his lines. He waits for yours. Responds to the feeling of them rather than the words. When you look up, you find his eyes on you more often than not – intense, not hungry – just attentive. Like he’s genuinely curious about what you’ll do next.
It makes something in you unfurl.
You realise you’re smiling during your scenes together. Not because the script asks for it, but because it feels right.
Between scenes, you catch him rubbing his thumb along the edge of the page, grounding himself. His knee bounces slightly under the table. Every now and then, he glances at you, like checking you’re still there.
When the director finally calls a break, the room fills with chatter, but he turns to you immediately, relief written plainly across his face.
“You’re incredible,” he says, and this time he doesn’t trip over the words. “I knew you would be. I just-” He shakes his head, laughing softly. “It’s different when you’re actually in the room.”
You tilt your head. “Different how?’
“Real,” he says. Then, flushing, “Sorry. That sounded-”
“It didn’t,” you assure him. “I know what you mean.”
There’s a pause. A comfortable one.
“I love you in The Last Summer We had,” you say. “But honestly? I saw you before that?”
His head snaps up. “You did?”
“Yeah,” you nod. “That little BBC Three drama. The one where you played the brother?”
His mouth falls open slightly.
“No one’s seen that,” he says.
“I did,” you reply. “And the short film you did in uni – the black and white one. You sat on that bike the whole time like you were waiting for your life to start.”
He stares at you, stunned.
“That-” He swallows. “I didn’t even think that still existed.”
“It does,” you say softly. “And you were brilliant. Even then.”
For a moment, he looks like he doesn’t quite know where to put himself. Like praise from you carries weight he hadn’t prepared for.
“You saying that,” he admits quietly, “means more than… it means a lot.”
You hesitate, then say, “You know, there’s a moment in one of your scenes – the way you hesitate before you speak 0 it reminded me of something I try to do in my own work. Letting the silence do the talking.”
His eyes light up at that.
“That’s – yeah,” he says, animated now. “That’s exactly what I was going for. In-” He stops himself, smiling sheepishly. “Sorry, I’m rambling.”
“No,” you say quickly. “I love this stuff.”
You find yourself talking – really talking – about the things that matter to you in your films. About choosing when to speak and when to let the silence talk for itself. He listens like every word is gospel, responding with insights that surprise you with their thoughtfulness.
When someone eventually calls you both back to the table, you’re reluctant to stop.
At the end of the read, as people pack up and drift away, Will lingers beside you.
“Hey,” he says, nerves creeping back in. “Would it be alright if we- I mean, just for rehearsals. Or talking about the script. Or-”
You’re already pulling your phone out. “I’d really like that.”
His smile this time is brighter. More certain.
As you walk out together, the hallway feels quieter somehow.
“This film,” he says, glancing at you. “I think it’s going to matter.”
You meet his gaze, feeling something steady and unfamiliar settle in your chest. “Yeah,” you say. I think so too.”
summary: you and will get to know eachother before filming | Will x fem!reader
notes: bit of a short interlude but I hope you enjoy! also who gets the title reference?? part 3 of actor will!
content: actor!will, fluff, texts, getting to know eachother
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You don’t text him first.
You could. You have his number saved. You’ve opened the conversation twice already just to look at it – the blank space waiting.
But you don’t.
He texts first.
Will:
hey :)
hope you got home okay
You stare at it longer than you should.
You:
I did. You?
Will:
yeah still processing today a bit
in a good way though
You smile at your phone.
You:
me too. I think the movie’s gonna be special
There’s a pause. three dots. They disappear. Come back.
Will:
I’m really glad I’m doing it with you
Your heart does a flip.
Over the next few days, the messages come easily.
Not constant. Not overwhelming. Just… steady.
He sends you a photo of his script covered in colour-coded tabs.
You send back a picture of yours, equally chaotic.
He admits he’s been overthinking one of the early scenes – the one where your characters meet for the second time, both pretending not to remember how much the first meeting meant.
You tell him that scene is your favourite.
He tells you that makes him feel better.
Two days later:
Missed Call – Will Lenney (7:42 PM)
A message follows almost immediately.
Will:
sorry!! meant to call my sister
unless you want to talk about act 2 in which case I absolutely meant to call you
You roll your eyes, smiling.
You call him back.
Call Duration: 43 minutes (7:46 PM – 8:29 PM)
You don’t mean to talk that long.
You start with the script. Honestly, you do.
The pacing in the middle. The way the dialogue gets tighter. The emotional shift at certain points.
But somewhere between discussing subtext and timing, you realise he’s stopped sounding nervous.
He laughs more. Teases you lightly about your habit of defending your character like she’s real.
You tell him she is real, to you.
He goes quiet in that thoughtful way he does.
When you hang up, you sit there for a moment longer than necessary, phone still in your hand.
The texts pick up after that.
Later at night. A little softer.
Will:
do you think they would’ve worked if they met later?
You know he means the characters.
You pretend you don’t hear the extra layer.
You:
I think they had to miss each other first. Otherwise it wouldn’t mean as much
A minute passes.
Will:
yeah
I think you’re right
He sends you a clip from that old short film of his you mentioned at the table read.
Will:
found it
don’t judge the hair
You watch it again. The black and white grain. The quiet desperation in his eyes even back then.
You:
you’ve always been a great actor
He doesn’t respond for five minutes.
Then:
Will:
you don’t understand how much that means coming from you
A week before filming starts, you talk almost every night.
Sometimes it’s structured – blocking idea, emotional beats about the script.
Sometimes it isn’t. Sometimes it’s stupid conversations about his dog or what you both had for dinner (in your opinion, a pot noodle is not a nutritious enough meal, but he doesn’t agree).
