I'd done drama. Crying in the rain. Screaming matches. That one indie film where I had to scream internally while staring at a kettle for twenty-seven seconds. But this?
This was new. And frankly, terrifying.
The room we were in wasn’t exactly helping, either. It was your typical set bedroom fake walls, too many cameras, a surprising number of people for something that’s meant to look intimate. And of course, in the middle of the bed, sat Asa Butterfield.
Looking completely calm. Naturally.
I stood at the edge of the room, clutching my dressing gown like it was armour. My stomach was doing somersaults. I knew he was lovely we’d been filming for two months already. Bantered over takeaway lunches and stupid TikToks. He was smart, sweet, sometimes a bit too sarcastic for his own good, but endlessly kind.
Still. This wasn’t lunch. This was… naked pretending.
He looked up as I entered, and his face lit up in that effortless way it always did when he was trying to put someone at ease.
“Hey, you alright?” he asked, standing up immediately.
I gave a weak smile. “Not even slightly.”
He walked over to me, hands in his hoodie pockets.
“Yeah, sex scenes are the worst,” he said casually. “Like, top-tier emotional torture disguised as 'artistic storytelling.’”
I laughed just a little.
“I know everyone says they’re not sexy,” I mumbled, “but it’s not even that. It’s just… awkward. And vulnerable. And... everything.”
He nodded, completely understanding.
“Totally fair. It’s exposing. You’re trusting a load of strangers not to laugh while you fake-moan and make weird eye contact.”
“Brilliant,” I muttered. “Exactly what I wanted to think about.”
He grinned, then lowered his voice conspiratorially.
“Wanna hear something awful that’ll make you feel better?”
I raised an eyebrow. “Absolutely.”
“When we were filming Sex Education, there was this one episode where I had to, um… fake masturbate. For like four separate scenes. One of them was slow-motion. With music. And... my face was on the poster.”
I cackled. Like, actual doubled-over laughter.
He continued, clearly pleased with himself. “It got to the point where the director would just say ‘Alright Asa, time to go again,’ and I’d have to climb onto the bed like a Victorian orphan preparing to be humiliated.”
“Oh my God.”'
“So whatever happens today, just remember I’ve already fake-jacked it on national television. You literally cannot be more embarrassed than me.”
That broke the tension beautifully.
I was still nervous obviously but I could breathe a little easier.
He leaned in, voice gentler now. “We don’t do anything you’re not 100% okay with. We’ve got an intimacy coordinator, we’ve got closed set, and we’ve got me. Which means you’re not going through this alone. Alright?”
I nodded.
“And if anything feels weird or wrong or just not right, you tell me and we stop. No questions, no fuss. Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I said quietly.
“You sure?”
I looked up at him, and for a second, all the cameras and lights and noise faded out. It was just him. And that soft expression he wore when he was trying to make people feel safe.
“I’m sure.”
We did a rehearsal with the coordinator fully clothed, with blocks and marks and talk-throughs. It helped, strangely. Made it feel more like choreography than sex. The scene wasn’t graphic, really. Just... intimate. Tender. A moment where two people who’d been circling each other all season finally fell together.
Before we filmed the actual take, we stood in our robes, both a bit jittery.
“I feel like I’m about to do an exam I haven’t revised for,” I whispered.
Asa smirked. “Same. Except the examiners are holding boom mics.”
The assistant director called for quiet on set. The intimacy coordinator gave us a thumbs up. And then, the moment came.
We slipped under the sheets. Carefully placed modesty garments, body tape, half a dozen safety checks in place. Still nerve-wracking but somehow, less terrifying with him beside me.
He looked at me as the cameras began to roll, eyes warm, tone soft.
“You alright?”
I nodded.
And then the scene began.
It actually went... well. We moved through the steps like we’d rehearsed. He whispered little things under his breath to keep the mood light “You’ve got a bit of pillow fluff on your lip, it’s very seductive” or “My elbow’s cramping but I’m too proud to say anything on camera.”
We nailed the emotional beats, too. There was something quiet in the way he touched my hand, the way we held eye contact longer than we were meant to. Not romantic, exactly. Just… deeply respectful.
They called cut.
The director clapped.
And I exhaled like I’d been holding my breath for ten minutes.
Asa turned to me, grinning.
“You were brilliant.”
“You didn’t look like an awkward Victorian orphan,” I teased.
“Personal growth,” he said, bowing slightly.
Later that day, we were back in our regular clothes, sat on the steps of our trailers, eating crisps from a shared packet.
“Thank you,” I said, breaking the comfortable silence.
He looked at me. “For what?”
“For being... you. Making me laugh. Making it okay.”
His smile softened. “Course. That’s the job, isn’t it?”
“Not every co-star would care.”
He shrugged. “You would’ve done the same for me.”
I tossed a crisp at his head. He caught it in his mouth.
“Show-off.”
He grinned, proud. “You know, we should request a no-clothes clause going forward.”
“What?”
“Just no more scenes where we have to take our clothes off. Ever. We’ll start a trend.”
“Could work.”
“Or we just only do period dramas from now on. Corsets and repression. No awkward thrusting.”
I laughed. “You’d look excellent in a waistcoat.”
He nudged me. “You just want to see me suffer.”
“Maybe.”
He grinned again, and I felt it that fluttery, slightly dangerous warmth that sneaks in when someone’s kind to you in all the right ways.
Three days after filming the sex scene, we were doing a night shoot in a fake kitchen under fake rain. Classic television magic.
I was standing barefoot on cold tiles, pretending to drink tea while pretending not to be heartbroken. Asa’s character was meant to come in and silently wrap his arms around me, forehead to the back of my shoulder, no lines just... feeling.
It was quiet on set. Rain machine pummelling the roof. Crew huddled under canopies. I was tired, soaked, and blinking too much to keep the “natural tears” from running.
Then I felt it his arms. Gentle. Solid. Familiar.
And something inside me paused.
Not because I felt awkward.
But because it felt too real.
After the take, we both stayed still for a moment longer than we probably needed to.
He didn’t say anything. Neither did I.
The director eventually called, “Great. Let’s reset.”
We pulled apart, a bit awkward, neither of us meeting the other’s eyes. I reached for a towel and wiped my arms.
Asa cleared his throat beside me.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” I said, a little too quickly.
“You looked like you were actually crying.”
“I was,” I admitted. “Bit too easy lately.”
He glanced at me then, eyes softer. “You want to talk about it?”
I shook my head. “Not yet. Maybe later.”
He nodded. “Well... whenever.”
He looked like he wanted to say more, but someone called for us and he jogged back to mark.
And I just... watched him go.
Later, after wrap, we were both too wired to sleep. It was 2:13am and we ended up back at the trailers with tea and leftover set biscuits.
“I never used to be a night person,” I said, curled up on the steps of his trailer in an oversized hoodie he’d lent me.
“You never really get a choice, filming,” he replied, sitting next to me. “It messes with everything. Sleep. Appetite. Emotions.”
“Especially emotions.”
He tilted his head. “You’ve seemed a bit off this week.”
I fiddled with the biscuit wrapper. “Been overthinking.”
“About?”
I hesitated. “Us.”
He looked at me carefully, but didn’t interrupt.
“I just... I don’t know. That scene the other day. The sex scene. And now tonight. It’s felt...”
“Different,” he finished softly.
I nodded. “Like the script stopped mattering.”
He gave a quiet laugh. “I thought I was just losing my mind.”
“No, you’re not. Or if you are, I’m going mad with you.”
We sat in silence, staring out into the empty lot. A fox skittered past the bins. Somewhere, a light buzzed overhead.
Then Asa said, “You know the weirdest part? I’ve done loads of fake intimacy scenes. But I’ve never felt this... exposed. In a good way.”
I swallowed. “Yeah.”
He looked over at me, expression unreadable.
“I don’t want to mess up what we have.”
“Neither do I.”
“But I don’t want to pretend it’s not happening either.”
I turned toward him. “What is happening?”
He smiled faintly. “I’m trying very hard not to kiss you right now.”
My breath caught. “What if I’m not trying at all?”
He blinked. “Are we allowed?”
“We’re not under contract to not kiss off-screen, are we?”
“No. But if we do... it might change everything.”
I nodded, heart thudding. “Maybe it’s supposed to.”
Then he leaned in. No rush. Just quiet certainty. And when our lips met, it wasn’t fireworks. It wasn’t cinematic.
It was soft. Real.
Like an exhale you didn’t realise you’d been holding in for months.
We pulled back slightly. His forehead touched mine.
“Still okay?” he whispered.
“More than okay.”
“Not just scripted?”
“Not even slightly.”
He grinned. “Well, in that case... want to ruin my hoodie with your lipstick?”
I laughed, properly this time. “Already have.”
We didn’t label it immediately. Didn’t rush into declarations or press statements or anything dramatic. But there was a shift after that night.
He brought me tea before every early call.
I brought him gum before every kiss scene so we wouldn’t have to pretend mint wasn’t a requirement.
And in every look we exchanged between takes, there was that quiet secret:
The study of the past with one eye upon the present is the source of all sins and sophistries in history. It is the essence of what we mean by the word "unhistorical".”
- Herbert Butterfield, The Whig Interpretation of History
