the jealous take
pairing: film director!james potter x actress!reader
summary: in the quiet tension between stolen glances and unspoken words, jealousy lingers like the final frame of a film, holding a story that’s yet to be told
warnings: slow burn, jealousy, no use of y/n, english isn’t my first language
word count: 2.1k
a/n: one more part for my muse universe. hope you'll like it
ᯓ★ now playing…
labrinth - jealous
IT STARTS SMALL.
A laugh that lingers too long. Fingertips trailing over James’ forearm when he’s explaining a shot — light, casual, like she has every right to touch him. And the way she says his name, like she’s tasting it on her tongue, sweet and slow, every single time.
You’re not usually like this.
Not the lip-biting, stomach-knotting, spiraling type. You’ve played leads. You’ve stood under hot lights beside charmers who whispered unscripted things in your ear and asked you out before the credits rolled. You know how to keep your cool. You wear disinterest like a perfume. Detached, elegant, untouchable.
But this is James.
Your James.
Not yours, technically. Not officially. But still — yours in the way he always finds your eyes before a take, in the way he leans a little closer when you’re cold, how he grins when he makes you laugh even though you try not to.
And now he’s not just the boy with the handheld camera and an editing setup that takes over his living room floor. He’s directing. With an assistant. A boom mic operator. Actual producers circling like sharks with clipboards and iced coffees. This is real. His real shot. The one that could change everything.
You’re proud of him.
God, you’re proud of him.
But when she — the new girl playing the best friend — glides onto the set, you feel something twist sharp and ugly beneath your ribs. She’s all glossy hair and understated makeup, tall in that effortless way, hovering too close between takes. Complimenting James on his vision. Telling him she feels the chemistry in the scene.
And suddenly, everything in you bristles.
You cross your arms tighter. Your mouth settles into that slight pout you get when something tastes off. And you watch — quiet, guarded, burning slow — because maybe you don’t know what to say, but you know what you feel.
And it’s louder than you want it to be.
You’re curled in the corner of the soundstage, knees drawn to your chest, sleeves swallowed by the fabric of his hoodie. The one he tossed to you this morning without a second thought, murmuring something about you looking cold in just your tank top and jeans. It still smells like him — pine, coffee, and the faintest trace of some detergent that reminds you of early mornings and foggy windows.
You’re wearing him like a claim. Like a warning. Like armor spun from threads of hope.
Not that she notices.
Elise doesn’t notice much that doesn’t glitter with attention. She’s too busy tossing her hair and laughing in ways that echo too long in the rafters, like she’s trying to stretch every moment on set into a performance just for him. You watch her trail her fingers over camera equipment she doesn’t understand, watch the way her gaze clings to James like dew to morning grass.
For a few days, he doesn’t notice either.
He’s in his element — lit from within, glowing with purpose. Giving notes, adjusting lights, sketching out shots in the air with his hands like he’s painting something only he can see. His voice is low, firm, endlessly patient. You love him like this. You love watching him become the version of himself he’s always wanted to be.
And you tell yourself not to care.
You have no right to. There’s no label. No claim but the hoodie on your back and the way he sometimes touches your waist like he forgot he shouldn’t. No promises. Just how he films you like you’re made of stardust and longing. Just how he always says you when someone asks if he’s cast the lead yet.
But today, she laughs. Too loud. At a joke that wasn’t funny.
And then she leans in. Closer than necessary. Her hand brushes his bicep, fingers lingering, and this time–
James doesn’t pull back.
He smiles.
Just slightly. Barely more than a twitch at the corner of his mouth. Maybe polite. Maybe distracted. But you see it. You feel it.
And you freeze.
It’s not an earthquake. It’s not a fire. It’s quieter than that. Colder. Like ice cracking under the surface of something that had once been still.
Your stomach knots. Your breath forgets how to move. And there it is — the slow, sick burn of jealousy, creeping in like smoke under a locked door.
You tug the sleeves of his hoodie further down over your hands, lips pressing into that familiar pout you wear when the world feels wrong. Your eyes flicker to them again, unable to help it, even as it stings.
You don’t want to look. But you have to look.
Because maybe if you watch long enough, you’ll understand how it happens — how a soft laugh, a hand on an arm, a smile not meant for you — can tilt the whole axis of a day, knock the breath from your lungs without warning.
Later, when he passes your trailer, you don’t look up from your phone. You mumble something about being tired. Say you need to run lines. You don’t tell him that your heart’s been lodged in your throat since lunch, tight and aching like it might crack open if he so much as says her name.
He finds you eventually. Curled on the worn makeup couch like something small and stormy, face half-buried in the collar of his hoodie. It’s too big on you. You’ve worn it like a second skin all day, clinging to the warmth he left behind.
“You’ve been quiet,” James says, soft, leaning in the doorway like he’s afraid to spook you.
You shrug, voice light and practiced. “Long day.”
He watches you. Really watches. Eyes sweeping over the way you’re curled in on yourself, sleeves pulled over your hands again. The way you haven’t looked at him once.
“You mad at me?”
“No.” Too fast. Too bright.
His head tilts slightly. You’ve seen that look before — when he knows you’re lying and is just waiting for you to admit it.
“You sure?”
You finally lift your gaze. It takes effort. His eyes are too warm, too open, and you’re too full of words you’ve bitten back all day. “Why would I be mad?”
He steps inside, the door clicking shut behind him like the scene changing. Walks over slow, like you’re something fragile that might startle. “Because you’ve been wearing my hoodie like it’s armor,” he says quietly, “and you haven’t smiled at me once since Tuesday.”
Your breath catches.
He kneels in front of you, hands resting gently on your thighs, grounding you — and at the same time, undoing you. Your whole body is electric under his touch. It’s stupid. It’s everything.
“I didn’t flirt back,” he says, voice low, as if confessing something holy. “Not really.”
You don’t answer. Can’t.
“I saw you watching,” he murmurs. “The way your jaw clenched.”
“I didn’t–”
“You did.” A whisper. A smile curling at the corner of his mouth. “And you know what? I liked it.”
His fingers ghost down your knee, featherlight, just enough to make your pulse stutter. “You never get jealous.”
You swallow, hard. “I didn’t mean to be.”
“I know.” He leans in, the space between you going impossibly still. “But I want you to know something, okay? This job — this dream — it’s everything I ever wanted. But you…” His voice dips to a hush, brushing against the rawest part of you. “You’re the reason I ever thought I could dream this big.”
Silence blooms. Heavy and golden.
Your hand moves before your pride can stop it, fingers slipping into his hair, nails grazing his scalp in that way that makes him exhale like he’s been carrying the weight of the sky. His shoulders loosen beneath your touch, like something in him has been wound too tight without you.
And you — you don’t say a word.
You just hold him there, fingers threaded in his hair, like maybe if you stay quiet long enough, he’ll understand how your silence says everything — how it aches, how it wants, how it loves him in a way you still haven’t dared to name.
Your cheek rests against your hand as you look down at him, eyes half-lidded, voice dry. “Think the studio would let me improvise a scene?”
He glances up, one brow raised, a soft smile tugging at his mouth. “Depends what kind of scene.”
“One where I slap her.”
His eyes crinkle, that barely-there laugh sitting in his throat. “Subtle.”
“She’d deserve it.”
“She didn’t actually do anything.”
“She was breathing near you,” you mutter, pout deepening.
James huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Dangerous offense.”
You narrow your eyes, expression all feline displeasure and slow, deliberate irritation. “You smiled at her.”
“Are you calling me out right now?”
“Not if you write me a dramatic monologue in the final act.”
He grins, nudging your knee with a warm, calloused hand. “You’re ridiculous.”
You tug at the collar of his hoodie, fisted lightly in your hand. “You gave me this, by the way. This is on you.”
“Oh, I know.” His voice lowers, curls around the edges of the moment. He shifts, resting his head on your thigh like he belongs there, like it’s home. His nose brushes the hem of the hoodie, his breath warm against the fabric. “Trust me, I know exactly what I’m doing.”
It’s playful. Barely a whisper of sound between you. But beneath it, something deeper pulses. That tension you both carry like a second heartbeat — unspoken, sharp-edged, known.
You glance at the door behind him. Voices echo faintly down the hallway — footsteps, laughter, calls for lighting adjustments. The world is still turning. There’s still a set waiting, a camera needing to be reset.
But James doesn’t move.
He stays close, kneeling between your knees, gaze fixed on yours like you’ve become the only thing he can focus on. Like this — you — are the only frame he wants to hold. Not a performance. Not a scene. Just this moment. Just the truth humming between your skin and his.
And in his eyes, you see it. The part of him that’s already yours. The part that always was.
You exhale slowly, fingers still tangled in his hair, like letting go too quickly might undo whatever fragile thing just wove itself between you.
“You’re lucky I like your stupid movies,” you mutter, but your voice has lost its usual bite — too wrapped in the warmth of him, in the gravity of the moment.
“Stupid?” he repeats, faux offended, hand splaying dramatically over his chest.
You shrug, the corner of your mouth twitching upward. “Okay. Maybe brilliant.”
“That’s better,” he murmurs, hands gliding up your thighs in a barely-there touch that sends a flicker of heat curling through you. “You know you’re my favorite scene, right?”
Before you can form a clever comeback — something deflecting, something safe — someone calls his name from the hallway. Sharp. Impatient. Something about final checks on set.
He groans softly, forehead pressing against your leg like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you before he goes. Then, reluctantly, he pulls back — but not before pressing a warm, lingering kiss to the inside of your knee, just above the tear in your jeans.
You swear your breath leaves your body in one slow, stuttering exhale.
“Come find me after wrap,” he says as he stands, smoothing his shirt like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just ruin you with one kiss and a line like poetry. “I’ll write you that slap scene.”
You roll your eyes, cheeks flushed. “Make sure it’s dramatic. I want at least one slow-mo shot. Maybe a single tear.”
“Only if you promise to glare like you did earlier,” he teases, backing toward the door. “It was… impressive.”
And then he’s gone, the door clicking shut behind him.
You’re left alone. In his hoodie. On that worn makeup couch. Still tasting his words, still burning from his touch, still buzzing with something electric and terrifying and real.
Your hand drifts to the place where his lips pressed against your skin, and everything in you hums — sharp and breathless, a little too loud to ignore.
And for once, you stop thinking about Elise and her perfect posture and whispery compliments. You stop replaying the way her hand lingered on his arm, the way she laughed like she had something to prove.
Because it doesn’t matter.
You’re the one in his hoodie. You’re the one he looks at like the whole script lives in your bones. You’re the lead — in the film, and in his story.
And maybe, just maybe… you’re starting to believe it.
Cut to black.
thankx for reading <3
i’m working on another part of the muse universe. i’ve gotten completely obsessed with these characters — so much so that i feel sick and all i can do is write about them. i plan to post their first meeting by the end of the week. it’s already written, but it just needs a few slight edits, so i’ll try to get to them as soon as possible.
you can always share your opinion in comments or my inbox :3
– your santi 🪐
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