The Space Between Takes | H.S
(celebrity × journalist)
*the photo it's not mine*
Summary:
Fifteen minutes were supposed to be enough.
They weren’t.
One interview. Too much eye contact. And a connection that refuses to stay on camera.
A/N: English isn’t my first language and I couldn’t catch every little mistake while editing. Please be gentle with me 🤍
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The newsroom at CineScope Magazine, located in downtown Los Angeles, always sounded louder in the mornings than it had any right to. Coffee machines hissed steam into the air, keyboards clacked in uneven rhythms, and Luka, her colleague, murmured something unidentifiable while pretending to edit headlines. It was something Y/N had grown used to.
She’d arrived in this city four years ago for film school, pursuing the vague idea of working behind a camera but never imagining she’d actually end up here — at a real entertainment production company, covering film festivals and interviewing people she had written essays about in college. At twenty-seven, she was still adjusting to the title Junior Visual Correspondent, even if the badge on her desk attested it was real.
That morning, she remained at her small desk near the window — the one that had terrible stability but perfect natural light — scrolling through the updated press schedule for The Last Source. Five actors were highlighted under her name… and one she was pretending not to focus on too much.
“You’re chewing that pen again,” Luka remarked without lifting his eyes.
“You are.” He stretched, cast her a look. “Relax. You’ll be fine. You were born for this.”
“Born for it? I nearly called the publicist ‘mom’ yesterday.” She laughed into her hand.
“That’s still better than Noa DM’ing a director her sandwich order.”
Across the office, Noa raised a middle finger without turning away from her phone.
“Professional multitasking,” she asserted. “Also, stop looking like you’re going to faint.” She mocked her.
“I’m fine.” Y/N countered, though she still felt the familiar knot of anxiety tightening.
“Right,” Luka added. “You’re not an intern anymore, so stop acting like one."
She glanced down at the schedule again, lingering on the final line longer than necessary, as if staring at it might make it less real.
Harry Styles, Lead Actor — 2:15 p.m.
Of course, she knew him. Everyone did. He wasn’t just another name on a call sheet; he was a constant presence in the industry, someone whose image had been everywhere for years. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been assigned to interview or photograph someone operating at that level. The nerves crept in quietly, settling deep.
And then there was the timing. She had to leave now if she wanted to make it on time for the lead actor’s interview. Suddenly, the margin for error felt terrifyingly thin.
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She arrived at the studio where the interview would take place. Every sound—the distant hum of the lights, the soft shuffle of crew shoes, the buzz of a hairdryer somewhere—became a drumbeat that amplified her pulse. Everyone around her was doing their job: lighting, sound, makeup, publicists whispering into headsets.
And there she was, positioned in a chair that still held the warmth of the previous interviewer. It should have been comforting; instead, she felt like an imposter. Then came the murmur—that small ripple at the door that always meant someone important had entered. The sudden shift in the room’s atmosphere alerted her before she even glanced up.
He was next. The one she’d tried not to overthink.
She’d already spoken to three of the five lead actors from The Last Source, and each interview had been perfectly rehearsed. Easy. Predictable. But just hearing his voice somewhere behind the cameras turned all her practiced confidence to static.
Through the soft noise of the set, she caught glimpses of him—shaking hands with a producer, laughing at something a PA uttered. He took a small breath as someone adjusted the mic pack on his belt, and then he traversed the space with the ease of someone who had spent years being watched. He was careful not to step on the cables as he approached the chair across from her.
For a few seconds, she just observed. The calm precision of his movements. The way he rolled his sleeves slightly as someone clipped the mic to his shirt. The flash of a ring as he checked his phone one last time before slipping it into his pocket. Everything about him appeared effortless.
He settled down. The room adjusted itself around him.
“Rolling,” someone whispered.
He focused on her then—really focused—and it felt like the temperature changed.
“Hi,” he intoned. Just that. But somehow the word carried warmth—too much for a room that cold.
Her throat went dry. “Hi. I’m—”
He interrupted her—not rushed, not loud, just certain—saying her name like he already knew it. The sound of it hit harder than she expected—like he wasn’t just reading it off a sheet but recognizing it. The syllables slipped out of him too smoothly, as if he’d practiced them once in his head before saying them out loud.
Her pulse jumped. Stupidly. She forced a breath past the tightness in her throat, reminding herself not to stare, not to look as startled as she felt.
“Yes,” she managed, hoping he couldn’t hear the tiny tremor underneath. “I’m with CineScope, so it’s—really nice to meet you.”
He didn’t react much. Not exactly. Just a flicker of acknowledgment in his eyes, like he’d heard that line a hundred times before. Still, he didn’t avert his gaze. Instead, he offered a smile and stated gently, “Likewise.” — and that was enough to keep her anchored.
She cleared her throat, trying to sound composed.
“Thank you for giving me this little space to talk about your new movie.”
He just shook his head a little, accepting her thanks, waiting patiently.
“It’s been called one of the biggest premieres of the past year, and we’d love to know — what’s it like—”
He interrupted, tilting his head, curiosity cutting through his calm.
“What did you think of it?”
Her brain froze. “It was really good,” she blurted — too fast, too shallow.
A faint, knowing smirk played on his lips. “No, I wanna hear the real shit. Was it good?”
That single question knocked the air out of her.
She wanted to respond, but everything she could say felt too small or too careful. It was such a simple question, yet the way he held her gaze made it feel like a dare.
She didn’t want to seem like a fangirl — because she wasn’t one.
The silence between them felt louder than any sound in the room.
“I think it was great, like I said,” she finally managed. “The acting… that’s what really brought it to life.”
He glanced away for half a second — interest fading just slightly — and her stomach tightened.
Great. She’d just given the most forgettable answer of her life. She could practically see the headline: Rookie journalist bores Harry Styles to death.
She’d spent hours preparing — real questions, not PR fluff about co-stars and costumes. She searched her notes — pages she’d studied for hours — and located the question she’d written in the margin one sleepless night.
She raised her eyes again. Her voice emerged steadier, lower.
“Let’s talk a bit about your process. When you give so much of yourself to a character,” she began, “what’s left when the lights go off?”
That made him pause. His attention snapped back, sharp and focused.
He leaned back slightly, his expression unreadable at first — then slowly softening, thoughtful.
“You know,” he continued, voice low, “that’s the hardest part. People think acting’s about pretending, but it’s not. Most of it’s… borrowing. You take something real — something that already hurts — and you wear it until they say cut.”
He gazed momentarily past her shoulder, then returned his full attention to her.
“It’s addictive,” he added. “Letting people believe the version of you they like. Easier than reminding them you’re human.”
“That sounds… lonely,” she observed, and the softness of it surprised her. She was about to pull back when he tilted his head, half-smiling like he’d heard a truth he didn’t want to admit.
“It is. But it’s the kind of lonely that starts to feel familiar. Like background noise you stop noticing.”
The tiny filter between her brain and her mouth slipped.
“Do you think that’s the price of it?”
“Being seen by everyone but known by no one.”
He exhaled slowly — a sound almost like a laugh, except it wasn’t.
“That’s what happens when you make a living out of being a version of yourself people can love without asking too much.”
He leaned forward, studying her with a focus that made the room feel smaller. His voice dipped—smooth, unhurried.
“You ask like you’re trying to get under the role.”
A sudden, electric charge filled the air.
The two words dropped between them like a spark in dry grass—small, quiet, but catastrophically combustible.
For a moment, she couldn’t tell if the heat that flushed up her spine was adrenaline, or something far more dangerous. Her stomach hollowed out. Every instinct screamed don’t react, but her body betrayed her with a sharp inhale she hoped the mic didn’t catch.
And he just watched her—calm, composed, as if he’d measured that line before delivering it, testing the distance between them with impossible precision.
He monitored her reaction, just for a second, before leaning back again. The words hung suspended between them, heavier than they had any right to.
That’s when someone off-camera stated, “Ask a question related to the movie.”
She panicked, not realizing when they’d changed course.
He said, voice low and unguarded, lifting a hand as if to silence whoever interrupted.
“I like to go deep.” He grinned from the side of his mouth.
She offered a faint smile. “Then I guess we can move forward to something lighter.”
He leaned to one side, resting his elbow on the chair’s arm. That smile again — slow, deliberate.
“Or,” he proposed, “you could keep going. I don’t mind listening.”
For the first time that day, she forgot the cameras were still there. Forgot the lines, the noise, the checklist of questions on her clipboard.
“We can do whatever you want,” she whispered quietly, more to herself than to him.
His gaze lingered a little longer than it should have. She saw something in his eyes, but didn’t have the time — or the nerve — to process it.
“You’ve been in this industry for quite some time,” she began carefully, keeping her voice level, “especially coming from music, where people… expect a certain version of you.”
His eyes stayed on her. Intent. Patient. Almost too present.
She continued, softer now, the question sliding out before she could second-guess it:
“How does it feel now—stepping into acting the way you are? Taking on roles that are heavier, more demanding… more defining? Does it ever feel like you’re learning to be seen all over again, but in a different way?”
He didn’t answer immediately.
He just looked at her—really looked—like he was deciding how honest he wanted to be.
Or how honest he could be, with her.
Finally, he exhaled—slow, thoughtful
“You’re not afraid of going for the throat, are you?” he murmured.
She wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or a warning.
Then he said, voice dipping low enough that the mic barely caught it.
“It feels like being a beginner and a veteran at the same time,” he admitted. “Music taught me how to be looked at. Acting is teaching me what to do with the parts of myself that don’t fit on a stage.”
A pause. His gaze didn’t move from her.
“And I guess I’m still figuring out…” A faint smile, dangerous, deliberate. “…who gets to see those parts.”
Her throat tightened. She hoped the cameras weren’t picking up her heartbeat—because she could hear it everywhere.
Y/N swallowed, her fingers tightening imperceptibly around her pen. She didn’t dare drop her gaze to her notes. Not when he was watching her like that—attentive, unhurried, as if the whole room had narrowed down to the two of them.
“So,” she said softly, steadying her breath, “you’re rebuilding yourself in a different space.”
He leaned back, relaxed in posture but not in attention. His gaze held hers with an ease that felt far too intimate for what this was supposed to be. One hand rested on his thigh, fingers tapping once—subtle, rhythmic, like he was keeping time with a thought he wasn’t saying.
“Acting lets me disappear,” he said quietly. “Music never did.”
She wet her lips before she had time to stop herself. His eyes flicked down for the slightest fraction of a second. Heat curled low in her stomach.
“And do you like disappearing?” she asked. A whisper, almost. The moment demanded softness; anything louder would have felt out of place.
He studied her—really studied her.
There was no charm in his face now, no mask, no interview persona. Just something open enough that she felt almost intrusive for witnessing it.
“Sometimes,” he said. “Sometimes disappearing is the only way to come back different.”
The lights hummed above them.
Someone adjusted a reflector in the background.
But the air around the two of them had a weight, a warmth, something unspoken threading tighter by the second.
She should cut to the next question. Break eye contact. Reset the professionalism.
But the pull between them was quiet and magnetic, and before she could think better of it, she heard her own voice slip out:
“And who are you when you come back?”
Not dramatically.
Not performatively.
Just… deeper. Like someone had cracked open a door inside him.
“That depends,” he murmured, his tone low and deliberate. “On who’s waiting.”
He saw it.
She knew he did.
A slow, quiet smile curved across his mouth—like he’d caught the edge of something he wasn’t supposed to touch, and was deciding to touch it anyway.
Before she could recover, someone off-camera cleared their throat.
His gaze dipped—unhurried—from her eyes to her mouth, then back up again. A single, deliberate path. Quietly devastating.
“I know,” he said, just loud enough for the mic.
Electricity rippled through her limbs.
She blinked, inhaling sharply as if surfacing from underwater.
He leaned back again, perfectly composed, as though he hadn’t just shifted the entire energy of the room.
“Now I want something from you” he murmured, softer now. “Ask me something you actually want to know.”
She steadied herself, choosing the only question that felt right.
“When all this ends—press, premieres, attention—what do you hope stays with you? What do you hope remains yours?”
For the first time since he entered the room, he looked unguarded. Bare.
“That I was honest,” he said quietly. “With myself. With the people who paid attention.” A tiny pause. “With the people who mattered.”
His voice lingered in the air like warmth.
The spell broke. The room exhaled.
He stood—no adjustments, no fluster—just effortlessly composed. Makeup artists, sound crew, and a publicist moved toward him.
He ignored every single one of them.
Close enough that she felt the heat radiating off him.
Close enough that her breath caught without meaning to.
“You ask questions like you actually want the truth,” he murmured. “People don’t usually do that with me.”
Her voice didn’t trust itself. He didn’t seem bothered by her silence.
His gaze dropped—slow, deliberate—to her mouth, then lifted again with devastating precision.
“Next time,” he whispered, “don’t soften it. I can take all of you”
Her pulse gave a hard, erratic beat.
That smile again — the dangerous one.
Before departing, he let the word slip so casually it almost didn’t feel intentional — except it landed squarely in her chest, melting her into the chair.
And then he was gone. Out the door, coffee cup in hand.
Leaving her in the stillness he’d made.
She tarried a moment longer, notebook against her thighs, wondering what you’re supposed to do after that.
Only one guest left on her schedule and before anyone could usher the next person in, she ducked into the restroom to wash her hands — to erase the tremor from her skin and any trace of him from her face.
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By the time she returned to CineScope, her nerves had settled into something like disbelief.
Luka was waiting at her desk, two cups of tea in his hands.
She dropped her bag onto the chair. “He’s…breathtaking” She was being honest — during that interview, she’d seen a side of him that felt surprisingly human, and the way he’d called her love at the end made everything feel slightly unreal, like she’d stepped out of a dream.
Noa leaned over the cubicle wall, phone in hand. “You’re glowing, babe.”
Y/N didn’t even get to sit before Noa’s eyes widened.
“Oh, fuck me.” Noa squinted at her like she was inspecting evidence. “That is not ‘I had a productive workday’ glow. That is ‘I just saw the fucking sexiest men alive” glow.”
Y/N froze mid–chair drop. “What? No. Absolutely not.”
Luka set one of the teas in front of her. “She’s not wrong, though.” Luka was glowing too, from gossiping. “Christ,” he muttered. “I’ve never seen someone look this… unraveled. Did he eat you alive on camera or what?”
“Can we not do this?” Y/N asked, half a plea, half a warning. “It was just an interview.”
“Sure,” Noa ignored her. “Did he flirt?”
Luka snorted. “That was quick.”
“Because the answer is no,” Y/N insisted. “He was just… professional”
“That’s the worst lie I’ve ever heard,” Luka decided. “Your voice went up a whole octave. That’s the ‘I just got kissed behind the bleachers’ octave.”
Y/N groaned into her hands. “He did not kiss me.”
Noa leaned in, eyes sparkling. “Oh my God. But did you want him to?”
Y/N’s breath caught — the tiniest, traitorous hiccup.
Luka slapped the desk. “THAT IS A YES.”
“Oh sweetie.” Noa patted her shoulder. “You’re vibrating. Your legs are literally crossed like you’re trying not to combust.”
“I hate both of you,” Y/N muttered, tugging her sweater down.
Luka tilted his head. “Did he say your name, at least?”
Y/N blinked. And that was it — that half-second of hesitation was all they needed.
Noa gasped so violently she almost dropped her phone.
“He did. Oh my god.”
“It’s printed on the sheet!” Y/N insisted. “He was being polite!”
“No,” Luka said firmly. “There is polite. And then there is… whatever the fuck he does when he looks at people like he’s unwrapping them with his eyes.”
Y/N’s pulse thrummed in her throat.
Noa whistled. “So that explains why you walked in here looking like you just left a hotel”
Luka took a sip of his tea, studying her. “You look fucked, and not in a good way”
Both of them stared at her.
She sighed. “Fine. Maybe a little. But it’s just adrenaline. It’ll wear off.”
“Uh-huh,” Noa said. “Sure. Meanwhile, I’ll wait for PR to sent the first cut of the video”
Luka chuckled. “Finish your notes before Sally hunts you down.” He lowered his voice. “Babe, that interview? It’s going to open doors.”
She wanted to argue. Say he was exaggerating. That it was just fifteen minutes in a chair with a famous man who knew how to make eye contact and turn it into a weapon.
“or her legs” Noa said, laughing.
Luka tapped her desk lightly.
“And for what it’s worth… whatever the fuck happened in that room?”
He smirked.
“It didn’t stay there.”
Y/N flipped them both off without lifting her head — and finally started to type.
Y/N turned to her computer. The screen waited on a blank document where she needed to draft a short press note and send it to her boss, Sally. She didn’t know where to start, or if she should mention the love at the end. She decided to leave that part out — no need to appear unprofessional. Instead, she focused on the content: tone, answers, the unexpected depth, the way he talked about borrowing pain for a role.
By the time she hit send, her fingers still felt shaky.
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That night, her apartment smelled faintly of rain and instant noodles.
It wasn’t much — a rented two-bedroom with a worn couch, a low coffee table cluttered with magazines and camera batteries, and a secondhand TV she barely used. But the soft yellow light and mismatched blankets made it feel like hers.
Her roommate’s laughter drifted in from the kitchen, mixing with the clatter of dishes and the muted sound of a sitcom. Y/N didn’t join her. She curled into the couch, laptop balanced on her knees, lit mostly by the glow of the screen.
Earlier, her editor had send her the raw footage — asked her to review it, make sure nothing important had been lost in the edit.
Interview footage — raw file.
The same smile. The same voice.
Except now she wasn’t the woman in the chair trying not to trip over her questions. Now she was watching herself from the outside.
She noticed the way she fidgeted with her pen.
The way he leaned in when she spoke.
The way his eyes lingered — just a second too long.
“Oh, God,” she muttered, covering her face with one hand.
The frame froze on him, eyes locked on hers.
Noa: I just saw the video. Niiiice. He looked so good. 👀
Luka: I’d say more like hot and desirable… love.
Her heart thudded painfully loud in her chest. She locked the screen and hit play again.
Her voice wavered — barely — right after he tilted his head and smiled.
So they’d left the love in.
PR never missed a chance to amplify charm. Still, hearing it again — soft, offhand, directed at her — sent a quiet warmth curling beneath her ribs that she couldn’t quite shut down.
She pressed her palms to her face.
“Get a grip.”
It was ridiculous. He made people feel seen — that was his thing. The warmth, the attention, the way he could make someone feel like the only person in the room. It wasn’t special.
Still, her fingers hovered over the spacebar a second longer than necessary before she finally closed the laptop.
She told herself it was just adrenaline. Just the echo of a good interview. That tomorrow she’d forget the way his voice had sounded when he said her name.
she didn’t.
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The next morning dawned too bright for the amount of sleep she’d gotten. Y/N left her apartment with her hair still damp, the faint citrus of her shampoo clinging to the fabric of her collar as she hurried down the street. Downtown Los Angeles was already awake—delivery trucks idling by the curb, sidewalks glimmering with a thin layer of early sun, joggers weaving between commuters as though they owned the city. The familiar chaos should have grounded her, should have settled her nerves, but the only thing she felt was a buzzing under her skin that hadn’t left since yesterday’s interview.
CineScope’s glass façade caught the light in a way that momentarily blinded her when she pushed through the heavy lobby doors. The building smelled like cold air-conditioning, citrus disinfectant, and the faint bitterness of burnt coffee—the strange mix that meant she was back on neutral ground. She scanned her badge at the rotating gate and took the elevator up, watching her own reflection on the chrome paneling: tired eyes, damp hair clinging to her cheek, and an expression like she had left something unfinished behind her.
When the doors opened, the newsroom was already in motion. Phones ringing. Reporters arguing. Someone cursing at a printer. Y/N felt her focus splinter the moment she stepped out. Her tote bag slid down her shoulder; her coffee was lukewarm at best; her chest held that same tight coil she’d carried to bed last night, the kind that refused to ease no matter how many deep breaths she took. She barely made it two steps before Luka spotted her.
“There you are,” he said, already half-strapped into his camera harness, hair sticking up in a way that suggested he’d jogged from the parking lot. “Grab your gear. Press conference in ten. The five leads. You’re on photos; I’m on socials.”
It took her a second to process the words—she’d forgotten. Completely. “Right. Sorry. I—yeah.”
Luka studied her with a squint that was far too perceptive for 9 a.m. “You okay?”
“Just tired,” she said, adjusting the strap on her bag. “Long night.”
“Well, well, if it isn’t Ms. Styles herself.” Noa let out a laugh
“Don’t. Seriously, where you get that?” she laughed.
“Oh, I’m absolutely doing it,” Noa replied, scooping up a spoonful of cereal. “I watched the clip three times. He looked at you like—”
“You’re exaggerating,” Y/N cut in, cheeks burning. She reached for her SD cards and dropped one, then another, before finally getting them into the holder. Her fingers were not cooperating.
“Sweetheart, please,” Noa went on. “Not even your ex looked at you like that.”
Y/N exhaled sharply and turned to gather spare batteries. Her hands shook only slightly as she zipped the backpack closed.
“I am not doing this right now, okay?” she said, looking at Noa, who lifted both hands in a small gesture of surrender.
“Let’s go,” she told Luka — even though her pulse strongly disagreed.
They walked out together. The sun sat higher now, casting bright stripes across the sidewalk. Luka ordered the rideshare, and when the car pulled up, they slid into the backseat.
Y/N leaned her head lightly against the window, pretending to watch street signs blur past while she focused on steadying her breathing.
“You’ll be fine,” Luka said suddenly, softer than before. “And if PR tries to stick you near him again, I’ll pretend the camera died or something. I’ll save you.”
She shot him a weak glare. “You think I need saving?”
“The way he looked at you?” he said. “Yeah. Absolutely.”
Heat crept up her neck. She turned her face back toward the window, letting the glass cool her skin.
When the car slowed near the convention center, she felt the tension crawl back under her skin. Banners stretched across the entrance with dramatic shots from The Last Source. Journalists clustered near the barricades. Fans pressed against metal rails, signs waving, voices blending into a single rising hum.
Inside, the building felt like a living mechanism—lights buzzing overhead, screens flickering awake, microphones testing through bursts of static. The air smelled of cables warmed by electricity, too-sweet perfume from three different publicists, and the unmistakable tang of pre-event nerves. Luka navigated the room with the ease of someone who had memorized chaos; she followed two steps behind, gripping her backpack straps, wishing her heart would quit its frantic rhythm.
A PR woman in a severe black blazer approached the photographers’ row, her presence sharp enough to silence an entire lane of journalists instantly. “Reminder,” she called. “All photos need to be uploaded within the hour. Prioritize clean candids and group shots. Don’t fall behind.”
As she moved on, she let out a slow exhale—then froze. Movement at the far end of the room.
The sound wave hit before the bodies appeared—fans screaming from outside, the rumble traveling through the floor tiles, lights shifting as hundreds of cameras lifted at once. She felt the air pressure change, like the room inhaled.
Hale first, all bright charm and effortless charisma. The supporting actors followed, joking with each other, feeding the crowd’s excitement. The director waved awkwardly, barely keeping up with the pace of attention.
Last to step out, but impossible not to see first.
Harry crossed into the spotlight with a presence that didn’t ask for attention so much as gather it naturally, like gravity itself bent subtly around him. White long-sleeve shirt, soft fabric molding to his shoulders; black pants loose enough to move freely; a chain resting against his collarbone with a quiet gleam. His hair looked like the wind had styled it out of spite—but in the exact way that made everyone else look messy and him look intentional.
He didn’t smile immediately. Just took in the room—measured, observant, aware of every stare and yet unaffected by all of them.
“Okay, that’s actually rude,” Luka muttered under his breath. “How is he allowed to look like that before noon?”
The cast climbed onto the stage, settled into their seats, and the panel began. She positioned herself where she was supposed to—stage left, low angle spot. Through her camera, she captured everything she needed: the safe shots, the predictable ones, the ones she could take in her sleep.
But as the minutes passed, something began tugging at the corner of her awareness. A subtle weight, almost like the sense of someone standing behind you even when no one is.
Tried to. Until she accidentally looked past her lens.
And saw him watching her.
Not for long. Not in a dramatic, slow-motion way.
Just a small, precise moment of recognition—like his gaze had landed exactly where he meant it to, not where the crowd pushed it.
She jerked her camera back up, focusing hard on her viewfinder as if the act alone could erase the moment.
Because a few minutes later, it happened again.
He wasn’t watching the fan section.
He wasn’t following the host’s gestures.
He wasn’t scanning the room randomly.
He kept glancing toward her side.
Quick.
Subtle.
Controlled.
Like he was checking if she was still there.
Her fingers tightened around the grip. Her skin felt too warm, her body too aware of itself. She tried to ground herself. Listen to the questions. Let the noise drown out whatever was humming under her ribs.
She started uploading the photos she’d taken — partly to stay on schedule, partly to distract herself — while the next round of questions began.
Her fingers moved automatically: select, drag, label, export.
Routine. Mechanical. Safe.
The kind of work that usually grounded her.
But today, every click felt too loud.
Every progress bar too slow.
Voices floated from the press room speakers down the hall — the cast answering questions with polished charm, the audience laughing at all the right moments. It should’ve blended into white noise.
Because between one upload and the next, she caught herself scanning the audio feed for his voice.
Not intentionally.
Not consciously.
A bad habit she hadn’t meant to form.
She paused mid-keystroke, annoyed with herself.
This was exactly why she needed to focus.
Exactly why she needed the distance the camera gave her.
She clicked the next batch of photos, forcing her attention into the work. The file bar inched forward.
Outside, someone cheered at a joke from the panel.
She didn’t hear the words — only the familiar tone of Harry’s laughter threading through the speakers, warm and careless and entirely unaware of the way it tugged at something low in her chest
She pressed her lips together and kept uploading.
Then a journalist from Variety asked, “Harry, what’s something you learned about yourself while filming this?” she made the mistake of looking directly at him without the safety of her camera.
And he was already looking back.
She didn’t blink at first.
He shifted slightly in his chair, posture loose, one hand sliding to his thigh, rings catching the light. When he answered, there was a curve to his mouth that felt… familiar, somehow. Private.
“That I’m terrible at hiding when someone asks a good question,” he said.
The crowd laughed when Hale elbowed him. He barely reacted—still watching her, just for a heartbeat longer—until the wave of noise forced him to turn back to the room.
By the time he did, it felt like something in her chest had lodged in the wrong place.
Applause rolled through the room, snapping everything back into motion. Harry finally broke the line of sight, leaning toward Hale as she whispered something in his ear. He laughed, shoulders loosening, sliding seamlessly back into the easy cast chemistry, like he hadn’t just tightened the air between them a few seconds before.
Y/N flexed her hand against her thigh, feeling the texture of her jeans under her palm—something concrete, real, not made of lights and noise and whatever the hell that had just been.
“You good, superstar?” Luka’s voice came from just behind her, threaded with amusement but edged in something like concern.
She kept her eyes on the stage. “I’m fine.”
“Sure you are,” he murmured, obviously not buying it, but he let it drop.
Up front, the PR coordinator signaled the final question. Chairs scraped. Makeup artists swooped in. Wardrobe assistants brushed imaginary lint from jackets. Harry stood with an easy grace, adjusting the hem of his shirt, thumb brushing along his jaw like he was smoothing out a thought before it could surface.
Y/N kept telling herself to focus on the room, on the process, on anything that wasn’t him. But she couldn’t help noticing the way the cast flowed around him—Hale tugging playfully at his sleeve, the director gesturing wildly, Harry nodding politely yet with a faint distance she doubted most people could read. He combed a hand through his hair, gaze skimming the room, scanning—
Handlers began to move the cast toward the press wall. Luka nudged her elbow, and they joined the slow migration to their assigned section.
as the cast aligned for the group photos—
Harry shifted, standing center, hands in his pockets, head tilted slightly as he listened to PR cues.
The first few shots were automatic—lenses clicking, flashes popping, the usual orchestration of “a little to the left” and “one more, guys.” she did what she always did: found her angle, locked it in, worked quickly.
The crowd surged with noise again—applause rolling through the room, PR shouting instructions over it, handlers ushering cast members in different directions. The panel broke apart in chaotic ripples, the kind that made everyone move at once.
In seconds, the cast was swallowed by the corridor—handlers, assistants, security, lenses, hands, clipped voices, flashing light. The machinery of fame devoured them whole.
Luka slung his bag over his shoulder with a groan. “Come on. You need to sit down”
She let out a weak exhale that almost passed as a laugh. Together, they wove through the thinning crowd back to their assigned table. Chairs scraped. Laptops clicked open. The post-event frenzy had its own particular soundtrack—muted, frantic, familiar.
Y/N connected her camera, the cable slotting in with a soft click. Her body knew the rhythm even while her brain replayed things she didn’t want replaying.
Luka leaned over her shoulder, chewing gum like he’d been born doing it.
“Sent?”
She nodded. “Yeah. Just now.”
“Good. PR will love that. You’re saving our asses today.”
She wasn’t sure she was saving anything. Her pulse was still unsettled, her breath uneven in ways she pretended not to notice.
“You need a break,” he said.
“I need… something cold,” she muttered. “And something with caffeine. Preferably both.”
She huffed out a laugh—small, tired, completely real. “Or three.”
He gave her a look. Not teasing, not smug. Just… concerned. “You’re shaking.”
She stared down at her hands. “I know. Its fine tho”
“Let’s go get it while we wait for new instructions.”
They were tidying up their area, trying to make the space look less chaotic. Luka pulled out his lighter and a cigarette, the small ritual he used to shake off the tension. Meanwhile, she reached for her card holder, slipping it into her back pocket.
As they packed their things, preparing to head out to the hall—
A woman approached—her badge reading “Harper,” PR for the film. Impeccable hair, black blazer, clipboard tucked under her arm. Always moving. Always composed.
Her expression calm, professional… and looking directly at her, out of nowhere, saying her name.
“Oh” she straightened, pulse tightening again. “Yes, that's me.”
Harper nodded. “Perfect. I need a minute of your time.”
Harper didn’t give her a chance to be nervous before continuing.
“We’re tracking assets from all outlets. I just reviewed CineScope’s uploads.”
She lifted her tablet slightly. “They are good”
“We are setting up a controlled session backstage. Smaller team, minimal chaos. Just the director, the actors, and one photographer.”
“I need to discuss tomorrow’s schedule with you.”
She blinked. “Tomorrow? I don’t understand”
“Yes.” Harper’s tone softened—just a fraction, but enough to feel intentional. “He asked for you.”
The words didn’t hit so much as slice—clean, precise, straight through whatever breath she’d been holding. For half a second, she was convinced she’d misheard. That Harper meant the director, or the cinematographer, or literally anyone else on the production schedule.
But Harper’s expression didn’t waver.
And something inside Y/N sank and rose at the same time—an impossible mix of dread and heat blooming somewhere inside her
Her mind scrambled for a rational explanation, but all she could hear, looping with terrible clarity, was the way he’d said Thank you, love the day before.
She swallowed hard, pulse kicking up in her throat.
“Come with me,” Harper added, stepping aside so Y/N could follow. “I’ll brief you quickly.”
Luka made a strangled noise behind her.
Y/N swallowed hard, grounding herself with one steady breath…
Harper continued, businesslike but impersonal:
“You’ll get the call sheet soon. It’s an early call—location is about forty minutes from here. If you confirm availability—”
“I—yeah,” Y/N managed. “Yes. I’m available.”
“Perfect, i’ll send the NDA and access badge.” Harper gave her a small, approving smile. “Have a nice day.”
Then she walked off to wrangle another journalist.
Y/N sat stunned for a beat.
Luka leaned in, eyes huge. “Did she… did she just say what I think she said?”
Y/N tried to contain her expression. She failed.
The crowd kept flowing around her—camera bags thudding, lanyards clinking, publicists speed-walking like their shoes were on fire—but none of it reached her. Harper’s words still hung in the air, clean and surgical.
They shouldn’t mean anything. They shouldn’t feel like anything.
But they did. A quiet shock, sharp and bright, like someone had struck a match against her ribs.
She shot him a look, but couldn’t hold it. Her eyes drifted back to where Harper had disappeared—as if following her might somehow rewind the moment and make it make sense.
Not yesterday.
Not today.
Not the way he had looked at her like she was the only still thing in a room spinning with attention.
She pressed a hand to her sternum, subtle, grounding.
Luka studied her for a beat. Then, in a rare moment of sincerity:
“Look… it doesn’t matter why he asked. What matters is you’re good at your job. Really good. That’s the only reason anyone requests someone by name.”
She nodded automatically, even though she didn’t believe a word of it.
Because deep down, under the rational surface, under the “we’re professionals, this is normal” script—
there was something else.
“Okay,” Luka said, clapping her shoulder gently. “We need fresh air before you melt into the floor. C’mon.”
They stepped out into the hallway—cooler, dimmer, quieter. The chaos of the conference became a muffled hum behind the closed doors. But as they walked down the hallway, weaving between interns and publicists and equipment carts, Y/N couldn’t stop replaying it—the warmth in Harper’s tone, the way she’d said he asked for you like it meant something more than logistics.
She didn’t want it to mean anything.
But God, it felt like it did.
And that feeling followed her—down the hall, out the doors, into the sun-washed chaos of the street.
