Chapter Text
The set smells like hairspray, coffee that’s been reheated too many times, and that faint electric buzz that only exists when a lot of people are pretending not to be stressed.
Belly arrives early.
Not aggressively early, just enough to clock the rhythm of the room before she becomes part of it. She greets the PA by name (she always reads the call sheet), thanks wardrobe twice, slips into hair and makeup with a practiced ease that says I belong here without needing to announce it.
She’s calm. Focused. Polite in a way that’s intentional, not soft.
And opinionated in a way that hasn’t had to apologize yet.
Jeremiah arrives late.
Not disrespectfully late, fashionably, infuriatingly late. Sunglasses still on indoors, coffee in hand, laughter already trailing behind him like a familiar cologne. Someone whistles under their breath when he walks in. Someone else rolls their eyes.
He’s even more attractive in person, which annoys people who already decided not to like him.
The reputation precedes him:
– charming
– unserious
– impossible to pin down
– incredible on camera
– a little dangerous if you’re the type to believe chemistry means something
He clocks Belly almost immediately.
Not because she’s loud. she isn’t.
Not because she’s trying. she’s not.
Because she’s watching.
They’re introduced like professionals.
“Jeremiah,” he says, sliding the sunglasses up, smile already in place. “Nice to finally meet you.”
“Belly,” she replies, shaking his hand once, firm and brief. “Likewise.”
No giggle. No awe. No extra attention.
Something in his expression shifts—barely perceptible, but real.
They’re shooting a campaign that sells intimacy. The kind that pretends to be accidental. The director explains it with too many metaphors: familiar strangers, almost lovers, a moment caught mid-breath.
Jeremiah nods along easily, already leaning back into the role. This is his home turf. close proximity, unscripted tension, the illusion of effortlessness.
Belly listens. Then asks a question.
“Is the intimacy supposed to be mutual,” she says evenly, “or are we telling a story where one person is performing closeness and the other is receiving it?”
The room stills.
The director blinks. Then smiles, impressed despite himself. “Mutual,” he says. “Definitely mutual.”
Jeremiah turns to look at her fully this time.
“Oh,” he says lightly. “So we’re equals.”
Belly meets his gaze. Doesn’t flinch.
“Obviously.”
The first take is… electric.
Not because they’re touching—they barely are. It’s the space between them. The way Jeremiah’s usual ease sharpens into something more deliberate. The way Belly doesn’t soften for the camera, doesn’t dilute herself to be palatable.
She gives him nothing he hasn’t earned.
Between takes, he tries.
“So,” he says, leaning casually against the set wall, “do you always interrogate directors, or was today special?”
She smiles. small, controlled. “Only when the story matters.”
“And does it?”
She considers him for a beat. “It might. If we don’t fake it.”
That lands harder than he expects.
For the first time all morning, Jeremiah doesn’t have a quick reply.
The crew starts whispering. not gossip, not yet. Recognition. The kind that happens when something unexpected clicks into place.
This isn’t a fling waiting to happen.
This is friction.
The good kind.
The dangerous kind.
The kind that rewrites reputations and redraws boundaries whether you mean it to or not.
And somewhere between the lights and the lens, Jeremiah realizes something unsettling and thrilling:
Belly isn’t impressed by him.
She’s curious.