Harry POV
"Listen, this is good, but I want it to be more! Give me the passion, the emotion, the yearning, the chemistry is there but don't hold back," the director says, his voice echoing over the rain machine.
He looks directly at me.
"You're his moonlight, his anchor, his last beautiful memory. Embody that. No words—just show me everything with your eyes, your body. Let the audience feel it."
He turns to Mason. "You, you lost him. And now he's back, just for a moment. Worship him with your eyes, like the last miracle you never thought you'd be granted. Understood?"
Mason nods solemnly.
"Okay, let's take it from the top. Rain, lights—and action!"
I take a breath and step into the frame.
Water falls in a soft mist from above, warm and artificial, but in the moment, it feels real. It coats my skin, my lashes. The sound of it blurs everything else. Mason waits for me beneath the broken street lamp, his shirt already damp and clinging to him, his eyes locked on mine like I'm gravity and he's barely holding on.
I cross to him slowly, barefoot across the wet pavement. The silence between us crackles like static.
He reaches for my hand. Our fingers graze, tremble—then finally lock. His hand is warm despite the rain. He pulls me in, closer, like I might vanish again.
We start to move, slow at first. A kind of dance. Our bodies fall into a rhythm neither of us choreographed. I laugh, and it slips out of me, genuine and free. His smile follows, soft and reverent. The way he looks at me—like I'm the center of the world—makes my heart thrum with something too big to name.
We spin once, his hand pressed to my waist, the other lifting my chin gently. There is no dialogue—only his eyes, his hands, the slight catch of his breath.
Then the moment changes.
The tension, the pull—it surges.
Mason steps in, fingers trembling where they brush my cheek. His forehead rests against mine. I can feel the thrum of his heartbeat against my chest.
I tilt my head up, and the kiss happens.
It's soft at first.
Then not.
It deepens, desperate, reverent. His hands cradle my face like I'm breakable and holy. My arms lock around his neck, pulling him impossibly closer. I melt into him. The rain, the cameras, the crew—gone.
This isn't acting.
I don't remember how long it lasts. Time folds in on itself.
Only when I hear the director's voice shout, "Cut!" do I remember where I am.
We break apart, breathing hard. Mason smiles down at me like he knows exactly what just happened.
And I look away, because I do too.
I blink up at the studio lights, still catching my breath. The rain machines whir to a stop, leaving a warm mist in the air. The crew murmurs behind the cameras, some smiling, others exchanging glances—but I can't process any of it.
Because Mason is still looking at me.
His hand rests lightly on my lower back, a grounding touch. Not possessive. Not performative. Just there. Real.
I step back, just half a step, enough to remember where we are. A production set. A job. A scene. And yet, something inside me refuses to file what just happened under acting.
Mason clears his throat, glancing sideways at me as the director approaches.
"That," the director says, practically glowing, "was it. That was the moment. The raw emotion—the ache. You gave me everything, both of you. We're wrapping this scene early. You just nailed it."
A round of polite clapping breaks out. I barely hear it.
Mason gives a sheepish grin. "Guess we make a good team, huh?"
I want to say something witty, something to dismiss this electric hum still buzzing beneath my skin. But all I manage is a breathless, "Yeah."
"You okay?" he asks gently, his smile tilting just slightly into something more curious.
I nod too quickly. "Fine. Just…caught up in the moment."
He studies me, but doesn't push.
I turn away under the guise of grabbing a towel from one of the assistants. My hands tremble as I dab at my face, trying to collect myself.
What the hell was that?
Because it didn't feel like a kiss between characters.
It felt like something slipping past my defenses. Something dangerous. Something real.
And the worst part?
I think a part of me didn't want it to stop.