Filming day arrived too fast.
Thomas, as promised, came along to help Julian with the shoot. He was quiet—almost painfully so—but efficient. His movements were clean, precise. He held the tripod steady without needing to be asked, adjusted mic levels like he'd done it a thousand times, tightened bolts and steadied frames with an air of quiet control.
Julian, by contrast, was a mess of nerves. His mind should've been on lighting or camera angles, but it wasn't. It was on Thomas—on how close he stood, how his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, how he barely said anything yet somehow filled the room.
Julian tried to be professional. Kind of. "Is this angle okay?" he asked, adjusting the tripod with trembling fingers.
Thomas stepped forward. "You're crooked."
Julian blinked. "Excuse me?"
Thomas knelt slightly, getting eye-level with the camera, his shoulder brushing against Julian's arm. "The frame," he clarified. "Not you."
He adjusted the tripod with careful, practiced fingers. Julian stood frozen, not daring to move. Not when Thomas was this close. Not when he could feel the brush of Thomas's breath near his side.
Thomas's head was level with Julian's stomach. Julian looked down—too fast—and their eyes locked. Thomas was already glancing up, as if he knew.
The silence between them pulled taut.
Julian felt like the floor had disappeared beneath him.
Then Thomas stood slowly, brushing invisible dust from his sleeve like nothing happened. "There," he said.
Julian cleared his throat, too loudly. "Okay. Cool. Nice. Let's roll."
They filmed three interviews. Julian flubbed his lines more times than he could count. The audio peaked twice. The lapel mic kept slipping. Thomas kept stepping in, silent and swift, fixing each mess without so much as a sigh.
Julian was hyperaware of every time Thomas leaned in. Every brush of his sleeve. Every glance.
At one point, Julian dropped a mic.
It bounced once and landed between them.
They both reached at the same time.
Their hands touched.
Julian flinched like he'd been burned. "Sorry—"
Thomas didn't pull away. He picked up the mic and handed it to him, slow, fingers brushing deliberately across Julian's palm.
Julian's breath caught.
He took the mic, swallowed hard, and turned away.
He didn't say anything for the next full minute.
When Thomas adjusted the lighting behind the camera, Julian stared at the tripod to avoid looking at him. But he could still feel it—Thomas's gaze on the back of his neck, heavy and quiet and unreadable.
"Your collar's messed up," Thomas said, walking closer again.
Julian opened his mouth to reply, but Thomas was already fixing it, fingers brushing the edge of Julian's neck, his touch featherlight. Too careful. Too intentional.
Julian didn't breathe.
"Done," Thomas murmured, and stepped back.
Julian turned to the camera, cheeks red, voice tight. "Okay. Let's do the last take."
But even as the camera rolled, he couldn't forget the warmth still lingering on his skin.
Editing took place two nights later.
They sat side by side on Julian's bed, laptop balanced between them, the room silent save for the occasional tapping of keys and the faint buzz of their desk lamp.
Thomas took control of the audio syncing. Julian watched him, chin propped in his hand.
Their legs were pressed together now. Neither of them mentioned it.
Every time Thomas leaned closer to inspect the screen, Julian's heart fluttered like it didn't know how to behave. He was aware of everything: the warmth of Thomas's skin, the scent of his shampoo, the quiet way he breathed when he concentrated.
Julian spoke without thinking. "You're seriously good at this."
Thomas didn't glance away from the screen. "I know."
Julian huffed a laugh. "Modest."
"Not really," Thomas said, finally looking at him. "You asked what's next. This is next."
The way he said it—quiet, direct—made Julian's chest feel uncomfortably full.
He looked back at the screen.
They worked in silence again, but it wasn't peaceful. It was taut. Coiled. Waiting.
When they finished the final edit, Thomas clicked save.
Julian closed the laptop slowly and stared at his hands.
Neither of them spoke.
Thomas's leg was still pressed against his.
"Thanks for helping," Julian said softly, eyes not meeting his.
Thomas stood. "You begged me."
That was it. He walked to his side of the room without another word, grabbing his charger and plugging it in.
Julian sat there, laptop in his lap, hands idle.
Something had passed between them, but neither of them named it. Neither of them touched it.
The tension had threaded itself into the seams of the day—script, filming, editing—and now it hung between them, quiet, unsaid.
Julian lay back on his bed, eyes on the ceiling, wondering when everything between them had started to feel like something else.
Thomas didn't open his book that night.
He just sat there for a long time, quietly adjusting his glasses, not reading a word.