Chapter 30
EASTON
T he studio lights were still brutal.
Hot, relentless, and way too close. They beat down on the soundstage like twin suns, turning the space into a makeshift furnace.
Fake rain fell from the sprinkler rig above, soaking through my costume and plastering my drenched button-up to my skin. It clung to me like a second layer—cold and slick—while the heat from the lights made sweat bead along my brow and trail down my spine.
December in California meant the air outside was crisp, even cool. But inside, under this synthetic storm and those scorching lights, the contrast was maddening. I was freezing and sweating all at once. Wet, uncomfortable, and barely present.
We were reshooting one of the film’s biggest scenes—the big emotional climax.
The one where my character confesses everything in the pouring rain. His love. His regrets. The whole heart-on-his-sleeve moment that was supposed to leave the audience breathless.
Paul, our director, wasn’t convinced it was working.
“More raw emotion!” he shouted through his megaphone, his voice slicing through the low hum of the crew like a whip. “You’re in love , Easton. I need to feel it.”
I bet he was going to be glad when shooting was over and he didn’t have to remind me of that anymore.
Paul was standing near the monitors, waving one arm like a conductor, scowling like this entire production personally offended him.
Around him, the crew moved in fluid, practiced chaos—adjusting lights, refocusing lenses, rolling out cables, mopping up puddles. Efficient. Mechanical.
I barely noticed.
Because I wasn’t here. Not really.
My body was on set. My mouth was delivering lines. My clothes were clinging to me like they were part of the performance.
But my mind?
My mind was a thousand miles away.
In a snowy bed-and-breakfast.
With her .
It had only been a day since I’d left her. A day since I’d held her in my arms, since she’d whispered goodbye against my collarbone, her voice steady but her hands trembling.
I’ll see you in a week , she’d said.
She’d tried to smile as she pulled back, but her bottom lip had wobbled. I’d tucked a piece of her blonde hair behind her ear and kissed her like I wasn’t about to leave her at all.
It had felt manageable at the time. A week. Just seven days.
A small price to pay for a final reshoot.
But now, standing under artificial rain with scalding lights melting the edges of my focus, that week felt like an eternity.
I missed her.
Not just in the abstract way you miss someone when they’re far away—but in the sharp, aching way that digs under your skin and makes everything else feel wrong.
I missed waking up with her head on my chest, her hair brushing my collarbone, smelling like morning and her.
I missed her laugh during MeMaw’s wildly inappropriate antics.
I missed the sound of her voice catching in her throat when she moaned my name—specifically in the family restroom at the mall.
I missed her hand in mine. I missed her breath against my neck.
I missed her .
We’d found something again. At the wedding. Something I thought we’d lost forever.
If I could just prove that I was all in—that I always had been—then maybe, just maybe, we wouldn’t lose this thing a second time.
I’d been texting her all morning.
Little messages, nothing intense—just reminders that she was still running laps in my fucking mind.
Me: Miss you already, Nat. Can’t stop thinking about you.
Me: This rain scene is a mess, but all I can think about is you in that dress.
Me: I miss the taste of your perfect pussy.
No response.
Not even to that last one.
The silence was starting to eat at me, slow and steady, like water wearing down stone. Maybe she was busy. Maybe she was just tired. Or maybe the magic had faded the second I stepped onto that plane.
I shifted my weight, my drenched costume sticking to my skin, the fake rain continuing its downpour from the rig above like it had something to prove.
Had she found it? The necklace—the note—I’d tucked it deep in the side pocket of her suitcase before I left.
Had she read it? Had she understood what I was trying to say ?
She hadn’t mentioned it, and the uncertainty gnawed at the edges of everything—my lines, my focus, the scene I was supposed to be pouring my soul into.
“Easton! Let’s go!”
Paul’s voice cracked like thunder through the megaphone, his tone pure frustration. He waved me forward with a dramatic gesture, clearly on the verge of combusting.
“We need more intensity in this take. You’re supposed to be heartbroken , not distracted. Reset!”
I lifted a hand in acknowledgment, running it back through my rain-soaked hair, droplets trailing down my temple and jaw. The water was cold. The lights were hot. My patience was nonexistent.
All I could think about was being done .
Done with the scene. Done with this shoot. Done with being anywhere that wasn’t wrapped around Natalie.
I rolled my shoulders and started back toward my mark when I heard the unmistakable click of heels behind me.
Vanessa.
Of course.
She sauntered up slowly, her black dress clinging to her like it had been painted on. Her dark hair was slicked back from the rain, and her lips were curved in that same slow smile that always made me want to roll my eyes.
“Drenched looks good on you,” she purred.
She stepped in close, too close, her hand sliding down my chest—slow, deliberate—before pressing against the front of my pants, her fingers brushing over me like it was hers to touch.
“Bet you’d feel even better out of those wet clothes,” she murmured. “My trailer’s waiting.”
My hand snapped out and gripped her wrist in a flash, yanking it away with enough force to make her gasp.
From the crew’s angle, it probably looked like nothing. Just another costar interaction. But I was done letting her get away with this shit .
“Touch me again,” I growled, “and let’s see if you can hold a pen after.”
Her eyes flicked wide for a second, but I didn’t stop.
“I’ve told you… don’t touch me. Don’t talk to me. Don’t even fucking look at me unless we’re rolling.”
She started to speak, lips parting in some feigned confusion or comeback, but I stepped in—close enough for her to see I wasn’t bluffing.
“I love someone. And you?” I snorted. “You’re not even in the same league . Pull that shit again, and I’ll report you so fast you’ll be lucky to land a toothpaste commercial.”
Vanessa froze, stunned silent.
“Now back the fuck off,” I snapped, turning away without another glance.
Silence stretched behind me—a pause thick with disbelief.
Then her voice floated after me, light but cracked at the edges. “Your loss.”
She turned on her heel and stalked off, back to her mark with her spine a little too straight, her shoulders a little too tense.
Good.
I didn’t care if she was embarrassed. I didn’t care if she was mad.
Because she wasn’t Natalie.
She never would be.
And I wasn’t going to let anyone—especially not Vanessa—sabotage what I was rebuilding.
“All right, let’s roll!”
Paul’s voice echoed across the soundstage, too loud, too sharp.
I dragged myself into position, blinking through the fake rain as it pelted my face, cold against skin already flushed from the heat of the lights.
Focus .
I gritted my teeth and hit my mark.
Every word of the scene came out raw—my voice cracking on the lines that weren’t supposed to crack, my jaw clenched so tight I thought I’d splinter something. I didn’t even care.
I poured every ounce of missing her into it. Every second of silence. Every unread text.
The rain soaked through me, clinging to my skin, plastering my shirt to my ribs. It blurred with the heat, the pressure, the ache in my chest.
“Cut!” Paul shouted finally. “That’s a wrap for today!”
I didn’t move for a second.
Then my breath rushed out in a heavy exhale, and my shoulders slumped like I’d been carrying the weight of the entire set.
A PA passed me a towel. I dragged it across my face, not bothering to respond.
I was done. Not just with the scene—but with the pretending. The waiting. The silence.
I stepped off set, boots squeaking on the slick floor, and made my way to the folding chair where I’d left my phone.
Still nothing.
No text. No call. Not even a read receipt.
It had only been a few hours. I knew that. I knew I was being dramatic.
But when something means everything, even a few hours of nothing can feel like the start of the end.
And I couldn’t breathe through the fear that maybe…maybe she’d changed her mind.
I sat down slowly, fingers already tapping her contact, the phone pressed to my ear before I had time to think better of it.
It rang. And rang. And rang.
Then her voice—bright and warm, a punch straight to the chest.
“Hey, it’s Natalie! Leave a message?—”
I hung up.
My throat tightened as I shoved the phone into my pocket and stalked back to my trailer, my teeth clenched, my jaw aching .
The clothes I’d worn for the scene were still soaked, sticking to my skin like regret. I stripped them off quickly, tugging on a dry hoodie and sweats, my movements sharp and unsteady. My fingers fumbled with the zipper like they couldn’t keep up with my thoughts.
I grabbed my keys and slammed the door behind me.
I had to get out of here.
Back to my apartment. Back to…something. A message. Her voice.
Anything to prove I hadn’t just imagined everything we’d rebuilt.
I slung my bag over my shoulder and pushed toward the exit. Outside the studio, the sound hit first—shouts, laughter, camera shutters clicking in rapid bursts.
It had become routine now.
Fans gathered outside almost every day. Word had spread about our shooting schedule, and they camped out near the barriers hoping for a photo, a wave, anything. Normally, I’d offer a quick smile, maybe stop for a selfie or two. Tonight?
I didn’t even look at them.
The crowd blurred into noise and color, voices overlapping in a frenzied chorus—“Easton! Over here!”—but none of it cut through.