Chapter 7
Liam
Liam loved a good mixer. At least, he usually did. He liked the social part—the rhythm of it. People to charm, hands to shake, names to remember. It was his safe ground. He knew the dance, and he was good at it.
Tonight, the rhythm faltered. Every laugh scraped false in his throat, every drink tasted like air. Nearly two months had passed since the kiss at their chemistry read, four weeks since pre-production began, and Liam still hadn’t stopped thinking about Jacob Wolfe. Not once.
Okay, that wasn’t true, not entirely. He’d slept, occasionally. He’d eaten, technically. But Wolfe had taken up permanent residence in his overactive brain and wasn’t paying rent.
Thank God they hadn’t kissed again. The director had kept the rehearsals in safe territory, focused on blocking and emotional beats.
Kisses were discussed but never performed.
Unfortunately, the reprieve was almost over.
Tomorrow the Intimacy Coordinator would put them through it—no more pretending, no more space to breathe.
Liam was already unraveling at the thought of Jacob’s mouth against his again.
Jacob had changed lately, just enough to make Liam notice and to make him obsess over every tiny shift.
He was still gruff and closed off, but sometimes he spoke beyond the safe ground of stage directions and scene breakdowns.
Sometimes he said things that felt like real thoughts, unguarded comments and small flickers of dry humor.
Fleeting glimpses of a man who wasn’t all stone and silence.
Liam wasn’t sure what those moments meant, but he collected them like something precious anyway.
Tonight was the cast and crew mixer. Casual, nothing official—just a way to grease the wheels before filming started.
It was happening in some modern rooftop lounge with too many fire pits and not enough chairs.
The place had sleek black tile, glass railings, and a skyline that sparkled like LA had something to prove.
Liam had arrived early, slipping into the familiar rhythm on instinct. He laughed when expected, remembered names, and said things like: “So excited to be part of this,” and “The script just really hit me, you know?”
It wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t the truth either.
The honest version would’ve been: Hi, I’m Liam, and I might be losing my goddamn mind because my co-star kissed me like he wanted to consume me, and I haven’t stopped replaying it since.
I can’t stop wondering if he thought about it once, but I can’t fucking think about anything else.
But sure. Small talk.
He was halfway through a conversation with the head of production design when it happened—a shift in the air. A prickle of awareness at the back of his neck that made him turn before he knew why.
There he was, Jacob Wolfe. All six-foot-five of masculine severity in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit.
No tie. Black shirt unbuttoned just enough to be indecent.
His hair was perfectly styled, not a strand out of place.
There wasn’t a wrinkle on him, like he was carved, not born.
His eyes were already scanning the room like it had personally offended him.
Liam’s stomach did a traitorous thing and he immediately hated himself for it.
He tried to refocus on the conversation, nodding at the right moments.
Something about color palettes, maybe—but none of it stuck.
Jacob hadn’t even looked at him yet, and already Liam’s brain had reduced itself to static.
Eventually, he gave up on the charade. “I’m just going to—grab a drink,” he said, flashing a too-bright smile and zero chill.
Jacob was standing near a side table, sipping something dark. Alone, of course. His posture was too stiff to be relaxed, but too composed to be awkward. Liam approached casually, well, casually for someone currently spiraling.
“Look who decided to socialize,” he said lightly, snagging a drink from a passing tray.
Jacob’s cool gaze slid to him. “They said attendance was expected.”
“And you always follow the rules?”
“No. But I don’t skip work.”
Liam raised a brow. “This counts as work?”
Jacob shrugged. “It’s part of the job.”
Liam studied him openly—the hard line of his jaw, the dark stubble, and the slight crease between his brows. He didn’t look angry, he looked uncomfortable, disarmed, almost.
“You really hate this,” Liam said, his voice softer now.
Jacob’s mouth twitched. “You don’t?”
“No. I like people.”
“Why?”
The question caught him off guard. It wasn’t sarcastic or mocking, just curious. “Why not?” Liam countered.
“People are exhausting,” Jacob said flatly. “They want too much. Say one thing, mean another. Most of them don’t want you. They want what they can take from you.”
“That’s…” Liam hesitated. “Depressing.”
“It’s honest.”
Liam tilted his head, watching him closely. “Is that why you’re always at the edge of the room? Standing like you’re calculating the fastest way out?”
Jacob took a sip of his drink. “You noticed.”
“I notice a lot of things.”
Jacob looked at him then—really looked. “What do you see?”
Liam’s throat went dry. He could’ve said the obvious things: that Jacob was intense and brooding, that he walked like he was built for war and spoke like every word cost him something, that he kissed like it was going to ruin them both. Instead—
“I think you’re restless.”
Silence stretched taut between them until Jacob looked away, gaze fixed somewhere over the glittering city. “You talk too much,” he murmured.
“I do,” Liam admitted. “Always have. My mom used to call me a hummingbird on espresso when I was young.”
A low huff. Not quite a laugh, but closer than anything Liam had heard from him yet.
“Was that a smile?”
“No.”
“It was. Jacob Wolfe smiles. Alert the press.”
He rolled his eyes. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet, here you are. Talking to me.”
“Pity.”
Liam bumped his shoulder, grinning. “Liar.”
Jacob studied him again, long enough that Liam felt it in his chest. “Do you ever turn it off?”
“Turn what off?”
“That thing you do. The smiles. The talking. That… glow.”
Liam snorted. “Jesus, Wolfe. I’m not sunshine.”
“You are.” Jacob’s pale eyes pinned him. “People orbit around you. I’ve been watching.”
Liam stilled.
“You make people feel like they matter,” Jacob went on.
His chest pulled tight. “And that’s… bad?”
“No.” Jacob’s gaze lingered a beat longer. “It’s dangerous.”
Before Liam could figure out what the hell that meant, one of the producers called Jacob’s name from across the terrace.
Jacob didn’t move right away. For a moment, it was just the two of them, something raw flickering between them. Then, like a switch flipped, his posture shifted, armor sliding back into place. Liam felt it—the wall slamming down. The eyes that had been open a moment ago shut him out again.
“I should go,” Jacob said, voice steady now, as if the slip had never happened.
“Yeah. Sure.”
Liam stood frozen with a drink forgotten in his hand as Jacob walked away and the city lights blurred beyond the glass.
For the first time, it hadn’t felt like Jacob had merely tolerated him; it had felt like he had truly seen him.
The loss of it settled behind his sternum, and the emptiness that followed lodged under his ribs like a stone.
* * *
The front door clicked shut behind him. He slipped out of his shoes and padded down the hallway, careful not to wake Emma if she’d gone to bed.
The house smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and lavender, the kind of scent that clung to home.
Sometimes the sudden quiet after noise pressed too loud in his head, but tonight it was almost a relief.
Emma wasn’t asleep. She was curled up on the couch, throw blanket pulled over her legs and a pillow wedged under her arm. Something British flickered on the television—probably something involving a tragic love letter that never got sent.
“You’re home,” she murmured, looking up.
Liam smiled gently. “Turns out I can only be charming for so long.”
She muted the TV and turned toward him. Her dark hair was twisted into a messy knot and glasses were perched on her nose.
She looked beautiful—she always did—but tonight that simplicity and steadiness struck deeper.
His chest ached with it, maybe because he’d just come from Jacob’s orbit, and nothing about that man left him steady.
“You didn’t love it?”
“No. It was… fine.” He dropped onto the couch beside her, head tipping back against the cushion. “The usual mixer stuff. Booze. Networking. At least one guy who used ‘synergy’ like he meant it.”
She gave him a wry look. “The horror.”
Her fingers slid into his hair, stroking lightly. “You’re tense. Bad day?”
He almost said no, almost reached for the easy lie, but it stuck in his throat. “Jacob showed up.”
Her hand stilled. “Oh?”
He stared up at the ceiling. His fingers found the edge of the blanket, worrying the fringe until a thread loosened between his nails. He didn’t even notice he was doing it until Emma’s hand brushed his.
“He was wearing this dark suit,” he continued. “Looked like he was about to seduce the whole fucking industry without trying.”
Emma raised an amused eyebrow. “You do realize how often you bring him up, right? Are you a little starstruck?”
The words lodged inside him. He didn’t answer at once. When he spoke again, it came out softer. “He’s not what I expected.”
“You’ve said that before.”
“I know.” His chest tightened. “But tonight… he said something. About me. About how I make people feel like they matter.”
She didn’t look surprised. “That’s true,” she said simply.
“But it’s not the kind of thing he usually says.” He rubbed a hand over his face, as if pressure could erase the weight of it. “I don’t know why it stuck, but it did.”