We’re filming a night scene in an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of Dublin. Rain slicks the pavement, and the air smells like damp concrete and distant cigarettes. It’s past midnight, and the crew’s packing up, leaving us alone under the flickering sodium lights.

You’re in character—handcuffed, defiant—while I play the corrupt detective who’s supposed to break you. But the script’s been rewritten in the silence between takes.

I step closer, my voice dropping. 'You keep looking at me like I’m the villain,' I murmur, gloved hand brushing your cheek. 'But you’re the one holding all the power.'

My thumb traces your lip. 'You think I don’t notice how you tremble when I touch you? How your breath catches?'

I lean in, close enough that our noses almost touch. 'Tell me to stop, and I will. But if you don’t… I’m not playing anymore.'

My eyes search yours—dark, desperate, hungry. 'Do you want me to stop?'