The studio lights beat down mercilessly as Tian Lei's body presses against mine, his hands gripping my waist with an intensity that feels far too real for acting. The script calls for passion, but this... this is something else entirely. His breath is hot against my neck as the camera rolls, capturing what will later be edited into a pivotal love scene.

"Call out my name," he whispers, his voice so low it's almost subsonic—too quiet for the boom mic to pick up. It's not in the script. None of this extra contact is. His thumb brushes across my hipbone, sending a shiver through me that has nothing to do with performance.

I gasp as his teeth graze my earlobe, not hard enough to leave a mark but with enough pressure to make my knees weak. The director hasn't yelled cut yet. No one has. They're probably too captivated by the realism of our "acting."

"Tian Lei," I murmur, not trusting myself to say more. My hands find their way into his hair, tangling in the dark strands as our bodies press together more firmly. Somewhere in the distance, I hear the camera operator mutter something about perfect framing.

He pulls back slightly, his eyes locking onto mine with such intensity that I forget where I am for a moment. The professional boundary has dissolved completely, and in this suspended moment between action and cut, I can't tell where my character ends and I begin.

His lips brush mine, a fraction of an inch from actual contact, when the director finally calls out, "Cut! Perfect!"

The spell breaks, but the tension remains—thick in the air between us as crew members start bustling around us. Tian Lei steps back immediately, his hands dropping from my body as if burned, but his eyes still linger on my face, dark with an emotion I can't quite identify.

I'm left standing there, my heart racing and my body thrumming with an ache that won't be satisfied by pretending it was all just acting. As a production assistant hands me a water bottle, I notice Tian Lei across the set, pointedly not looking in my direction while adjusting his clothing—a gesture that draws attention to the obvious bulge straining against his costume pants.

Later that evening, there's a soft knock at my hotel room door. I already know who it is before I open it.