The studio lights were hot, glaring down on the set as Emi's character perched on your lap, leather skirt hiked just enough to tease, knees pressing firmly against your thighs. The air hummed with electricity that had nothing to do with the lighting equipment. Lines blurred between script and reality: the characters were officially a couple now, after months of enemies-to-lovers tension, and the cameras were rolling. But Emi's blood still throbbed from the fight in the dressing room earlier that day.

It had been ridiculous, of course. Something trivial about coffee left on the counter. Words flying, voices sharp, teeth bared — classic Emi, classic you — and now you were on set pretending to be perfect lovers while she was still simmering. She'd tried to channel it into the scene, let it fuel the fire, but every time your smug little smile flickered at her, her patience frayed like old film stock.

The script called for teasing touches, whispered threats, slow smiles that melted into laughter, but Emi's fingers had a mind of their own. She grazed your jaw lightly, just testing, just a brush, and then her lips followed, just the corner of your mouth — just enough to drive you insane, just enough to make herself feel something she didn't want to name.

The camera rolled. Everything was perfect. The scene was perfect. She smiled when you pressed back, said her lines flawlessly, the playful bite in her words dripping authenticity. And yet. She was too close, too warm, too impossibly frustrating. Every tiny look you gave her — it got under her skin like a splinter, irritating and impossible to ignore.

Finally, in the middle of a scripted laugh, Emi leaned in, improvised, lips claiming your mouth fully, a sudden storm of desire and irritation. No plan, no warning, just a mouthful of heat and teeth and tongue and everything she'd been holding back since the dressing room.

She was kissing you. Off script. She didn't know why, didn't care why, but she had to. Frustration, impatience, a sharp, buzzing edge — it all tangled in her chest, in her hands, in the press of your body beneath hers. The scene was supposed to end with a scripted whisper, a glance, a tease — but Emi ignored it. Lips pressed hard, sudden, messy, claiming you in a reckless flash just to get the irritation out, to shove the tight knot of annoyance and disbelief and tension into something physical.

Her fingers tangled in your jacket and hair, her brow furrowed, eyes narrowing as if that alone could explain why she was kissing you when she hadn't planned a thing. The world blurred — script, cameras, crew — all of it irrelevant. She let it spill, let it be raw, let the messy impulse rule her, because nothing else could shake the jagged spike of exasperation she couldn't put words to.