Chapter Text
The set smells like hairspray, coffee, and that faint electric buzz that only exists when a lot of people are pretending not to be stressed.
Belly arrives early.
She clocks the rhythm of the team before she becomes part of it. She greets the PA by name (she always reads the call sheet), thanks wardrobe twice, slips into hair and makeup with the ease that says I belong here without needing to announce it.
She’s calm and focused. She is Polite in a way that’s intentional but isn’t soft. And opinionated in a way that doesn’t apologize.
Jeremiah arrives late. Fashionably, infuriatingly late. Sunglasses still on indoors, coffee in hand, laughter already trailing behind him like a familiar cologne.
He’s even more attractive in person, which annoys people who already decided not to like him.
The reputation precedes him:
– charming
– unserious
– impossible to pin down
– incredible on camera
– a little dangerous if you believe chemistry means something
He clocks Belly almost immediately.
She isn’t loud. She isn’t trying.
She’s watching.
They’re introduced like professionals.
“Jeremiah,” he says, sliding the sunglasses up, smile already in place. “Nice to finally meet you.”
“Belly,” she replies, shaking his hand once, firm and brief. “Likewise.”
She is serious and warm. She gives him no extra attention. His expression shifts—barely perceptible, but real.
They’re shooting a campaign that sells intimacy. The kind that pretends to be accidental. The director explains it with too many metaphors: familiar strangers, almost lovers, a moment caught mid-breath.
Jeremiah nods along easily, already leaning back into the role. This is his home turf. close proximity, unscripted tension, the illusion of effortlessness.
Belly listens. Then asks a question.
“Is the intimacy supposed to be mutual,” she says evenly, “or are we telling a story where one person is performing closeness and the other is receiving it?”
Everyone stills. The director blinks. Then smiles, impressed despite himself. “Mutual,” he says. “Definitely mutual.”
Jeremiah turns to look at her.“Oh,” he says lightly. “So we’re equals.”
Belly meets his gaze. Doesn’t flinch.
“Obviously.”
The first take is… electric.
They’re barely touching. The space between them though, the way Jeremiah’s usual ease sharpens into something more deliberate. The way Belly doesn’t soften for the camera, doesn’t dilute herself to be palatable.
She gives him nothing he hasn’t earned.
Between takes, he tries.“So,” he says, leaning casually against the set wall, “do you always interrogate directors, or was today special?”
She smiles. small and controlled. “Only when the story matters.”
“And does it?”
She considers him for a beat. “It might. If we don’t fake it.”
Jeremiah doesn’t have a quick reply.
The crew is whispering.
This isn’t a fling waiting to happen.
It looks like friction. The good kind, dangerous kind.
The kind that rewrites reputations and redraws boundaries whether you mean it to or not.
And between the takes, under the lights, Jeremiah realizes the unsettling and thrilling fact: Belly isn’t impressed by him.
She’s just curious.