The first time Lucian Hale looks straight at me, I’m wearing a plastic nurse’s badge with the wrong name.
“Background, reset to ones!” the AD yells. “Nurse, hit your mark by the door. Please, for the love of God, don’t look at camera this time.”
I clutch the chart prop tighter and try not to dissolve into the wallpaper.
I’ve built an entire adult life around being forgettable. It’s the only way to survive in this city without losing pieces of yourself—blend into crowds, hit your mark, cash your check, go home to your crappy apartment and Netflix queue. No autographs, no scandals, no gossip blogs dissecting your tired face.
I am good at invisible.
But the man sitting on the hospital bed in front of me is built for the opposite. Lucian Hale in person is too bright to make sense, even under unforgiving set fluorescents. He’s in a gown, fake IV taped to his arm, a smear of artfully distressed blood near his hairline. The camera loves him. The crew orbits him.
He is on every bus stop in the city right now, pupils blown with CGI starlight, selling the galaxy-saving blockbuster they’ve sunk three hundred million dollars into. People rearrange their lives for a glimpse of him on a late-night show.
I am currently rearranging myself to avoid tripping over his feet.
“Rolling!”
The air thickens with hush. My cue: door, two beats, cross, exit frame. The director’s voice echoes from video village. “And… action.”
Lucian lifts his head on the pillow, profile razor-sharp even from the side. The lead actress, Jenna Reese, perches beside him, tears clinging to her lashes on command. I’ve watched her be heartbreakingly in love with him through three takes already.
“I thought I lost you,” she whispers.
He answers on a half-breath, that famous voice roughened for the scene. “You couldn’t. You’re the only thing I remember.”
The line hangs in the air, heavy and sweet, and every person in this fake hospital room leans in just a fraction. Even me. Goosebumps prick along my arms despite the stuffy heat.
I hit the mark by the door, count two breaths, and start my cross.
I don’t mean to look at him. You never look at the star. But as I pass the bed, Jenna’s hand slips from his, and Lucian’s gaze flicks off her—straight onto me.
For a second, the world narrows to pale green eyes and a tiny furrow forming between his brows.
He’s supposed to be looking at the ceiling. The script says so.
My foot catches the wheel of a monitor stand. I stumble. The chart flies from my hand, pages fanning across the floor with a slap.
“Cut!” The director’s voice detonates the spell. “Background nurse, what the hell are we doing?”
Heat floods my face. I drop to my knees, grabbing for the mess. The cable guy swears as I nearly knock over a light.
“Sorry, I’m so sorry—”
“Don’t apologize, just learn to walk,” the AD snaps, clapping his hands. “We are losing light, people. Reset. Wardrobe, check her badge, it’s flipped.”
I shove the chart into the prop bin, willing myself to be smaller, quieter, anything but the human disaster currently sandbagging the biggest star in Hollywood’s day.
“Hey.”
The voice is softer than I expect. I look up.
