By the time the sun burns over the San Fernando Valley, I already know I’m going to hate this job.
The Skyline Protocol set sprawls across the old airfield like a military occupation: cranes clawing at the sky, wind machines sleeping like beasts, wires strung in brutal, precise geometry. Everything smells like hot metal, coffee, and fear masquerading as adrenaline.
My kind of church.
I step out of the production van, tugging the brim of my ball cap low. No logos, no name. Just another body in black cargo pants and a faded tee that could belong to wardrobe, rigging, or a stray PA. That’s the point.
Anonymity is armor. No face, no fame, no fallout.
“Lane!”
Jonah’s voice cuts through the morning clatter. I spot him by the main rig, clipboard in hand, headset around his neck, a coffee that probably qualifies as a war crime in his grip. He looks like every stunt coordinator I ever apprenticed under and somehow nothing like them; broader through the shoulders, softer at the eyes.
“Morning, boss,” I say as I cross the tangle of cables, sidestepping a dolly track.
He snorts. “Don’t call me boss when I just watched you talk a second unit director into rewriting a car flip because it was ‘stupid on every conceivable axis.’”
“It was stupid,” I point out. “Also, the axis was off.”
He clamps a hand on my shoulder, fingers digging in just enough to ground me. “You sure about this?”
We both know he isn’t asking about the car.
I scan the rig towering above us—fifty feet of steel scaffolding crowned with a narrow platform. The wire team is checking harnesses, their movements economical and bored. Professional boredom. The kind you earn.
“Am I sure about hanging off the side of a fake skyscraper pretending to be a man whose face is on eight different billboards between here and Burbank?” I ask.
He arches a brow.
“Yeah.” I blow out a slow breath. “I’m sure.”
The lie sits bitter at the back of my throat. I’m sure I can do the stunt. I’m not sure about anything else.
Jonah follows my gaze to the tower. “Vivian pulled every string to get you here, you know. Studio doesn’t like bringing in outsiders mid-shoot. Especially not…” His mouth twists. “Ghosts.”
“That’s the compliment of the day,” I say lightly, even as my fingers curl around the strap of my gear bag. “I haunt, I don’t star.”
He hesitates. “Just remember the rules, Mira. You’re the ‘additional stunt coordinator,’ nothing more. He doesn’t know. He can’t know.”
He. As if there’s only one he in Hollywood.
But there is. Here, on this set, today, there’s only Ronan Blake.
Posters of his face paper half the sound stages in this city. Square jaw, impossible eyes, the kind of smile that dares you not to forgive him for whatever he’s about to do. I’ve watched his movies from dark theater corners, counting camera cheats, spotting the doubles, cataloguing the lies that built his legend.
And now I’m the lie. The invisible scaffolding holding up his empire.
A production assistant in a neon lanyard jogs over, nearly colliding with a grip. “Uh, Jonah? Vivian’s looking for you. And she wants Mira Lane in video village in like, five.”
Jonah grunts. “Of course she does.” To me, he adds quietly, “Last chance to run.”
“Running’s for background,” I say. “I fall.”
He rolls his eyes but squeezes my arm once before he heads off. The contact is brief, gone in a heartbeat, but it anchors me more than the safety wires will.
I shoulder my bag and wind through the maze of trucks and tents toward video village. The closer I get, the shinier everything becomes. Rough plywood gives way to chrome and glass, dusty folding chairs replaced by executive camp thrones with names printed on canvas backs.
Ronan Blake’s chair is empty, angled toward the main monitor like a throne waiting for its king.
Vivian Hart is already there, of course. Cropped white-blond hair razor sharp, immaculately pressed navy blazer despite the heat, sunglasses that probably cost more than my truck. She doesn’t look up from her tablet as I approach, but I see the flick of her eyes reflected in the screen.
“Mira.” She says my name like an agenda item. “You’re late.”
“I’m ten minutes early,” I reply.
“On my schedule, that’s late.” She finally lifts her head, assessing me in one sweep. Not of my face—that she already knows from the file the studio keeps on me—but my posture, my gear, the way I’m standing like I might lunge or bolt. “You look…normal. Good. Stars spook easy.”
“I don’t work with stars,” I say. “I work with physics.”
She smiles, thin and sharp. “Today, you work with both.”
Vivian steps closer, lowering her voice enough that the hovering PA swivels away as if on command. “He thinks you’re here as a stunt coordinator Jonah brought in to ‘tighten up workflows.’ You’re not his double. You’re an abstract concept of safety in human form.”
“Catchy.” I fold my arms. “Why lie?”
She gives me a look that says she cannot believe I’ve survived this long in this town and still ask that question. “Because he signed on to do his own stunts. Because this franchise is built on the illusion that he can do his own stunts. Because if he finds out we brought you in to hang off ledges for him, he walks, the film dies, and everyone from the craft service guy to me loses their job.”
“What about physics?” I ask. “Does physics lose its job too?”
Her gaze goes flinty. “Don’t get righteous on me, Lane. We’re not here because we care about his ego. We’re here because if we put him on that rig, he freezes, and someone gets hurt trying to save him.”
That lands. A quiet, ugly truth.
“And because,” she adds, “you insisted on anonymity. This way, the only people who know you’re his double are me, Jonah, and the wire team. No cameras on you without my say. No interviews, no names in call sheets beyond ‘M. Lane, add’l stunts.’ It’s what you wanted.”
What I wanted. Except there’s a part of me that remembers a different want, a younger one, with my face lit by stage lights instead of on fire from an explosion gag gone wrong.
I bury it. That version of me is dead. Good riddance.
“Fine,” I say. “I’m a concept. When do I meet the brand ambassador?”
Her lips twitch. “He’s on the tower.”
I follow her line of sight.
And there he is.
Ronan Blake stands on the edge of the scaffold platform, harness clipped in, wind machine off but jacket whipping lightly in the actual breeze anyway, like the universe is auditioning him. From down here, he looks exactly like he does on screen—heroic silhouette against the morning sky. For a heartbeat, I almost buy it.
Then I notice his hands.
White-knuckled around the railing.
“Camera’s not even rolling,” I murmur.
Vivian’s jaw flexes once. “Exactly.”
We head toward the tower. As we get closer, I can make out the set dressing: faux concrete ledge, green screen panels towering beyond. Safety mats below like comforting postage stamps. The wire team moves around Ronan, checking clips, giving clear, practiced instructions I know he’s probably not hearing.
Fear has a sound. It’s not the big cinematic music swelling under everything. It’s the tiny, ragged hitch in an inhale that doesn’t know what to do with itself.
Ronan stares straight ahead, eyes fixed on some invisible point on the horizon. The closer I get, the more I see the strain around his mouth, the way his shoulders lock. Sweat beads along his hairline despite the morning chill.
He looks nothing like the billboards up close. He looks human.
I hate that it makes him more interesting.
“Blake!” Vivian calls up, her voice bright, camera-ready. “Got a sec?”
He tears his gaze from the drop and peers down. When he spots her, something eases minutely in his expression. He hides it fast.
“Sure,” he calls back, voice smooth enough to sell a thousand tickets. “What’s up?”
“Come down. I want you to meet someone.”
He hesitates, eyes flicking once more to the edge. For a split second, I think he’s going to argue. Then he nods, signaling the rigger. They guide him back, unclipping him from the main line. I watch him climb down the metal stairs, his movements careful. Controlled. He’s acting for the crew now, too.
When he reaches the ground, he strips off the harness like it offends him, handing it to a nearby PA without looking. He rolls his shoulders once, as if resetting his spine, then turns toward us.
Our eyes meet.
Impact is the only word that fits. It’s not attraction, not exactly—not yet—but an immediate, electric awareness, like stepping too close to a live wire.
Up close, he’s all contradiction. Rough stubble and immaculate hair. The faintest lines at the corners of his eyes, earned from squinting into fake explosions and real scrutiny. His gaze slides over me in one quick, efficient scan: cap, gear bag, boots, stance.
His mouth tips in what anyone else would call a charming smile. I see the edge in it.
“New face,” he says. “I thought Jonah had tapped every stuntie in the city already.”
“Ronan, this is Mira Lane,” Vivian says smoothly. “Mira, this is—”
“I know who he is,” I cut in before I can stop myself.
The corner of his mouth lifts higher. “Fan?”
“Occupational hazard,” I reply. “You fall off a lot of things in my line of work.”
Something sharp flickers in his eyes at the word fall. Then it’s gone, buried under a light laugh. “Well, if I’m ruining your insurance rates, I guess I owe you a drink.”
Vivian’s fingers brush my elbow—gentle, warning. I paste on a neutral half-smile. “You can pay me in hitting your marks.”
He arches a brow. “Stunt coordinator?”
I nod. The lie tastes metallic on my tongue. “Brought in to tighten up workflows.”
“Ah.” He looks past me, to the tower, then back. “So you’re here to tell me not to die.”
“I’m here to make sure no one dies.” I hold his gaze. “Including you.”
The air tightens between us for a beat. I shouldn’t care how he takes that, whether he hears the quiet I know what you’re avoiding under it. But I do.
Because up close, his fear is not an abstract rumor on a call sheet. It’s a man fighting his own body.
He folds his arms, stance widening. “Look, I’ve been doing this a long time. I know how to fall. I just…prefer not to enjoy it.”
“Enjoyment’s not a safety metric,” I say. “Control is.”
“Control,” he repeats, tasting the word like it might be a joke or a threat. “You think you can control this?” He jerks his chin toward the rig, the crew, the chaos.
“No,” I say. “I think I can respect it. And I think you’re not listening to your body, which is a problem when your body is the multi-million-dollar asset in the room.”
His eyes narrow, the first real flash of temper. “With respect, Ms. Lane—” The way he says my name is very polite and very not— “my body’s done just fine carrying this franchise for the last ten years.”
“And yet you’re gripping that railing so tight your knuckles are the same color as the safety mats,” I say before I can stop myself.
The words hang there, a line thrown across a canyon.
Silence pricks around us. Crew members suddenly find reasons to be elsewhere. Vivian’s posture goes statue-still.
Ronan’s jaw works once. He takes a step closer, not enough to be intimidating, just enough that I can see the darker ring around his irises, the faint scent of clean sweat and expensive cologne.
“You got a medical degree hidden under that cap, or are we just doing public psychoanalysis before breakfast now?” he asks softly.
I should back down. Smooth it over. I can feel Vivian willing me to from two feet away.
But there’s something in his eyes that looks a lot like cornered animal, and I have never been able to watch an animal suffer in silence.
“No degree,” I say quietly. “Just a lot of hours on wires watching people either admit what scares them or break pretending they’re fine.”
His throat moves as he swallows. For the first time, his gaze dips, not in dismissal but in something almost like consideration.
“Okay,” he says, voice stripped of the easy patter. “So what’s your professional recommendation?”
I don’t look at Vivian. This is the moment she brought me here for, whether she’ll admit it or not.
“We re-block the sequence,” I say. “Give you the shot from a lower platform first. Build muscle memory before we go up top. You stay clipped to a secondary at all times. And we ditch the improv ‘lean out over the edge’ bit. It’s unnecessary risk.”
He stares at me, then laughs once, humorless. “You do realize they hired me because I lean over edges, right?”
“Actually, they hired you because you make it look good on camera,” I counter. “There’s a difference.”
He studies me for a beat, and I see it—the calculation, the weighing of ego versus survival. The flicker of something like grudging respect when he realizes I’m not flinching.
“You think you can sell that to Hart?” he asks finally, jerking his chin toward Vivian without looking at her.
“I already did,” I say.
His gaze snaps to Vivian, who lifts a brow with practiced nonchalance. “We’re exploring options,” she says. “I’d like to keep you alive until at least press tour, Ronan.”
He exhales slowly, looking from her to the tower to me. The fight drains out of his shoulders, leaving something rawer in its place.
“Fine,” he says. “We do it her way. For now.”
For now. Temporary ceasefire.
“Great,” I say. “Then we start on the lower rig. Harness up. I’ll walk you through the fall.”
He hesitates. “You?”
“I’m the one you’ve got,” I reply. “Unless you’d rather open casting to the interns.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “No, I think I’ll stick with the scary woman who psychoanalyzes me before coffee.”
There’s the spark of something else under the words. Teasing. Testing.
I ignore the heat that coils low in my stomach at the idea of being anything to him besides necessary.
As we head toward the auxiliary rig, Jonah falls into step beside me, having materialized from wherever stunt coordinators vanish to when producers circle.
“You poked the bear,” he murmurs under his breath.
“I adjusted the bear’s safety harness,” I mutter back.
Ronan walks a few paces ahead, talking with the wire team, his hand lifting once to gesture toward the platform, movements more animated now that the immediate confrontation is over. He glances back at me once, quick, like he’s checking that I’m still there.
For a second, his gaze catches mine. There’s no billboards, no cameras, no crew. Just a man who is used to everyone needing something from him trying to figure out what I want.
I don’t know how to tell him that what I want is for him to not get me killed.
“Lane,” Jonah says softly, following my line of sight. “You sure you can keep this strictly professional?”
I drag my attention back to the metal under my boots, the weight of my gear bag, the familiar prickle of sweat between my shoulder blades. “He’s a job,” I say. “That’s all.”
Behind us, someone calls for quiet on set. A crane groans into motion. The tower looms, wires gleaming in the rising light.
Jonah hums, unconvinced. “Uh-huh. Just remember, jobs don’t usually look at you like that.”
Like what?
I don’t ask. I already know the answer.
Like I’m the one person on this set who might see through him.
And if I’m right, the only thing more dangerous than hanging off that tower is what happens when the man at the center of the storm decides he doesn’t want me to let go.
“Places for rehearsal!” the AD yells.
Ronan steps onto the lower platform, the wire team closing in around him.
He doesn’t look up at the height. He looks at me.
“Ready when you are, coordinator,” he calls.
My heart gives one sharp, traitorous kick.
I square my shoulders, grab a harness, and climb toward him, already knowing that the fall we’re rehearsing is not going to be the one that hurts.
