They say a set goes quiet before a storm.
Ours went quiet before I ruined my life with a cardboard tray of lattes.
"Background ready?" the first AD shouted. "Lock it up! We’re burning light, people."
I hugged the tray closer to my chest, weaving between cables and light stands, the coffee smell sharp and bitter in the cold soundstage air. Heat bled through the flimsy cardboard and into my palms. My ID badge slapped against my sternum with every step: AYLA MONROE, PRODUCTION INTERN. Easily replaced. Entirely forgettable.
Until I wasn't.
Ryder King stood on his mark in the middle of the faux penthouse set, back to me. Even from behind he looked like a close-up: the fall of dark hair at his nape, the rigid line of his shoulders under a charcoal shirt that cost more than my monthly rent. A stylist hovered near him with a lint roller like she was approaching an apex predator.
He said something low to Victor Hale, the showrunner, who was pretending not to be nervous but whose smile was too shiny to be real. They both laughed. The sound floated above the buzz of crew chatter, fake easy.
"Ayla," Cassie hissed from video village, headset askew, eyeliner perfect despite the 5 a.m. call. "You’re up. Coffee to the star before he decapitates someone. You got this. Don’t trip."
"Helpful," I muttered.
My sneakers squeaked against the painted floor as I crossed into the set. The penthouse living room glowed under softboxes: city lights printed on a backdrop, a glass coffee table that definitely wasn't glass, a white couch any sane person would keep children away from.
"Who the hell ordered almond instead of oat?" one of the writers griped behind me.
"Can we not have a milk discourse right now?" the script supervisor snapped.
I kept my eyes fixed on my target: Ryder, the man whose face was on buses, billboards, and the three-story mural across from my bus stop. He was the reason Hearts in Ashes broke streaming records. He was also the reason people said things like "problem child" and "uninsurable" when they thought the interns weren't listening.
"Mr. King?" My voice came out too thin.
He turned.
The first thing that hit me was not his eyes, though they were something else up close—gray like storm glass, rimmed with the kind of lashes unfairly allocated to men. It was the sheer pressure of his gaze, the way it pinned me like a spotlight. He took me in head to toe with one flick, impersonal, already bored.
"You’re blocking the key, sweetheart," he said, nodding toward the glaring primary light. His voice was low, sanded rough—the same one that made comment sections lose their collective mind.
Heat crawled up my neck. I shuffled sideways, the tray wobbling.
"Sorry. Um, they said you needed—"
Someone shouted, "Rolling in thirty!" A boom swung overhead. A camera glided into place on its track like a silent predator.
Ryder shifted toward me to clear a sightline at the exact moment one of the grips tugged a cable at my feet.
My heel snagged.
The cardboard tray pitched forward in slow, horror-movie motion.
Four cups arced toward Ryder King—toward his shirt, his face, his career—and then time sped up again.
The lid of the nearest latte popped off mid-flight. Scalding coffee exploded against his chest, splattering up his neck, across his jaw. Brown streaked the pristine charcoal fabric, beaded on the angle of his cheekbone. He flinched, a sharp intake of air, and then the world exhaled chaos.
