“I should...” Her voice came out uneven. “I need to check tomorrow’s call sheet.”
She couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t risk seeing whatever was written on his face right now.
She slipped past, careful not to let their bodies touch again, though the narrow doorway made it nearly impossible. The brush of fabric against his arm sent one last unwanted spark through her.
Then she was past him, walking faster than usual, spine straight but not quite composed.
Vikram stood frozen in the doorway, suddenly aware of the silence behind him.
Farhan.
Watching.
Assessing with that director’s gaze that peeled back layers actors worked hard to maintain.
Vikram’s jaw tightened. His hands still felt the shape of her waist. His body still hummed with the proximity.
He turned slightly, just enough to acknowledge the presence.
“I wanted to discuss the blocking for tomorrow’s confrontation scene,” he said, voice more controlled than he felt. “The shift from the doorway to the desk, I think there’s a better angle.”
Farhan’s expression didn’t change. But something knowing flickered in his eyes.
“We can discuss it later,” the director said mildly. “I think you have other things to process first.”
It wasn’t a question.
Vikram didn’t respond. He turned and walked away, feeling Farhan’s knowing gaze follow him down the corridor.
Behind him, Farhan leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming once against the armrest.
He’d spent thirty-seven films learning to recognize the moment actors stopped performing and started revealing.
What he’d just witnessed wasn’t a performance.
It was the beginning of something neither of them were ready to acknowledge yet.
And it would make for fascinating observation in the weeks to come.
That Evening
Vikram sat in his vanity van, script open on his lap, seeing none of the words.
His hands still remembered the curve of her waist. The give of soft fabric over softer skin. The way she’d looked up at him with those wide eyes, lips parted, completely unguarded for once.
The way he’d wanted to close that final distance and...
He set the script down with more force than necessary.
This was insane.
She was his assistant. His very efficient, very professional assistant who’d just been offered career advice that would take her away from him.
Producer.
The word echoed with uncomfortable weight.
If she became a producer, she wouldn’t be his anymore. Wouldn’t be in his van at dawn with coffee and color-coded schedules. Wouldn’t stand just within reach after difficult scenes. Wouldn’t be the one who knew when he needed water before he did.