Chapter 7: Idk
The scent of his skin was still on her when she woke, a faint imprint of salt and sleep. For one disorienting second, Madelyn didn’t know where she was. The light was wrong—grey and diffused through a single narrow window—and the chest under her cheek rose and fell in a deep, steady rhythm.
Then it all crashed back. The trailer. The night. The impossible, quiet collapse of the space between them.
She held perfectly still, afraid to breathe. Joseph was asleep on his back, one arm still curled around her shoulders, the other flung out to the side. In the flat morning light, he looked younger. The fan of his brown lashes against his cheek, the relaxed line of his mouth. She traced the shape of him with her eyes, memorizing the geography of this peace.
Her phone buzzed violently on the floor, where it had fallen from her pocket last night. The sound was a shriek in the silence.
Joseph stirred, a low groan rumbling in his chest. His eyes fluttered open, landing on her immediately. There was no confusion in his blue gaze, only a slow, dawning awareness that deepened into something warm and solid.
“Morning,” he rasped.
Her phone buzzed again. And again. Insistent.
“You should get that,” he said, his voice thick. His hand moved from her shoulder to her hair, smoothing it back. The gesture was so natural it made her throat tight.
She untangled herself, the cool air hitting her skin where she’d been pressed against him. She found the phone on the floor. The screen showed seven missed calls from her assistant, Lily, and a string of escalating texts.
Lily: Call time in 30. You in your trailer?
Lily: Maddy. Where are you?
Lily: Sam is asking. Wardrobe is waiting.
Lily: This isn’t funny.
“Shit,” she whispered. “We’re late.”
“What time is it?”
“Five fifty. Call was five-thirty.” She was already standing, her body aching in unfamiliar ways—not from exercise, but from the sustained tension of holding still, of being held. She looked down at her rumpled t-shirt and track pants. She had nothing here. No toiletries, no change of clothes, no armor.
Joseph sat up, the sheet pooling at his waist. He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Okay. Don’t panic. Go out the back way, cut between the honeywagons. I’ll leave in two minutes. Meet you at hair and makeup in five.”
His calm was a lifeline. She nodded, already moving. She paused at the door, her hand on the cold metal latch. She looked back at him.
He was watching her, his expression unreadable. “Go,” he said softly. “I’ll see you there.”
She slipped out into the chill, damp morning. The lot was coming to life, dotted with crew in hoodies carrying steaming coffees. She kept her head down, weaving between the towering trailers, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm that had nothing to do with being late.
The bathroom set was a line of perfection. Everything was pristine white subway tile and polished chrome. The mirror was a cruel, unforgiving expanse.
Madelyn sat in the makeup chair, staring at her own reflection as a stylist curled sections of her hair with a wand that smelled like burning sugar.
Joseph was already in the chair beside her, quiet. They hadn’t spoken since walking into the bustling, brightly-lit makeup trailer ten minutes apart.
Sam poked his head in, his glasses perched on his forehead. “Alright, you two know the drill. This is a tight, emotional one. Mads, it’s all on your face. Joe, you’re the anchor. Let’s find the truth in it.” He gave a thumbs up and disappeared.
The truth. Madelyn’s stomach clenched.
Five minutes later, they were on set. The bathroom was even brighter under the film lights, a blinding cube of white. It felt sterile, surgical. She took her position at the sink, her hands gripping the cool porcelain edge. She looked at her reflection in the prop mirror. Her eyes looked huge, a little frightened.
“Okay, we’re starting on Mads at the sink,” Sam called from his monitor. “Sound speed.”
“Marker.”
“Quiet on set.”
The world shrank to the heat of the lights and the deafening silence. She felt Joseph’s presence just outside the door, a tangible pressure.
“3, 2, 1, and action.”
She let her shoulders slump. She dropped her gaze from the mirror, her breath hitching. She brought a hand to her chest, fingers clawing lightly at the fabric of the dress. The panic wasn’t hard to find. Her eyes welled on cue, heat building behind them.
A knock on the door. Solid. Real.
“Sarah?”
She didn’t answer, just shook her head slightly, a silent, desperate movement caught in the mirror.
The door opened. She heard his footsteps, quick and sure on the tile. Then he was behind her, his reflection appearing over her shoulder in the glass. His expression shifted from concern to sharp understanding in a microsecond.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” His voice was low, cutting through the static in her head.
“I can’t breathe,” she gasped, the words scraping out. She turned from the mirror to look at him, her vision blurring. “My chest hurts and—”
He didn’t let her finish. He moved forward, his body crowding into her space. Grounding. He reached past her and turned on the cold water tap. A rushing roar filled the silent set. He took both her hands in his, his touch firm, and guided them under the stream.
The shock of the cold was visceral. She flinched, but he held her there, his fingers intertwining with hers beneath the water. Their linked hands were a twisted, living sculpture under the flowing stream. He was so close she could feel the heat radiating from his chest against her back.
“You’re having a panic attack,” he whispered, his mouth near her ear. The words were for her, for the mic. “Breathe, Sarah. Just breathe.”
She let out a shaky, fractured exhale. She closed her eyes, the world reducing to the feeling of the cold water on her skin, the firm weave of his fingers between hers, the solid wall of his body. She let her head fall back, coming to rest against his chest. A single tear escaped, tracking a hot path down her temple into her hair.
He didn’t move. He just held their hands under the water, his thumb stroking the side of her palm in a slow, relentless rhythm.
“Cut!” Sam’s voice was quiet, almost reverent. “Beautiful. Just… beautiful. Hold that position, we’re getting the close-up.”
The camera operator moved in, the lens focusing on their joined hands under the tap. The water plastered the fine hairs on their wrists, beaded on their skin. Madelyn kept her eyes closed, leaning into him. She didn’t have to pretend to let her weight settle against him. It was the most natural thing in the world.
“Okay, continue with that. And action.”
He leaned down slightly, his lips almost brushing the shell of her ear. “It’s okay, you’re okay Sarah, I’ve got you.”
She let out a shaky breath, opening her eyes. She found his in the mirror, a deep, steady blue anchoring her frantic reflection.
She turned the water off, the sudden silence ringing in her ears. She turned around to face him, water dripping from their clasped hands onto the tile floor. She put her hands on his chest, the wet fabric of his shirt cool under her palms.
“Thank you, Asher.” She said. The words were a fragile confession.
He cupped her cheeks, his thumbs sweeping away the wet tracks. She melted into the touch, her eyelids fluttering shut. The world was his hands, the smell of his skin, the solid press of him against her.
“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice low and rough.
She nodded, her forehead grazing his chin. “I’m better now.”
He leaned down slightly, kissing her forehead. The touch was a brand, simple and devastating. Her hands came up to the back of his neck, her fingers threading into the hair at his nape.
“Kiss me,” she said softly. The plea hung in the air between them, a scripted line that didn’t feel scripted at all.
He pulled back just enough to look at her. “Sarah.”
She threaded her fingers through his hair, holding him there. “Please, Asher.” Her voice broke on the last syllable.
They looked at each other, the air crackling with a suspended energy. He leaned in slowly, she met him halfway, their foreheads touching. The space between their mouths was a charged void, a millimeter of agonizing potential.
“And cut. Hold it there for a moment.” Sam’s voice called from the void beyond the lights. It sounded distant, muffled.
They didn’t move. They held the position, foreheads pressed together, breathing the same recycled air. Joseph’s eyes betrayed him, dropping to Madelyn’s lips. She saw the movement, her own gaze flicking down to his mouth, then back up.
Their eyes locked. His were dark, the blue almost swallowed by black. Hers were wide, the panic from the scene replaced with a raw, consuming want. There was no Asher here, no Sarah.
The silence stretched. A grip shifted his weight somewhere in the darkness. A walkie-talkie hissed static.
Joseph’s hands were still on her cheeks. Hers were still knotted in his hair. He could feel the fine tremor in her fingers.
Madelyn’s grip tightened. Not much. Just a slight pressure of her fingertips against his scalp.
“Alright, reset,” Sam’s voice came, clearer now. “We’re picking up from the forehead touch. Mads, Joe, that stillness was perfect. Let’s find the release.”
They broke apart slowly, the space between them cooling. A makeup artist darted in, dabbing the residual moisture from their hands and faces with a quiet, professional efficiency. Joseph didn’t take his eyes off her. Madelyn studied a tile grout line, her chest rising and falling a little too quickly.
“Positions,” the first AD called.
They resumed their place. Her back was to the sink again, his hands framing her face. The lights burned.
“Speed.”
“Marker.”
Sam’s voice cut through, charged and expectant. “Okay this scene needs to be charged, intense. You know the script the actions. 3..2..1.. and action.”
They kissed slow at first, a tentative sealing of the space their foreheads had shared. It was soft, questioning. Then his hands moved from her face, sliding down her neck to her waist, pulling her hard against him. Her fingers tightened in his hair, fisting the fluffy brown strands.
The kiss grew faster, desperate. It lost its scripted shape. It was all hunger and relief, a silent screaming thing. They both moaned into it, the sounds low and swallowed by the other’s mouth. The monitor was forgotten. The crew vanished.
He broke for air, his voice ragged. “Your family is downstairs, Sarah.”
She pulled him back into the kiss, a fierce, claiming motion. “I don’t care.” The words were mumbled against his lips.
His hands slid around her back, pressing her closer until not even light could fit between them. Her dress wrinkled under his grip.
“I want this, Asher,” she gasped, pulling back just enough to speak. Her eyes were wild, blue fire. “I want you.”
Joseph’s expression shifted, a fracture of something real and reckless breaking through Asher’s careful control.
He hooked his hands under her thighs and lifted her onto the counter in one fluid motion. Porcelain bottles of prop perfume rattled. He was kissing her again before her seat settled, his body slotting between her knees. She hooked her legs around his waist, pulling him closer to her, the edge of the counter biting into the back of his thighs.
He groaned into her mouth, a deep, visceral sound of surrender. His hands, which had been gripping her hips, slid under the hem of her dress, skimming up her thighs. His palms were warm and slightly rough against her skin.
She gasped, pulling back from the kiss, looking at him.
Her gaze searched his face. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, his lips kiss-swollen. A faint sheen of sweat glistened at his temple. He looked utterly wrecked, and it had nothing to do with acting.
Her thighs trembled around his hips. His hands were still under her dress, fingers splayed against her skin, motionless. He was waiting. His breath hitched, a shallow pull of air.
“Are you sure?” he asked. The question wasn’t scripted. It was raw, ripped from some deeper place, a final check-in before the point of no return. It was pure Asher, caring and agonized.
“Yes,” she breathed out, the word a vapor of sound against his mouth.
Madelyn continued with what was next on the script. She grabbed his hand on her thigh, her own fingers slick from the sink water. She trailed it higher, guiding his touch, her gaze locked on his. Her own pulse thundered in her ears, a wild drum completely separate from the silent, watching set.
“Fuck me, Asher,” she said, looking at him. The line was vulgar, blunt. It hung in the hot, bright air, a challenge and a surrender.
He leaned in, kissing her again. This kiss was different. It was not desperate, but deliberate. A seal. A promise. His hand moved where she had guided it, a sharp, intimate pressure through the silk of her underwear. She cried out, the sound muffled by his mouth, her head falling back against the mirror with a soft thud.
His other hand came up to cradle the back of her head, protecting it from the glass. His mouth left hers, tracing a blazing path down her neck. She gasped, her fingers scrambling against the starched cotton of his shirt, fisting the material.
“They’ll hear,” he murmured into the hollow of her throat, his voice rough.
“Let them,” she panted, arching into his touch.
The logical part of her mind, the part that knew Sam was three feet away staring at a monitor, sputtered and died.
There was only the counter’s edge biting into her skin, the overwhelming heat of him, the terrifying rightness of his hands on her.
He made a sound, a low groan that vibrated through her entire body. His fingers hooked into the delicate lace at her hip.
“Cut! Cut! That’s it! Print that!”
Sam’s voice was a bucket of ice water. It slammed into the space, shocking and shrill.
Joseph froze. His body went rigid, his forehead dropping to her collarbone with a heavy thud. His breath came in ragged, hot bursts against her skin. For three full seconds, neither of them moved. They were a statue of interrupted hunger.
“Okay, uh, give them a minute,” Sam said, his voice lower now, tinged with an awkward awareness.
The stillness on set was absolute. No one coughed. No walkie hissed, they all left.
The silence after the crew’s exit was a living thing. It pulsed in the white-tiled room, underscored by the distant, metallic groan of the soundstage door swinging shut.
His fingers were still hooked at the lace, his head against her collarbone. Her own breathing was ragged, her hands still fisted into his shirt. “Sorry.” He said quietly.
He let go of the lace pulling his hand back out from under her dress and rested his hands on her hips, his head still against her. “Are you okay?” He mumbled.
She bit her lip. “Yeah. Are you okay?” She asked breathless.
He nodded against her and pulled his head back.
The space between them widened into a canyon. The bright lights felt invasive now, exposing every tremor. Madelyn slid off the counter, her legs unsteady. The cool air hit her skin where his hands had been. She smoothed the wrinkled dress down, a useless, mechanical gesture.
Joseph ran a hand through his hair, leaving it standing in chaotic tufts. He wouldn’t look at her. He stared at the sink, at the droplets of water still clinging to the chrome.
The door clicked open. Lily, her assistant, peeked in, her face carefully neutral. “They need you both in the next set.”
Madelyn nodded. Lilly closed the door.
The click of the latch was definitive. They were alone again in the blinding white space, but the heat from the scene had curdled into something brittle and sharp. The air smelled like lavender soap and the faint, metallic tang of the studio’s ventilation.
They looked at each other.
Her lips felt swollen. A faint pinkness marked the skin of her throat where his stubble had scraped. His shirt was a wreck of wrinkles from her desperate grip. In his eyes, she saw her own reflected chaos—a wild, vulnerable thing she barely recognized.
All they thought about was the rightness of that, how neither would think the other felt that. The perfect synchronisation of breath, the tremble, the way his hand had cradled her head without a single moment of hesitation. And the terrifying part was that it hadn’t felt like a mistake.
“We should uh…” Joseph began, his voice hollow. He gestured vaguely toward the door.
“Yeah,” Madelyn said. The word was dry and caught in her throat. She cleared it, pushing off from the sink. “Yeah, we should.”
She walked, her legs still unsteady, the ghost of his hands under her dress a vivid imprint. He fell into step beside her, not touching. The corridor outside the set was a tunnel of relative darkness, a relief from the surgical brightness.
Their footsteps echoed on the concrete floor. A PA rushed past with a coil of cable, giving them a wide berth. The normalcy of it was absurd.