The big explosion scene was here.
Final Destination's most expensive sequence—the Flight 180 disaster—was ready to roll.
A towering green screen enveloped the full-scale cabin set, wrapping it tight from floor to ceiling.
Fox had gone all-in: hydraulic platforms, rigged seat explosions, and a top-of-the-line smoke system.
Leon buckled his seatbelt, his peripheral vision catching Anne Hathaway in the row behind him.
A rookie through and through—her knuckles were white, tension written all over her face, impossible to hide.
James Wong's voice blared through a megaphone:
"Hydraulics and explosives get three takes! I want raw reactions—don't you dare act!"
The clapperboard snapped shut.
Hell mode: activated.
The sound of the plane breaking apart roared, deafening.
The hydraulic platform lurched, tossing the cabin up and slamming it down. Lights flickered wildly, explosions popped under the seats, and smoke hissed out in clouds.
Leon was thrown around—no acting needed. The raw physical reaction was more real than any performance.
"Shit!"
"Oh God!"
Screams erupted, so genuine they didn't sound scripted.
In the chaos, Leon glanced back—and froze.
Anne was something else.
No screaming, no flailing. She looked like her soul had left her body.
Her face was ghostly pale, lips trembling silently, tears streaming down her cheeks.
Her green eyes were wide, brimming with primal fear.
Her fingers clawed the seatback in front of her, knuckles straining white.
Then—BOOM!
The platform jolted violently, pitching the cabin forward. Anne, caught off guard, lurched and slammed her forehead into the metal seatback with a sickening thud.
"Cut! Where's the medic team? Get over here!"
James's voice cracked as he tossed the megaphone and bolted toward the cabin.
Leon unbuckled in a flash and rushed over, heart racing faster than during his first lead role audition. This was way beyond what his paycheck covered—if she was seriously hurt, the shoot would grind to a halt, and the lawsuits would start flying.
"Anne?" He dropped to one knee beside her seat, reaching to help but stopping short.
The whole crew was watching, cameras still rolling. One wrong move, and tomorrow's headlines would scream, "Final Destination Stars Caught in Cozy Set Moment."
Her forehead was red, her teary eyes locking onto his, brimming with unguarded trust.
"I'm… okay," she said, voice shaky but forcing a smile. "Just bumped it…"
The medics arrived with an ice pack, checked her blood pressure, and asked a few questions. No concussion—just a surface injury. They applied the ice, and the swelling eased slightly.
James approached, brow furrowed. "Need a half-hour break? Or we can shoot something else today and save the explosion for tomorrow."
Anne hesitated, glancing at Leon. Seeing him stay quiet, she shook her head. "No, I'm good to keep going. I just wasn't braced properly. I'm fine now."
During the twenty-minute pause, Leon didn't return to his seat. He leaned against the chair next to Anne's, grabbing an ice-cold water bottle from his assistant and twisting it open for her.
"You trying to get yourself killed?" he said under his breath, just for her ears. "That's not how you sell a reaction. A concussion would tank your career."
Her fingertips brushed his as she took the bottle, both of them pausing for a split second.
"Thanks," she whispered, taking a sip. "And… thanks for being the first one over."
Leon didn't respond, just held her gaze.
The overhead lights cast his shadow over her, his blue eyes glinting in the dimness, almost piercing.
…
The hydraulics roared back to life, explosions popping again. Leon's eyes kept flicking to Anne, making sure she was secure, that she wasn't about to take another hit.
And in the lulls between her fear, Anne caught his glances—hard to pin down, but oddly reassuring.
When James finally yelled, "That's a wrap!" the set erupted in cheers.
Leon unbuckled, slumping back in his seat to catch his breath.
He looked up and met Anne's eyes.
Her blonde hair was matted with sweat, a few strands plastered to her forehead, the redness fading.
She flashed him a bright, pure smile—like a survivor after a close call—her dimples peeking out.
Leon's chest tightened, a soft jolt catching him off guard.
He returned a smile, softer than usual, and gave her a nod.
…
During a break, Leon sprawled in a director's chair, eyelids heavy.
Adrenaline still coursed through him, nerves on edge.
His phone lit up with a text from Scarlett in Tokyo: Dreamed a giant octopus was chasing me, nearly rolled off the bed.
Leon smirked, typing back: An octopus is nicer than a chainsaw. At least it's not trying to carve you up. Be grateful.
As he typed, a shadow fell over him, carrying a sweet, fruity scent—not Scarlett's sharp rose vibe, but fresher, like just-picked strawberries.
"Mr. Donaldson."
Anne Hathaway's voice.
He didn't look up right away, his eyes landing on the script she held out.
"Scene 89," she said, pointing to a line. "After Claire and Alex survive the gas station explosion… I don't think I'm hitting the emotion hard enough."
He finally met her gaze.
She wore a fitted white tank top, slightly damp with sweat, her blonde hair clinging to her collarbone. Her green eyes blinked quickly, something flickering in their depths.
"Tell me," he said, leaning back.
"Here," she said, bending closer, her hair brushing his knee, the sweet scent stronger. "When Claire says, 'We actually survived,' shouldn't it feel more… unhinged? Like, add some trembling or gasping sobs?"
Leon chuckled inwardly but kept his face neutral.
"Unhinged? She just dodged death. Adrenaline's still pumping. Why would she cry?"
Anne faltered, cheeks flushing. "Well…"
"Surviving isn't about losing it," he cut in. "It's being dazed, hands and feet ice-cold, hearing your heartbeat like a drum. Try gripping your arm—"
He mimed clutching his forearm, his mind flashing to a similar script discussion days ago.
"Dig your nails in, let the pain prove you're alive. Then look at Alex—not with trust, but with aftershock and suspicion, like, 'Did this nutcase know all along?'"
Her breathing quickened, eyes widening like she'd had a revelation.
She clutched the script so tightly her knuckles whitened. "Yes… that feels so much realer! How did I miss that?"
"Basic craft. Next time, think it through instead of leaning on tears," Leon said, tossing his pencil onto the table. "Run it by James. If he signs off, you're good."
But Anne didn't move. She bit her lip, leaning in a fraction closer.
Her jacket slipped, the neckline of her tank dipping lower, revealing a glimpse of skin that made Leon shift uncomfortably.
"Mr. Donaldson," she said, voice softer, almost a whisper, warm against his ear, "tonight… could you come to my room to rehearse this scene? Just us, taking it slow, really digging in."
Her eyes lifted, the hint of testing in them stripped bare, bold and direct, like she was saying, I know you get me.
An invitation? A flirtation? A tired Hollywood cliché, but coming from her face, it hit hard.
Leon didn't answer right away. His gaze slid from her eyes to her collarbone, then back to the script, fingers tapping his knee like he was weighing options.
"Room number?" he asked, tone flat, like he was asking about call time.
Her eyes lit up. "1707. I'll be there after nine."
Leon gave a noncommittal "Hmm," picking up his phone. "We'll see. Might have a meeting with James. If it wraps early, I'll swing by."
Not a yes, not a no.
Anne's smile widened, and she nodded. "Cool, just let me know. I'll go talk to James now. Thanks for the help!"
She turned, her skirt brushing his knee, leaving a faint trace of her scent.
Leon watched her go, his fingers pausing on his phone screen.
This girl was bolder than he'd pegged.
…
His phone buzzed again. Scarlett: You still swamped? Just hit up Tokyo Tower—crazy crowded, but the night view's killer. When you're done shooting, I'll drag you here.
Leon's lips twitched as he typed: We'll see. This shoot's got no end in sight. Have fun.
He locked the screen and pocketed the phone.
He knew Anne's game. "Rehearse the script"? Please. It was the oldest Hollywood excuse in the book, lamer than "Let me read your palm." But he didn't call her out.
No need.
The kicker? Anne Hathaway was exactly his type.
His rule: don't chase, don't refuse.
This was perfect—dangle just enough hope to keep things interesting.
The power stayed in his hands.
As for Scarlett?
Tokyo was far away. No matter how sharp she was, she couldn't meddle in L.A.
Still, she was sly as a fox. He'd need to drop subtle hints—like mentioning he's "rehearsing with Anne"—to keep her from overthinking and stirring up drama later.
The assistant director's megaphone blared, calling everyone back to work. Leon stood, cracking his neck.
Anne was already in position, pinching her arm, practicing the "pain to feel alive" move he'd suggested.
She caught his eye and threw him a quick, smoldering glance—a little hook.
Leon looked away, expression blank, and headed to his mark.
Inside, he was torn: Room 1707?
Was he going or not?
…
The lights flared.
"Action!" rang out again.