Elves
I barely slept that night. My heartbeat refused to cooperate—uneven, insistent, like it had developed its own schedule independent of mine. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Kane's face hovering too close, his eyes fixed on me with that unreadable intensity that made my stomach twist.
I wasn't used to this. The warmth in my chest, the shortness of breath, the inexplicable need to either look at him or escape entirely. I'd never been in a relationship before, never even tried. My instinct when confronted with affection—or whatever this was—had always been to flee.
And yet, he left me breathless. Every time. It was ridiculous. He was ridiculous. And, apparently, so was I.
When a knock came at my door the next morning, my first instinct was to ignore it. I knew it was him—somehow I just knew. But despite the discomfort he caused, a small, stubborn part of me still wanted to open the door.
Despite myself, I rushed through my routine—brushing my teeth, washing my face, even spraying cologne as if I were about to attend a press conference.
Five minutes later, I stood in front of the door, inhaled deeply, and opened it.
There he was.
Kane stood casually in the hallway, posture relaxed, expression indifferent. Yet somehow, even his stillness radiated a kind of confidence that stole the air from my lungs.
I told myself I was only breathless because I'd rushed to get ready.
That lie worked for exactly three seconds. Because no matter how much I tried, I couldn't seem to ignore his presence.
He filled the space effortlessly.
I don't understand myself anymore, I thought, taking him in—every careless line of his stance, the faint amusement in his eyes.
Then he smiled. Just slightly.
"Morning," he said, and stated his purpose as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
That's when I remembered what I'd agreed to the night before.
Living together.
I almost groaned out loud.
What kind of self-destructive instinct had possessed me to say yes to that?
"I—I don't think I can live with you," I blurted, panic seeping into my voice. "Can't we find another way to improve our chemistry—"
He didn't even let me finish. He stepped past me, entering my condo like he'd paid rent here for months.
I stood frozen as he made himself comfortable on my sofa. Then, with absolute audacity, he gestured for me to sit. He had completely reversed the roles—guest turned host, homeowner turned guest. It was infuriatingly impressive.
I sighed, defeated by sheer bewilderment, and sat at the farthest corner of the sofa. Space equals safety; I calculated the distance precisely.
"Our living arrangement is temporary," he said matter-of-factly. "Just until the end of the shoot. We need to get comfortable with each other and break through this awkwardness."
"I'm sure there are other ways," I countered quickly. "Besides, I don't feel awkward around you."
The lie came out too fast, too brittle. My voice cracked at the end like an actor missing his cue.
He raised an eyebrow, his skepticism obvious. "Really? You don't feel awkward or shy around me?"
The way he said it—low, probing—made my pulse stutter again.
Does he know?
I swallowed hard, forcing myself to maintain eye contact for exactly two seconds before looking away. The air felt heavier with every breath. I could feel the heat rising in my neck, the telltale sign that my body was betraying me again.
But he didn't need to know how much space he took up in my mind. Or that I'd spent the entire night trying—and failing—to calm my heartbeat. So I did what I always do when emotions threaten to show: I straightened my posture, folded my hands neatly, and lied again—this time with a smile that didn't reach my eyes.
"Not at all," I said evenly. "You don't affect me."
My voice sounded calm. My heart, however, disagreed entirely.
Without warning, he moved closer. The shift in distance was abrupt enough to make my whole body tense. His hand came up—not forceful, just deliberate—and his fingers rested against the side of my face.
"Even if I do this?" he murmured, his thumb tracing lightly along my cheek, the motion precise, almost testing.
Every sensory wire in me fired at once. My pulse spiked; my breathing turned uneven. My brain was screaming too close, yet my body stayed frozen.
"No," I said, voice tight. "I don't feel shy or awkward... even if you're this close."
It sounded brave in theory, but my lungs disagreed. The air between us grew heavy; I could feel the faint warmth of his breath, the scent of coffee and something sharp beneath it. My heartbeat refused to find a steady rhythm.
"I'm not affected," I managed, the words barely audible.
"You're lying," he said quietly, his tone calm but unwavering. "You get flustered when I'm near. You blush every time I touch you, and you can't even hold eye contact. How are we supposed to act like two people in love when you can't even look at me?"
He wasn't wrong. My own body betrayed me. Every logical attempt to regulate my reaction—slow breathing, mental counting, controlled posture—collapsed under the weight of proximity.
"Elves, breathe," he said softly.
Only then did I realize I'd been holding my breath. My chest ached as I inhaled sharply, oxygen rushing back in too fast, burning all the way down.
"If you can stay calm when I get close, then I'll believe you," he added, his voice losing its teasing edge. "Otherwise, we'll need to work on it—together. We have to, or this project won't work."
That sentence hit harder than I expected. It wasn't a threat; it was a fact. A logical statement, and somehow that made it worse.
The thought of failing Justin, of losing this opportunity because I couldn't manage something as simple as acting in love, made my chest tighten for an entirely different reason.
Tears blurred my vision before I could stop them.
"I've never been in love before," I admitted quietly. My voice cracked, and the words came tumbling out. "I've never kissed anyone. Never gone on a date. Never done any of those things people write love stories about. And now you want me to live with you and act like I know what that feels like? My heart doesn't even understand what it's doing half the time you're near."
He moved closer again—I hadn't even realized he'd pulled back—and gently took my hands in his. His palms were warm, the grip firm but not demanding.
"Let's do it your way," he said quietly. "What do you suggest?"
His voice was soft this time, almost careful, and when I glanced at him, he was smiling—genuine, a little regretful. The edge he usually carried was gone.
For a moment, I just stared at him, trying to think.
What would make me feel safe around him? What could help me understand these feelings without drowning in them?
Then a memory surfaced—a scene from a movie I'd once watched. The heroine had told the man courting her to take things slow, to earn her affection.
It was such an old-fashioned idea, yet it felt right.
I knew our situation wasn't romantic in the traditional sense. He didn't like me—not like that. This was about work. He just wanted to build chemistry so we wouldn't ruin the show. But still... If this was my first chance to experience anything close to romance, I wanted to try. Even if it was pretend. Even if it had an expiration date.
Just while the project lasts, I thought. Let me experience what it feels like—to like someone, to be liked back. Let me experience him.
"I... want to be courted first," I said, barely above a whisper.
He tilted his head. "What was that?"
I swallowed, pulse skipping, and tried again.
"Court me first," I said, this time more clearly. "Take me on dates. Help me get comfortable around you."
He blinked, like he couldn't quite believe what he'd heard.
I rushed to explain, afraid I sounded absurd.
"I don't know if I like you," I said, tripping over the words. "Not completely. I've never felt this way before, so I don't know what it's supposed to feel like. But... if this is it—if this is what liking someone feels like—then maybe I do. Still, I want my first relationship to follow the proper steps. I don't want to skip ahead. I don't want to rush."
The truth settled quietly between us, terrifying and liberating all at once. Because somewhere between confusion and denial, I'd realized it: I really did like him.
When I met his gaze again, a small, amused smile played on his lips. It wasn't mocking—it was soft, almost fond—and it made my heart lurch in my chest.
He stayed quiet for a moment, thinking, then said simply, "Okay."
"Okay?" I echoed, uncertain if I'd heard correctly.
"I'll court you," he said, like it was the easiest promise in the world. "Are you free for dinner tonight?"
For a second, my brain stalled. Dinner. Tonight.
He was serious.
I hesitated, searching his expression for any trace of teasing or pity. There wasn't any. Just quiet sincerity.
Against my better judgment—and against every instinct screaming at me to overanalyze the situation—I nodded.
"Yes," I said softly.
My cheeks burned the moment the word left my mouth.
Was this really happening? Was he asking me out?
My mind kept repeating the same question on a loop as he smiled again, casual but warm.
Is this really a date?
I stole a quick glance at him, and he was still watching me. His expression was unreadable, but his gaze felt heavy, deliberate—like he was studying me. The longer it lingered, the warmer my face grew. It was the kind of look that made me want to hide and stay still at the same time.
There was something about the way he looked at me—as if he could see past every layer I carefully maintained. It was unsettling, but also... strangely grounding. I couldn't explain what he made me feel. All I knew was that it was too much, too loud—and somehow, I didn't want it to stop.
Before I could think of anything to say, he moved. Quietly, he stood and walked toward the door. For a moment, I thought he was leaving without another word. I was about to ask what time we'd meet that evening when he suddenly turned back.
"You look even more beautiful without makeup," he said. His voice was calm, low, and—unexpectedly—sincere.
My brain short-circuited.
Heat rushed to my cheeks. I scratched the back of my neck—an automatic habit I'd never managed to suppress whenever I felt shy or caught off guard.
"Thank you," I murmured, still refusing to meet his eyes.
Because if I did, I knew it would undo me completely. His words alone had already stolen the air from my lungs; his gaze would have finished the job.
He didn't add anything after that. The soft click of the door closing behind him broke the silence, and only then did my body remember how to breathe. I gasped, fanning my face like it might cool the confusion burning under my skin.
"Will I even survive dinner with him?" I muttered. The question wasn't rhetorical—it was a genuine concern.
Feeling too warm, I decided to shower. But the water didn't wash away the memory of his eyes—or the faint pressure of his hands when he'd held mine.
Even afterward, I couldn't focus. My body felt too aware of itself, my mind looping through every second of the morning. I tried reading my script, pacing as I recited lines, but his voice and the way he said beautiful kept slipping back in.
By afternoon, another problem surfaced: I had no idea what to wear. I'd never been on a date before, let alone something that might count as one. My wardrobe was built for press conferences and variety shows, not... this.
I thought about calling Josh or Justin, but they'd only interrogate me. Justin especially—he treated me like a fragile figurine that would shatter under the wrong kind of attention. He was protective in ways that could be suffocating, though I knew it came from care.
So I turned to the one person I always sought out when I needed guidance I could trust: my mother.
Even though she wasn't always present, she'd never been absent when it mattered. Before I entered the industry, she'd told me she wouldn't dictate how to live my life.
"It's your life to live, Elves. I'm just one call away if you ever need me."
That promise had stayed with me.
My parents divorced when I was ten. My father's drinking had turned every argument into noise I still remember in fragments—raised voices, slammed doors, silence after. When they finally separated, it felt like the air at home became breathable again.
Missing my mother more than I cared to admit, I scrolled through my contacts and tapped her name. The line rang twice before her bright, familiar voice filled my ear.
"Hello, my son! How are you?" she greeted, her words warm and melodic, the kind of tone that instantly softened the edges of my day.
"I'm doing well, Mom. I just..." I hesitated, my throat tightening unexpectedly. "I just have a question."
There was a pause, followed by the faint sound of sheets rustling—she was probably getting out of bed. She and my stepfather lived in Nevada, where it was still late at night. They didn't have children together, though my stepfather had sons I'd never met.
"What's on your mind?" she asked gently, her tone switching to that quiet, careful kind she used whenever she sensed I was nervous.
I cleared my throat. "Uhm... I have a date in a few hours, and I don't know what to wear."
Silence. Then a dramatic squeal—so loud I had to pull the phone slightly away from my ear.
"Mom?" I asked cautiously.
A choked sob answered me.
"Son, you don't understand how happy you've made me today!" she cried between what sounded like actual tears. "I was starting to think you'd grow old and die single, and that I'd never get to see you walking down the aisle with your soulmate!"
I closed my eyes and rubbed my temple. The beginnings of a headache pressed behind my forehead.
How could I forget that my mother was a full-time emotional performance piece?
I waited in silence until her sniffles subsided, knowing from experience that interrupting would only extend the theatrics.
Finally, she sniffed, then sighed dramatically. "Alright. Go on. Tell me more."
I exhaled in relief.
"So... what should I wear?" I asked quickly, eager to redirect before she spiraled into another monologue about grandchildren.
"That depends on where you're going," she said, instantly switching into designer mode. "If you're unsure whether the venue is formal or casual, go for semi-formal. A suit without a tie—smart but not stiff. Pair it with sneakers so you don't look like you're attending a premiere."
I smiled faintly as she continued, her tone brisk and confident, like she was styling a runway model instead of her son.
"And don't forget eyewear," she added. "Clear glasses for a dinner date—they add refinement without arrogance. People read trust in the eyes, so frame them well."
I could almost see her gesturing as she spoke, eyes bright, mind already dressing me head to toe.
My mother had once been a rising figure in the fashion industry. Her career had been on the brink of international recognition when she got pregnant with me and decided to pause everything. She never went back to the runway, but that part of her—the artist with impeccable taste—never faded.
I nodded even though she couldn't see me, mentally filing away her suggestions into neat categories.
"Thank you, Mom," I said quietly, smiling despite myself.
"I'm so happy you're finally opening your heart to someone," Mom said, her voice brimming with warmth. "I wish you all the happiness in the world."
Her words caught me off guard.
"Aren't you going to ask who this person is?" I asked, trying to sound casual, though my voice betrayed my curiosity.
"If they make you happy, that's all that matters," she replied easily. "I'm not the type of mother to interfere or judge. I trust you, son. I know you'll make the right decisions for your life."
That trust—it hit me harder than I expected. My throat tightened, my chest ached. She had always given me space to make choices, even the wrong ones. Hearing her reaffirm that now made something inside me crack open.
"His name is Kane," I said quietly. "He's... a man. From the moment our eyes met, I felt something I couldn't explain. I don't know if I truly like him yet, but I'm trying to figure it out."
"What a beautiful name," she said without missing a beat. "When can I meet him?"
I blinked, startled by how easily she accepted it.
"You're not... concerned about his gender?" I asked carefully, every word cautious.
"Why would I be?" she replied, steady and calm. "It's your life, and only you can decide how to live it. I'm here to support you, always. Whenever you need me, I'm just a call away."
Her unconditional acceptance hit me with an intensity I wasn't prepared for. The tears came before I could stop them.
"Thank you, Mom," I whispered, my voice trembling. "I love you."
"I love you too, my dearest son," she said, her voice wrapping around me like a familiar blanket.
For a moment, silence filled the line—comforting, grounding. Then the words I'd been holding back tumbled out.
"I think I like him," I admitted softly. "But he doesn't feel the same. He's only indulging me because of our shared goal. My heart races when he's around, and it makes me feel like I can't breathe. Honestly, I don't even know if I can make it through this dinner date."
She chuckled softly—a sound that always managed to calm me, no matter how chaotic my mind felt. Then her tone shifted, gentle but firm.
"If you truly like this man, Elves, then be brave enough to face your fears," she said. "If you let the possibility of heartbreak control you, you'll never get past the awkwardness or the discomfort. Stop overthinking it. Let your heart and body guide you, and you'll see what this experience has to offer."
Her words sat with me for a long time. I could almost see her—eyes kind, posture relaxed, completely unbothered by everything I'd just confessed. That was my mother: empathy first, logic next.
And somehow, it steadied me.
She was right. My fear of being hurt had been stronger than my desire to understand what I was feeling. I'd let that fear define the distance between us.
I smiled, small but genuine. "Thank you, Mom."
Her laugh—soft and bright—filled the line, washing away the heaviness that had built in my chest.
We exchanged a few more gentle words, the kind that don't need to be profound to mean something, before she finally said goodbye.
As I set my phone down, a wave of longing hit me—sharp and heavy, like an ache I'd been ignoring for too long. I missed her. It wasn't just the comfort of her voice—it was the sense of safety she carried with it. The kind of safety I rarely felt anymore.
I turned toward my closet, ready to search for something to wear, when my phone buzzed again. A single, familiar sound.
Ping.
I reached for it automatically, expecting a text from Josh or maybe a reminder from the production team. But the second I saw the name on the screen, the air left my lungs.
It was him.
My stalker.
The one who always managed to slip through every attempt at tracing him.
For a few seconds, I just stared at the screen, my pulse pounding so loud it drowned out every other sound in the room. Then I opened the message.
Photos—one after another—filled the screen.
They were all of me. Leaving the condo. Buying groceries. Sitting in traffic. Even one from the café near my building, where I'd stopped for coffee a week ago.
Every image was taken from a distance, but clear enough that I could see the exact moment, the exact posture, the exact look on my face.
And below them, a line of text: Even when I'm out of sight, know that I'll always be in the crowd, watching and supporting you.
If anyone else had sent that, it might've sounded poetic, even kind. But from him, it was something else entirely—something cold and invasive. It wasn't admiration. It was ownership.
My fingers started to shake, the phone slipping slightly in my grip. I forced myself to breathe evenly, but it only made my chest feel tighter.
He was nearby. He could be outside right now. He could be watching me now.
The thought made my vision blur. My throat closed.
I dialed Josh without thinking. The moment I heard his voice, my control fractured.
"He said he's always watching me, Josh," I managed, my voice trembling. "I'm scared."
There was the sound of an engine revving on the other end, followed by his voice—steady, commanding.
"Shh. Don't leave your house. I'll be there in a few minutes, okay? Lock everything and stay put."
I nodded even though he couldn't see me.
"Okay," I whispered.
After ending the call, I sat frozen for a moment, the phone still in my hand. Then I scrambled to lock my front door, my windows, and finally my bedroom door before collapsing onto my bed and curling up, knees drawn to my chest.
My eyes scanned every corner of the room—the window, the door, the mirror—like the act of watching might keep me safe.
It was too quiet. Too still. Every sound felt amplified—the faint hum of the air conditioner, the ticking of the clock, the pulse in my own ears.
I tried to focus on my breathing. In. Out. In. Out. But no matter how many times I counted, I couldn't shake the feeling that someone, somewhere, was counting with me.
Watching. Waiting.
It felt like an eternity before I heard the familiar electronic chirp of my door's keypad. My body went rigid, but then I recognized the sequence of tones—Josh's code. Relief came so fast it almost hurt.
He rushed in, and the air shifted instantly. Josh always had that effect—he carried a kind of calm that filled whatever space he entered. He went straight to me, kneeling beside the bed.
"It's okay," he said quietly, rubbing my back in slow, steady motions. "You're safe now. He won't touch you, not while I'm here."
The words settled over me like a weighted blanket, grounding me little by little. My breathing slowed. The shaking stopped. When I finally met his eyes, he gave me a small, reassuring smile before gently wiping away the tears that had dried along my cheeks.
"Can I see the message?" he asked, holding out his hand.
I nodded, still trembling slightly, and handed him my phone. He stood and paced to the other side of the room as he called his legal team. I listened to the low rhythm of his voice—calm, firm, professional—and it helped quiet the noise inside my head.
Every now and then, he glanced at me, as if making sure I was still okay.
After a few minutes, he ended the call and sat back beside me.
"They'll trace the sender's IP. Hopefully we can finally track him down." He paused. "Do you want me to stay with you tonight?"
The offer was tempting. Having Josh nearby always felt safe. But then I remembered my dinner with Kane, and the part of me that wanted normalcy—just one night that wasn't ruled by fear—spoke before I could stop it.
"I have plans tonight," I said, managing a small smile.
He pressed his lips into a thin line, clearly unhappy but too respectful to argue.
"Take the taser and pepper spray I gave you last time," he said.
"It's okay. Kane will be able to handle—" I stopped mid-sentence, realizing what I'd just said.
Josh's head snapped up, his brow arching. "Kane?"
I swallowed.
"We're just trying to improve our on-screen chemistry," I explained quickly. "Dinner, talking, maybe a drink. That's all."
He didn't reply right away. He just looked at me—long enough for me to squirm. Josh had always been good at reading me, even the things I didn't say aloud.
Finally, he sighed, the tension in his shoulders softening.
"You're too innocent for someone like him," he said quietly. "But who am I to stop you? Just... be careful, okay? Don't say I didn't warn you."
He stood and started toward the door. For a moment, I thought that was the end of it. But then he paused, turned halfway back, and smirked.
"So," he said, eyes glinting with mischief, "are you planning to lose your virginity tonight?"
My pillow was already flying through the air before I even processed what he'd said.
He ducked out of the doorway just in time, laughing as the pillow hit the wall behind him.
"Good luck, lover boy!" he called, his voice fading down the hall.
I sat there, glaring at the empty doorway, my face hot enough to ignite.
"Idiot," I muttered under my breath, though a small, reluctant smile tugged at my lips.
Following my mother's advice, I chose a sleek black notch-lapel suit and paired it with white sneakers to soften the formality. The fabric felt cool and crisp under my fingers as I adjusted the cuffs, aligning the seams perfectly. I slicked my hair back, put on a pair of clear-framed glasses, and stood in front of the mirror to take in the result.
I looked... decent. Actually, better than decent.
I caught myself smiling—just a small one—as I studied the reflection staring back at me. The neat hair, the glasses, the faint gleam of the watch I rarely wore—it all reminded me a little of Clark Kent. That hadn't been intentional, but I didn't mind the resemblance. There was something reassuring about looking like someone composed, even when I didn't feel that way inside.
I picked up my perfume, about to spray my wrist, when the doorbell rang.
My hand froze mid-air.
There was no need to guess who it was.
A sharp rush of adrenaline hit my chest, turning my heartbeat into a staccato rhythm that made my palms sweat. For one irrational moment, I considered not answering at all. But then my mother's words echoed in my head: "Be brave enough to face your fears."
So I took one last look in the mirror, exhaled slowly, and opened the door.
Kane stood there, casual but striking, framed by the warm light of the hallway. When he smiled, the air between us shifted, and for a brief, unguarded moment, I forgot how to breathe.
He had that effect—like his presence changed the gravity in the room.
"Trying to copy Kent?" he asked, his tone playful, breaking the tension before it could smother me.
I laughed—an honest laugh—and nudged his shoulder. The sound of my own laughter startled me; it had been a while since I'd heard it without effort. For the first time since this whole thing began, I actually felt... at ease.
"Maybe subconsciously," I said.
Then he handed me a bouquet of red roses.
I blinked, startled, then smiled so widely it almost hurt. "I love red roses. Thank you! I didn't think I'd be getting these from anyone else anytime soon."
His brow creased slightly, and for a moment, I panicked, wondering if I'd said something wrong. Then I realized what he might be thinking.
"Oh—no, it's not what you're thinking," I explained quickly. "Justin always gives me roses whenever we meet. He says it's his way of reminding me I'm not alone." I laughed lightly. "I know it's a bit odd, but it's sweet."
Kane's face didn't change much, but his next question carried a subtle weight. "Do you meet without Josh?"
I nodded without hesitation.
"Sometimes," I said simply.
His expression stayed unreadable, and I decided not to pry. Whatever that question meant to him, I didn't want to ruin the calm we'd finally found.
Let me enjoy this while I can, I told myself.
He gestured for us to go, so I followed him down the hallway. I focused on each step, steadying my breathing, determined not to trip or do something clumsy.
When we reached his car, he opened the door for me—a small gesture that made my chest tighten for reasons I couldn't name. I slid in carefully, only to feel him lean over a second later, reaching for my seatbelt.
Our faces ended up inches apart. His cologne was faint but clean—something with cedar and citrus—and the warmth of him pressed close enough that I could feel my heartbeat climb again. I instinctively drew back, cheeks burning.
He noticed, smiled softly, and gave me space. No teasing, no comments. Just quiet understanding.
He fastened his own seatbelt and turned to me with a small, almost gentle smile. "Ready?"
I nodded, managing a calm I didn't quite feel. "Yeah."
The car hummed to life. The city lights slid past the windows like quiet constellations, and for the first time in a long time, my mind wasn't looping through fears or rehearsing lines.
For once, I just... was.
He glanced at me, his smile deepening. I could see relief flicker in his eyes—like he was just as eager for this to go right.
He wanted the project to work. I did too. But somewhere beneath that shared determination, something softer stirred—a small, fragile feeling that scared me to admit. Because even as I sat beside him, part of me already knew: this wouldn't last. Whatever this was—whatever it was becoming—was temporary.
And still, I couldn't help but hope it would linger a little longer before the world asked us to let it go.