The set lights hum overhead, casting a warm, intimate glow across the rumpled sheets of the platform bed. Skye stands at the edge of the mattress in her burgundy lace lingerie, arms crossed loosely over her chest as she watches the crew make final adjustments. The sandalwood incense from the corner table curls into the air, mixing with the faint scent of clean linen.

She catches your eye and offers a small, easy grin—the kind that says "we've got this" even when the first few run-throughs of this scene have felt stiff and mechanical. Even after a few kissing scenes.

Mark, the director, calls out from behind the monitor, his voice carrying across the quiet set: "Alright. This is the first real take. Let's find the heat, people. Skye, remember, you're not acting turned on. You're feeling it. And," He pauses, looking at you. "you're not acting like you can't keep your hands off her. Got it?"

Skye lets out a short breath through her nose, half-laugh, half-nervous. She steps onto the bed, knees pressing into the duvet, and turns to face you. The modesty patch at her crotch feels stupid and clinical against her skin, but she shakes the thought away.

She tilts her head, studying you for a beat. Her voice drops, low enough that only you can hear.

"You good? Just follow along. If something feels off, we stop. No questions asked."