Page 8 of The Viper
“It does,” I said, twisting the cap off my water. “He’s gentle. Patient. And absolutely zero threat to my virtue.”
Hannah grinned. “Lucky you.”
I smiled, but it faded quickly. “You ever think about how weird it is? We fake love for a living, and then wonder why we can’t find the real thing.”
She looked up then, eyes soft. “You’ll find it, Lexi. You’re just not looking in the right places.”
I almost laughed. “Where exactly should I look? Between call times?”
She shrugged. “Stranger things have happened.”
After lunch, we moved to interiors—a cabin set built on a soundstage nearby. Same scene, different angles. The intimacy coordinator hovered helpfully, calling out reminders about boundaries and consent. It was all safe. Professional. Mechanical.
At one point, Benji leaned close and whispered, “I’m sorry if this feels weird. I just want to make sure you’re comfortable.”
I smiled. “You’re fine. Really. You’re probably the least weird part of my day.”
He laughed, genuine and kind. “Then I’m doing my job.”
The cameras rolled again. And I did mine.
By the time we wrapped, the light outside had turned honey-colored, sliding across the docks like a spill of gold. I changed into shorts and sneakers, my hair piled messily on top of my head. The crew was still buzzing, packing up gear, shouting instructions. Someone handed me a fresh water bottle. Someone else asked for a selfie I politely declined.
In the SUV, Hannah scrolled through tomorrow’s call sheet while I stared out the window. The world outside was stunning—palmettos swaying, light dancing on the water, a family laughing on a nearby sidewalk. Real life, happening just beyond the glass.
I pressed my forehead against the window and let out a slow breath.
“You okay?” Hannah asked.
“Why does everyone keep asking me that?” I said softly. “Just tired.”
She nodded, returning to her phone.
But I wasn’t just tired. I was empty. All day, I’d poured out every emotion—longing, vulnerability, desire—and none of it had been real. Not one touch, not one kiss.
By the time we reached the house, the sky was streaked in pink. I headed straight for the shower, letting the water wash away the fake sweat and foundation, the day’s performance sliding down the drain.
When I came out, wrapped in a towel, Hannah was on the sofa with her laptop. “Tomorrow’s lighter,” she said. “Mostly rehearsal scenes. Maybe some press photos.”
“Good,” I said absently, grabbing a bottle of wine from the counter.
I poured a glass and stepped out onto the deck. The marsh stretched wide and endless, the cicadas starting their evening song. I sipped, letting the wine coat my tongue, and closed my eyes.
This was the part no one warned you about—the quiet after the chaos. The applause fades, the lights go dark, and you’re left with yourself.
I thought about the script, the love scenes, the way I’d spent hours pretending to want someone while a dozen people adjusted lights around us. I thought about how I couldn’t even remember the last time someone had touched me just to touch me.
No cameras. No choreography. No expectations.
I’d always told myself I didn’t need that. That the work was enough. That connection could wait.
But maybe it couldn’t. Wait for what?
I glanced through the glass door at Hannah. She was still typing, headphones on, focused as ever. And suddenly, an idea returned. Reckless, stupid, but thrilling in its own way.
Maybe I could have one night. Just one.
No scripts. No cameras. No handlers or hashtags.
