Page 55 of This Time It's Real
At last, Caz sends back a message:
Ok. But promise you won’t laugh.
“Oh my god,” I say as I step out of the car an hour later.
I’ve never been to a proper drama set before, but it’s almost exactly the way I pictured it: giant green screens propped up over the grass, blocking out patches of sky; camera crew and makeup artists dashing in and out of makeshift tents; and props like swords and guzhengs lying about everywhere, all left to freeze in the outdoor chill. I take a quick mental snapshot of the scene, already brainstorming ways to introduce the set in my post.
They’re in the middle of shooting a fight sequence, and my jaw practically unhinges when I spot Caz a few yards away.
I almost don’t recognize him.
For one, he’s wearing a robe. Not like a bathrobe kind of robe, but an actual, semi-historically-accurate set of robes with dragons embroidered down the sides and broad, flowing sleeves. It looks like it’s made out of real silk too; every time he shifts position, the black fabric ripples and gleams under the sunlight. I can’t stop staring. The outfit somehow has the effect of making him look taller, older, more intimidating, even though it’s covering up most of his body.
Then there’s the hair—or, well, the wig. Half of it has been tied up and pinned into place with an elaborate crown, but the rest of it spills down his back in a river of shining ink.
“Again!” a stocky, middle-aged woman who I assume is the director calls from behind the camera monitors. She makes an impatient motion with one hand. “Caz—make sure you turn your head this way when . . .” The rest of her directions are lost on me in a blur of accented, rapid-fire Chinese.
But Caz seems to get it right away. He gives her a thumbs-up motion and adjusts his position immediately, lifting the very real-looking sword in his hand with a look of unwavering focus. His jaw is tensed, his gaze sharp, his usual casual demeanor gone.
Five men dressed as assassins rush toward him, and he spins. Strikes. Ducks.
His movements are lightning quick, strong. His blade slices through the air in perfect sync with the other actors, like some sort of violent dance, elegant and epic all at once. When he swings the sword again, two men fall.
A triumphant grin flashes across his face.
“Oh my god,” I repeat to myself, my voice kind of hoarse.
Because even though I’ve found Caz Song attractive on a physical level for a while now, my biggest turn-on has always been competence.
And as it appears, Caz is unbelievably competent at his job.
He carries out the rest of his fight sequence with the same enviable degree of control and precision, his hands becoming blurs as he moves seamlessly between stances, and only when the director yells “Cut!” does he finally slow down. Lower his sword.
His brow is damp with sweat and he’s breathing a little fast, strands of dark hair fall loose from their knot, but his whole face is aglow. Euphoric, even. He looks like he would gladly run through that last scene twenty more times.
Then he sees me.
Before I have time to compose my expression, the corner of his mouth tugs up in that crooked smile I secretly love so much, dimples and straight white teeth flashing. It’s almost too much—I want to believe the smile is real, that it’s meant only for me. But I just witnessed seconds ago how good he is at acting.
“You’re really not laughing,” he says as he draws closer, his robes swishing behind him. “I’m surprised.”
“Yes, well. There’s nothing to laugh about,” I say, aiming for casual and missing it by about ten thousand miles.
I’ve forgotten how to talk like a normal person, it seems.
“Mhm.” Suddenly he leans in, a glint in his eyes. “Wait—don’t tell me. This.” He gestures to himself, his costume, and I want to die. “Thisworks for you?”
“No.” But I can feel my cheeks flushing. “Don’t be ridiculous—”
“I’m learning so much about you, Eliza—”
“Oh my god—”
“This is a significant moment in our relationship,” he continues, barely managing to keep a straight face. “Really. If I had known earlier that you were into this—”
“I beg you to not finish that sentence.”
Thankfully, just as I’m contemplating moving to the Gobi Desert or someplace farther, someone shouts Caz’s name in the distance.
