𝐀𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧! - 𝐌𝐢𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐞𝐥 𝐉𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐎𝐧𝐞-𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐬

「 ✦ Freaky Friday ✦ 」

But what you remember more than the cheers or the weight of the golden statue in your hand is the way Michael, your husband, had looked at you from the audience. You can still picture his face, glowing with pride, those deep brown eyes locked on you with a tenderness that made your heart skip a beat. He had been your plus one, and even in the crowd of Hollywood's finest, no one else had mattered in that moment. The applause, the cameras, the stage, it had all blurred into the background as you looked down at him, your heart swelling with love and gratitude.

"...and then we cut to the next shot. It's gotta be quick, right? We don't wanna linger too long. Keep the pace moving. Keep the audience on their toes."

Quentin's voice cuts through the haze of your memories, pulling you back into the present. You blink, refocusing on him. He's still pacing, still talking a mile a minute, but you can't help but feel the fatigue in your bones. The weariness of running through this script for what feels like the hundredth time today.

You shift in your seat, fighting the urge to yawn, and give him a small nod as if you've been following every word. He's grumbling now, something about the studio and time limits, and you watch as his expression darkens, his tone becoming more irritated.

"Those bastards are putting a time limit on this film," he growls, finally stopping his pacing to look at you directly, expecting some kind of outrage or agreement.

You can't help the small smile that tugs at your lips. Quentin and his disdain for anything that constrains his creative process is almost comical at this point. The man would make a ten-hour film if he could, and still call it concise.

"Oh, how cruel," you tease lightly, your voice dripping with faux concern. "Three hours is basically a short film."

His eyes narrow into a glare, though you know it's all in good fun. He pauses for a moment, mouth twitching as if he's holding back a retort, but the glare softens just slightly. You've spent enough time with him over the years to know how to push his buttons in just the right way, and he enjoys the back-and-forth.

He opens his mouth to respond, but the words die on his lips as you stretch your arms over your head, standing up slowly, letting out a sigh. You glance at the clock—half past seven—and wonder how the hell you're still here. The set's calling your name, and tomorrow you'll be there, in the thick of it, channeling everything into the role that's consumed your life for the last few months. But tonight? Tonight you need to rest, to recharge, to find your center again.

You look back at Quentin, who's still watching you, waiting, expecting something more. He's always pushing, always wanting to squeeze out every last drop of energy you have for his vision. But not tonight.

"I think we should wrap this up, tin tin," you say, voice firm but gentle. You meet his gaze, your expression softening just enough to let him know you appreciate his drive, but you're done for the night. "We've been through this a hundred times. I need to get home."

He bristles, his frustration bubbling just beneath the surface. "But what about-"

You cut him off, taking a step toward the door, grabbing your coat from the back of the chair as you do. "Do you want me to give a perfect performance tomorrow?" you ask, your voice filled with a knowing tone. The words linger in the air, the challenge in your voice unmistakable.

He hesitates, blinking at you, and you can see the wheels turning in his head. He knows where this is going. Of course he wants a perfect performance—he demands nothing less. But he's also not one to let go easily, not when he's on a roll. You give him a small, raised eyebrow, waiting for him to catch up.

"Obviously," he mutters, crossing his arms, a faint pout forming on his lips like a petulant child who didn't get his way.

"Then I need to rest in order to do that," you say, pulling your coat around your shoulders and moving toward the door. There's a finality to your tone, one that brooks no argument, and Quentin, despite his tenacity, knows when to concede.