Scripted to Be

Chapter Eighteen: Set Routine, Stubborn Hearts

POV: Lauren

The set was quieter than usual when she stepped out of the car.

Not actually quiet—background crew still moved equipment, the occasional yell bounced across the yard—but the usual energy that buzzed around her felt distant. Or maybe it was just her. She was slower now. A little thinner. Still tired.

But damn it, she was back.

Lauren adjusted the cap on her head, took a deep breath, and walked toward base camp.

"Look who finally crawled out of bed," Norman called from behind a makeup trailer, grinning with a coffee in one hand and a protein bar in the other. "Thought you died."

"Close," she said, offering a small smirk. "But turns out I'm just dramatic."

Danai emerged from wardrobe, arms crossed but a smile breaking through. "You look like you lost a wrestling match with the flu. But you're glowing. How does that work?"

"I think it's just fever residue," Lauren quipped, and they both laughed.

"Lauren!" called the AD from across the lot. "You're scheduled for a blocking walk-through at ten, but we can delay if—"

"I'm good," she waved. "Really. Just happy to walk somewhere that's not the bathroom."

Her stomach still turned a bit. Her legs ached. But the ground under her boots felt real. Familiar. Comforting.

She made it halfway through greeting the crew when Steven appeared.

Not just appeared—materialized. Like some over-caffeinated, deeply concerned shadow with a small ziplock bag of vitamins in one hand and a bottle of coconut water in the other.

"You haven't taken these yet."

Lauren blinked. "How do you even know that?"

"I have alarms," he said simply.

"You weren't even called to set today."

"I know."

She narrowed her eyes. "Did you seriously show up just to check on me?"

Steven handed her the bottle, deadpan. "Drink. You're behind on fluids."

She squinted at him, but took it anyway. "You know I'm supposed to be the independent one here."

"Yeah," he said with a grin. "And I'm the overly attached emotional support castmate."

"That's not a thing."

"It is now."

By lunchtime, it was getting ridiculous.

She'd made it through one rehearsal, two lighting checks, and a fifteen-minute conversation with a wardrobe assistant—all under the watchful eye of Steven Yeun, who somehow showed up with just the right snack or medicine every hour on the hour.

Lauren sat down in a shady corner of the lot and barely opened her script when he reappeared again—this time with a carefully assembled plate of rice, grilled chicken, and soft vegetables.

"This is from catering," he said. "I made them modify it for your stomach."

"You're not even filming today," she said again.

"I'm aware."

"Do you ever go home?"

Steven gave her a look, then sat beside her. "Not when you look like you're about to pass out every ten minutes."

Lauren sighed, pushing food around with her fork. "I'm not your problem, Steven."

"You're not a problem," he corrected, a little sharper than she expected.