Scripted to Be

Chapter Eighteen: Set Routine, Stubborn Hearts

She didn't say anything for a while. She just chewed. The silence between them felt thick again—like something unsaid was crawling up both their throats but neither wanted to be the first to let it spill.

He tapped his fingers on the edge of the bench. "You know... you don't have to do this whole strong, stubborn heroine act right now."

She raised an eyebrow. "Kinda my thing."

"Well," he leaned closer, lowering his voice, "maybe just for today, you let someone else carry the story."

Her eyes flicked to him.

God, he was close again.

"Steven—"

"Lauren."

The way he said her name made her heart skip like it used to when she first started playing Maggie. Except this time, it wasn't acting.

Before she could answer, Alanna walked past with her hands full of coffee cups.

"Oh thank God," she muttered, "he's finally letting her sit down. Hey, Lauren—you look less dead than I imagined. We missed you."

Lauren laughed lightly. "Thanks... I think."

Alanna winked. "And Yeun? Stop hovering. You look like a nervous raccoon."

Steven saluted her lazily. "That's emotional support raccoon, thank you."

Alanna disappeared into the hair trailer and Lauren turned to Steven again, half-amused, half-exhausted.

"You're insane."

"I know," he said. "Drink your damn coconut water."

He left after lunch—finally. Probably to go make sure her fridge hadn't restocked itself with poison.

But true to his word (and alarms), Steven texted her every three hours that day.

3:00 PM – "Time for Tylenol. I know you're trying to ignore this. Don't make me come back."

6:00 PM – photo of him in his car "I'm parked outside of Whole Foods trying to remember if you hate chamomile or not."

6:10 PM – "You hate chamomile. Got it. Mint tea coming your way tomorrow."

By the time the sun dipped below the treetops and shooting wrapped for the day, Lauren sat alone at base camp with her legs stretched across two folding chairs, still in costume, sipping lukewarm tea from the thermos Steven definitelywasn't supposed to leave behind.

Her head leaned back, eyes closed. Muscles aching.

But for the first time in weeks, she didn't feel entirely alone in her body. She was sore, yes. But full. Held. Not by hands this time, but presence.

He was everywhere.

Even when he wasn't there.

Even when she didn't know if she wanted him to be.

Her phone buzzed again.

Steven:
Tell me you took your meds before I drive back over and spoon-feed them to you.

She stared at it.

Smiled faintly.

Lauren:
I took them. Stand down, raccoon.

She arrived home past midnight, shoulders aching, eyes burning.

The night shoot had gone longer than expected—fog machines, multiple takes, delays with lighting—but she'd made it through. Somehow. Her muscles had reached that shaky, floaty point of fatigue where it felt like her bones were humming under her skin.

She unlocked the door as quietly as she could, expecting darkness.

Instead, the lamp by the couch was still on.

And Steven was there.

Asleep.

His hoodie was half-zipped, a blanket crumpled over one leg, one arm hanging off the side of the sofa like he hadn't meant to fall asleep there. A half-eaten granola bar was on the table. Her tea mug was washed and drying in the rack. And his phone—her phone—sat side by side like they were partners in some domestic ritual they hadn't quite admitted to.

Lauren closed the door gently behind her.

She didn't wake him.

She didn't say anything.

She just padded to the bathroom, peeled herself out of Maggie's mud-streaked clothes, and stepped into the hot shower. The water ached against her skin but soothed her at the same time, like every drop was rinsing off a layer of stress she hadn't realized she was carrying.

By the time she came out, wrapped in a fresh t-shirt and shorts, the house was silent again.

Steven hadn't moved.

She stood at the end of the couch for a second, watching him.

His breathing was slow. Steady. His mouth slightly open like it always was when he accidentally passed out during long filming weeks.

Her chest pulled tight—warm, heavy.

And then she didn't think.

She just moved.

Lauren climbed onto the couch slowly, gently settling herself on top of him—her legs folding over his, arms curling under his, her head tucked into the crook of his shoulder like a baby koala.

Steven stirred with her weight.

His eyes opened sleepily, breath catching in his throat.

But he didn't flinch.

He just wrapped his arms around her automatically, like his body had been waiting for it. One hand slid up to her back, the other cradling her shoulder, pulling her close without even a word.

Then he kissed the top of her head.

A soft, quiet kiss—tender in a way only sleep could make instinctual.

He whispered into her hair, barely audible, lips still against her skin.
"Friends don't lie down like this."

Lauren didn't move.

Her cheek stayed pressed to his chest, listening to the steady thud of his heart.

"In this moment..." she murmured, "I'm not acting like a friend."

Steven's breath hitched.

But he didn't ask what she was acting like.

He just held her tighter.

And didn't let go.