Unscripted

CHAPTER FIVE: Between the Lines

Monday. 9:41 a.m.
Already late. But spiritually? Right on time.
Three outfit changes and one full-on hair crisis later, I landed on something simple but sharp—a cropped charcoal sweater with wide sleeves, black high-waisted trousers that made my legs look a mile long, and chunky ankle boots that gave me just enough height to fake confidence.
The office looked like it used to be a dentist's waiting room—still carried the ghost of fluoride and bad news. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, and the air conditioning was aggressive, like it was trying to freeze us into submission.
In the center, a long folding table. Twelve chairs. Scripts scattered like props from a play that hadn't decided what it wanted to be yet.
And him.
Leaning back like the chair belonged to him. Sweatshirt, hair rumpled like he'd just rolled out of bed, legs sprawled, elbows hooked over the armrests. The kind of posture that said rules didn't apply to him.
I looked away fast.
Too fast.
"Morning," someone said beside me.
A tall guy with easy charm and the kind of smile that made you want to like him. I vaguely remembered his name from the cast list—Mason—supporting role, love interest in a subplot. He held two coffee cups, condensation already sliding down the sides.
"Vanilla latte, right?" he said, offering one.
I blinked. "Uh—how'd you know that?"
"You ordered it during the callback. I remember stuff."
He smiled like it was no big deal. Like it wasn't kind of disarming.
"Thanks," I said, fingers brushing his as I took it. "That's dangerously nice for LA."
"Guess I'm just here to ruin the stereotype," he said, sliding into the chair next to mine.
Warmth from the cup bled into my palms. Comforting. Steady.
But then I felt it—the shift. The prickling awareness that someone else was watching.
I glanced up.
Calum's eyes. Not a stare exactly, but a weight. Heavy. Focused.
He looked away a second later, but the mark was already there.
The casting director clapped their hands. "Alright, everyone, let's start from the top."

Scene One.
He spoke first.
"You're not from around here," Calum said, his voice low and deliberate.
It was the character's line, but it didn't feel like acting. His gaze held mine just long enough to test something—patience, composure, maybe my pulse.
"Neither are you," I said, flipping my page to keep my hands from fidgeting.

Scene Three.
The script called for playful tension—slow burn, easy smiles.
But his delivery came with an undercurrent. A flicker of heat at the edges. The way he leaned in just enough for me to catch the faint scent of cedar and something darker.
It wasn't in the script.
It wasn't rehearsed.
And it wasn't... safe.
I tried to anchor myself to Mason's steady presence beside me, but the air between me and Calum was a live wire, humming in silence between lines.
There was a kiss written in near the end. A stage direction. We didn't act it out—but he read the lead-up like he wanted me to know what it would feel like if we did.

Break.
I stood and paced near the corner, pretending to scroll my phone. Mason wandered over, still warm, still easy.
"You're killing it," he said.
"You're biased," I countered.
"Not really. I just think you're good."
His tone was so casual it almost landed—almost distracted me from the heat in my ribs.
But my gaze flicked up, and there he was again. Calum.
Still in his seat. Still watching.

We wrapped after the final scene. Applause. Chairs scraping. Scripts stacked.
I was reaching for my bag when his voice came from just behind me.
"Is he your boyfriend?"
I turned, and there he was. Closer than I expected. Eyes calm but unreadable, voice low enough that it didn't have to travel far.
"What?"
"Coffee guy." He tilted his chin toward Mason. "Is he your boyfriend?"
My stomach flipped. "No. He's just... nice."
A slow nod. Like he was filing it away. Like he didn't want to care but couldn't help it.
"Right," he said. And walked off without another word.
I stood there, fingers tightening around the now-cold latte.
"Right," I murmured back.
But even to my own ears, it sounded like a lie.