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The afternoon sun beat down on the sprawling backlot of the Burbank studio, baking the asphalt into a hazy, shimmering grid. To anyone else, it was a chaotic maze of trailers, tangled electrical cables, and PA system squawks. To Tom Ryder, it was the center of the universe.
He was dressed in a custom jacket that cost more than a semester of college tuition and he was currently the luckiest guy on the planet. He had booked his first major feature film. Not a guest spot on a daytime soap, not a background extra in a commercial—a lead role in a high-octane action blockbuster.
And, best of all, Ryland Grace was actually here.
Ryland stood near the craft services table, shielding his eyes with a pale hand and looking distinctly like a man who had strayed far from his native habitat. His worn out yellow rain jacket wrapped around his body, his plain cotton shirt that was wrinkled from the drive, and his messy blond hair sticking up in odd directions from underneath his navy-blue beanie. He looked every bit the quiet, brilliant science major who spent his Friday nights reading peer-reviewed papers on microbiology.
"Ry! You made it!" Tom yelled, abandoning his position by the director’s chair and striding over with a grin so wide it looked structural. He grabbed Ryland in a tight, one-armed hug, nearly knocking the breath out of him. "Look at this place! I told you I’d get you on set. Welcome to Hollywood, man!"
Ryland stumbled slightly, steadying his glasses as Tom let go. "Hey, Tom. Wow. It’s... definitely loud." He adjusted his tote bags strap, looking around at the bustling crew with a mild, bemused expression. "I’m glad you got the role, really. But you didn't have to bribe the production assistants to give me a VIP pass."
"Are you kidding? You're my lucky charm," Tom said, slapping Ryland on the shoulder. He was buzzing with pure, unfiltered adrenaline, his blue eyes bright, his posture practically vibrating with pride. "Stick around. Watch me do my thing. I'm gonna go get prepped for the next setup, but don't wander off!"
With a flashy wave, Tom jogged toward the makeup trailer, leaving Ryland standing by the cooler. Ryland chuckled under his breath, taking a small sip from a paper cup of water. He’d agreed to come today mostly because Tom had pleaded with him for three straight days at Ryland’s apartment, swearing that having his best friend there would "ground his process." In reality, Ryland suspected Tom just wanted an audience—preferably one he cared about.
"Hey, man. Didn't think you'd actually show up."
A voice spoke up from behind him. Ryland turned, stepping aside as a guy reaching into the cooler popped open an energy drink.
Anyone walking past would have had to do a double take. Where Ryland was soft-spoken and dressed in rumpled cotton, the guy standing next to him had the exact same facial structure, the same sharp jawline, and the same blue eyes—but built with an athlete’s frame, and a relaxed, easygoing posture that spoke of a man who spent his days getting thrown down flights of stairs.
"Hey, Colt!" Ryland said, greeting his twin brother with a small smile. "Tom practically dragged me here. I didn't realize you were doubling for him on this gig."
Colt Seavers took a long swig of his drink, shaking his head as he leaned back against the craft table. "Yeah, well, the stunt coordinator needed someone with my build who could take a hit. Unfortunately, that means I spend twelve hours a day making your roommate look like a badass."
Colt gestured vaguely toward the makeup trailer Tom had just vanished into. He looked at Ryland with a mixture of pity and genuine bewilderment. "Seriously, Ryland. How do you do it?"
"Do what?"
"Deal with him," Colt said plainly. "How do you spend more than five minutes around Tom without wanting to throw yourself off a rig? The guy is an absolute nightmare. He’s been on set for two weeks and he’s already acting like he invented cinema. Half the crew wants to lock him in his trailer, and I really don't blame them.”
Ryland felt a familiar, protective instinct stir in his chest. He rubbed the back of his neck, looking down at his sneakers before offering his brother an empathetic smile. "Look, Colt, I get where you're coming from. He can be... loud. And arrogant. And completely unaware that other people have feelings or personal space."
"Understatement of the century," Colt muttered.
"But," Ryland continued softly, "he’s really just a golden retriever at his core."
Colt snorted, nearly choking on his drink. "A what? Dude, he’s a diva."
"He’s like a golden retriever," Ryland insisted, gesturing with his hands. "He’s eager, he craves validation, he gets overly excited, and he panics if he thinks people aren't paying attention to him. He doesn't mean to be malicious. He’s just... high energy and desperate for everyone to think he’s doing a good job."
Colt looked at his twin like he had two heads. "You're delusional, man."
Before Ryland could respond, the door to the makeup trailer burst open. Tom strutted out, looking around frantically until his eyes locked onto Ryland. His entire face lit up instantly.
"Ryland!" Tom shouted, jogging over and completely ignoring the stunt double standing right beside him. He grabbed Ryland by the shoulders, practically bouncing on his heels. "Did you see me in the rehearsal earlier? Did I hit the mark right? The director said my focus was great, but I felt like my head turn on line three was a little stiff. What did you think? Did it look natural? Did I look like a real lead?"
Ryland’s expression softened, a subtle, fond smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You looked great, Tom. Very believable. Your head turn was fine."
Tom let out a dramatic sigh of relief, his shoulders dropping as he beamed at Ryland. "Yes! Okay, awesome. If you say it was good, then it was good. I’m gonna crush this next scene. Stay right there, okay? Don't move!"
Tom darted away toward the main stage, practically glowing with energy.
Ryland turned back to his brother, raising his eyebrows slightly.
Colt stood there, his jaw slightly slack, watching the actor sprint off. He looked back at Ryland, then back at Tom, then let out a low, defeated chuckle. "Son of a bitch," Colt muttered. "He really is a dog. He literally just wanted a treat and a pat on the head."
"Told you," Ryland said mildly.
——
An hour later, the production had moved into the interior stage for a crucial turn in the movie's plot: Tom’s character was supposed to get ambushed and brutally beaten by a group of mercenaries.
While Colt did the heavy lifting for the actual physical falls and wall-slams, Tom was called in for the close-ups immediately following the beatdown. The makeup department had spent forty-five minutes working on him, and when Tom emerged, Ryland’s breath caught squarely in his throat.
Tom’s hair was a dark, matted mess, sticking to his forehead with sweat and fake grime. Fake blood trickled from his left nostril, pooling over his top lip and smearing down his chin. A deep crimson cut arched over his cheekbone, flanked by purple bruises blossoming around his eye and jawline. His leather jacket was torn, his shirt collar ripped open to reveal the sharp, defined line of his collarbone and a scrape across his chest.
He looked wrecked. Dazed, bleeding, and utterly gorgeous.
Ryland sat in a canvas chair off to the side, his hands tightly gripping his own knees. He couldn't take his eyes off him. There was something intensely intoxicating about the contrast—the usually immaculate, polished golden boy suddenly battered, raw, and breathing heavily through a smeared lip.
A hot, sudden flush crept up Ryland's neck and spread into his ears. His pulse hammered against his ribs like an unruly engine.
Oh, no, Ryland thought, swallowing hard as he stared at the red trail running down Tom's throat. No, no, no.
It wasn't just that Tom was handsome; Ryland had known that for years. It was the vulnerability forced upon him by the makeup. The simulated trauma gave Tom's sharp jawline a ragged edge. His eyes, usually bright and demanding, looked glossy and unfocused under the heavy fake lashes. As the makeup artist spritzed water over Tom’s chest and neck to simulate sweat, the droplets caught the studio lights, running in glistening paths through the fake blood smeared across his skin.
Ryland felt a dizzying pull in his stomach. He raised a hand to cover his mouth, trying to force his analytical brain to regain control.
Think about microbiology, Ryland pleaded with himself, his heart hammering in his throat. Think about cellular respiration. Think about ATP synthesis. Think about literally anything else! Why is my brain reacting like this? Is this a psychological defect? Some kind of bizarre, repressed response to seeing someone usually so loud get visually dismantled? Please let this be a temporary stress reaction and not some weird uh… ‘bedroom’ preference I have to unpack later.
Tom leaned back against a prop wall, wiping his mouth with the back of his forearm. The action only smeared the blood across his cheek, leaving his lips glistening wet and parted as he panted for the camera.
Ryland buried his face entirely in his hands, letting out a quiet, internal scream. He was in deep, deep trouble.
The scene, unfortunately, did not go smoothly.
"Cut! Back to marks!" the director called out for the sixth time. "Tom, you're dropping the line on the exit. And Colt, the drop wasn't clean—you need to take the impact harder on the left shoulder!"
The heat in the soundstage was oppressive. The heavy lights radiated down like a physical weight, and after two hours of continuous resetting, tempers were beginning to fray.
Tom stepped out of the set, wiping sweat from his forehead, which only succeeded in smearing his FX makeup into an ugly smudge. He was tired, frustrated, and his natural insecurity was curdling into irritability.
"Colt!" Tom snapped loudly, walking over to where Ryland's twin was unbuckling a heavy safety harness. "Can you actually take the fall right this time? You're ruining my momentum. I can't keep building up that level of intensity every time you miss the pad!"
The surrounding crew went quiet. Colt slowly unclipped his harness, his face hardening, though he didn't raise his voice. "I hit the pad fine, Tom. The rig caught on the secondary cable. Learn the difference between a stunt fault and a mechanical error before you open your mouth."
"I don't care about the cable, I care about the scene!" Tom barked, stepping into Colt's space.
Ryland stood up instantly.
He didn't yell. He didn't make a scene. But as Tom turned around, still fuming, his eyes landed on Ryland.
Ryland was looking at him with an expression of profound, quiet disappointment. His mouth was set in a thin line, his eyebrows pinched together, his eyes cold and critical. It was the exact look a disappointed teacher gives a student who should know better.
The effect on Tom was immediate and catastrophic.
All the puffery and rage drained out of Tom like a popped balloon. His shoulders slumped, his eyes widened in horror, and he swallowed hard, looking like he had just been caught kicking a puppy.
He spun right back to Colt, his hands raised in immediate panic. "I—hey, man, I'm sorry. I'm really sorry, Colt. I'm stressed, I didn't mean that. You're doing great, the stunts are awesome, it's totally not your fault. Please don't be mad."
Colt blinked, entirely thrown off by the instantaneous shift from arrogant diva to groveling mess. He glanced over Tom’s shoulder, catching sight of his twin brother, who was slowly sitting back down in his chair, folding his arms.
Colt let out a low laugh, shaking his head. "Yeah. Whatever, Ryder. Just reset."
Tom nodded frantically, casting one more nervous, pleading look at Ryland to see if he was still angry before scurrying back to his mark like a chastised pup.
While Tom was dragged back into the makeup chair to repair his smudged bloodlines, Colt walked over to the craft table, picking up two cold bottles of water. He walked over to Ryland, dropping one onto his brother's lap before leaning against the wall beside him.
"You've got a weird kind of power over him, you know that?" Colt asked, twisting the cap off his water.
Ryland picked up the bottle, pressing the cold plastic against his warm neck. "I don't have power over him. He just... he knows when he's being an idiot."
Colt took a long drink, his eyes fixed on his twin. He stayed silent for a moment, observing the way Ryland kept nervously darting his eyes toward the makeup trailer where Tom was sitting.
"So," Colt said casually, leaning in a little closer. "Are you guys dating, or what?"
Ryland choked on his breath, coughing violently as he almost dropped the water bottle. "What?! No! No! What—why would you—no!" He stammered frantically, his face turning a shade of red that rivaled Tom's fake blood. "We're friends! Just college friends! He's... he's Tom Ryder, Colt! Look at him! And look at me! I spend my weekends culturing bacteria in petri dishes!"
Colt watched the frantic display with a deadpan expression. "Uh-huh."
"I'm serious!" Ryland insisted, his voice pitching higher in panic. "There is zero dating happening. None. Absolute zero. Kelvin scale."
"Okay, fine," Colt said smoothly, rolling his shoulders. "You're not dating. But do you at least have a crush on him?"
"No! I don't—we are strictly platonic—"
"Ryland, stop," Colt interrupted, raising a hand. He softened his tone, looking at his brother with genuine warmth. "I don't really care if you do. We're adults, man. I just want to see you happy, and I'm trying to figure out what the vibe between you two actually is."
Ryland opened his mouth to issue another rapid-fire denial, but looking into his twin brother's sympathetic face, the words caught in his throat. He slumped back in his chair, staring down at his sneakers. "Fine," he muttered quietly. "Maybe a little bit. I have a bit of a crush on him. But it doesn't matter. Tom would never actually see me in that way."
Colt stared at his twin brother. He looked at Ryland's completely earnest, self-effacing face, and then he looked across the set at Tom Ryder, who was currently sitting in the makeup chair, craning his neck around the artist just to stare at Ryland with the pathetic, hopeful longing of a stray dog begging for scraps.
Colt raised his eyebrows, giving Ryland a look of utter, unadulterated disbelief that explicitly said: Are you actually serious right now? Are you blind, or just stupid?
Before Colt could voice the sheer absurdity of Ryland's density, the stunt coordinator called out from across the stage. "Colt! We need you for the harness rig!"
Colt just shook his head, dropping the subject. "Duty calls," he said, slapping Ryland on the shoulder as he stood up. "Hang in there, bud. Try not to break the movie star's heart before wrap."
Ryland watched his brother walk away, feeling deeply confused, before turning back to look at the set.
Tom had just finished his makeup touch-up. The moment the makeup artist stepped back, Tom’s eyes locked onto Ryland’s. He didn't look at the director, he didn't look at the producer, he didn't even look at the mirror. He just looked at Ryland, offering a shy, hopeful, slightly bloodied smile, waiting to see if he was forgiven.
Ryland couldn't help it. He smiled back, giving him a small thumbs-up.
Tom brightened instantly, standing up taller, puffing out his chest, and walking onto the set like he owned the world. Ryland sighed, leaning back in his chair with a soft, helpless smile, accepting his fate entirely.
——
The director finally yelled "That's a wrap on stage three!" and the suffocating tension in the room instantly dissolved into a buzz of chatter, rustling equipment, and rolling production carts.
Ryland exhaled a breath he felt like he’d been holding for the last four hours. He began gathering his tote bag from the floor, adjusting his glasses, when a shadow fell over him.
He looked up to find Tom standing there. He was still wearing the ripped shirt, his face still mapped in fake cuts and dark crimson streaks, but his posture was completely devoid of the strutting bravado from earlier. He looked like a high schooler standing in the principal’s office.
"Hey," Tom said softly, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He rubbed the back of his neck, accidentally smearing a bit of dried prop blood against his collar. "So... we're done for the day."
"I noticed," Ryland said, offering a gentle smile to ease the tension. "You survived."
"Barely," Tom swallowed hard, looking down at Ryland with big, earnest eyes. "Listen, Ry... I wanted to say I'm really sorry about earlier. To Colt, and... I acted like a total jerk. I get so wrapped up in making sure everything looks perfect that I forget to act like a human being. I hate that you had to see me like that."
Ryland’s heart gave a strange, traitorous flutter at the sheer sincerity in Tom’s voice. He stood up, slinging his bag over one shoulder. "Apology accepted, Tom. Really. It’s a high-stress environment, and you’re carrying a lot of weight on your shoulders for your first big lead. Just... don't take it out on the crew. Or my brother."
"I won't. I swear," Tom promised instantly, his blue eyes flashing with relief. A faint, boyish smirk began to tug at the bloody corner of his mouth. "So... did I look like a real action hero out there, at least? Be honest. Scale of one to ten."
Ryland felt his cheeks heat up, the image of Tom dazed, bruised, and panting against the prop wall flashing vividly through his mind. "Uh. An eight. Nine, maybe. When you weren't yelling at people."
Tom took a step closer, leaning in just enough that Ryland could catch the scent of cedar cologne beneath the FX sweat. "Only a nine? Ouch. What do I gotta do to get a ten from you?”
"Maybe try doing your own stunts," Ryland countered, trying desperately to keep his voice steady despite the rapid flutter in his chest. "Or at least learn to hit your marks on the first take."
"Oof. Cold, Grace. Brutal," Tom laughed, his eyes crinkling. Then, his tone softened, dropping into something far more quiet and gentle. "Hey... let me make it up to you. For making you sit through my mini-meltdown. There's this really nice Italian place a few blocks from the lot. Great wine, private booths, incredible pasta. Let me take you out to dinner tonight. My treat."
Ryland blinked, caught off guard by the sudden invitation. "Oh. Tom, you don't have to do that, you're probably exhausted—"
"I want to," Tom insisted, reaching out to lightly brush his fingers against Ryland’s wrist. The touch was brief, but it sent a jolt straight up Ryland’s arm. "Please? I want to celebrate booking this thing properly, with you. Just give me an hour to wash all this fake blood off my face and change into something that doesn't look like I got run over by a truck. I’ll pick you up at your hotel at seven?"
Ryland swallowed against the sudden dryness in his throat, looking at the eager, hopeful expression on Tom's face. "Okay. Seven sounds great."
Tom beamed, a bright, breathtaking smile breaking through the grime on his face. "Yes! Awesome. It’s a d—I mean, a plan! A dinner plan! I’m gonna go hit the showers. See you soon!”
Tom practically skipped toward his trailer, waving over his shoulder before disappearing inside.
Ryland stood rooted to the spot, staring after him with a dazed, stupid grin on his face.
"So."
Ryland nearly jumped out of his skin. Colt was standing right behind him, holding a rolled-up stunt mat over one shoulder, looking at his twin with a completely blank expression.
"Jesus, Colt! Don't do that," Ryland gasped, clutching his chest.
Colt didn't blink. He just stared at Ryland, his eyes deadpan. "You guys are going out on a date?"
"What? No!" Ryland stammered instantly, waving his hands in the air. "It's not a date! It's just dinner!"
Colt raised an eyebrow. "He just asked to take you to a nice restaurant, with candlelit booths, to 'make it up to you' and 'celebrate with you.'"
"We go out to dinner all the time!" Ryland insisted defensively, his face burning. "We're friends! Pals! Buddies! Whatever! It’s just two guys grabbing food after a long day on set. It’s completely platonic!"
Colt stared at his twin brother for a solid five seconds in total, profound silence. He looked at Ryland's flushed cheeks, thought about Tom Ryder practically bouncing on his toes two minutes ago, and shook his head in slow, utter disbelief.
"Right," Colt said dryly, turning to walk toward the equipment truck. "Two pals. Having a nice, romantic, non-date dinner. One that he’s also going to pick you up for." He paused, looking back over his shoulder with a pitying grin. "Good luck on your 'not-date.’ Try not to choke on the subtext."
"There’s no subtext, it's just pasta!" Ryland yelled after him, but Colt just waved a hand in the air, chuckling to himself as he walked away, marveling at how a guy with a genius IQ could be so completely, hopelessly blind.