Page 43 of Falling Off Script

He looks at me again, head tilted. “You seem familiar.”

My pulse spikes. I raise an eyebrow. “We all start to blur together after enough ring lights and podcast reels.”

Another smile. This one is slower. More dangerous.

“What’s your name?”

“Lena,” I say, praying he doesn’t recognize thefeminist callback.

“Well, Lena,” he says, “can I get you a drink, or are you planning to psychoanalyze me from afar all night?”

“I find proximity improves accuracy.”

That earns me a nod of approval. “Fair enough.”

I know I’m playing a game, but the rules are starting to shift under my feet.

At some point, he leans in—closer than necessary. His breath warm against my cheek. “You always this sharp?” he murmurs.

“Only when I’m undercover.”

He pulls back a fraction, eyes flickering. “Is that what this is?”

I smile, slow and deliberate. “Would it ruin the moment if it were?”

A beat.

“No,” he says softly. “Just makes it more interesting.”

My heart stutters.

For a moment, we just stand there. Sea air curling around us, the bass of the party fading behind glass.

Then, gently, he gestures toward the interior stairwell. “Come inside.”

No flourish. No smirk. Just that calm confidence, like gravity has quietly shifted and I’m already mid-fall.

I follow.

Down a short corridor, past dimly lit rooms. He opens a door, steps aside.

I walk in.

He closes it behind us.

The click of the door feels louder than it should. Or maybe everything does—his footsteps on the wood, the hush of theair between us, the sound of my own pulse trying to set a land-speed record.

He doesn’t move right away.

Just watches me.

The kind of watch that makes you forget how eyes even work. Like he’s waiting for something. A signal. A slip. A tell.

I’m supposed to be in control. This is my experiment. My mask. My move.

But now I can’t remember what I’ve been trying to prove.

His gaze drops—neck, collarbone, the low dip of the dress. Then back up.

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