She stepped closer. The leather of his jacket was cool, but his breath was warm against her cheek. "I want this midnight to be ours. Not theirs."
Siri deleted the message. She had given them plenty of performances. But the midnight tryst? That one was hers.
He kissed her then—not for the camera, not for the producer's notes, not for the editing room. Just for the two of them and the sleeping city. Her fingers found the zipper of his jacket. His hands slid to the small of her back. The bridge creaked softly beneath them, a witness with no memory.
"No scripts," he agreed.
And she would never let them see the rushes.
He nodded but didn't move. "Same time tomorrow?"
Later, they sat on the curb near the bike, sharing the last of her Chardonnay from a small flask he kept in his saddlebag. The stars were starting to fade. Dawn was a rumor in the east. ForPlayFilms 23 08 01 Siri Dahl Midnight Tryst ...
He turned. In the dim light, his eyes were unreadable. "I know."
"They want us to film a scene tomorrow," she said. "Passion. Rain-soaked. Desperate."
This was their ritual. Not dates, not plans—trysts. Arranged in code and silence. ForPlayFilms had given them a cover story, a production schedule for a late-night shoot. But the cameras weren't here. The only lens was the moonlight and the rain-glazed window. She stepped closer
Siri let the robe fall to the floor. She took the service elevator down, her bare feet silent on the concrete garage floor. When she slid the side door open, Elias was already there, the engine a low growl.
Then, the third buzz.