Prep Shaken

The light creeping through the curtains was soft, golden. I blinked into it, warm all over, the sheets tangled around my legs. And then I felt it, her. Natasha's arm was draped lazily over my waist, her face half buried in the back of my neck. Her breath tickled against my skin, slow and steady. Her body pressed against mine, bare and familiar now in a way that made my stomach flutter.

For a few seconds, I didn't move.

I didn't want to break it.

Everything about her felt too good to disturb, her hand splayed low across my stomach, the weight of her leg tangled with mine, the soft little sigh she let out as she shifted closer in her sleep.

I smiled into the pillow.

And then, knock knock knock.

I froze.

Another knock. Louder.

"Room service?" I whispered.

"No," Natasha mumbled into my shoulder. "It's not even nine."

Knock knock knock.

"It's Clea," a voice called. "I need to grab a charger. I think I left it in your room?"

I launched up like someone had just dumped ice water on me.

Natasha groaned, burying her head under the pillow. "Tell her I died."

"Get under the covers," I hissed, grabbing my robe from the end of the bed. I yanked it on and tried to sweep my hair back into something less obviously sexed up. Natasha barely moved, then finally scrambled out of bed and ducked behind the bathroom door, holding her hoodie in front of her chest like a shield.

I cracked the door open, trying to seem casual.

Clea was standing there in joggers and a sweatshirt, her hair in a messy bun. "Hey, sorry. I've got a meeting in like, " she checked her phone ", seven minutes and my phone's about to die."

"No worries," I said, shifting slightly to block her view inside. "I think I saw one on the desk?"

She leaned in, peering past me. "Huh. Thought I left it in here during the welcome drinks on Friday."

She took a few steps inside.

I held my breath.

Natasha was hiding, barely, behind the bathroom door, her hair wild and legs visible from the knees down. I prayed Clea was too distracted to notice.

She grabbed the charger from the table. "Got it."

Then she paused, looking around.

"You seen Natasha this morning? Her room's empty."

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Shrugged. "Maybe she went for a walk?"

Clea blinked. "Before 9 a.m.? Without coffee? That woman does not walk without coffee."

I laughed, forced. "She's unpredictable."

Clea narrowed her eyes. "You're being weird."

"I'm always weird."

She raised a brow but didn't press. "Okay. Well. See you at check out. And tell Natasha her breakfast's getting cold, if you happen to see her."

I nodded way too fast. "Will do."

Clea gave me one last look, then walked out.

I locked the door and sagged against it.

Natasha peeked her head out of the bathroom, hair a mess, hoodie half on. "She gone?"

"Yeah."

We both let out a breath, then burst out laughing.

"You, " I started.

"No, you," she grinned, walking toward me. "You looked like you were about to pass out."

I kissed her, quick, then again, slower. "She's never gonna let that go."

"She doesn't know anything," Natasha said, pulling me in by the waist. "And even if she did..."

Her lips brushed mine again.

I kissed her back, lingering. "You should go before she comes back."

She sighed, forehead to mine. "I know."

Another kiss. And then she was pulling her clothes on, tossing me one last look over her shoulder before slipping out the door.

⸻

Check out was at noon. I packed slower than I needed to. Everything in the room still smelled like her.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror before I left, wrinkled, glowing. My body ached in places I hadn't used in too long. I was still smiling.

⸻

The ride home was quiet. My agent texted once to confirm the season two start date, two days. I texted back with a thumbs up, then stared out the window for the next hour thinking about her.

The weekend had been too much and not enough.

I felt like I was floating.

When I finally got home, I dropped my bags by the door and collapsed on the couch, staring up at the ceiling.

Had it really happened?

The dancing, the kiss, the hotel bed, her laugh in the dark, the sound of her breathing beside me. All of it felt too good to be real. Like I'd wake up and it'd all vanish.

But my body remembered her.

And when I closed my eyes, I could still feel the exact way she'd touched me.

⸻

The next day: prep.

Back to business. I answered emails. Went over notes. Tried on the clothes they'd sent for the first episode. There was a table read the morning of the shoot, which I needed to prep for. I re read the script twice, taking in the rhythm of Quinn again. The weight of her.

Except now everything was different.

Because now I'd kissed the woman who played Charlie.

Because now I knew what her mouth tasted like. What her laugh felt like against my neck.

Because now, the lines between pretend and real were getting harder to see.

And the first day of filming was coming fast. By Monday morning, the haze had mostly cleared. Sort of.

I still found myself zoning out mid toothbrush, staring at nothing with a goofy smile on my face. I'd snap back to attention and go, Focus. Lines. Wardrobe. Don't forget your call sheet.

But it was hard.

Because every quiet moment left space for her. That sleepy laugh in my ear. The way her fingers had brushed mine under the sheets like she was memorizing the shape of me.

I shook myself out of it. Work. You have to be on it.

My apartment was scattered with scripts, sides, and the contents of my duffel bag from the hotel. I had a Zoom fitting check in scheduled in an hour, and I hadn't even tried on the second pair of boots yet. I kicked off my sweats and threw on the costume pieces we were test driving: high waisted slacks, a sharp shouldered blazer, a watch that felt too expensive for Quinn but somehow made sense after rewrites.

I glanced at myself in the mirror. She looked good. Confident. A little snarky.

And I couldn't help but think, what is she going to say when she sees me?

⸻

The fitting call went quick. Minor notes, new earrings, same hairstyle. Clea popped on briefly to give a few words, mostly cheerful, slightly tired, but it was what she said at the end that stuck:

"Let's come in with clean slates, everyone. First scenes are emotional, we need your heads in the game."

Easy for her to say. She wasn't the one who had just gotten railed by her scene partner.

⸻

Tuesday came fast. Too fast.

I packed up my on set bag, script, highlighters, gum, thermos of coffee, the lucky charm my friend gave me years ago. Everything about it felt ritualistic now. I checked the call sheet again just to calm my nerves, even though I'd already memorized it.

5:00 a.m. call. On location. Episode 2.

We weren't starting with scene one. They never do. But it was one of the heavier moments between Quinn and Charlie, and I couldn't ignore the irony. Real life didn't feel that far off.

My phone buzzed.

[Natasha]: wake up babe, it's go time. see you on set. don't wear anything i wanna take off.

I choked on my coffee.

[You]: oh my god.

[Natasha]: what?? i'm romantic.

[You]: you're unhinged.

[Natasha]: and yet here you are. hooked.

I smiled so hard it hurt.

But beneath it, a jitter. Not nerves from the job, not exactly. Now we were about to act like strangers who barely trusted each other.

Lights. Cameras. And everything that happened in between. I got to set early.

Well, not early early, just early enough to make sure I didn't have to walk in after Natasha. Not because I was nervous. (I was.) Technically, I wasn't even shooting anything today.

Quinn didn't enter the story until page sixteen, and it was all Charlie in the beginning, on the road, in some dusty New Mexico town, talking her way into yet another shady bar gig with a not so secret murder waiting in the wings.

But Clea said it'd be good for me to come, get a feel for the scene work, the tone. "Soak it in," she'd said on the phone. "Get used to Charlie in her natural habitat."

I didn't know what I was expecting.

But I wasn't ready for the second Natasha walked out of her trailer and onto set as Charlie Cale.

She had on a black satin bomber jacket, ripped jeans, boots that looked like they'd kicked more than tires, and that beat up red trucker cap shoved down over half her curls. Cigarette behind the ear. Little silver ring on her thumb. Slouched posture like she hadn't given a shit since birth.

And it was wild.

I mean, I knew she was a good actor. That was obvious. But this was something else. She wasn't doing a bit. She was Charlie, hollowed out, sharp eyed, muttering under her breath as she crossed the dusty gravel parking lot of the motel set.

She barely looked up as the camera rolled. Didn't have to.

She tossed a line over her shoulder to the motel clerk, played by David Dastmalchian, weirdly charming even as the sketchy, bug eyed desk guy. He handed her a room key and a warning, and she gave him that half smirk like she already knew the ending of the story.

Two takes in, she had the crew laughing between setups.

Not at her. With her.

She'd finish a take and slide those sunglasses off with one hand, crack a joke to the boom op, and fist bump Stephanie Beatriz, who was playing the local waitress slash sister of the victim. They already had inside jokes. Inside jokes on day one.

And I just sat there off to the side, in my folding chair, sipping black coffee like it was going to save me.

Because watching her made my stomach twist in this strange, messy knot I wasn't ready to name.

It wasn't just that she was good. Or that she looked hot in a way that didn't try to be. It was that she belonged here, on this set, with these people. They all did. They knew her. Admired her. Wanted to be close to her.

I was just the new kid with three pages of dialogue and a blazer I didn't pick out.

"Don't pout," a voice said next to me.

I looked over.

It was Clea, crouching with her iced tea, sunglasses perched on her head.

"I'm not," I said, too fast.

She grinned. "Sure. Just so you know, everyone's scared of her the first week. It wears off. Mostly."

I laughed, quietly.

Clea leaned in. "You're doing great. The hard part's over. Now it's just cameras and pretending to hate her."

I blinked. "Hate her?"

"Well, Quinn doesn't hate her. She just thinks Charlie's a pain in the ass. You know, like everyone else does before she saves their life."

I nodded, my eyes drifting back to Natasha, Charlie, lighting a cigarette with her boot pressed against the side of a truck. Casual. Effortless.

She caught me watching her during the next setup.

Didn't say anything. Just smirked a little under the brim of her cap before turning away. The call sheet said 10:30 a.m. on camera for Quinn.

I'd been up since six.

Hair, makeup, costume, blocking, check. I'd gone through the motions like I was fine, like this was just another job, but now that I was alone in my trailer, suited up in this deep blue fitted dress that clung too tight in all the wrong places, I was starting to forget how to breathe.

Because this wasn't just work.

This was the moment, Quinn and Charlie, face to face again. After however long they'd been apart in the story. It was the first time they were going to be in a room together again. And worse?

I had to do it with Natasha looking like that.

There was a knock at the trailer door.

I jumped like I'd been caught stealing something.

Before I could answer, the door creaked open.

"Knock knock," came her voice, rough and low and unmistakably hers.

She slipped inside before I could say anything, already halfway through the door and shutting it behind her.

She was in costume.

And it was criminal.

She wore a gold velvet wrap dress that caught the light every time she moved, cut low at the chest, and falling open just enough at the leg to make my mouth dry. Her hair was up, but barely contained, curls springing free around her face. She wore this chunky gold ring on her index finger and a faint smirk that said she knew exactly how she looked.

I froze.

She took one look at me sitting stiff on the small bench by the mirror and said, "You look like you're about to throw up."

"Thanks," I muttered, voice hoarse.

She raised a brow. "Nerves?"

I nodded, forcing a breath out. "Yeah. Just, first scene. First day. You know."

"Mhm."

She stepped closer, then without warning, slid behind me and wrapped her arms around my waist from the back. Her cheek brushed mine as she leaned in. Warm. Familiar. Soft.

I melted instantly.

"Deep breaths, kid," she murmured against my neck. "You've already got the hard part down."

My hands came up and rested over hers, grounding myself in her touch.

"What's the hard part?" I asked, barely able to speak.

She smirked into my skin. "Making me care."

I turned my head just enough to see her out of the corner of my eye.

"I thought Charlie doesn't care about anyone."

"She doesn't," Natasha said. "Except maybe Quinn. Sometimes. On a good day."

I let out a shaky laugh.

She pulled back just enough to look at me through the mirror, her chin resting on my shoulder.

"You're gonna kill it," she said, like it wasn't even up for debate. "And if anyone says otherwise, I'll yell at them with words you can't even begin to comprehend"I grinned. "You'd do that?"

"Baby, I do that for fun."

I exhaled, really exhaled, for the first time all morning.

She gave me one last squeeze, then stepped away, heading for the door.

Before she opened it, she looked back over her shoulder.

"See you out there, hotshot."

And then she was gone.