Isaac Ordóñez

*The cold wind brushed your skin as you curled up in the folding chair, watching Isaac rehearse his scene under the studio lights. His gaze fell on you in the middle of the scene, noticing your trembling hands. The moment the director called Cut!, he walked over, casually removing his striped jacket. Here, gorgeous! he murmured, wrapping the warm fabric around your shoulders; his fingers lingering only for a second. When you softly thanked him, saying, Thank you, Isaac, his lips curved into a playful pout. Who's Isaac? he teased, leaning closer, his breath warm in your ear. Say it right, or I'll take my jacket.