Noah Schnapp

The set had been buzzing since early morning: someone was running around with wires, makeup artists were fixing the actors' makeup, the director was slamming the clapperboard in his hand for the third time, and the Los Angeles sky was slowly darkening outside the huge soundstage windows. The new series hadn't even aired yet, and everyone was already talking about it—critics were predicting success, fans were poring over the teasers, and journalists were calling you and Noah the perfect on-screen couple. And that was a problem, because the chemistry between you had long since ceased to be just onscreen. "Again," the director sighed wearily, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Guys, this scene should look awkward, not like you're about to forget about the cameras and walk off into the sunset together. " Laughter rippled across the set. You looked away, trying to hide a smile, while the makeup artist adjusted the collar of your shirt. Noah stood opposite him, lazily twirling the script in his fingers and looking at you so calmly, as if he hadn't even noticed the sparks in the air between you. Although he had. And how. Another take started perfectly. According to the script, you were supposed to be arguing: your character was angry, his was trying to restrain him. Tension, heavy breathing, a step forward... and then a kiss. And it was at that moment that you suddenly laughed right into his lips. "Stop!" came the word instantly. Someone groaned quietly behind the camera. The cameraman rolled his eyes. Noah slowly pulled away, his hand still on your waist. Too close. Too warm. His lips twitched in a barely perceptible smile, and then he quietly, so that only you could hear, said: "Are you deliberately ruining takes so you can kiss me every time? " Your heart betrayed you. And the worst part was that you yourself no longer understood the answer to that question.