Copyright © 2026 Nuno R.F.C.R. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher or author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles, reviews, and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by applicable copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, organizations, events, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), actual events, or real locales is entirely coincidental.
"Motion Sickness"
(Thirteen Years Earlier)
The first time Liam learned what it meant to be kept was not in a house with gates.
It was in a studio cafeteria that smelled like burnt coffee and industrial fries, where the light was always too bright, and the clocks always seemed to run faster than they should.
He was twelve then.
His feet didn't reach the floor from the plastic chair, so he sat with his legs tucked back, sneakers hooked around the metal rung. The table was too big for one person, a pale laminate island in a sea of noise, crew laughing too loudly, adults shouting into phones, forks scraping, chairs sliding.
The studio lot outside the cafeteria windows looked like a small city built out of lies: facades, soundstages, signs pointing to places that didn't actually exist. A street that could be New York one day and Paris the next. A painted desert. A fake diner. Men wheeling equipment like they were moving parts of the world.
Liam watched it all. Not because he understood it, he didn't, but because he'd learn not to let confusion show on his face. Confusion felt too much like need.
In front of him sat a paper tray with a grilled cheese he hadn't touched. The cheese had congealed into a pale, stubborn stripe. A carton of milk sweated beside it.
He'd been told his mother would pick him up right after lunch.
Lunch had been an hour ago.
He checked the wall clock again. The second hand made its rounds with cruel reliability. He didn't cry. He didn't fidget. He didn't ask anyone for help. He had learned, long before Hollywood, that asking invited disappointment. Better to sit still and become invisible. Better to be the kind of boy adults forgot was there, until they needed him.
He was staring at the window when someone's shadow fell over his table.
Liam didn't look up right away. He waited. A small, quiet test: 'Will you go away if I pretend you don't exist?'
The person didn't go away.
A voice, male, warm but practiced. "Hey, kid."
Liam lifted his eyes.
A man stood there with a lanyard full of laminated badges that slapped softly against his chest. He wore a button-down with sleeves rolled to the elbow, hair neatly combed, smile easy, one of those adults who looked like they were permanently halfway through a meeting.
"Mind if I sit?" the man asked, already pulling out a chair like the answer didn't matter.
Liam's shoulders stiffened a fraction. He nodded once.
The man sat down and rested his forearms on the table, leaning in. "I'm Greg," he said. "One of the producers." Liam didn't offer his name. Greg waited for it anyway, smile still in place. "And you are…?"
Liam's voice came out soft, even. "Liam."
"Liam." Greg repeated it, pleased to have something. "First day on set, huh?"
Liam nodded.
Greg glanced at the untouched food. "Not hungry?" Liam shrugged. Greg's eyes flicked over Liam's face, guarded, a kid sitting too straight for comfort. Greg's smile dimmed slightly, replaced by curiosity. "Waiting on someone?" he asked gently.
Liam's gaze drifted back to the window. "My mom."
Greg followed his gaze as if he could see the absence. "She's running late?"
Liam didn't answer right away. The truth felt like something you didn't hand to strangers. Then he said, matter-of-fact, "She said she'd be here."
Greg's expression softened. "I'm sure she got held up."
Liam's mouth tightened. "Yeah."
Greg paused, studying him. Most kids, Greg seemed to expect, would be anxious. Angry. Tearful. Not Liam. Liam was still. Like he'd placed his emotions somewhere high on a shelf and couldn't reach them.
Greg tried another angle. "You excited about the show?"
Liam's eyes flicked back to him. "It's work."
Greg blinked, amused. "Work?"
Liam nodded as if that were obvious. "They said I have to hit marks. Remember lines. Don't waste time."
There was something in his voice, too measured, too responsible, that made Greg's smile shift into something else. Interest, sharpened.
"That's true," Greg said slowly. "Who told you that?"
Liam shrugged again. "Everybody."
Greg laughed softly. He tapped the table lightly, thinking. "So...tell me, Liam. You like acting?"
Liam's eyes went distant for half a second, as if he were looking at a thought he didn't want anyone else to touch. Then he said, very quietly, "I like being someone else."
Greg's eyebrows rose.
He didn't laugh.
He didn't tease.
He leaned in a little.
"And why's that?" he asked, softer.
Liam's gaze stayed on the window, but his voice came out with a blunt maturity that didn't belong to a twelve-year-old. "Because...when you're someone else," he said, "people pay attention. And when they pay attention, they don't forget you."
The cafeteria noise seemed to fade for a second.
Greg's face changed before he cleared his throat, a little unsettled. "That's..." he muttered, trying to recover the casual tone. "You waiting long?"
Liam checked the clock again. "A while."
Greg followed his eyes, then looked around the cafeteria as if he might spot Liam's mother by sheer will. He didn't. He stood, smoothing his shirt, smile returning like a mask snapping back into place.
"Alright," Greg said, trying to brighten it. "I'm sure she'll be here any minute. You're doing great today, Liam. Really."
Liam nodded once.
Greg lingered a beat, then walked away. Liam watched him go, watched him weave between tables, watched him stop near the entrance where two women were talking. One was a production assistant with a clipboard. The other Liam didn't know.
But he noticed her immediately.
She didn't blend in. She looked like she belonged in a different room, sleeker, sharper, dressed in dark clothing that fit perfectly. Her hair was pulled back, not a strand out of place. She wore sunglasses indoors.
Greg leaned toward her, speaking quickly.
The woman listened without looking impressed, then turned her head toward Liam's table. Even from across the room, Liam felt her gaze land on him like a hand closing around his throat.
A few seconds later, she walked over. Liam sat up a fraction straighter without meaning to. She stopped at his table and looked down at him through her sunglasses.
Marina didn't introduce herself the way other adults did.
She didn't soften her voice to sound safe. She didn't crouch down to Liam's eye level like he was a skittish animal. She sat across from him as an equal, which was its own kind of trap. She crossed her legs and let a beat of silence hang. Not awkward. Intentional. Designed to make the other person fill it.
Liam didn't.
He watched her through his lashes, chin slightly lowered, fingers still wrapped around the sweating milk carton. He kept his face blank the way he'd learned to keep it blank at home, at school, anywhere adults might mistake emotion for invitation.
"Liam," she said. Liam blinked. Her lips curved in something that wasn't quite a smile. "I'm Marina," she said. Liam didn't respond. Marina's mouth curved faintly, as if she appreciated the resistance. "Do you know why Greg came to sit with you?" she asked.
Liam's brows drew together. "Because he was bored."
Marina let out a small laugh, like the answer entertained her more than it should have. "That's not entirely wrong." She leaned in slightly. "You're not like other kids."
Liam's eyes flicked to hers, or to where her eyes would have been behind the sunglasses. "What other kids?"
"The ones who do what they're told and then melt down the second nobody is watching," Marina said plainly. "The ones who need their parents hovering. The ones crying for attention."
Liam's jaw tightened.
Marina clocked the tightening, the small flare of defense, and her voice gentled. "You don't like that," she observed.
Liam held still. "I don't cry."
Marina's smile sharpened. "I can tell."
He didn't like that either, being seen so quickly. He glanced toward the window again, searching the lot as if his mother might appear on cue to prove Marina wrong.
Marina followed his gaze without turning her head. "She's...late a lot, I've been told," Marina said.
Liam's grip tightened around the carton. "She said she'd be here."
Marina tapped one fingernail softly against the table. "Well, people say things," she replied.
Liam looked back at her, a flash of anger in his eyes. "You don't know her."
Marina nodded as if she'd expected that. "You're right, I don't. But I know this," she said, and her tone shifted into something quietly instructive. "You're on a studio lot. On your first day. And you're sitting alone." She paused. "Waiting for her."
Liam's throat worked. He didn't want the shame of it to be spoken aloud. He wanted to keep it sealed, like a secret. Secrets felt like control.
Marina waited a beat, letting the discomfort stretch. Then she offered something that sounded like understanding. But to her, it was strategy.
"It's not your fault," she said. Liam blinked. The words confused him more than they comforted. Marina continued, voice smooth. "But it's still your problem."
There it was.
The hook.
Not sympathy.
Not rescue.
A deal.
Liam's eyes narrowed. "What does that mean?"
Marina lifted her chin. "It means you have a choice. You can either sit here and wait for someone who might not come." Her mouth curved slightly. "Or you can learn how to never need someone to come at all."
Liam stared at her. Marina's expression remained unperturbed, but Liam could feel her attention on him like a hand weighing his worth.
"You're smart," she said suddenly.
Liam's mouth tightened. “No, I’m not.”
Marina's smile deepened, satisfied by the deflection. "That was a smart thing to say."
Liam frowned.
Marina leaned in, lowering her voice as if confiding in him. "Most kids your age try to impress people like me. They overtalk. They perform." She paused. "You don't."
Liam didn't answer, but his chest tightened. Approval was a currency his mother spent carelessly and never seemed to have enough of. He'd learned to survive without asking for it.
Marina watched the thought pass across his face, and when she spoke again her tone was almost warm. "That's good," she murmured. "Wanting makes you vulnerable."
Liam's eyes flicked up. "Wanting what?"
Marina smiled as if he'd asked exactly the right question. "Wanting to be loved," she said, plain and unapologetic. "Wanting someone to show up. To stay."
The words landed too close to the bone. Liam's breath caught, and he hated that she could see the moment it hit.
Marina's voice softened, almost gentle now. "I bet you've already learned how to shut that off."
Liam swallowed hard.
Marina's sunglasses tipped downward slightly as she leaned closer. It made her feel more intimate without revealing anything. Liam realized that was the point. She could look at him while he couldn't truly look back.
"Tell me something, Liam," she said. "Do you want to be famous?"
Liam blinked, startled by the bluntness.
"I don't know," he said carefully. Marina smiled. Liam's gaze dropped to the table. "I want people to stop...treating me like I'm not there."
Marina's smile disappeared. For a flicker of a second, something like recognition moved across her face, something personal. Then, just as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone. And purpose took its place.
"There it is," Marina murmured, as if she'd found the seam she'd been searching for.
Liam's body sharpened defensively. He didn't like her. He could feel that in his gut. But he also couldn't look away, because she had the terrible quality of someone speaking to the parts of him nobody else seemed to notice.
Marina tilted her head. "You don't like being told what to do."
Liam's eyes narrowed. "No."
Marina nodded as if confirming a theory. "Good. That means you have a spine." Marina's smile returned. "Stubborn boys survive."
Liam looked down at the untouched grilled cheese.
Marina followed his gaze. "You haven't eaten."
"I'm not hungry," Liam said automatically.
Marina's voice softened again, almost motherly. Almost. "Eat anyway."
Liam's eyes flashed. "Why do you care?"
Marina didn't answer right away. When she did, her voice was smooth enough to pass for kindness. "Because if you're going to do this, you don't give people easy reasons to dismiss you." She gestured subtly toward the room. "They already see a kid. If you look small, they'll treat you small."
Liam bristled. "I'm not small."
Marina's smile sharpened. "I know."
Her gaze swept over him again, his posture, his stillness, the way he kept his emotions tucked in tight. Liam felt like she was cataloging him. Measuring him for a role.
He didn't like it.
But he also felt, in some traitorous corner of himself, relief, because someone was paying attention, and attention felt like oxygen.
Marina leaned in once more, voice low, intimate. "Greg told me what you said," she said.
Liam's stomach tightened. "What?"
Marina watched him carefully. "You said you like being someone else," she murmured. "Because that way, people don't forget you."
Liam's face heated. "I didn't..."
Marina held up a hand. "You don't need to be embarrassed," she said. "It was a clever answer." Her smile widened. "It was honest." Her voice became almost reverent. "Honesty..." she tapped the table lightly again, "...is the one thing you can turn into power."
Liam stared at her, a chill creeping up his spine.
"Power?" he repeated.
The way she said it was casual, like she was offering him a sandwich.
Liam's throat went dry. He stared at her, trying to reconcile the fact that she wasn't comforting him, exactly. In fact, it felt like she was recruiting him.
Marina's voice gentled, almost soothing, like she understood the fear she'd just planted. "Listen. You don't have to decide anything today."
Liam narrowed his eyes. "Decide what?"
Marina's smile was patient, as if Liam was already behind. "Decide whether you want to be the one who waits for other people to show up." She leaned in and lowered her voice to a whisper only Liam could hear over the cafeteria noise. "Or the one people show up for."
The words slid into Liam's chest like a key finding a lock. Liam looked away quickly, jaw clenched. Marina watched him do it and nodded, like she'd won a small victory. She reached across the table and adjusted his collar, an intimate, possessive gesture disguised as caretaking.
"You'll learn," she said softly. "I can teach you."
Liam's eyes flicked back to her, wary. "Why?"
Marina's smile didn't falter. "Because you have something people pay lots of money for," she said.
Liam swallowed. "And what do you get?"
Marina's head tilted, impressed. He'd asked the right question again.
Her voice turned silky. "I get to do my absolute favorite thing. I get to build a star," she said. "And stars, Liam..." She paused, letting it hang. "Stars don't belong to themselves. They belong to the sky."
Liam stared at her, a small boy in a too-bright cafeteria, holding a cold milk carton and waiting for a mother who had failed to show up.
Marina's smile stayed in place as if she'd offered him salvation.
And despite Liam's knowing it was wrong, somewhere deep down, a part of him, the part that didn't want to be forgotten, leaned forward anyway.
*
(Present Time)
"Cut!"
The word snapped through the soundstage. For a beat, nobody moved, as if motion itself needed permission again. Then the whole set exhaled and came back to life.
A boom operator lowered the pole with a relieved grunt. Someone in grip shouted for a flag. A PA jogged across the floor with a clipboard pressed to their chest like a shield. The dolly team rolled the camera rig back a few inches, wheels squeaking softly over tape marks. Wardrobe swarmed in with lint rollers and pins.
They were shooting on Stage 12, a cavernous box that contained an entire world fabricated down to the last cigarette butt in a gutter. The scene was set on a rain-soaked street corner at night, all wet asphalt and neon spill. Fake rain still dripped, ticking onto set dressing in small, relentless taps. The "street" was a patchwork of black-painted platforms, puddle trays, and carefully placed reflections.
Liam stood under the rain, soaked and still, a cigarette unlit between his fingers because the prop department had insisted it read better that way. Shirt clinging, collar open, hair plastered and perfect in that way that only looked accidental if you'd never met a hair person. His eyes were fixed somewhere beyond the camera, jaw tight with the effort of holding onto a feeling that kept slipping.
Across from him, another actor, Ava Delaney, waited on her mark. She had an umbrella in hand that she wasn't using, because the shot wanted her wet too. She looked composed, professional, waiting to see which version of Liam she was going to get this take: the one who could tear a room apart with a whisper, or the one who looked like he'd been hollowed out and left standing.
The director strode into the frame. Santiago Viera. High-profile, impossible, brilliant. He kept his headset around his neck, not on his ears, as if he didn't need anyone to tell him what he already knew.
He pointed at Liam with two fingers, the way you might point at a problem you respected. "No," Santiago said, voice controlled. "No. That's not it. That's not it."
Liam didn't flinch. Not outwardly. He just blinked once, water sliding down his lashes, and turned his face a fraction toward Santiago.
"What's not it?" Liam asked, voice steady, polite, as if asking for clarification on a menu.
Santiago spread his hands. "You're acting like he already knows he's lost her."
Liam's mouth tightened. "He does know."
Santiago shook his head hard. "No. He suspects. He's trying to bargain with reality. He's trying to charm his way out of grief."
Liam's shoulders rose with a breath. "He's not charming."
Santiago stepped closer, boots squeaking faintly on wet set. "That's the problem. You're playing him like a man who has already accepted the ending."
Liam stared at him, rain ticking off his cheekbone. "Maybe he has."
Santiago's eyes flashed, delighted and furious all at once. "Don't bullshit me, Liam. I wrote it. He's still in denial."
Liam's tone remained calm, but something tight lived underneath it now. "Denial reads untrue if you push it too far."
Santiago jabbed a finger toward the monitor village off to the side. "Because you're protecting him."
Liam's eyes narrowed. "I'm not protecting him."
Santiago's mouth curved in a sharp, knowing smile. "You are. You're protecting him like you protect yourself."
The set seemed to quiet in that instant. Not completely, but the people closest to them went very still, pretending not to listen while listening anyway. Everyone on a film set became an expert at pretending not to witness tension, because tension was as common as gaffer tape.
Ava's gaze flicked between them. She stayed on her mark, but her shoulders tightened slightly. She'd worked with directors like Santiago before. She knew when a note was about the scene, and when it was about the actor.
Liam held Santiago's stare. Professional. But something in his eyes looked strained, as if sleep had been replaced by a kind of constant, low-grade vigilance.
He said quietly, "Just give me the note."
Santiago's expression softened a hair, not kind, but focused. "Stop playing the intellect," he said. "Play the need."
Liam blinked again. "They're the same thing."
Santiago shook his head. "Not in this scene. Here, he wants her to stay, but he can't say it. So he talks around it." He gestured toward Ava. "He circles her like a dog who's been kicked but still follows. He's ashamed of wanting. That's where the tension is."
Liam's jaw flexed. Ava's eyes stayed steady, but she looked suddenly more present, like she could feel the scene change. Liam glanced briefly toward Ava, checking in without meaning to. Ava lifted her eyebrows slightly, a silent 'I'm here'.
Liam turned back to Santiago. "You want it uglier."
Santiago smiled, satisfied. "I want it honest."
Liam's mouth twitched at the word, honest, like it was a bruise pressed by accident.
He nodded once. "Okay."
Santiago clapped his hands once, sharp. "Good. Reset. Same marks." He turned toward Ava. "Don't rescue him."
Ava gave a small smile that had teeth. "Wasn't planning to."
Santiago pointed at her too. "You're not cruel. You're just tired. You've seen this man make promises he can't keep. So when he reaches, you don't give him your hand. You let him hang in the air."
Ava nodded, serious now.
Santiago turned back to Liam. "And you...when she doesn't take the bait, you don't harden. Crack an inch. Just a hairline fracture. Like the first sound a dam makes before it goes."
Liam swallowed. "Got it."
Santiago stepped back, then paused like a thought struck him. He leaned in again, lower voice now. "One more thing," he said.
Liam's eyes sharpened. "Yeah?"
Santiago held his gaze. "Whatever's going on with you...leave it in your trailer. Don't bring it into my frame unless it serves the story."
Liam's expression didn't change, but his eyes did. "It serves the story," he said.
Santiago studied him for half a beat, then nodded, satisfied or perhaps simply unwilling to chase that thread on set.
"Places!" Santiago barked, voice booming again. "Rolling in two! Quiet on set!"
The machine whirred back into position. Rain rigged up. Props reset. Ava stepped back to her mark and took one steadying breath, her face becoming her character's face, tired, guarded, holding herself together.
Liam returned to his starting point, cigarette poised, shoulders slightly rounded against the fake rain. He stared out into the "street," past the camera.
He looked ready.
The slate clapped.
"Action."
Liam stepped into the scene. But something in his eyes, something newly raw, suggested he wasn't acting as cleanly as he used to.
Not lately, anyway.
*
Liam hit the trailer door so hard it slammed back on its hinges.
For a second, the narrow space vibrated with the impact, walls plastered with call sheets and wardrobe notes, a rack of costumes in garment bags.
Liam stood there in the doorway, breathing like he'd been running.
Then he moved.
He yanked the cigarette from his pocket and flung it into the small sink so hard it clattered. He shoved a stack of sides off the counter. Paper fluttered down. A plastic water bottle bounced off the floor and rolled, rolling, rolling, until it kissed the base of the couch. He paced, back and forth, back and forth, three steps, turn, three steps, turn, hands raking through his hair, then dropping to his sides, curling into fists that opened again.
A knock sounded at the door.
"Liam?" a voice called, careful, someone who'd learned how to approach him the way you approached a big animal with a sore paw. "We're reset in..."
"Leave me the fuck alone!" Liam snapped, voice cracking through the small space.
Silence.
Then, softer. "Okay. Okay. We'll... we'll give you a minute."
Footsteps retreated.
Liam stood still for half a beat, chest heaving, listening to the sounds of the set beyond the trailer walls. His jaw clenched. He turned and collapsed onto the couch in a sudden, heavy drop, elbows braced on his knees, head bowed. For a moment he just sat there, staring at the floor like it might offer answers if he stared hard enough.
Then his eyes lifted. His phone lay on the low table near the couch. Screen black. Liam reached for it with a hand that didn't quite feel like his. He unlocked it, thumb moving on autopilot. Notifications stacked like tiny demands: missed calls, unread texts, calendar alarms, headlines he didn't want to see. He swiped them away. Too fast. Too hard.
His finger hovered.
He scrolled.
And there it was, halfway down his messages: ARIZONA.
The name hit him in the chest, simple and stupid and unbearably intimate in a world that addressed him by last name and brand.
Liam tapped it.
The last messages stared up at him like a bruise he kept pressing. Ordinary banter threaded with heat, a few late-night jokes, a couple of voice notes Hudson had sent that Liam had replayed more than he would ever admit. The little blue check marks. Then a giant gap. A week of nothing.
Liam's thumb moved to the text field.
He typed.
'I'm sorry.'
He stared at it.
Deleted it.
He typed again.
'Are you okay?'
His breathing hitched.
He deleted it with a swipe so harsh his thumb slipped.
He tried again.
'I didn't mean it.'
Deleted.
'I hate myself.'
He froze, eyes locked on the words like he couldn't believe he'd made them exist even for a second. He erased them too. His chest rose with a shallow breath. He stared at the empty text field, the blinking cursor waiting like an indictment. He tried one more time, slower, as if gentleness might make it safer.
'I miss you.'
He didn't delete it right away.
His throat tightened.
His eyes burned.
The cursor blinked.
Liam's hand shook.
He didn't send it.
Instead, something inside him snapped, quietly, cleanly, like a thread pulled too far. He stood up in one abrupt motion and hurled the phone at the wall. The impact cracked like a gunshot in the tight space. Plastic shattered. Glass splintered. The screen burst into a spiderweb and slid down the wall in pieces, falling to the floor in a glittering, dead scatter.
Liam stood over it, breathing hard, as if he'd killed the only thing in the room that could talk back.
That's when the trailer door opened without a knock, and Marina stepped inside.
She was dressed in black again, tailored, sharp. Her sunglasses were gone this time, revealing eyes that were too awake, too calculating. She took in the mess in a single sweep: papers on the floor, the cracked mirror edge, the phone in pieces.
Then she looked at Liam. "I heard you had a...moment."
Liam's laugh was empty. "Did you?"
Marina shut the door behind her with a slow click. "They said you shouted at Santiago."
"I didn't shout," Liam said, jaw tight. "I spoke."
Marina's eyes narrowed. "That kind of 'speaking' costs people millions."
Liam's gaze flicked to the shattered phone. His mouth tightened. "I'm not in the mood."
Marina's voice stayed calm, as if calm made her righteous. "I'm not here to fight. I'm here to prevent...a disaster."
Liam turned away, rubbing a hand over his face, dragging it down like he could wipe the feeling off. "Get the fuck out."
Marina didn't move. "Is this about him?"
Liam froze.
Marina watched the freeze, pleased by it. Not pleased in a happy way, pleased like a hunter seeing a trail.
"Don't," Liam repeated, lower now.
Marina stepped closer, heels silent on the trailer floor. "You got sloppy," she said. "You let someone in. Not a staffer. Not a vetted date. Not someone with an understanding of how this works. A waiter."
Liam's eyes flashed. "He's not..."
Marina tilted her head. "Not what?"
Liam swallowed, refusing to say nobody again. Refusing.
Marina's tone shifted, silk over steel. "He heard you."
Liam's chest tightened. He stared at her. "You came into my house."
Marina's mouth curved faintly. "Your house becomes a liability when you treat it like a safe place."
Liam stepped toward her, the robe belt hanging loose at his waist. "You don't get to say that."
Marina didn't flinch. "I get to say whatever keeps you employed."
"I don't fucking need you," Liam said, voice shaking with rage and something worse, something like betrayal that had been fermenting for thirteen years.
Marina's eyes softened for a fraction of a second, as if she'd been waiting for him to say that, as if it validated a script she'd already written. "Yes," she said quietly, "you do."
Liam's throat worked. "You're not my mother."
Marina's smile flashed, quick and cruel. "Clearly not. Because I keep showing up."
Liam's hands curled into fists. "Get out."
Marina held his gaze for a long beat, then looked down at the phone pieces again, as if the broken screen confirmed her diagnosis. For a moment, the trailer felt too small to contain what passed between them: history, obligation, resentment, the twisted umbilical cord of gratitude and control.
Then Marina inhaled slowly. "Pull yourself together," she said, voice suddenly brisk, professional again. "You're back on set in ten."
Liam didn't move. "I can't."
Marina's eyes flicked from annoyance to calculation. "You will."
Liam laughed once, bitter. "Or what?"
Marina's smile returned, precise. "Or you lose the only life you've built." Liam stared at her. Marina stepped toward the door, hand already on the handle. "You'll thank me later. You always do," she said, like it was a spell she'd been using on him since he was twelve.
Liam didn't answer.
Marina opened the door, paused, and looked back. Her gaze landed on him with something colder than anger. "Whatever this is you're feeling," she said softly. "It's not love. It's a distraction."
Liam's voice came out in a burst, deadly. "Get the fuck out of my face!"
Marina left.
The door clicked shut.
Outside, the set kept moving.
The world kept demanding.
Marina walked fast down the corridor of trailers and production offices, posture immaculate, face composed. To anyone watching, she looked like a woman managing a schedule. Her hand, however, gripped her phone too tightly. She stepped into a quiet corner near a row of catering tables, turned her back to the bustle, and dialed.
It rang once.
Twice.
Then someone answered.
Marina's voice softened into something almost friendly, which made it more dangerous. "We might have a problem," she said.
A pause.
Marina listened, eyes tracking the set like she could see the future in the movement of crew members. "Yes," she said. "There's...a boy."
Another pause. Her jaw tightened.
"No," she said quietly. "It's not like the other times."
She listened again, then exhaled through her nose.
"An NDA won't solve this," Marina continued. "It's been a week and nothing has leaked." Her voice lowered even more, reluctant, as if the admission tasted bitter. "That worries me."
She paused.
Then, with restrained irritation, almost disbelief, Marina said, "He seems to...care about Liam."
Silence on the other end.
Marina's gaze hardened. She watched a PA jog past, laughing about something trivial, and her mouth tightened as if the sound offended her.
"That's an issue," she said. "And it needs to be dealt with." Her tone stayed calm. But there was urgency beneath it now, a pulse of something close to fear. "Quickly," Marina added.
She ended the call, lowered her hand, slipped the phone back into her bag, and walked back toward the set with her face already rearranged into composure, like whatever she'd just set in motion was simply another item on the day's schedule.
*
The house greeted Liam with silence.
A deep, expensive quiet settled around him the moment he closed the door, like the place had been holding its breath all day and could finally exhale.
Liam dropped his keys into the ceramic bowl by the door. The sound was too loud. He winced at it, then stood there, as if he'd forgotten what came next.
Eventually, he moved.
He walked barefoot through the living room, past the couch, past the glass doors. Liam didn't look outside. He didn't trust himself to.
In the kitchen, the overhead lights clicked on softly.
Everything was immaculate. The counter gleamed. The fruit bowl sat perfectly centered on the island, a careful composition of color and freshness. Lemons. Apples. A bunch of grapes so glossy they looked staged. Liam reached out without thinking and took an apple. He leaned back against the counter and took a bite. The crunch was sharp, almost aggressive. Juice ran down his thumb and he licked it absently, chewing slowly, eyes unfocused.
He swallowed.
Then, footsteps sounded behind him, familiar.
He turned his head slightly.
María stood in the doorway to the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, gray hair pulled into a low bun that had loosened over the day. She looked tired in the way of someone who'd been useful for hours, quietly moving through rooms, straightening, cleaning, maintaining a world that was never really hers.
She'd worked for him since he was twenty. Long enough to stop being staff and start being something else.
"Buenas noches," she said gently.
Liam smiled immediately. It came easier with her. "Hey, María."
She studied him with a deceptively casual glance, taking in the way his shoulders slumped, the shadows under his eyes, the fact that he was standing in the middle of a perfect kitchen, eating fruit like it was a stand-in for something else.
"You come home late," she said gently.
"Long day," Liam replied.
She hummed, unconvinced but not pressing. She crossed the kitchen and opened a cabinet, taking out a plate she didn't really need.
"Do you want me to make you something?" she asked. "You have not eaten properly."
"I'm not hungry," Liam said quickly, automatically.
"You say that often," she replied.
Liam glanced at her. "Occupational hazard."
She smiled faintly at that, then set the plate down anyway, aligning it carefully with the edge of the counter. "The body does not know about contracts," she said. "It only knows when it is tired."
Liam leaned back against the island, chewing slowly. "I'll eat later."
María looked at him for a long second, then stepped closer. She didn't touch him right away. She rarely did. When she did, it was deliberate.
"You work very hard," she said. "Since you were a child."
Something in her voice, matter-of-fact, almost fond, made Liam's jaw tighten.
He nodded. "I know."
"Yes," she said. "You always knew."
She reached out then and rested her hand on his shoulder, light but steady. Present. The way a mother touches a child she knows may pull away if held too tightly.
"You do not have to earn rest," María continued quietly. "It is not a reward."
Liam swallowed. "I'm fine."
She didn't argue. Instead, she tilted her head slightly and said, "When I first came to work here, you were still...boy." A hint of a smile. "You ate dinner standing up then, too."
Liam huffed a soft breath. "I was busy."
"Yes," María said. "You were always busy."
Her thumb pressed once, gently, into the muscle at his shoulder, an unconscious gesture of comfort. Liam felt it register somewhere deeper than his skin.
"Do you know," she went on, voice calm, "that the house is very quiet these days?"
Liam stilled. "It's always quiet."
María shook her head. "No. Not like this." She withdrew her hand, stepping back to give him space again. "A house can be clean and still feel...empty."
Liam looked down at the apple in his hand. The words landed, soft but unavoidable. "I don't mind quiet," he said.
María met his eyes. "I know."
A beat passed.
Then she gestured lightly toward the stairs. "If you change your mind, I can make soup later. Or I can sit with you while you eat." She added, almost as an afterthought, "It is not good to always eat alone."
Liam's chest tightened. He forced a small smile. "You've done enough today."
María nodded, accepting the boundary without resentment. She turned to leave, then stopped at the doorway, hand resting on the frame. "The sheets," she said. "Do you want me to change them tonight? They have been there a week."
Liam's breath caught, almost embarrassed.
He shook his head, eyes distant. "No. It's okay."
María watched him for a moment longer, then inclined her head. "Very well," she said softly. “Buenas noches, Liam.”
“Buenas noches,” he replied.
She left the kitchen, her footsteps fading down the hall.
Liam stood alone again, apple forgotten in his hand. He waited until the house fully surrendered to night. Not just the lowering of light, but the more profound quiet. He stayed where he was, leaning against the kitchen counter, apple core abandoned on the plate now, staring at nothing until the darkness outside the windows thickened into reflection.
Only then did he move.
He pushed himself upright with a tired exhale and climbed the stairs slowly, one hand trailing along the banister. At the top of the stairs, he hesitated. Then he went into the bedroom. The lights came on automatically, soft and low. Blue LEDs still traced the edges of the room, subtle and intimate. The curtains were drawn the same way. The air felt held.
Liam crossed the room toward the corner by the window.
The record player sat there, sleek, expensive, rarely used. It had been more decoration than habit, something curated for taste rather than comfort. But for the last week, it felt necessary.
He crouched in front of the cabinet and slowly opened it. The records were filed neatly, spines aligned, genres grouped. He scanned them without really seeing, fingers brushing cardboard sleeves until they stopped.
Phoebe Bridgers.
The album slid out in a soft whisper. Then, deliberately, almost reverently, Liam lifted it from the sleeve. He placed it on the turntable, fingertips hovering, afraid to smudge something invisible. He adjusted the speed. He raised the arm. Lowered the needle.
The first soft crackle filled the room.
Then the music.
"I hate you for what you did
And I miss you like a little kid
I faked it every time, but that's alright
I can hardly feel anything, I hardly feel anything at all."
Liam straightened slowly, the sound washing over the room, settling into the corners, into him. He stood there for a beat, listening. Then, he turned toward the bed.
It was untouched.
It had been since that morning.
The sheets lay pale, folded just so, the faint crease where two bodies had been the only sign that anything had ever disturbed them. It looked preserved, like a crime scene no one had dared to contaminate. Like a moment paused mid-breath.
Liam stopped a few feet away.
For a long second, he didn't move closer. As if proximity itself might undo something. Then he stepped forward and leaned over the bed, careful not to touch it. He lowered his face toward the sheets and inhaled.
The scent was still there.
Warmth more than smell, the ghost of clean skin, something bright underneath, like sun on cotton. A trace of sweat, honest and human. It smelled like movement. Like laughter. Like someone who belonged to the world and hadn't been polished.
It smelled like Hudson.
Liam closed his eyes.
He moved to the pillow.
Slowly, he lifted it and brought it to his face, pressing his nose into the fabric. The scent was stronger there, more concentrated, hair and warmth, and something unguarded.
It undid him.
His knees buckled without warning, and he sank backward, landing on the floor with the pillow clutched to his chest. The impact knocked the breath from him in a soft oof, but he didn't care. He lay there staring up at the ceiling, the pillow covering his mouth and nose, breathing Hudson in like oxygen.
"I have emotional motion sickness
Somebody roll the windows down
There are no words in the English language
I could scream to drown you out."
A smile tugged at Liam's mouth, fragile and involuntary.
He stared at the ceiling and murmured, barely audible, "What the fuck have you done to me, Arizona?"
The room stayed quiet.
Then his phone, brand new, pristine, buzzed.
For half a second, hope flared in his chest, stupid and reflexive. Then he read the screen. The light in his eyes went out.
He answered. "Yeah," Liam said.
The voice on the other end came fast and sharp, a barrage of questions and concerns and schedules and panic. Liam leaned his head back against the floor and listened, face empty, gaze fixed on the ceiling like he was watching rain that wasn't there.
"Yes," he said.
"No, that's fine."
"I can make it work."
"I'll be there."
"Send me the notes."
No emotion.
No resistance.
No life in it.
He answered on autopilot, the way he always did when the world came knocking. When the questions finally ran out, Liam ended the call without ceremony. The phone went dark.
He lay there on the floor, pillow still in his arms, the scent already beginning to fade. The pillow slipped from his grasp at some point, landing beside him like a shed skin. A muscle in his cheek twitched once. Then again.
"I'm on the outside lookin' through
You're throwin' rocks around your room
And while you're bleeding on your back in the glass
I'll be glad that I made it out
And sorry that it all went down like it did."
Finally, he let out a breath. "Fuck this," he said aloud.
Liam sat up, ran a hand through his hair, and grabbed the phone. He didn't scroll this time. He didn't hesitate. He dialed the number from memory.
It rang once.
Then it connected.
"Hey," Liam said. His voice was low, controlled. He listened, eyes drifting to the bed, to the sheets he hadn't let anyone touch. "Yeah. I know it's late." A pause. "Be by the gate in ten minutes."
He didn't wait for a response. He ended the call and stood, already moving. He walked down the driveway, jacket thrown on over a black tee, phone clenched in his hand. The house loomed behind him, all glass and light and restraint.
At the gate, the car waited. Engine idling quietly, patient. Liam opened the back door and slid inside.
"Evening, Mr. Hart," the driver said, calm and steady.
"Evening, Daniel," Liam replied.
Daniel Ruiz had been driving him for three years. Former military. Early forties. He knew when to talk and, more importantly, when not to. They weren't friends. But they were familiar. Daniel had seen Liam at premieres and hospital visits, at three in the morning and five in the afternoon, broken and bulletproof. Respect lived in the space between them.
Daniel pulled the door shut and glanced at Liam in the rearview mirror. "Where to?"
Liam leaned back against the leather seat, head tilting slightly. For a moment, he didn't answer. His fingers tapped once against his thigh, then stilled. Daniel didn't press.
After a beat, he said instead, not quite a question, "Same as last night?"
The car idled.
Liam closed his eyes.
Another beat passed.
Then Liam opened his eyes and said quietly, decisively, "Yeah."
Daniel nodded once and eased the car forward.
Twenty minutes later, the car eased to a stop.
Liam didn't move right away. His hand hovered near the door, then fell back to his lap. He stared straight ahead, jaw tight.
"Daniel," he said quietly.
"Yes, Mr. Hart."
Liam finally turned his head, eyes scanning the street with a practiced caution. "Did you see anyone?"
Daniel checked the mirrors, the corners, the dark seams between parked cars. He shook his head once. "No wolves, sir. Street's clean."
Liam nodded, a silent thank-you. Then his attention shifted, to the right, to the window, to the glow across the street.
The restaurant.
It looked the same as it always did, unpretentious, stubbornly alive. Light spilled out onto the sidewalk, catching dust and steam and motion. From inside the car, it felt like a different world entirely. A place where people came hungry and left full. A place that didn't know his name.
Inside, Hudson moved between tables.
Liam leaned forward slightly, as if the glass could sharpen the image.
Hudson wore the apron, black shirt fitted just right, sleeves rolled up to the forearms Liam had memorized by now. His hair was pushed back, curls escaping anyway, catching the light when he turned his head. He smiled as he spoke to a table near the window, leaned in to listen, laughed, an open, easy sound Liam could almost hear if he tried hard enough.
He looked good.
Not wrecked.
Not unraveling.
Not waiting.
Hudson was working. Being good at it. Being himself.
Liam felt something twist in his chest, not relief exactly. Wasn't pain either. Something in between. Something that tasted like pride and loss at the same time. He watched closely, greedily, searching for cracks.
There, just for a second.
Hudson turned away from a table and his smile dropped, his face going neutral, tired. He rolled his shoulders once like he was carrying something invisible, then caught himself and straightened, the smile back in place before the next customer could notice.
Liam's throat tightened. "There you are," he murmured under his breath.
Hudson disappeared briefly into the kitchen and came back with plates, the choreography of the job etched into his body. He joked with a couple, pointed at the menu, nodded with exaggerated seriousness. The couple laughed. Hudson grinned, wide and bright, and Liam had to look away for a second, overwhelmed by how much he missed that smile.
When he looked back, Hudson had stopped at a table near the front.
A man sat there alone, handsome in a polished, intentional way. Well-dressed. Confident. The kind of man who knew how to hold eye contact just long enough to make it mean something. The man leaned forward as Hudson approached, smile turning personal fast.
Liam stiffened.
He watched the man talk, watched Hudson laugh politely, watched the man's hand lift and brush Hudson's wrist when Hudson handed him a check. The touch was brief, but familiar enough to make something hot and stupid flare in Liam's chest.
His fingers curled against his thigh. "Oh, come on," he muttered, barely sound. "Handsy mother fucker."
The man leaned in farther, saying something that made Hudson tilt his head, smile softening. For one irrational second, Liam imagined getting out of the car, crossing the street, dragging Hudson away.
Then Hudson gently pulled his wrist back.
The movement was subtle but firm. He said something with a light shake of his head. When the man persisted, Hudson pointed toward the kitchen, toward the dining room, toward anything that wasn't this, and stepped away without waiting for permission. The man watched him go, baffled, a little wounded.
Liam exhaled, a sound that was almost a laugh. "Fuck, yeah," he whispered, ridiculous and relieved. "That's my boy."
He stopped himself. He leaned back into the seat, hand rising to cover his mouth, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips anyway. The jealousy lingered, but it softened into gratitude.
Daniel caught the shift in the mirror. He didn't comment. He never did.
But after a while, he asked gently, "Do you want to head out, Mr. Hart?"
Liam kept his eyes on the restaurant. Hudson was laughing again now, scribbling something on a receipt, alive in a way that had nothing to do with him and everything to do with the life he belonged to.
"No," Liam said.
Daniel waited.
Liam's voice returned, now stripped of its usual armor. "I just...want to make sure he gets home okay."
Daniel nodded once, slow and respectful, like he understood more than he was saying.
The car stayed where it was.
Across the street, Hudson kept working, smiling for strangers, carrying plates, living his ordinary, extraordinary life.
And Liam?
He watched from the dark. Unseen, holding onto the quiet comfort of knowing Hudson was still out there, safe, intact. Even if the cost of that knowledge was staying exactly where he was.
(To be continued...)
Hudson and Liam’s story doesn’t end here. If you’re reading along, I’d love to hear from you.
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