The wallet was a lump of singed leather in her hand, heavier than any prop weapon she’d ever lifted. Maya stood in the patchy gravel outside Ethan’s trailer, the only one with a light on in this row. A yellow slash glowed under the blinds.
She knocked. The sound was too loud in the quiet lot.
A shadow passed behind the blinds. The door opened inward, and the smell hit her first — bourbon, sharp and clean, over the deeper scent of worn leather and dust. Ethan stood in the doorway, a lowball glass in his hand, the amber liquid catching the light. He was in a grey t-shirt and dark jeans, his feet bare.
His gaze went from her face to the wallet in her hand. The guarded, professional mask he’d worn in the warehouse dissolved. Something raw and unguarded flashed in his stormy blue eyes, there and gone, leaving his face frighteningly still.
“You left this,” Maya said. Her voice sounded flat, rehearsed.
Ethan didn’t move to take it. He looked at the wallet like it was a live wire. “You drove back.”
“It has your ID. Your everything.”
“It has a lot of things.” His voice was low, deliberate. He took a slow sip from his glass, his eyes never leaving hers over the rim. “You could have given it to the PA in the morning.”
“I could have.”
The space between them crackled. The cold night air, the warmth bleeding from his trailer, the bourbon on his breath mingling with the scent of her shampoo. She could see past him into the small, tidy space — a script open on the narrow table, a single lamp, a jacket slung over the back of a chair.
“Are you going to invite me in,” she asked, not phrasing it as a question, “or do we have this conversation on your steps?”
Ethan stepped back, a silent concession. She climbed the two metal steps, the trailer shifting slightly under her weight. He closed the door behind her. The click of the latch was definitive.
The inside was warmer, the air closer. It felt intensely, undeniably male — his space. She held the wallet out. He took it, his fingers brushing hers. A static jolt, or maybe just the shock of skin on skin after so many careful years. His hand was steady now. It hadn’t been in the photo.
He didn’t check the contents. He just placed it on the table, next to the script, and set his glass down with a quiet, precise tap. He turned to face her, leaning back against the table’s edge, crossing his arms over his broad chest. A defensive posture. An invitation to speak.
“I saw the picture,” Maya said. She didn’t look away from him.
“I figured.”
“Five years, Ethan.”
“Four years, eleven months.” The correction was automatic, quiet. He uncrossed his arms, one hand coming up to rub absently at the scar along his temple. His tell. “You kept your copy?”
“No.” The lie was immediate, brittle. She had. In a book. She hadn’t looked at it in three years. “Why do you have yours?”
“Why did you look?”
“It fell out.”
“Bullshit.” The word was soft, no heat behind it. Just a statement of fact. “You opened it. You looked. You wanted to know.”
Her cheeks flushed hot. She could feel the warmth spreading down her neck. “I wanted to know if you’d cut me out of it. Like I was just some costar. A forgettable part of the… the before.”
“And?”
“You didn’t.”
He was silent for a long moment. His gaze traveled over her face — the stubborn set of her jaw, the way she was biting the inside of her cheek. He saw it all. “It’s not the before, Maya. It’s the during. The thing that was happening when everything else stopped.”
The admission hung between them, naked and dangerous. She felt her breath shorten. The trailer seemed to shrink, the walls pressing in. She could see the pulse in his throat, a steady, relentless beat.
“You walked away,” she whispered. The old accusation, but the venom was gone. It just sounded tired. True.
“My back was broken. My career was ashes. You were just starting to shine.” He pushed off from the table, taking a single step toward her. Not touching. Just closing the space. “Walking was the only decent thing I had left to do.”
“You didn’t ask me what I wanted.”
“I knew what you wanted. You wanted the life. The premieres. The covers. You were meant for it.” He looked down at his own hands, then back up at her. The raw exposure was back in his eyes. “I was a liability. A cautionary tale. You think I was going to chain that to your ankle as you climbed?”
“It wasn’t your choice to make.”
“It was the only choice I could live with.” Another step. She could feel the heat radiating from him now. The bourbon on his breath, the leather of his jacket on the chair, the pure, familiar scent of his skin. It unraveled something deep in her stomach. “Seeing you tonight… in that warehouse. Fierce. Perfect. It proved me right.”
“I’m not perfect.” The words came out choked. She took a step of her own, eliminating the last of the distance. Her boots were almost touching his bare feet. “I’m just good at pretending.”
His control fissured. She saw it happen — a crack in the stillness of his face, a shudder of breath he didn’t quite suppress. His gaze dropped to her mouth.
She reached up, her fingers finding the scar on his temple before she even knew she was moving. The skin was smoother than she remembered, a pale ridge under her touch. He went utterly still, his eyes closing for a second.
“This is a bad idea,” he breathed, his voice rough.
“I know.”
“We have to work together for three more months.”
“I know.”
“If we start this, I won’t be able to stop it.” He opened his eyes. They were dark, desperate. “I won’t walk away a second time.”
Her answer was to slide her hand from his temple to the back of his neck, her fingers tangling in the short hair there. She pulled his head down to hers.