Anri POV
I didn't sleep much that night.
My body was tired, sure. But my brain? Spinning. Not even from the shoot — just from him. The guy behind the monitor. The one in the pressed shirt, sleeves rolled just enough to show forearms, who didn't smile once. Not at me. Not at anyone.
He looked familiar. Uncomfortably familiar.
And yet... different. The man I slept with in Melbourne wasn't like that. He was intense, yes — but warm. Present. Curious. The way he looked at me felt personal. Like he wanted to memorize the way I came undone.
This guy? Cold. Controlled. The kind of man people stepped aside for. The kind who didn't need to raise his voice to be the most important person in the room.
But then I heard it.
"Sir Lucien, we're rolling on Setup C in five."
I froze mid-sip of my water. Sir what?
I turned my head casually — or as casually as I could with my heart suddenly trying to escape through my ribs. He was standing near the lighting director, arms crossed, watching playback. Same jawline. Same build. Same air. But now he had a title. A new name. One that sounded like an aristocrat.
Lucien.
I told myself to focus. The shoot was hectic. We were filming fake airport shots, walking down aisles in matching uniforms, smiling like we hadn't been waiting around for five hours. But every time we broke, I looked for him. I didn't mean to. My eyes just... searched.
And he never once looked back.
Okay. Maybe I was delusional. Maybe it wasn't him. Maybe I had some sick fantasy of seeing him again and my brain was playing tricks on me. But my gut kept saying otherwise.
The man I'd slept with didn't tell me his name. Neither did I. We both agreed — silently — it was a one-time thing. No strings. No story. Just a night that burned so good it left a mark.
So why did it feel like I'd done something wrong?
I was still thinking about it when I left set. Took the elevator up in silence, hugging my jacket around me like it could protect me from the embarrassment clawing at my spine.
And that's when I turned the corner in the hallway and slammed right into someone.
I jolted. "Oh—sorry—"
It was him.
He didn't flinch. Didn't blink. Just looked down at me like I was something unexpected. Not good or bad. Just... there.
My brain stopped working.
I opened my mouth. No words came out.
He leaned in slightly. Close enough that I could smell his cologne — clean, expensive, something like cedar and citrus.
"You're really not going to say anything?" he said, voice low.
My throat dried up. "I—sorry?"
"You've been staring at me all day," he said. "But I guess pretending not to know someone is easier than just saying hi."
That was when it hit me. The tone. The tension. The anger under the surface.
So it really was him.
"I—I wasn't sure it was you," I said. "You didn't say anything either."
He arched a brow, slow and deliberate. "Right. Because I'm the one who left."
I winced. "It wasn't personal. I had an audition. I didn't think—"
"You didn't think I'd care," he said.
It wasn't a question. It was a quiet accusation, like he already made up his mind about me.
My spine straightened. "We didn't even know each other's names."
"You didn't ask," he said, voice like gravel.
I blinked. "And you didn't offer."
It came out faster than I meant. Defensive. A little too sharp.
We stared at each other. The air between us went still, the kind of silence that vibrates, thick and heavy.
Then he gave a low laugh—dry, bitter, and not at all amused.
"Unbelievable," he muttered.
I frowned. "What is?"
"You," he said. "Standing here, acting like none of it mattered."
I stared at him, completely thrown. My mouth opened, but nothing came out at first.
Wait—what?
Wasn't that the whole point?
No names. No strings. No expectations.
We didn't promise anything. I didn't lie. I didn't even know his name.
"I—I didn't think it was that deep," I said, honestly. "I had an audition. I didn't mean to just leave like that, but..."
"You didn't mean to," he repeated, his tone unreadable. "Right."
He stepped back. Like I'd said something worse than I realized.
"You're the one acting like it wasn't casual," I said, finally finding my voice. "It was one night."
His jaw ticked. Just for a second. Like something inside him clenched.
Then he looked at me—really looked at me—and it hit me that yeah, he was pissed. At me. And I didn't get it.
We had sex. That's it. Right?
Why was he acting like I broke some unspoken contract?
He didn't respond. Just walked past me, shoulder grazing mine, cold and deliberate. No goodnight. No smile. No look back.
I stood there, frozen.
And suddenly, my chest felt tight.
So it really was him.