"Okay, Zooey," Mark said, hands folded in front of him, voice calm but deliberate. "I want calm—but not cold. Let the warmth sit underneath. And slow the tempo just a touch."
Zooey nodded, closed her eyes for a second, then exhaled. She rolled her shoulders once, resetting.
"Ready?" Mark asked.
She nodded again.
"Action."
The elevator doors slid shut.
"The Smiths?" Summer asked.
Tom barely acknowledged her—an indifferent wave, eyes forward, headphones still on.
"I love The Smiths."
He removed the headphones, just enough confusion to sell the moment.
"Sorry?"
"I said, I love The Smiths. You have good taste in music."
A pause. The kind that mattered.
"You like The Smiths?"
"To die by your side is such a heavenly way to die," she sang softly. "Love it."
The doors opened. She stepped out.
"Oh my god," Tom said, almost involuntarily.
"Cut."
Silence followed. Not the bad kind—just space.
Mark looked at the monitors, then at Scott Neustadter and Michael H. Weber.
"What do you think?"
Michael nodded. "That's exactly it."
Scott smiled faintly. "Yeah. That line always lands when it's simple."
"Alright," Mark said, clapping once. "That's a wrap for today. Good work, everyone."
Applause followed. Crew members shifted. Equipment moved. The room loosened.
Henry sat down, water bottle in hand.
Something lingered.
Not panic. Not doubt. Just… friction.
That wasn't wrong, he thought. But it wasn't finished either.
He replayed the scene in his head—not the lines, but the space between them. The way Tom reacted. The way Summer left.
It wasn't about surprise.
It was about projection.
Henry stood before the thought could dissipate.
"Mark?" he asked, approaching carefully.
Mark turned, attentive. "Yeah?"
"I think Tom clocks her too fast," Henry said. "Not emotionally—intellectually. He shouldn't realize why this moment matters yet. Just that it does."
Mark tilted his head. "Go on."
"If he reacts like he's been struck by lightning, it tells the audience he's already fallen," Henry continued. "But Tom doesn't fall in love here. He convinces himself he has."
Silence.
Then Mark smiled. "That's… good. Let's try it."
They reset quickly. No fuss. No debate.
This time, Tom didn't light up.
He didn't smile.
He simply froze for half a second too long.
"Oh my god," he said again—but quieter. Almost unsettled.
"Cut."
Mark didn't look at the monitors this time.
"That's the one."
Henry exhaled—not relief, exactly. Resolution.
An hour later, he was in the car with Jeff.
"You good?" Jeff asked.
"Yeah," Henry said. "Just needed to fix something."
Jeff nodded. "That's why you're here."
They didn't speak much after that. The city did enough talking on its own.
The house was already loud when they arrived.
Music thudded behind the door. Laughter spilled out unevenly. Someone inside dropped something—glass, maybe—and swore.
Jeff rang the bell.
A moment later, the door swung open.
"Jeff!" Nicholas Pileggi greeted, arms wide, grinning. "Welcome, welcome."
They stepped inside.
"Nicholas," Jeff said. "This is Henry Stein."
Nicholas's gaze flicked over Henry—not appraising, not dismissive. Curious.
"Ah," he said. "You're that kid Tom and Steven keep dragging around town."
Henry smiled. "I've heard."
"You did good," Nicholas continued. "Must have something if you impressed those two."
Before Henry could respond, Nicholas raised a finger.
"Three rules," he said. "No cameras. No sex in my bedroom—or any room. And no spontaneous group activities. Capisce?"
"Yeah, yeah," Jeff replied easily. "Capisce."
Nicholas clapped once. "Good. I gotta entertain. Enjoy yourselves."
He vanished into the crowd.
Jeff exhaled. "There are… types in Hollywood."
"I'm aware," Henry said, already moving away.
The house felt older than it looked from the outside.
Not neglected—lived in. The kind of place that had absorbed decades of conversations and decided which ones were worth remembering. Dark wood floors. Low lighting. Framed posters along the walls—some iconic, some obscure, all deliberate.
Music drifted from somewhere deeper inside, but it wasn't loud enough to dominate the room. That felt intentional.
Nicholas's voice carried easily over the noise as he greeted people, moving with the confidence of someone who never had to ask who mattered in the room. When he spoke, people leaned in without realizing they were doing it.
After Nicholas disappeared into the crowd, Jeff let out a slow breath.
"Okay," he muttered. "We're officially inside."
Henry glanced around.
Clusters formed naturally—writers with writers, agents with agents, actors orbiting both without quite belonging to either. Drinks were poured generously, but not recklessly. People watched themselves drink.
Henry felt it immediately: this wasn't a party meant to impress.
It was a party meant to observe.
He moved carefully—not stiff, not eager. Let conversations find him rather than chasing them. When someone asked what he was working on, he answered plainly. When someone tried to steer the conversation toward gossip, he redirected without confrontation.
People noticed.
Not overtly—but subtly. A few double-takes. A few raised eyebrows.
At one point, he caught sight of Nicholas across the room, speaking to a producer with one hand casually resting on the back of a chair. Their conversation looked relaxed, but the producer nodded more than he spoke.
Henry didn't stare.
That mattered too.
The stumble happened near the drinks table.
Henry reacted on instinct, catching the man before he hit the floor.
"Oooh," the man grunted.
"Are you alright, sir?" Henry asked.
The man straightened, brushing himself off with a faint chuckle. "I'm fine. When you start getting old, the body needs more oil."
The accent was unmistakable.
Henry's eyes widened—just a fraction.
"Thank you," the man added, squeezing Henry's forearm before disappearing back into the crowd.
Henry stood still for a moment, then inhaled slowly.
He scanned the room for Jeff—found him immediately, mid-conversation—but stopped himself from walking over.
You don't need to report this, he reminded himself. Nothing happened.
He turned back toward the drinks.
That's when the voice came from beside him.
"You're so lucky you got to touch Al Pacino. The Al Pacino."
Henry turned.
Andrew Garfield looked equal parts amused and incredulous.
"I almost shouted his name," Andrew continued. "Had to physically restrain myself."
Henry smiled. "I think I blacked out for half a second."
They laughed—quietly, instinctively matching the room's volume.
They talked about auditions that went nowhere. About scenes that almost worked. About the strange limbo of being recognized but not yet claimed by the industry.
It felt easy. Refreshing, even.
Jeff reappeared eventually, gentle but purposeful.
"Mind if I borrow him for a moment?" he asked Andrew.
"Of course," Andrew said, shaking Henry's hand. "Nice meeting you."
Jeff leaned in as they walked. "You're doing fine."
"I know," Henry replied.
They stopped near a group of suits—producers, executives, one person Henry didn't recognize but everyone else deferred to slightly too often.
Introductions followed. Handshakes. Names repeated just enough to stick.
Henry spoke when spoken to. Asked questions when appropriate. Never lingered too long.
At one point, Nicholas drifted back into the circle, glass in hand.
He didn't acknowledge Henry directly—but his eyes flicked toward him once.
Just once.
It was enough.
By the time they left, nothing dramatic had happened. No promises. No deals. No speeches.
But Henry felt it in the quiet afterward—the sense that doors hadn't opened, exactly.
They'd unlocked.
And someone, somewhere, had taken note of who walked through without rushing.