The offer arrived wrapped in reassurance.
A supporting romantic lead in a mid-budget drama. Intimate but tasteful. Emotional without volatility. The studio emphasized chemistry, sincerity, restraint. Everything about the role aligned perfectly with the persona Lune had sealed.
He accepted without hesitation.
On set, the tone shifted immediately. Romance required proximity—eye contact held longer, touches lingered under the guise of blocking. Lune adjusted seamlessly, treating intimacy as choreography rather than connection.
He studied his co-star carefully.
She was talented, emotionally open, accustomed to drawing from feeling rather than structure. In rehearsals, she searched his face for cues, mirroring his stillness, mistaking it for depth.
Lune gave her what she needed.
He timed his gaze to land just after hers. He softened his voice on shared lines. He angled his body to suggest protection without possession. The effect was immediate and cumulative.
Between takes, she laughed more easily around him. She sought his opinion, his reassurance. She lingered when conversations ended.
The crew noticed.
"Good chemistry," someone murmured approvingly.
Chemistry was not spontaneous.
It was responsive.
Lune maintained the illusion carefully. He never initiated outside of scenes, never withdrew abruptly. He matched her energy without exceeding it. He listened attentively, asked questions that invited vulnerability without requiring his own.
She began to confide in him.
About past relationships. About insecurity. About how safe she felt working with him.
Safe again.
The word followed him everywhere now.
During a particularly quiet scene—a confession staged in near darkness—she faltered, emotion overwhelming her. Lune adjusted instinctively, grounding the moment, giving her space to recover without breaking the scene.
When the director called cut, she looked at him differently.
Later, over dinner with the cast, she sat closer than necessary. Her knee brushed his beneath the table. She did not move away.
Lune felt nothing.
No discomfort. No interest. No warmth. Only awareness.
He recognized the pattern easily. Emotional mimicry invited emotional investment. She was responding not to him, but to the shape he presented—the attentive silence, the controlled intensity, the absence of demand.
That absence was seductive.
She reached for his hand once, casually, as if it were inevitable. Lune allowed it, returning the gesture with perfect calibration. Enough to reassure. Not enough to escalate.
Inside, there was nothing.
The silence remained untouched.
That night, alone again in the apartment, Lune washed his hands and stood at the sink longer than necessary, staring at his reflection. The romantic lead. The safe presence. The man people fell for without resistance.
He felt no conflict. Only confirmation.
The role had done exactly what it was meant to do—reinforce the image, deepen trust, extend camouflage into intimacy itself.
And if others mistook that for connection, for feeling, for love—
That was not his responsibility.
Lune turned off the light and returned to the quiet of the apartment, face composed, system intact.
The world was offering him closeness. And he was giving it a performance in return.