**~Daniel~**

The next day was the first table read. The one where the whole cast meets for the first time and pretends we're excited to be there while secretly sizing each other up like it's Survivor: Superhero Edition.

I arrived early, because I'm a professional. I also needed time to emotionally prepare myself, maybe get in a few deep breaths and a good cry in the parking lot.

The studio lot was buzzing. Assistants darted around like caffeinated ants, and the conference room had already been decked out with branded coffee cups, sparkling water, and a fruit tray that no one would touch except the one actress who survived on grapes and passive aggression.

I smiled politely, took a black coffee, and sat down with the script.

Episode One: Mercy Rises.

I'd skimmed it the night before. It was actually good. Dark, sharp dialogue. Flashbacks. A tragic past. A rooftop fight in the rain. The kind of material I could sink my teeth into.

And then I heard it.

The voice. That unmistakable voice.

"Wow," Rylan drawled from the doorway. "They really went all out with the snacks. Fancy. Am I allowed to eat anything, or is this just for Instagram?"

I didn't look up right away. I needed a moment. To gather my strength. To remind myself that prison orange wasn't my color.

But the silence stretched, so I finally lifted my gaze.

And there he was.

Rylan James. Tall. Tan. Wearing sunglasses indoors like a villain in a CW drama. His black denim jacket had spikes on it, and his T-shirt read Emotionally Unavailable But Still Hot. His hair was a little too perfect, his smirk a little too knowing.

He looked like a billboard for trouble.

"You're early," I said, my voice calm and measured like I was on some kind of talk show instead of one wrong word away from an aneurysm.

"Yeah, I know," he said, shrugging. "Trying this thing called 'being professional.' It's new. Kinda itchy."

He dropped into the chair beside me with the kind of lazy grace that only people who don't respect personal space can pull off.

I could smell his cologne. Something expensive and probably marketed as "brooding woodsman."

"Hope you're ready to fake being into me," he said with a grin.

I didn't rise to the bait. I'd learned that lesson early. Rylan thrived on reactions. On chaos. On pushing just enough to get you to snap, then playing the victim in the press.

"Hope you're ready to actually learn your lines this time," I said, flipping a page in the script without looking at him.

He let out a low whistle. "Spicy. Guess we're skipping the warm-up phase."

"Pretty sure we skipped that back when you said I 'acted like a sentient boy band poster.'"

"I meant it as a compliment. People love posters."

Before I could respond, the rest of the cast started trickling in, and the showrunner—Lena Suarez, goddess of genre television—entered with the swagger of someone who knew exactly what she was doing.

"Alright, let's get this circus started," she said, clapping once. "Welcome to the official table read of Iron Mercy. We've got drama. We've got action. We've got trauma in spandex. And, if the internet behaves, we might even have a hit."

There were polite chuckles all around. I smiled. Rylan stretched like a cat. The table read began.

And, against my better judgment...

He was good.

Rylan's voice slid effortlessly into his character—cocky, charming, layered. Ash Blackwell was every bit the complicated antihero the script promised, and Rylan played it with this low, smoky charisma that made you want to punch him and kiss him in the same breath.

He didn't even flub his lines. Not once.

When our characters faced off in the script—Mercy, righteous and furious; Ash, flippant and dangerous—something clicked. Like the tension that already existed between us bled onto the page, electric and raw.

I could feel the room shift around us. People were leaning in. Lena was grinning like she'd won the casting lottery.

And that was the worst part.

Because suddenly, it wasn't just about pretending to like him.

Now I had to deal with the terrifying reality that we had chemistry.

And that, somehow, might be even more dangerous.

By the time we finished, the air in the room was buzzing louder than the overachieving assistant refilling the sparkling water. People were murmuring things like "Wow, that scene..." and "You guys are gonna break the internet." Lena looked like a kid who'd just been told Disneyland was handing out Emmys.

"Okay," she said, standing with her tablet clutched to her chest like a proud parent, "that was... exactly what I wanted. Daniel, Rylan—whatever hellfire you two are channeling, bottle it. We're gonna need it for the next ten episodes."

Rylan shot me a look out of the corner of his eye, like he was already thinking of a new way to ruin my life. Or worse—charm it.

"Guess we're the golden boys now," he muttered.

I rolled my eyes. "Don't let it go to your head. There's a difference between good acting and an actual personality."

He laughed. Not one of those fake, press-junket chuckles either. It was low and real and annoying as hell because it made something twist in my stomach. Betrayal. Probably acid reflux.

People started gathering their things, buzzing with that post-read adrenaline. The publicist handed out schedules. Someone dropped a pen and three people dove to retrieve it like it was a contact lens at the Oscars. I stayed seated, flipping back through the script like I was studying—but really just trying to breathe.

Rylan lingered.

Of course he did.

"You okay, Gardner?" he asked, and I hated the way he said my last name. Like it was an inside joke we hadn't agreed on.

"I'm fine," I said, not looking up. "You can go back to your dressing room or cave or whatever crypt you sleep in."

"See, that's the problem," he said, leaning closer. His voice dropped an octave. "You think I'm just here to mess with you."

I looked up then. Big mistake.

He wasn't smirking. Not really. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes—those annoyingly pretty, ocean-in-a-storm eyes—were watching me like he actually gave a damn.

"I know you're good, Daniel," he said. "You think I don't see it, but I do. You're the real deal. And I don't plan on letting you steal every scene without a fight."

There it was. The twist of the knife, laced with a compliment.

I stood, script clutched in my hand like a weapon. "Good. Just stay on your side of the line, James. Because this show? It's not about you."

"Not yet," he said with a wink.

And just like that, he sauntered out, leaving me surrounded by empty coffee cups, discarded notes, and one very inconvenient truth:

I wasn't sure if I hated him.

Or if I was starting to like the idea of hating him a little less.

Which, frankly, was unacceptable.