The wardrobe trailer looks innocent from the outside.

White, boxy, parked in a long row of identical white boxes that all smell faintly like diesel and broken dreams. A metal staircase clings to its side, leading up to a door with a handwritten sign that reads: WARDROBE – DO NOT ENTER UNLESS INVITED OR NAKED.

I stand at the bottom of the stairs, debating whether I qualify.

"Come on, Vega," I mutter. "You survived almost dying on a mat. You can survive clothes."

I climb.

Inside, the air changes. It's warmer, softer, perfumed with fabric softener, hot glue, perfume, and the faint underlying tang of stress sweat. Racks of clothes line the walls, sorted by color and character. There's a section that's all black leather and flowing coats, another that looks like a Pinterest board titled Cottagecore But Make It Haunted.

At the far end of the trailer, a woman with bright purple hair and a tape measure around her neck looks up from a sewing machine.

"You must be Juno," she says, as if we're halfway through a conversation. "You're late."

"I'm so early it's still dark outside," I say. "But sure, I'm late. That tracks."

She grins, revealing a small gap between her front teeth. "I like you. I'm Mona. I make everyone on this show look like they own fewer sweatpants than they actually do."

"Impossible," I say. "I have an emotional support sweatpants collection that could clothe a small village."

"We'll upgrade you to emotional support skinny jeans," she says. "Strip."

My brain blue screens for the second time in an hour.

"I—what?" I say.

She sighs dramatically. "Calm down, prude. Down to your base layer. I need measurements if I'm going to build you a look that doesn't make the internet roast you alive. There's a curtain." She points to a small changing alcove. "I don't need to see your soul. Just your inseam."

"Great," I say weakly. "Love that for us."

I duck behind the curtain and peel off my hoodie and jeans, standing there in my battered black tank top and underwear, hugging myself against the sudden chill. My reflection in the small mirror is pale, eyes big and a little wild.

"Relax," Mona calls. "I've seen every shape, every size, every bump, every scar. Bodies are just hangers with opinions. Step out."

I step out.

She circles me briskly, tape measure snapping around my bust, waist, and hips. She calls out numbers to an assistant, who types them into a tablet.

"Curvy queen," Mona says approvingly. "Hollywood won't know what to do with you."

"They rarely do," I say.

"We'll make them learn." She steps back, squinting. "You're a gaming nerd meets film school meets 'I only dress in black because colors are a scam.'"

"That's... uncomfortably accurate."

"I'm a professional." She spins, darting to a rack. "Mae wants you to read with Lucien on camera. That means you're going to be on screen. That means the internet is going to have Opinions. We can't control the trolls, but we can control your silhouette."

She pulls out a few options and drapes them over a chair: dark wash jeans, a fitted black t‑shirt with a subtle graphic print, a soft, oversized flannel in deep green and navy, a pair of chunky boots.

"This feels illegal," I say. "Like you reached into my brain and stole my Pinterest board."

"Pinterest is for civilians," she says. "I have years of trauma and a costume design degree. Try these."

I wriggle into the clothes. The jeans hug without strangling. The t‑shirt skims instead of clinging. The flannel is... nice. Comfortable. It makes me look like the lead in a moody indie film about queer longing and coffee.

I step out.

Mona whistles. "There she is. The internet's new problem."

I roll my eyes, but heat creeps up my neck. "You're very generous."

"I'm very right," she says. "Turn."

I turn. She adjusts the flannel, rolling the sleeves to mid‑forearm. She messes with my curls, pulling a few forward to frame my face.

"You like it?" she asks.

I look in the mirror.

For a moment, I don't recognize myself.

Not because I look like a different person, exactly. More like... a version of me from a parallel universe, the one where I walk into rooms expecting to be seen instead of hoping to blend into the nearest potted plant.

"I look like I know what I'm doing," I say.

"You do," she says. "You just forget sometimes. Clothes help."

"Is this witchcraft?" I ask.

"Yes," she says. "Now spin again. I want to see the back."

I do, feeling ridiculous and weirdly giddy.

The trailer door opens with a bang.

"Tell me you're done torturing her," Kara says, stepping inside. "Mae wants her back on set for camera tests in ten."

Mona waves a hand. "Relax, I'm fast. Faster than your schedule, anyway."

Kara turns to me, ready to hustle, and then stops.

"Oh," she says. "Damn."

I fidget. "Is that... good?"

"Yeah, Vega," she says. "It's good. You look like you belong here."

The words hit me in a soft place I didn't know was sore.

"Cool," I say, aiming for casual and missing by a mile. "No big deal. Just having an identity crisis in a trailer."

"Welcome to production," Kara says. "They're setting up a two‑shot. You ready to flirt with the camera?"

"I don't flirt," I say as I grab my old clothes and stuff them into a wardrobe‑provided garment bag.

"Tell that to the way you mouthed off at Lucien earlier," Mona says. "You two had more chemistry than half the couples on The Bachelor."

"That's just how I talk," I say. "It's not flirting if I also want to throw things at him."

"Enemies‑to‑lovers," Mona sings under her breath. "My favorite fanfic tag."

I pretend not to hear her heartbeat accelerate in my chest.

Kara shepherds me out of the trailer and back across the lot. The sky has shifted from black to a washed‑out blue‑gray, the kind that makes everything look like it's part of a dream.

On the way, my phone buzzes again. I pull it out.

Unknown number: THIS IS CASTING. YOUR TEMPORARY TALENT PAPERWORK IS APPROVED. DO NOT BE LATE TO SET. :)

I stare at the little smiley face, which somehow looks menacing. Talent. That word does not belong anywhere near my name.

I shove my phone back into my pocket before my imposter syndrome can start a two‑hour TED Talk.

Inside Studio Five, they've lit a smaller section of the set: a balcony overlooking the "city," which is actually a backlit scrim painted with a skyline. Two chairs sit side by side, angled toward a camera on a dolly. A boom mic hovers above.

Lucien stands near the chairs, talking to Mae and a guy with expensive hair and a tablet. He's back in street clothes now: black jeans, dark t‑shirt, leather jacket. Somehow, he looks more dangerous like this than he did in full vampire regalia.

He sees me before I can decide whether to slink in unnoticed.

"Ah," he says. "Wardrobe has worked its magic."

Mae turns. Her eyebrows go up. "Perfect," she says. "Casual, relatable, not trying too hard, but still pleasing to look at. Good job, Mona."

Mona appears from nowhere, like she teleported in on a cloud of dry shampoo. "Obviously," she says. "My art is underappreciated."

The guy with the tablet steps forward, extending a hand. "I'm Blake," he says. "Publicity."

"Of course you are," I say, shaking his hand. "You have the hair for it."

He laughs. "I like you. The internet will, too. Here's the deal: we're shooting some 'behind‑the‑scenes' content. You and Lucien, chatting, rehearsing, maybe a little fake candid banter. We'll cut it into a teaser and push it to socials. Make people feel like they're part of the process."

"Exploit our personalities for engagement," Lucien says dryly.

Blake presses a hand to his heart. "It's called brand building, darling."

"Same thing," Lucien says.

Blake beams. "Exactly."

He turns to me. "You comfortable on camera, Juno?"

"Absolutely not," I say.

"Honesty," he says approvingly. "We can work with that. Authentic awkwardness tests very well with our key demographics."

"I'm so glad my anxiety is marketable," I say.

Mae claps once. "All right, influencers," she says. "Here's the beat: you're sitting, talking about the show, reading a few lines. Juno, I want you to treat this like a podcast, not a performance. Ask him questions. Make fun of him a little. Lucien, be... yourself."

"That sounds dangerous," I say.

"That's why people watch," Mae says. "Places."

We take our seats.

The chair is too plush, swallowing me up. I sit on the edge, trying not to slouch or perch or do anything that will make me look like a raccoon caught stealing trash on camera.

Lucien crosses one ankle over his knee, settling in like he was born in this chair. His jacket creaks softly. His knee brushes mine.

"Relax," he murmurs, just loud enough for me to hear.

"I don't know how to do that," I whisper back.

He smiles. "Pretend you're alone."

"That's worse," I say. "Then I'll start talking to myself."

"Action," Mae calls.

The red tally light on the camera blinks on.

"Hey, Nightfall fans," Blake's disembodied voice says from somewhere off to the side. "We're here with Lucien Vale and Juno Vega—our incredible lead and the writer who keeps him in line."

The camera zooms in. I remember every video essay I've ever watched about body language and resisting the urge to completely freeze.

"So, Juno," Blake prompts. "What's it like writing for a character like Darius?"

I latch onto the question like a lifeline.

"Terrifying," I say. "He's older than God, has more trauma than Reddit, and his love language is, like, dramatic speeches and light homicide."

A few crew members choke on their laughter. Lucien's mouth curves.

"And how is it," Blake continues, "working with the man who brings him to life?"

I turn my head to look at Lucien, raising an eyebrow.

"Loud," I say. "He has a lot of opinions about how many steps he takes per scene."

Lucien inclines his head. "Rhythm is important," he says. "And if I don't argue, what will Mae do with herself?"

"Sleep," Mae calls. "Glorious, uninterrupted sleep."

I lean in, playing to the bit. "Also, he moves too fast," I say. "It's very rude. Some of us are bound by human speed limits."

Lucien's gaze flicks to mine, sharp. "Is that a complaint, Vega?"

"Just an observation," I say. "One minute you're across the room, the next you're catching me like a sack of laundry. It's suspicious."

A murmur runs through the crew. Blake practically vibrates with excitement.

"That's right," he says. "We heard there was a stunt mishap this morning. Tell us everything."

"Oh no," I say. "Absolutely not. We are not immortalizing my klutziness for the internet."

"Too late," Blake says. "We're rolling."

Lucien shifts, turning slightly toward me. "She almost fell," he says. "I prevented a tragedy. The mat was innocent."

I snort. "The mat was ready to receive me into its loving, foam‑padded embrace. You robbed it."

"I'll make it up to the mat later," he says. "Perhaps I'll fall on it myself."

"See?" I say to the camera. "He's very committed to fairness."

The words come easier now, each line a little stone I toss into the river of conversation. The current carries us. We talk about the show, about the themes, about how my first spec script for Nightfall involved Darius opening a coffee shop.

"You turned me into a barista," Lucien says, scandalized.

"You were a morally gray barista with a tragic backstory," I say. "We all contain multitudes."

He laughs, the sound low and genuine. It does something strange to my stomach.

At some point, I forget about the camera.

I forget about Blake's delighted humming and Mae's watchful eye. It's just me and Lucien, volleying words and looks, building something invisible between us in the spaces between jokes.

"Cut," Mae says eventually. "We've got it. That's gold."

The red light goes off. The spell breaks.

My body takes a breath it didn't realize it was holding.

"See?" Blake says, practically bouncing. "You're a natural. The fans are going to go insane. This is exactly the dynamic the algorithm craves."

"Don't ever say that sentence to me again," I say.

Lucien uncrosses his legs, standing. "You did well," he says. "For someone who claims not to act."

"I wasn't acting," I say. "I was just talking."

"Acting is just lying with intention," he says. "You lied very convincingly."

I tilt my head. "What did I lie about?"

He studies me for a second, eyes flicking over my face like he's reading a script.

"You're not as unaffected as you pretend," he says finally, voice low.

My mouth dries. "Neither are you."

His smile sharpens. "Touché."

Mae approaches, tablet in hand. "Okay, lovebirds," she says. "We're done with the fluff. Back to work. Juno, you're with me—there's a line in episode seven that needs fixing before Standards & Practices has a coronary. Lucien, you've got an interview in fifteen. Try not to terrify the junior journalist."

"I'll be gentle," he says.

"That's what I'm afraid of," she mutters.

I stand, smoothing my flannel, trying to ignore the way my heart is doing its usual interpretive dance.

As Mae pulls me toward Video Village, I glance back over my shoulder.

Lucien is watching me.

Not in the lazy, half‑bored way of a star scanning a room. Fully. Intently. Like I'm the most interesting thing on this set.

Our eyes meet.

For a moment, the hum of the soundstage dulls. The lights overhead buzz a little louder. The hairs on my arms rise.

He lifts his hand in a small, almost imperceptible salute.

I look away first.

Because if I don't, I'm not sure what I might see.

***

Hours later, when I finally stumble into my apartment, everything smells like stage dust and stale coffee.

The place is small: a living room/kitchen combo, a tiny bedroom, and a bathroom with a shower that screams in protest every time I turn the water on. The walls are lined with bookshelves and DVD stacks. My couch is half‑buried under throw blankets and notebooks.

I drop my bag, kick off my boots, and face‑plant onto the couch with a groan.

My phone buzzes from my back pocket. I fish it out without fully sitting up.

New notification: You've been tagged in a post.

Uh‑oh.

I open the app.

Blake has not wasted time.

There, at the top of my feed, is a still from our "behind‑the‑scenes" chat. And Lucien I, mid‑laugh, turned slightly toward each other. My hand is lifted, fingers splayed, as if I were just about to make a point. He's looking at me, not the camera, expression soft in a way I've never seen in his promo shots.

The caption: When your writer roasts you harder than the sun. ☀️🩸 #Nightfall #BTS #TeamDarius #TeamJuno

My stomach drops and soars at the same time.

I click the comments.

They're already piling up.

user1: Who is SHE and why do I ship it already 
user2: Lucien's eyes when he looks at her... sir. 
user3: finally a heroine with a real body ??? I'm seated. 
user4: I will personally fight anyone mean to Juno in these comments 
user5: conspiracy theory: she's a plant so they can soft‑launch a romance subplot

I scroll, heart hammering.

There are, of course, some trolls. There always are. People commenting on my weight, my hair, my outfit. Keyboard warriors typing things they can't say to a mirror.

But there are more good comments than bad. More people posting reaction gifs and heart emojis and "protect her at all costs" than people tearing me apart.

I didn't expect that.

I didn't expect... any of this.

A private message pops up from an unknown account.

nightfallwritersroom: You killed it today. Mae says you're a keeper. Welcome to the chaos. – S.

I blink at the screen, then type back before I can overthink it.

JUNO: Thanks. Please don't make me fall down more stairs. – J

I toss the phone onto the coffee table and roll onto my back, staring up at the ceiling.

"You did it," I tell myself. "You didn't die. You didn't trip on camera. You almost killed a movie star. Ten out of ten. Gold star."

The adrenaline crash hits like a wave. My limbs feel heavy. My brain feels like mush.

I should shower. Eat something. Maybe stretch so I don't wake up tomorrow feeling like I got hit by a truck.

Instead, I reach for the remote and turn on the TV.

An autoplay trailer fills the screen: dark corridors, flashes of fangs, blood on marble. Nightfall's latest promo. Lucien stalks down a hallway, coat flaring dramatically. A woman's voiceover whispering, "You can't outrun the night."

I watch him move, frame by frame, my half‑asleep brain cataloging every step.

Too fast, I think.

Too precise.

Too... something.

My fingers drift to my collarbone, tracing the ghost of where his hand had touched my skin earlier when he'd caught me.

"It's nothing," I tell the empty room. "He's just good at his job. That's all."

The lights in my apartment stay mercifully steady.

But somewhere, in the back of my mind, a new thought sparks, hot and insistent.

If he's that good at pretending...

What else is he pretending about?

And why, when he looks at me, does it feel like he's waiting for me to notice?

I close my eyes, the images of the day flickering behind my eyelids like frames from a film.

Lucien's smile. The flicker of the studio lights. The cold burn of his hand. The space where his reflection should have been perfectly aligned.

Sleep drags me under, slow and heavy.

In my dreams, the throne room is empty.

A script lies open on the seat.

The pages are blank, except for one line, written in a hand I don't recognize.

WELCOME TO THE STORY, JUNO VEGA.

I reach out to touch the ink.

The candles go out.

And someone, somewhere in the dark, laughs.

Sources