The studio lights were blinding, the kind that burned retinas and turned every pore into a secret. Silas Vale stood center stage, his expression blank, body poised like a sculpture carved from divine ruin. His suit was tailored, every stitch a sermon. He held the gaze of the camera with surgical precision.
But next to him, like sunlight poured into a man's skin, stood Tristian Mercer.
Blond hair tousled in perfect chaos, eyes a summer sky kind of blue, and a smile that could turn nightmares into daydreams. Tristian was the golden retriever personified. Loyal, warm, a hug in human form. Audiences adored him. Directors loved his timing. He never missed a mark, never raised his voice, and never forgot a name.
Where Silas exuded mystery and madness, Tristian offered familiarity. They were fire and breeze.
"Cut!" the director shouted. "Perfect. Tristian, you're a miracle. Silas—brooding as always, love it."
Silas didn't respond. His gaze had shifted again—away from the set, away from the lights—to a memory that had settled like ash in his mind.
Grace.
The name pulsed behind his ribs. Every breath, a reminder. Every heartbeat, a drumbeat of her.
Tristian slung an arm around him. "You good, mate? You've been in your head all morning."
"I'm fine," Silas said with a half-smile that didn't touch his eyes.
"Liar," Tristian grinned. "Wanna hit the lounge later? Grab drinks, talk about life, women, the usual heartbreaks?"
Silas gave him a look—half curious, half amused. "You make it sound easy."
"It is. You just have to want the good parts more than the scars."
But Silas only hummed in response. Good parts? There were none. Not when Grace had rewritten what desire meant to him.
Later that evening, Tristian shared childhood stories during a break, surrounded by crew members laughing at his tales. He spoke of backyard treehouses, summer lemonade stands, and a mother who kissed him on the forehead every night. A father who taught him how to tie a tie before he needed one.
A perfect childhood.
The kind that builds men who glow.
And beside him stood Silas—crafted in shadows, sculpted by absence, and lit by the fire of something no one could name.
Tristian offered him a water bottle and grinned. "You ever build a treehouse?"
Silas looked at the bottle before taking it, his hand brushing lightly against Tristian's. "No trees. Just fences."
"Maybe one day you'll build one," Tristian said easily, unaware of the minefields beneath the surface.
Silas didn't reply. But for a moment, the warmth of Tristian's presence diffused something cold inside him. A flicker. A pause.
As the cameras rolled again, Silas felt the phantom echo of silk sheets, the scent of Grace's shampoo. He remembered her diary—the innocence she still craved under her venom, the kind of love he could never give but desperately wanted to mimic.
The scene ended, applause rang faintly.
But Silas didn't move.
Because back in his penthouse, across three screens, Grace was walking barefoot, her hair up in a lazy knot, talking to someone over the phone. Unaware. Unreachable.
Beautiful.
She giggled at something the other person said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear as she leaned against the kitchen counter. And in that stolen image, Silas saw a life he would never deserve.
Yet he craved it anyway.
His obsession was evolving.
No longer just to see her.
He wanted to be the only man who understood her silences. The only one who could trace her shadow when the lights dimmed. The only one she would ever turn to when laughter faded.
And if that meant sharing a set with the sunniest man alive—so be it.
The moon has always had to watch the sun glow.
But it's in the night where secrets bloom.