My name, spoken in that voice—low, warm, and unmistakably his—makes me freeze mid-motion. My fingers, which have been reaching for the script on the table, stop dead in their tracks. I turn slowly, my heart suddenly hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird desperate to escape.
Vince stands there, just a few feet away, the harsh studio lights carving shadows across his face in a way that makes him look almost vulnerable. He isn't surrounded by his usual entourage of people with urgent matters to discuss. It is just him, alone, approaching me with a purpose that makes my stomach twist into knots.
"Hey," he says, his eyes meeting mine directly, no camera lens between us now, no script to hide behind. The intensity of his gaze is even more overwhelming up close, without the buffer of professional distance we maintain during filming.
Just "hey." So casual, like he isn't Vince Vickers, the man everyone clamors to talk to, whose presence makes the studio lights seem to dim in comparison. Seven days I've spent sitting next to him, obsessing over every glance, every interaction, and yet I still feel like I don't know him at all. The Vince I've seen is a character for the camera, a comedic mask that slips on the moment those red lights flicker to life.
"Hi, I'm Andrew," I joke, the words tumbling out before I can stop them.
Vince's low, genuine laugh hits me square in the chest, and I can't help but smile. He extends his hand, just like he did when we met on set, but this time feels different—more real somehow.
"Vince," he replies, shaking my hand. His grip is firm, reassuring, sending a current up my arm that makes my fingers tingle.
"I'm not going to lie, Andy..." Vince begins, his tone light but deliberate. "I wasn't sure you'd actually show up for taping. That's why I was surprised to see you for the pilot."
He slips his hands into his pockets, clearly amused, as if he hasn't just called me Andy again, as if that nickname isn't a constant reminder of the game he plays with me.
"Vince, seriously... It's Andrew," I say as sternly as I can manage, the words feeling hollow even to my own ears.
Vince laughs softly, glancing down at the floor. "Yeah... I like Andy, though. It suits you better."
I freeze.
"You're really used to getting your way, huh?" I blurt before I can stop myself, the words hanging in the air between us.
Vince's eyes widen slightly, and for a second I think I've gone too far. Then he grins, that same boyish expression that has been making my stomach flip for days. "I'm joking," he says quickly. "I'm not an asshole. I just play one. I'm really good at it. It pays the bills."
"It's a strange talent, but I'm not going to argue with you. Maybe you're good at channeling it for a reason."
"Well, damn," Vince replies, raising his eyebrows. "I think you just called me an asshole, Andy."
"Andrew," I correct, this time with a smile that actually reaches my eyes.
The sound of his laughter washes over me again, a low rumble that makes something in my chest tighten. His sheepish grin does things to me—makes me feel simultaneously exposed and electrified, like I've been caught doing something I shouldn't but can't bring myself to regret. His eye contact has this quality, this way of freezing me in place, making me forget how to formcoherent thoughts or even remember basic human functions like breathing.
Vince is maddening, this impossible combination of charm and sharp edges that cuts right through my carefully constructed defenses. His attention turns my insides to liquid, and I still have no idea why he's even talking to me, why he sought me out when he could be anywhere else.
"So what do you do when you're not here?" Vince asks, his eyes scanning my face with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. "It can't just be... this," he gestures vaguely around the studio, "let me guess. Waiter? Modeling? Nah, you seem more like the Uber driver type. Maybe Instacart?"
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it, the sound foreign even to my own ears as I feel some of the tension in my shoulders release. "No. I teach yoga. Mostly virtual classes, but I also teach at a studio down the street a couple of mornings a week."
Vince's grin widens, and I can already see the joke forming before he even opens his mouth. I hold up a hand, cutting him off before he can start. "Don't. Don't even think about making a joke about it. I'm serious about this. I studied for years to get my certification."
"Well," Vince says, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he struggles to keep a straight face. "You're really not going to let me get in one snide comment?"
"No. My virtual classes are always booked solid, and I have plans to open my own studio someday. It's not a joke to me."
His smile softens, the teasing edge giving way to something else entirely. "I think that's great."
I search his face for any trace of sarcasm, for the hidden punchline I've come to expect from him, but find none. The sincerity in his expression throws me off balance, leaving me uncertain how to respond.
"Then why'd you say delivery driver?" I ask, a smirk playing at my lips despite my best efforts to remain composed.
Vince chuckles, the sound low and warm. "You're in good shape. Just a random guess. Also," he adds, his voice dropping slightly, "your ass looks amazing in those jeans. That doesn't come from nowhere. I guess yoga makes more sense."
He did not just say that out loud.
My mouth hangs open, words failing me as his statement hangs in the air between us, bold and unapologetic.
