Mordred knew the universe had a twisted sense of humor.
Because of course his co-star for the romantic scene was absent. And of course his manager had to pick Nevaeh of all people to replace her.
It was a setup. He knew it.
The moment Oliver, his manager, made the suggestion, Mordred felt his stomach drop. He immediately shook his head. "No. Not happening."
"Oh, come on, Mordred," Oliver sighed, rubbing his temples. "We're on a tight schedule, and Nevaeh fits the look. She's already here—why waste time?"
Mordred shot a glance at her.
Nevaeh was already smirking like she knew he was going to lose this argument. She tilted her head, eyes sparkling with mischief. "Scared, Mordred?"
He exhaled sharply.
It wasn't fear. It was common sense.
Because nobody—not his fans, not his manager, not the entire damn world—would believe him if he said Nevaeh was an absolute psychopath when it came to him.
People thought he was the one who made women nervous. That he was the heartbreaker, the one who set the pace.
But Nevaeh?
She was on a different level.
And now, she was about to drag him into a scene that was supposed to be romantic.
He could already feel the disaster coming.
"I swear to God, if you try anything—" he started.
Nevaeh cut him off with an innocent smile. "Oh, Mordred. I would never."
Liar.
Mordred sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.
He had no choice.
This was going to be hell.
Mordred told himself it was just a scene.
A scripted moment. A job. Nothing more.
But as soon as the cameras started rolling, he realized something terrifying—
It didn't feel like acting at all.
The way Nevaeh looked at him—her eyes dark with something he couldn't quite place—felt too real. The way her fingers slid against his chest, teasing but firm, was too natural.
And then there was the way she touched him.
Unlike any other woman before her.
Most co-stars hesitated when it came to intimacy with him. They got nervous. Shy. Some even pulled back mid-scene, intimidated by his presence.
But Nevaeh?
She was fearless.
When their lips hovered dangerously close, her breath fanning against his skin, he almost forgot where they were.
And then, before he could prepare himself, she moved.
Slow. Deliberate.
Her lips didn't meet his like the script intended. No—she had other plans.
Instead, she leaned in and pressed a kiss to his neck.
Mordred inhaled sharply, his entire body tensing.
No one ever got this far.
Any other woman would have been stopped by him by now—either out of his own discomfort or because they lacked the boldness to push further.
But Nevaeh wasn't any other woman.
She was in control.
Her lips lingered against his skin, soft yet commanding, her hand resting firmly on his chest as if daring him to push her away.
He didn't.
And that's when he knew.
This wasn't just acting anymore.
Not for her.
And definitely not for him.
Mordred never let people touch him so freely.
Everyone knew that.
His body was his own, his personal space a strict, untouchable rule.
And yet—
Here he was, his hands resting against Nevaeh's waist, not stopping her as she guided them there herself.
He could feel the heat of her skin beneath the thin fabric of her dress, the slow rise and fall of her breath. It was too much—too intimate, too unscripted—yet he couldn't pull away.
Then, just when he thought she had pushed enough… she kissed him.
Not a deep kiss. Not one meant to devour him.
But intimate.
Soft. Lingering.
The kind of kiss that left a mark without ever needing to be deep.
The air in the room shifted.
Everyone on set—every single crew member—was watching.
No one spoke. No one dared to move.
They felt it.
The chemistry between them was too raw, too undeniable. It wasn't just a performance anymore—it was something else.
Even his manager, Oliver, stood frozen, eyes wide with disbelief.
Because Mordred Martin had boundaries. Unbreakable, solid rules about his body.
And yet, here he was, letting Nevaeh break every single one of them.
The moment the director yelled "Cut!", they separated, breathing unevenly.
Silence.
And then—whispers.
Nevaeh could feel the stares.
Some were in awe. Others in shock.
And a few?
A few were already murmuring amongst themselves, questioning what the hell they had just witnessed.
Because it hadn't looked like acting at all.
Mordred wasn't supposed to smile.
He wasn't supposed to enjoy it.
But as soon as the scene ended, as soon as Nevaeh pulled away and those whispers filled the air—he felt it.
The slight curve of his lips. The damn smile that gave everything away.
His manager, Oliver, didn't miss it.
"You enjoyed that," Oliver accused, crossing his arms. His voice was laced with disbelief, eyes narrowing at Mordred like he had just witnessed the impossible.
Mordred scoffed, running a hand through his hair. "I was acting."
Oliver wasn't buying it. Not for a second.
"Acting?" he repeated, voice dripping with sarcasm. "You looked like you were about to take her right there. Hell, the crew was so uncomfortable, they probably felt like they were invading your privacy."
Mordred huffed a laugh, shaking his head. "You're being dramatic."
"Am I?" Oliver raised a brow. "Because I've known you for years, Mordred. I've seen you work with supermodels, actresses, and women who would kill to be in Nevaeh's place. And not once—not once—have you ever let anyone touch you like that."
Mordred said nothing.
Because Oliver wasn't wrong.
He had boundaries. Strict ones.
But with Nevaeh…
Those boundaries didn't seem to exist.
And the most dangerous part?
He wasn't even sure he wanted them to.