A Thousand Lives Between Us

The set was a controlled chaos of motion, directors yelling out last-minute instructions, assistants adjusting lights, wardrobe stylists smoothing clothes, and the constant buzz of a world constructed entirely on illusion.

Luna Grimes had seen it all before.

She had spent years behind the lens, watching as actors transformed into something greater, something bigger than life. She had mastered the art of detachment, of viewing beauty, yet not being

And still, when Deverell Blackwood walked onto the set, even she could not deny his presence.

Deverell Blackwood did not crave attention.

It gravitated toward him. Where ever he stroded, the spotlight was on him.

Even when the cameras weren’t rolling, even when he wasn’t performing, he moved like the world was made around him, like it existed to accommodate him. He was a living work of art sculpted in too-sharp lines and effortless grace.

And what was worse? He knew it.

Luna never swooned over men like him.

She had seen too many just like him—men who were aware they were handsome, men who let the world fawn over them. But Deverell was not like that.

He did not crave the spotlight.

He was the spotlight.

The moment he stepped onto the set, the atmosphere in the room changed, the energy shifted.

Crew members straightened, whispers flashed among assistants, and even veteran professionals seemed to steal glances at him, like moths drawn to something too bright, too all-consuming.

Luna fiddled with her camera, ignoring the tingling sensation at the back of her neck.

Just another shoot. It was just another leading man.

And that was all.

She lifted her camera, the cool metal familiar in her hands, it was an extension of her gaze.

Through the lens, she watched him moving into position beneath the staged lighting.

The cameras adored him.

They always had.

But the unsettling reality was that he looked even better, more handsome in real life, too unreal, almost too perfect.

Tall, broad shoulders, his black suit sculpted to perfection, the fabric clinging to his frame as if it, too, had surrendered to him. His dark hair, just slightly mussed, gave him an aura of effortless sophistication, as though he had stepped out of a dream world and into reality.

And then he looked at her.

Their eyes met through the lens—piercing, unflinching, as if he could see straight through the glass, through her.

And for a fraction of a second, her pulse betrayed her because she was not immune to beauty.

She simply would not worship it.

She clicked the shutter, and there was a flash.

The image was perfect, of course it was.

"Alright, Deverell,” she said, voice even, calm. “Let’s start simple. Keep your shoulders relaxed while looking away from the camera.”

His lips twitched, only slightly, a flicker of amusement crossing his features, as if he thought she didn’t know who she was talking to.

“I do know how this works,” he muttered, his voice a slow, deliberate melody that curled through the air like smoke.

Luna clicked her tongue. “I’m very well aware of that, but I’m the one behind this camera.”

There was soft chuckle. “Noted.”

But then he shifted. Not just following her direction, commanding the lens.

The moment she clicked the shutter, his presence changed completely. His gaze was different, it was half-lidded, sharp, intense.

His jawline was angled just right, like a sculpture given breath. Every frame of him was perfection.

Luna exhaled slowly, rolling her shoulders. He was too good. But she was never gonna say it aloud. She never did.

After Deverell's solo shots were done, the female lead for the film, Kensy Renn, stepped onto the set. Dressed in a silk gown, that looked more like a nightdress, she moved like water, a vision of elegance.

The moment she reached Deverell’s side, the chemistry between them was instant, it was practiced, honed.

“Alright,” adjusting her focus, Luna instructed. “Deverell, please soften your expressions a little, Miss Kensy, tilt your chin up.”

For a moment, Luna thought she saw Deverell raise an eyebrow.

They followed her instructions effortlessly.

Deverell turned toward Kensy, his fingertips ghosting along her arm.

She leaned into him like it was the easiest thing in the world, her lips parted slightly and her gaze half-lidded with a promise, a dream.

Click, click, click.

Luna took several shots, light flashing with each shutter.

They were perfect. The kind that made hearts stop. But something in her stomach twisted.

She ignored the feeling. She was here to capture beauty, not be swayed by it.

“Next setup,” the director called. “We’ll go for something more personal. On the sofa.”

In the meantime, Luna, for a moment remembered the event of previous night, her break up with her boyfrien. A bitter taste emerged in her mouth but she shut the memory down. This was not the time.

She set up her camera as Deverell and Kensy moved onto a vintage leather couch, designed to look as if it belonged in some old, dimly lit apartment, where secrets were whispered between tangled sheets.

The director positioned them. “Deverell, take off your jacket. Unbutton your shirt.”

He obeyed. The fabric slid off his shoulders like silk, revealing the sharp cut of his collarbone, the sculpted lines of his chest.

Luna tried to keep her face blank.

She had photographed many leading men, but he ws unlike any of them.

None of them exhuded beauty with such ease, as if they were a marble deity or something meant to be appreciated.

She swallowed.

“Miss Kensy, lean into him. Deverell, let your head fall back. Make it look… lived-in.” This time it was Luna instructing. For the time being, she needed to focus on the work, not the knots in her stomach.

Kensy obeyed, her fingers trailing down his bare chest, her lips inches from his throat.

Deverell played the part flawlessly, head tilted back, mouth slightly parted, hands gripping the back of the couch like he was caught between surrender and control.

It was devastating, and Luna captured every second.

Click after click.

Deverell’s gaze flicked to her, dark and unreadable, his expression too controlled, too careful.

She forced herself to focus. This was work. Just work. Even if the heat in the room told her otherwise.

“Hold for a second!” the director called out.

A stylist came hurrying up. Her eyes locked onto Deverell like a starved thing.

She smoothed down his shirt, fingertips lingering on his exposed skin for longer than was necessary.

“Oh,” she whispered, her voice thick with sweetness. “Your collar was just a little off.”

Luna rolled her eyes. Unbelievable.

Deverell remained unbothered, untouched by it all. Like it was a routine for him, happening every single day. But in that moment, his gaze flicked past the stylist. To her. Watching.

And for a brief moment, his expression shifted. Like he was waiting. As if he was curious about what she would do. Or it was a mere fragment of her thought.

Luna just lifted her camera, taking another shot.

Because that was all he was.

Just another face. Just another image.

Even if her heart refused to believe it.