The final slate snapped shut with a hollow clap that echoed across the soundstage.
"It's a wrap."
For a second, no one reacted. Then Daniel Hayes let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-groan, threw his arms up, and nearly knocked over a light stand.
"We survived," he announced to no one in particular. "I can feel my fingers again. I can see the sun. I'm free."
Applause broke out, genuine and relieved. Crew members hugged, clapped each other on the back, some already drifting toward the catering tables like moths to light. Eight weeks of long days, retakes, arguments over light placement and sound bleed, Harry's relentless perfectionism—now it was over.
Daniel walked straight to Harry and pulled him into a hug before Harry could react.
"You're a menace," Daniel said into his shoulder, grinning. "A brilliant menace. But next time you want seventeen takes of me falling down blind, warn me in advance so I can stretch."
Harry smiled, tired but satisfied. "You nailed it."
Daniel stepped back, eyes shining. "I really did, didn't I?"
The wrap party was set up on the same lot, string lights hung between trucks and temporary tables, music playing just loud enough to feel celebratory without drowning out conversation. Beer, wine, tequila that someone had definitely smuggled in. Laughter came easier now that no one had to be on set at dawn.
Gregory found Harry near the edge of the crowd, phone tucked away, expression cautious.
"Just a heads-up," Greg said quietly. "Cate's husband arrived about an hour ago. He's… around."
Harry didn't ask how Greg knew. He just nodded. "Got it."
"Probably best to keep a little distance tonight," Greg added.
Harry exhaled. "Wasn't planning on starting a fire at the wrap party."
Greg gave him a look. "Good. I'm too tired to put one out."
Harry let the situation go and redirected himself toward Anne, who was standing near the drinks table, dress simple, hair loose, laughing with one of the assistant directors. She looked relaxed in a way she rarely did on set, shoulders unguarded.
He joined her easily. "You survived your first shoot."
Anne smiled. "Barely. I thought I'd faint during that apartment scene."
"You didn't," Harry said. "You were great."
She tilted her head. "Director praise? I'll frame that."
They talked—nothing heavy, just jokes about early call times, about Daniel's inability to stop talking between takes, about how Javier somehow managed to be intimidating even while eating nachos. Anne's laugh came easier the longer they spoke, her hand brushing his arm once, then lingering.
Then Daniel reappeared.
Very drunk Daniel.
He threw an arm around Harry's shoulders and leaned his weight into him. "You know," Daniel announced loudly, "this man is dangerous."
Harry hissed, "Daniel—"
"No, listen," Daniel continued, wagging a finger. "He's out here collecting women like character studies. A young sapling—" he gestured vaguely at Anne, "—and a fully grown, extremely talented tree—"
Anne's face flushed red. "Daniel!"
Daniel squinted at her. "You're both lovely. I respect the range."
Harry tried to shut him up, but Daniel was beyond saving. Anne waved her hands awkwardly at a few curious onlookers.
"Nothing is happening," she said too quickly, which only made it worse.
Javier wandered by at that exact moment, plate piled high with enchiladas.
Harry seized his chance. He maneuvered Daniel, who had gone limp with alcohol, and gently—perhaps not gently—lowered him onto Javier's shoulder.
"Emergency," Harry said. "He's yours."
Javier staggered. "Why is he warm?"
Daniel snored.
"HE'S DROOLING ON MY ENCHILADAS!"
"Good luck," Harry said, already backing away.
The moment the chaos settled, James appeared at Harry's side, expression unreadable.
"Your mother's here."
Harry froze.
Rachel hadn't been to his house. Hadn't visited set. Hadn't pushed past his assistants or forced a meeting. For six months, she'd respected the wall he'd built, even if it hurt her.
For the first time that night, the celebration dimmed.
"Where is she?" Harry asked.
James nodded toward a quieter corner.
Rachel stood there, glass of wine in hand, her posture impeccable as always—but Harry noticed the details he hadn't before. The careful hair coloring. The heavier makeup. The lines around her eyes that hadn't been there one year ago.
She was laughing with Cate Blanchett.
Harry's stomach tightened.
He approached, trying to keep his expression neutral. "Am I interrupting something?"
Rachel turned, and for a split second, her composure cracked.
Cate smiled smoothly. "Not at all. Your mother was just sharing some vital childhood anecdotes."
Harry narrowed his eyes.
Rachel lifted her chin. "You wet the bed until you were thirteen."
Harry went red instantly. "That is not—"
Cate laughed. "Iconic."
Harry groaned. "You're both terrible."
He looked at Cate. "You two know each other?"
Cate nodded. "Your parents launched my career. Long before Hollywood knew my name."
Harry blinked. "I didn't know that."
A silence ensued. Harry calmly sipped his drink, though he looked at Cate and then at the drink and put it away.
Rachel and Cate exchanged a glance that said more than words. Cate finished her drink and stepped back.
"I'll leave you two," she said, eyes flicking meaningfully to Harry before she turned away. "Congratulations, director. Call me if you need me again."
Harry watched her go, then shook his head once and turned back to Rachel.
The noise of the party seemed distant now.
"I should've called," Harry said first.
Rachel's lips pressed together. "I should've listened."
They stood there, the space between them heavy with six months of silence.
"I didn't keep calling to control you," Rachel said quietly. "I was worried."
Harry nodded. "I know."
He hesitated. "What's Uncle Mason doing these days?"
Rachel's expression hardened. "The board is cutting the Jackson name out piece by piece. You were the first. Now they're circling him."
Harry's jaw tightened. "And you?"
She looked tired suddenly. "I don't have the leverage I used to. They want me gone. I'll probably be forced to sell my shares."
"You should fight," Harry said immediately.
Rachel smiled sadly. "You didn't."
"I did," Harry said. "I just chose a different battlefield."
That made her pause.
"Maybe," she said softly, "I should join yours."
Harry looked at her, surprised.
"What about Jackson Multimedia?"
"My home," Rachel continued, voice steady, "is where my son is."
Harry swallowed. "You'd be welcome. Always."
They hugged—tight, imperfect, necessary.
Behind them, the party continued. Ahead of them, nothing was certain.
AN: I AM NOT GOOD AT SUCH SCENES SO I AM JUST RUSHING PAST IT