"Cut!" The director's voice cracked through the set like a gunshot. "Who was that extra?" the assistant yelled. A woman in a headset pointed at the front row. "This one. He moved his hand." "They're gone," the AD snapped. "We need someone now. Last call." "Anyone?" the production PA shouted. I pushed forward on instinct. "I'll do it," I said. "Name?" the AD asked without looking at me. "Jay," I lied. The makeup assistant glanced up. "Short notice. You're doing the borrowed kiss on the aisle. You're in the front row. Stand where the chair's taped." "Front row?" I swallowed. "Okay." "Hair down," the assistant ordered. "Cap on. Keep your back straight. No real contact." That list of rules landed on me like a set of orders I had to follow or fail. I nodded. "Hold tight to the program," the AD added. "Eyes on the actors when we call action. Don't flinch." I took the seat they'd taped on the fake cinema set. Lights heated the air. The camera hummed. The director adjusted the frame and barked into his mic. Actors checked their marks. My palms sweated. A man in a dark coat crossed the aisle and sat two rows ahead of me. He wasn't the studio type trying too hard. He moved with the kind of calm people paid to copy. He turned his head and glanced at me like he was counting syllables. My heart shoved against my