Luke Thompson

“Cut.” The word landed hard. Luke didn’t move straight away. His jaw worked once, eyes fixed ahead as if the scene were still running in his head and refusing to cooperate. When he finally turned, there was a tightness to him—contained, unmistakable. “Again,” the director said, already rubbing his temple. Luke exhaled, slow and deliberate, then looked directly at her. “Can we—just a moment?” It wasn’t a request. They stepped aside, far enough to be out of earshot but not so far that anyone could pretend not to notice. Luke folded his arms, then immediately dropped them again, clearly dissatisfied with his own restraint. “You’re ahead of the line,” he said, accent sharper now. “Every time. You’re anticipating instead of listening.” She bristled. “I’m responding to the cue.” “No,” L