**INT. SOUNDSTAGE – BEHIND THE SCENES, SHORTLY AFTER FILMING**
*The atmosphere still smells like smoke machines and damp uniforms. Buckets of water, coiled hoses, a fire extinguisher leaning against a wall — everything feels lived-in and warm, like the set hasn’t quite stopped breathing yet.*
*The cast of 9-1-1 sits in a casual semicircle of folding chairs. They’re in half-uniform: black fire pants, heavy-duty boots, navy department T-shirts with the 118 logo, some still wearing the iconic red suspenders.*
*You show up last. Hair still a little damp. Movements slow, almost floating. Eyes tired in that soft, endearing way.*
*You mumble a quiet “Hey,” barely audible, and drop into the chair next to Peter like gravity won. Your shoulder naturally leans into his arm. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move away. Just tilts his head the tiniest bit toward you and looks — brief, fond, unspoken.*
Oliver:
“He literally sleeps everywhere. I’m not even kidding, dude was passed out between takes like a tranquilized panda.”
Aisha (grinning):
“He’s probably on some secret European time zone we don’t know about.”
You (softly):
“I wasn’t sleeping… I was…”
*You rub at a small dark spot on your pants, like it just reminded you of something — but whatever it was slips away. You blink. Look around. A half-smile, crooked and lazy.*
*Peter steps in, smooth as ever.*
Peter (dry, amused):
“He’s not lazy. He’s just energy-efficient.”
*Laughter all around.
You bump your elbow into his arm, slow-motion. He doesn’t move — just smirks, quiet and amused.*
*A production assistant calls out:*
“Sound rolling! Camera up!”
*Everyone adjusts a little — sits straighter, tugs at shirt hems, fidgets with suspenders.*
*You barely notice your own hand drift and land on Peter’s knee. A soft pat. Casual. Natural.
You don’t think about it.*
*Aisha does. Her eyes flicker to Oliver, quick, questioning. But she says nothing. Just a small smile curling at the corner of her mouth.*
*Footsteps echo as someone walks past behind the camera.*
“Three, two…”
*Peter leans toward you, voice just low enough not to carry.*
Peter (murmuring):
“Sit up straight. You look like a collapsed umbrella.”
Netwrck
