Carry On My Wayward Son @littlewolffe - Tumblr Blog

Say It Louder

Pairing: Pedro Pascal x f!reader

Summary: You met Pedro through work, never expecting to fall in love. Years later, insecurity drives you apart—until SNL50, where he finds you again, confesses everything, and proposes. That night, in a quiet hotel room, he shows you just how deeply he loves you.

Warnings: fluff and angst, emotional insecurity, self-worth struggles, miscommunication, breakup, protective Pedro, proposal, mild alcohol use, explicit smut (18+), oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, p in v sex, established relationship

A/N: Huge thanks to @kellyxo1 for giving me these amazing ideas! And also huge thanks for the support and positive feedbacks!

!made by request!

You’d always found solace in the quiet hum of the archives.

Three floors below the bustling exhibits and curated glamour of the museum’s public face, the lower wing was its opposite—unadorned, institutional, a sanctuary of cold concrete and locked humidity controls. Down here, the scent of old paper hung heavy in the air, earthy and delicate, like time itself had soaked into the walls.

You liked the solitude. Loved it, even. It was a kind of sacred hush that belonged only to the forgotten—the unseen parts of the world most people never noticed. In that stillness, among shelves crammed with labelled boxes and forgotten correspondence, you felt most like yourself. Clear-headed. Invisible. Steady.

You were balancing on a stool, arms stretching overhead as you carefully wrestled a carton labelled 1912-1915 fromthe highest shelf. Your gloves itched slightly under the fluorescent lights, but you didn’t mind. They were the only layer between your skin and someone else’s past—a thin cotton promise to preserve the stories that time tried to erase.

You didn’t hear the footsteps at first. Just the gentle click of the heavy door creaking open, followed by a hesitant voice breaking the silence like a dropped glass.

“Uh… hi? Excuse me—I might be really lost.”

Your fingers froze around the edge of the box.

You turned slowly, stepping off the stool with care, the carton still cradled against your chest. The man in the doorway blinked at you, equally frozen, framed by the sterile hallway light behind him.

He looked… bewildered. Not panicked, not demanding. Just like someone who’d taken one wrong turn too many times and realized he was no longer anywhere near the gift shop.

“I was supposed to meet someone,” he said, a little sheepish now, his voice low and rough in a way that didn’t seem forced. “Dr. Koenig? He told me to check out some old historical stuff but… I think I might’ve gone too far.”

You adjusted your grip on the box, eyeing him with a touch of amusement. “You’re about two staircases and a hallway past where you should be. This is the archives department.”

His brows lifted. “And I’ve clearly entered the sacred chamber.”

“That’s one way to put it,” you said, and despite yourself, a smile tugged at your mouth. “Most people don’t make it this far. It’s usually just me, a space heater, and a few hundred boxes of old letters.”

He stepped into the room cautiously, as though expecting some trapdoor to open beneath him. The movement allowed the light to catch his face more clearly—warm brown eyes, an unruly scatter of dark curls, a slightly crooked nose that somehow made him look more familiar, not less. There was something in the way he carried himself, like he wasn’t trying to be noticed, but you couldn’t help noticing anyway.

“This place is…” he turned in a slow circle, eyes skimming the endless rows of shelves, “kind of magical, in a dusty, paper-cut kind of way.”

You let out a quiet laugh. “that’s one of out taglines. Right behind ‘where sunlight fears to thread.’”

He looked back at you, smiling like you’d just shared a secret. There was something warm in that gaze. Curious. Unpretentious.

“I’m Pedro,” he offered, extending a hand before glancing at your gloved ones. “Or, uh… I guess shaking hands is against protocol here?”

“Only if you’re handling materials,” you said, setting the box gently on the nearest table. You pulled off one glove before accepting his handshake, his palm warm against yours, firm but not forced.

You told him your name, and he repeated it back under his breath, like he wanted to remember it.

“I swear, Koenig just said to ‘go down to the lower level.’ He didn’t mention the librarian guardian of time and mystery.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Guardian?”

“Definitely,” he said with a mock-serious nod. “You look like someone who knows the weight of centuries.”

You huffed a small breath of laughter, not quite used to people talking to you like this—like you were fascinating instead of just useful.

“You’re lucky I’m not more territorial,” you said dryly. “Or I’d demand a toll.”

He tilted his head. “What kind of toll?”

“Historical appreciation. Maybe some decent questions. Bonus points if you can name a labour movement from before 1920.”

He squinted, mock-pained. “That sounds a little academic. Got anything easier?”

“I could show you something,” you said before you even fully thought it through. “Something most people never see.”

His eyebrows raised. “Is that another trap?”

“No,” you said with a smirk. “That comes later.”

You gestured to a nearby table, carefully untying the cotton ribbon around a faded folder. The paper inside was fragile, yellowed but not crumbling—handwritten letters in dark ink that curled like ivy. You slid one out and placed it beneath the protective sleeve.

“This is from 1914,” you murmured, your voice softer now. “He wrote to her every week for four years. She was engaged to someone else. Said she couldn’t love him back. But he kept writing.”

Pedro leaned in, his breath hitching slightly as he read over your shoulder without touching anything.

“She ever wrote back?”

“Eventually. Right before the war ended.” You looked up at him, your chest tighter than it had been moments ago. “They got married in 1920. Lived to their nineties. She kept every letter.”

Pedro exhaled. “Jesus.”

You didn’t respond. The silence between you wasn’t awkward—it was reverent. Still. Like the old words on the paper had pulled something still-beating into the room with you.

He looked at you then, more intently. “You really love this, don’t you?”

You nodded slowly. “It’s like listening to people whisper across time. Like proof that something mattered, even if nobody else remembers it now.”

He looked away for a moment. Like he was trying to find the rights words to say. “That’s… really beautiful.”

No one had ever looked at the archives that way with you. Not even your coworkers. And something about the way he lingered—not for show, not out of politeness—made something deep in your chest shift slightly off-centre.

“Let me walk you to Koenig,” you said eventually, gently closing the folder. “Before you end up in the preservation lab and get chased out by Gwen.”

He chuckled and followed, still casting glances over his shoulder at the rows of secrets behind you.

“Hey,” he said as you reached the elevator. “If I wanted to see more… would that be okay?”

You looked at him—this stranger who’d wandered in from the wrong hallway, who listened like every word mattered.

“Maybe,” you said softly. “But only if you stop calling me a guardian.”

He grinned. “No promises.”

——

It started innocently enough.

Pedro came back the following week—not with an entourage or anything remotely flashy, just with a takeaway coffee cupped in both hands and a hopeful look in his eyes. He paused at your desk like he wasn’t sure he’d be welcome, but there was something about the way he leaned in, casual and tentative all at once, that told you he’d hoped to find you here again. You raised an eyebrow when he gently slid the cup across the desk toward you.

“Got anything sad and beautiful today?” he asked, his voice as soft as the faded paper between your gloved hands.

The corner of your mouth tugged upward. “Bribing archivists now?”

“Only the best ones,” he said with that crooked smile, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes just a little.

You studied him for a second—longer than you meant to—and nodded toward the empty chair across from you. “Fine.”

That was the beginning of something neither of you had a name for.

Over the next several weeks, Pedro started sowing up during his downtime—always respectful, never assuming too much. Sometimes he brought coffee, sometimes pastries from bakeries he said had charmed him that morning. Other times he came empty-handed, just genuinely curious and quiet, content to sit across from you and ask questions that weren’t about your personal life, but somehow still made you feel seen.

He asked about the paper—why it felt so soft in some letters, so brittle in others. He asked about handwriting styles, about the way ink bled on wartimes parchment. He asked what story had stuck with you the most, and when you hesitated, uncertain whether to answer or deflect, he simply waited, as if silence didn’t make him nervous.

You didn’t tell him much at first. You weren’t in the habit of sharing. But something about the way he listened made you want to fill the space between words. You told him about a letter from 1916, how the writer had drawn tiny hearts in the margins and sealed it with dried violets. He asked what happened to her. You told him the war took her husband before the letter ever arrived.

He looked down for a long time and said quietly, “Feels like holding someone’s heart in your hands.”

The way he said it made you ache a little. Not because it was dramatic—but because it was honest.

And that’s what he was. Always.

He never mentioned who he was, not even once. Not in the way that people with notoriety often do, quietly slipping their resumes into conversation. You wouldn’t have known he was famous if not for the way people sometimes stared when you passed him in the little café in the corner of the library. Or the hushed murmurs you started to notice after a while, the quick, whispered mentions of his name.

But Pedro never acted like someone who needed attention. If anything, he looked almost relieved when you treated him like he was just another curious soul fascinated by the lives left behind on paper.

Then one afternoon, when he was thumbing carefully through a fragile bound ledger of Depression-era depts, he went very still. His eyes softened at the worn ink and tired, shaky handwriting, and his voice, when he spoke, was quiet and laced with something old and personal.

“My Abuela used to write like this,” he said, almost to himself. “Not ledgers. She kept notebooks—full of stories, prayers, bits of poems. Her pen would skip in this same kind of rhythm. I haven’t seen it in years.”

You glanced over at him, unsure whether to say anything, but you turned the page gently, letting the silence wrap around the moment. There was something reverent about how he looked at the page—like the paper itself might carry her voice if he listened hard enough.

He exhaled and looked at you, eyes flickering with something unreadable. “You remind me of her.”

You blinked. “Because I hoard forgotten things and whisper to ghosts?”

He laughed under his breath, then shook his head. “Because she never spoke unless she meant it. But when she did, it was always something worth remembering.”

Your chest tightened in a way you didn’t expect. You didn’t know how to respond to that, so you simply let the quiet stretch between you, warm and unspoken. It wasn’t awkward. It was easy. Familiar.

And maybe that’s what scared you a little.

Pedro started waiting for you after work on the steps of the building sometimes, hands stuffed into his jacket pockets, a hopeful smile tugging at his lips. He never pushed, never sked for more than you were ready to give. Sometimes you’d go for walks through the quieter parts of the city, and he’d listen as you talked about forgotten writers or the smell of old glue in t1930s bindings. Other times he’d tell you about the places he’d travelled—his description rich and textured, filled with colour and warmth.

One rainy evening, when you were both tucked into the back corner of a tiny, hidden wine bar he’d found, you realized you hadn’t looked at your watch once. He was talking about the way Madrid smelled after a summer storm, how the rain clung to the orange trees, and you found yourself staring at his hands as he gestured, warm and expressive, then at his mouth as he smiled, and for a moment the realization hit you like a shiver down your spine.

You liked him.

Not just like—you felt something for him. And it terrified you.

You tried to pretend it wasn’t real. That he was just a friend. A comforting presence who felt too good to be true. But the truth unravelled quietly.

The day it all clicked was when you were walking down a quiet street, sipping coffee from mismatched cups he’d convinced the barista to let you take just this once. He’d said something absurd—something about how you probably secretly trained pigeons to deliver forgotten letters to you like a historical Batman—and you laughed so hard you had to lean against a streetlamp to catch your breath. When you looked up, he was already watching you with this soft, almost reverent smile. And he said, “I love seeing you like this.”

Your heart stuttered.

He realized he’d said it out loud a second too late, eyes widening just slightly, his mouth opening to soften the words—but you didn’t let him.”

Right there on the sidewalk, the wind threading through your coat and the sound of distant traffic humming behind you, you kissed him like the last page of a story that had been building chapter by chapter.

His hand rose to your jaw, gentle but certain, like he’d imagined this a thousand times and still couldn’t believe it. When you pulled back, your lips trembling and breath shallow, he looked at you like the world had just tilted on its axis.

“I’ve wanted that for so long,” he whispered. “I just didn’t want to rush it. Not with you.”

And just like that, something inside you gave way.

The quiet turned into something intimate. The waiting became a shared rhythm. And the distance you’d both carefully kept dissolved like mist between your hands.

From that night on, everything changed—but not in a way that disrupted what you had. It just deepened. Solidified. Like the slow layering of paint on a masterpiece, stroke by patient stroke.

You didn’t rush into titles or declarations. You didn’t need to. What you had was steady and slow and honest, like the work you’d built your life around.

He kept coming back. He stayed.

And little by little, you let yourself believe that maybe—just maybe—you were enough for someone like him.

——

Three years didn’t rush by. They unfolded—soft, deliberate, and rich with the kind of comfort that never needed to announce itself.

The early days of being together felt like slipping into a song you’d somehow always known the words to. You didn’t have to explain much to Pedro; he just seemed to know when silence was needed, when a look said more than words, and when to reach for your hand without making a show of it. He didn’t flood your life with grandeur or spectacle—he wove himself into it, piece by piece, like he was stitching something permanent, something sacred.

He learned your routines like second nature. He knew that Sunday mornings were your time—tea, blankets, the soft hum of something classical playing in the background as you read or worked on research for no one but yourself. And instead of disrupting it, he found his way in quietly. He’d come by with something warm from the little bakery two blocks away, curl up next to you without needing to speak, and read a dog-eared paperback he kept forgetting to finish. He was content just to be near you, to exist in the quiet alongside you.

You grew used to finding notes in your jacket pockets—little things, scribbled on old receipts or the backs of museum flyers. You’re the best part of my day. Can’t stop thinking about the way you said “phonograph” today, you absolute nerd. Home smells like your shampoo now. Never leave. They made you laugh, blush, ache in the sweetest way.

And then came the nights.

Not always perfect. But soft. Full of unspoken tenderness. The first time he cooked for you, he burned the rice and cursed in a mix of English and Spanish until you doubled over laughing at how seriously he took it. He swore to redeem himself, and when he did—slow, roasted comfort food he said his mother used to make—you kissed his cheek and whispered that he didn’t have to prove anything. Not to you.

Eventually, you started travelling with him when you could. Just small visits—set weekends here and there, when your work allowed. You told yourself it wasn’t a big deal. That you were just being supportive. But there was something different about those trips. A strange tension that curled low in your stomach, quiet and persistent.

He was still Pedro—the same man who laughed at your sleepy mumbling, who carried your bag without asking, who called you mi corazón like it was just part of breathing—but the moment you stepped into his world, something shifted.

You’d arrive on set, and the air around him changed.

It wasn’t him, not really. He was still kind. Attentive. He kept glancing over his shoulder to make sure you were okay, that you’d eaten, that you weren’t too cold or bored or tired. But he was surrounded by people who looked like they lived in magazines. Effortless beauty. Confident charm. Charisma that dripped from every angle.

The women on set were striking—graceful and poised, wearing casual tank tops that still looked designer, laughing too loudly at things he said. Some of them had known him for years. You saw the way they touched his arm when they talked to him, leaned against him as they laughed. It wasn’t his fault. He was friendly. He didn’t notice. But you did.

You weren’t jealous of them—not really. It wasn’t about them. It was about the way you started to feel smaller in those spaces. Like you were out of place. Like you were the quiet shadow in the corner with nothing in common with the world around him. You weren’t glamorous. You didn’t have a personal trainer or stylist or a face that people stopped to recognize. You were just… you.

Pedro never made you feel unworthy. Not once. But the longer you stood next to him in those glittering places—on red carpets where you clung to his arm and smiled politely as cameras flashed in your eyes—the more the voice in your head began to whisper: You’re holding him back.

You buried it. For as long as you could, you buried it.

He took you to premieres. You wore dresses you were never sure looked right. He told you they were perfect, that you were breathtaking. He held your hand like it grounded him, and when he looked at you in his interviews, his eyes never strayed. But still—there were moments. Quiet ones. You’d catch your reflection in the mirror beside him, in the corner of some behind-the-scenes photo, and your heart would falter.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t want to make it about you. He had enough pressure on him without your fears spilling into the mix. So you smiled. You stayed quiet. And the weight of that silence began to grow, pressing in at the edges.

Then came the night of the latest premiere.

You had arrived separately, He’d had press duties earlier in the day, and by the time you entered the venue, the room was already buzzing. The energy was thick with champagne and nerves and smiles that didn’t quiet reach the eyes. You found him near the back, flanked by a group of castmates, all mid-conversation.

That’s when you saw her.

She was stunning in that almost untouchable way—eyes lined sharp, hair cascading down in perfect waves. An actress from the film. She was standing far too close, laughing just a beat too long, touching his arm every time she made a point. Pedro, to his credit, was nodding, smiling politely, completely unaware of the attention curling around him like perfume.

You stood still for a long moment, watching. Telling yourself it didn’t matter. That it didn’t mean anything.

But something in your chest cracked a little.

You didn’t bring it up. Not that night. Not the day after. Instead, you carried it with you like a stone tucked in your pocket. He noticed something was off—of course he did—but you waved it off. Said you were tired. Said work was stressful.

And then, days later, he showed up at your little kingdom—his familiar knock against the frame, hopeful smile curling at the edges of his mouth—and everything in you gave out.

You looked at him, standing there like he always had, coffee in hand, gentle and warm and yours, and something splintered. Before you could stop yourself, the words tumbled out—sharp, breathless, final.

“I don’t love you anymore, Pedro.”

His face froze. The smile fell. The silence that followed was heavy, stunned.

You wanted to take it back. The second it passed your lips, you wanted to scream. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. Because if you said what you really felt—that you were scared, that you felt like you were standing in the wrong life, that you didn’t know how to be enough for someone like him—you were afraid you’d fall apart completely.

So you let him believe it.

You let him leave.

And then you collapsed into yourself, wondering if you’d just made the biggest mistake of your life.

——

The days after the breakup unfold like pages soaked in water—warped, unreadable, dragging time through a haze of quiet misery.

Each morning starts the same: you wake up before your alarm, still tangled in the sheets you used to share with him, the impression of his body in the mattress long gone but still imagined. The room is silent in a way that doesn’t feel peaceful—it feels abandoned. You lie still, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the grief to crest like a wave. Sometimes it does. Sometimes it just hovers beneath your ribs, thick and unspoken.

You still go to work. Still carry yourself like a person who isn’t unravelling. Your coworkers don’t ask questions, and you’re grateful for that. They only know the version of you who was dating a celebrity. They don’t know about the quiet mornings, the shared coffee cups, the way he would press a kiss to the back of your neck before leaving for set. They don’t know how he would whisper stupid jokes just to make you laugh when you couldn’t sleep. They didn’t see how gently he held you when you were anxious, how fiercely he loved.

They don’t know what you lost.

And you try not to think about what he must be doing now. Whether he’s back in L.A., or in New York already, preparing for SNL. Whether he’s sleeping. Eating. Laughing.

Whether he’s thinking about you.

You’ve left everything of his untouched. His toothbrush still sits in the bathroom drawer, tucked behind yours. His favourite sweater—the one you always teased him for because it was hideous but soft—lies draped over the back of the chair in your bedroom, exactly where he left it the last time he stayed over. You should put it away. Or throw it out. But you can’t. Your body won’t let you. It’s like every cell is still trying to hold onto him.

You check your phone too often. Not because you expect him to text. But because a part of you wants to imagine that he’s on the other side of the silence, typing and deleting. Feeling the same ache in his chest.

When your phone finally buzzes, you’re curled on the couch in a hoodie two sizes too big, eating cereal from the box because you can’t be bothered to make anything real. You wipe your hand on a napkin, reach for the phone, and nearly drop it when you see the name:

Javiera.

It’s like a stone in your stomach. You stare at it, heartbeat slowing to a crawl. For a second, you’re too stunned to react.

You haven’t spoken to her since… well, since you ended it. Since you tore everything down with a lie you still taste on your tongue.

When you finally accept the call, your voice is a whisper.

“Hello?”

“Hola, cariño,” comes the familiar warmth of Javiera’s voice, soft and rich, like a cup of something hot pressed into cold hands. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

“No, not at all,” you say to quickly, sitting up straighter on the couch like she can somehow see you.

There’s a pause. You hear the city faintly behind her—traffic, wind, maybe the sound of her keys jingling in her purse.

“I wasn’t sure if I should call,” she admits. “But I’ve been thinking about you. And I just… I wanted to reach out. Not to pry. Bot to get in the middle. Just… to talk.”

You close your eyes. A lump forms in your throat.

“I appreciate that,” you say, your voice thick. “Really.”

She hesitates for only a second before saying. “I have an extra ticket to SNL50. Pedro has been rehearsing all week. It’s going to be a big night. I’d like you to come with me.”

You blink. “Wait, what?”

“You heard me.”

“I—Javi, I don’t think that’s—”

“You don’t have to talk to him,” she says gently but firmly. “I won’t push. I know you’re hurting. I know you needed space. But I also know you still love him. And I don’t want you to wake up one day wishing you had gone. Even if it’s just to see him shine.”

Her words strike somewhere deep inside you, cutting through the armour you’ve built over the past week.

“I don’t think I could handle seeing him,” you murmur. “Not when it’s still like this.”

“I understand,” she says. “But cariño, you don’t have to stay invisible just because you’re in pain. Come with me. If it’s too much, we leave early. No pressure. No expectations.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. A part of you screams no. But another part—a quieter, trembling part that hasn’t stopped loving him for even one second—whispers yes.

And that voice is the only one you listen to.

“Okay,” you whisper. “I’ll come.”

There’s a soft smile in Javiera’s voice. “Good. I’ll send you the details. And I’ll be right beside you the whole night. Promise.”

You nod, swallowing the emotion that’s started to rise. “Thank you.”

“Of course, mi amor. I’ll see you soon.”

She hangs up, and the apartment goes quiet again. Only this time, it doesn’t feel quite so cold.

——

The city vibrates with its usual frenetic energy as you’re escorted by Javiera in a sleek black car, making your way to the venue for SNL50. Every passing block blurs into the next, the lights from the streets creating an almost surreal atmosphere. Your stomach twists with anticipation, a knot of unease lodged deep in your gut. The air outside is crisp, the night carrying a bite of winter, but your nerves simmer beneath the surface, warmer than they should be. You’ve barely said anything in the car, lost in your own mind, and Javiera seems to sense it, occasionally glancing at you with a soft, understanding smile.

“You’re going to be fine,” she says, her voice light, but you can hear the concern in it. “It’ll just be us. We’ll enjoy it together. No pressure.”

You nod faintly, though the truth is, your mind races with worries you haven’t voiced. That aching, nagging feeling is still there, lurking just beneath the surface. You’ve been holding it in foe day now—weeks, even—and tonight is no different.

Once you arrive, the energy shifts. The bright lights and the excitement of the crowd surrounding the entrance to the studio give the whole evening a sense of overwhelming, so larger than life. You feel a tightness in your chest that you can’t shake. The photographers and assistants rush about, and even though you’ve been to similar events with Pedro before, tonight it feels different. The hum of the crowd feels louder, the whispers and flashes more intense.

Javiera walks with you through the back entrance, leading you past a sea of dressed-up stars, all impeccably groomed, their smiles perfect, their laughter like music, but it doesn’t ease the weight on your chest. Your mind circles in the same direction it always does.

What am I doing here?

You don’t belong. The realization stabs at you like a bitter truth you’ve known all along. You don’t belong in this world, where every face is brighter, more polished. But then you see him.

Pedro.

He’s standing at the bar, chatting with someone, but your eyes lock instantly. The familiar warmth of his smile spreads across his face as he laughs, his eyes crinkling, the softness of him radiating across the room like a magnet. It almost feels like time slows as you watch him. His effortless charm, the way he’s so at ease, his body language welcoming to everyone around him—it all reminds you of everything you’ve lost.

God, I miss him.

You’ve avoided him for weeks, kept your distance, but now he’s here, so real, so tangible, in a place full of people. His presence fills the space in ways that make everything else fade into background noise.

The weight in your chest grows, and you feel yourself retreating back into the shadows of the room. It’s not just that you feel lost in this overwhelming environment—it’s that now, in this moment, standing in front of him again, you feel like nothing. Not in a self-loathing way, but in the sense that you don’t fit. You don’t measure up. He’s in his element, surrounded by people who adore him. And you, well… you’re just the one who loved him. The one who couldn’t handle it.

Javiera’s gentle hand touches your arm, grounding you for a moment. “Hey, you’re okay,” she murmurs, her voice soft but firm. “You’re not invisible. You’re not nothing. He’ll be happy to see you.”

But you’re not sure you can handle it. Not sure you can handle him being surrounded by all of this—by his world.

You take a breath and try to steady yourself.

“We should get a drink,” you offer, your voice sounding strange even to your own ears. You need to find something to hold onto before you break under the weight of everything.

Javiera leads you to a quieter corner of the room. The low murmur of conversations around you, the clink of glasses, and the rhythmic hum of music helps you calm the rapid beat of your heart, but only slightly. She orders something light, and you sip slowly, trying to focus on the citrusy tang of your drink, trying to convince yourself that you’re okay, that it’s all fine.

But then, like fate itself is out to make things harder for you, you feel a gaze settling on you. A presence too close, too lingering.

You look up, and there is a man you don’t know, but who’s clearly been eyeing you for longer than you’d like. His smile is charming, though it feels a little too practiced, his eyes far too intense. His gaze travels over you in a way that feels invasive.

“Hey,” he says, his voice low, a little too smooth for comfort. “Is this seat taken?”

You blink in surprise. “Um, yes, actually,” you reply, hoping to get rid of him without confrontation.

But he’s insistent, sliding into the seat beside you before you can protest. “You sure? Because I don’t see anyone else with you.” He leans just a little too close, his presence crowding you like a heavy fog.

“I’m waiting for my friend,” you say, your tone firm, trying to assert yourself without being rude.

The man only laughs, a soft chuckle that you can’t quite place. “She’s taking her time, huh? I don’t mind keeping you company.”

You shift uncomfortably in your seat, but before you can speak up again, he places his arm on the back of your chair. The walls inside you go up immediately.

“Look, I’m not interested,” you say, your voice clipped. But it’s not enough. His smile only widens.

You look desperately over at Javiera, but she’s still by the bar, talking with someone you don’t know. You’re alone with this man, and it makes your skin crawl.

“Come on, don’t be shy,” he persists. “Just let me—”

Before he can finish you hear it.

“Hey.”

The sharpness in his voice cuts through the noise, freezing you in place.

Pedro.

You almost don’t believe it. You turn your head slowly, and there he is, standing in front of you, his face tight, his brow furrowed as he looks at the man who’s still too close for comfort.

“I think she said she’s fine,” Pedro says, his tone controlled, but there’s something fierce beneath it.

The man immediately stiffens, looking up at Pedro with wide eyes. Recognition flashes across his face, the pieces clicking into place.

Pedro doesn’t flinch. His gaze doesn’t waver, and his posture remains firm, protective.

The man stammers a half-hearted apology, too embarrassed to even try anymore. “Sorry, I didn’t know…”

Pedro doesn’t say anything else. He just steps forward, his presence creating an invisible barrier between you and the stranger, effectively sending him on his way with nothing but a few muttered words.

And just like that, only the two of you remain.

Pedro doesn’t look at you right away. He watches the man disappear into the crowd, jaw tight, his chest rising and falling with the remnants of his barely restrained anger. You’re still holding your breath when his eyes finally turn to you, softer now, but still heavy with emotion.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice gentler this time. But you can hear what’s layered beneath the question. I’m sorry. I’m here. I shouldn’t have let things get this far.

You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Yeah. I just… didn’t expect that.”

Pedro hesitates for half a second, then takes a step closer, his voice low enough now that only you can hear it. “He shouldn’t have touched you. Shouldn’t even looked at you like that.”

His protectiveness catches you off guard. It always has. Even now, after everything, it tugs at your chest in ways you’re not ready to face.

“I handled it,” you say, trying to sound steady. “But thank you.”

The words hang awkwardly between you, too formal for everything that’s happened in the last few weeks. You look down at your glass, fingers tightening around the stem. You can feel him watching you, feel the heat of his presence, so close and yet so far from where you used to be.

Pedro shifts slightly, like he’s unsure if he should stay or give you space. “Can we talk?” he asks after a beat. “Somewhere quiet?”

Your heart twists again, but you nod.

He leads you away from the noise, the buzz of the party fading as you walk down a side hallway. It’s quieter here. The lighting is dim, warm, soft enough that it almost feels like you’ve stepped outside of time. He pauses beside a closed dressing room door and gently pushes it open. It’s empty. A private space with a couch, a low coffee table, a few scattered scripts and makeup brushes—quiet and far enough away from the laughter and lights.

You step inside first, and Pedro closes the door behind you, sealing the room in a thick, aching silence. You don’t sit. Neither does he.

For a moment, the air is filled only with the low hum of distant soundproofed music and your breath catching just slightly in your chest.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” he says softly, breaking the silence. His hands are in his pockets, his shoulders tense. “I was hoping, but I didn’t think—after what happened…”

He trails off, leaving the rest unspoken. You know what he means. You’ve lived it every single day since.

“I didn’t think I could come,” you admit, voice quiet and raw. “I almost didn’t. But… something told me I had to. That I’d regret it if I didn’t.”

Pedro nods slowly, taking a step toward you. “I thought about you every single day,” he says, his voice tight. “I wanted to call. I wanted to ask you what I did wrong, where I went wrong.”

“I’m sorry,” you blurt suddenly, the words sharp and raw and unfiltered. Pedro’s brows furrow slightly, surprised. “For how I ended things. For not telling you how I really felt. I thought… I thought I was doing the right things. I thought I was protecting both of us.”

His expression shifts, softens, but his body stays still.

“I was scared,” you admit, your voice trembling. “Scared that I wasn’t enough. That one day, you’d realize you wanted someone who could be more for you. Someone who wasn’t scared every time a camera turned her way. Someone who could glide through all of it beside you, instead of clinging to the edges. Someone who fit better into your world. And when I saw how easily she flirted with you, how effortless it seemed… I panicked. I convinced myself I was holding you back. That letting you go would give you a chance to be happy.”

Pedro takes a slow step forward, his eyes never leaving yours. “And you thought I’d be happy without you?”

Your chest tightens. “I didn’t want to think that. But I kept hearing it in my own head. All the doubts I tried to bury for the past three years. They just got louder. I didn’t want to break up with you, Pedro. I just… didn’t know how to stay when I felt so small.”

He looks at you like his heart is breaking all over again.

“I never wanted someone to glide beside me. I wanted someone real. Someone who tells me when I’m being and idiot, who doesn’t care about cameras or premieres or any other bullshit—someone who looks at me like I’m still the guy who spills coffee on his scripts and loses his keys three times a week.” he says, voice low and thick with emotion. Your lip trembles, and he reaches for your hands. His grip warm, grounding.

“I don’t need someone polished and perfect. I need you. The woman who reads in bed with one leg out of the covers. The one who leaves me voice messages during the day about stray cats she saw. The one who makes everything feel like home—even the worst hotel room, even the loneliest night.”

He steps back a little, just enough to reach into the inner pocket of his jacket. Your heart stops. You watch his fingers wrap around something.

“I’ve had this with me for months. I was hoping you’d come tonight,” he admits, voice quiet but steady. “I kept telling myself I was waiting for the right moment. Some perfect backdrop. But the truth is, every time I thought about asking, I got scared.”

“Scared?” you repeat, stunned.

He nods slowly. “Scared you’d say no. Not because you didn’t love me. But because I hadn’t done enough to make you feel like you were safe with me. Like you belonged, not just beside me—but inside this whole messy world of mine.”

He drops to one knee, not dramatically, but with a kind of reverent softness. He pulls a velvet box out of the little pocket and opens it with a quiet snap. The ring inside is timeless—delicate, graceful, the kind of beauty that doesn’t shout, just shines.

“I love you,” Pedro says, voice trembling now. “I love you so damn much it knocks the wind out of me some days. And I never want to go another morning without hearing your voice first thing. I never want to walk into a room and not know whether you’ll be waiting for me at the end of the day.”

Your eyes fill with tears. He looks up at you, and there’s no glitz, no performance. Just love—raw and endless and unfiltered.

“I want to build a life with you that isn’t built on red carpets or scripts or premieres. I want late Sunday mornings and burnt pancakes and quiet walks where no one sees us. I want laughter in the kitchen, arguments about what to watch, lazy evenings tangled up on the couch. I want you. All of you.”

Your breath shudders out.

“I know I’m not perfect,” he continues, barely holding it together, “but I swear to you—I will spend the rest of my life trying to be the man who deserves to stand next to you. The one who lifts you when you’re falling. Who sees you when the world forgets. Who reminds you every day that you are never, ever a shadow. You’re my sun.”

His eyes are glossy now, a trembling smile on his lips as he raises the ring slightly.

“So,” he finishes, his voice barely above a whisper, “will you marry me? Will you let me spend the rest of my life proving to you that you were never holding me back—that you were the one carrying me forward all along?”

You’re already crying, knees giving out beneath you as you sink down to meet him. Your hands wrap around his face, your forehead pressed to his, your voice thick with emotion.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Yes. A thousand times, yes.”

Pedro pulls you into his arms, laughter and relief escaping his chest as he buries his face in your neck. The ring is forgotten for a moment still nestled in the box on the floor beside you, because right now nothing matters more than the way you’re holding each other like the world had just started over.

——

The hallway hums softly behind you as you and Pedro step out of the quiet dressing room, the door gently clicking shut in your wake. Your hand is still wrapped tightly in his, the warmth of his skin grounding you even as your heart floats several inches off the ground. The diamond on your finger catches the light with every step, a small, breathtaking promise nestled against your skin. You glance down at it, then up at Pedro—and he’s already looking at you, eyes wide with awe and love and something unspoken that glows like starlight in his expression.

Neither of you speak. You just walk slowly, the sounds of the party growing louder as you approach the main area again, laughter and music swelling like a heartbeat.

That’s when you hear her voice.

“There you two are.”

Javiera stands just a few feet away, a half-full glass of white wine in her hand, her dark eyes sharp as she looks between the two of you. The curve of her smile is suspicious, her gaze flicking from Pedro’s flushed face to the way his hand clutches yours like it’s a lifeline. And then she sees it—the ring.

Her wine glass lowers. Her mouth parts.

“Wait…” she says, blinking once, then again. “What’s… what’s going on?”

Pedro doesn’t answer her with words. Instead, he lifts your intertwined hands, palm up, and lets her see it clearly: the quiet shimmer of the ring nestled against your skin, the unmistakable intimacy of it. You don’t say anything either, your breath caught in your throat, a small, stunned smile blooming helplessly on your face.

And then Javiera gasps. Loudly.

“You didn’t,” she breathes, eyes going wide.

“She did,” Pedro replies, his voice warm and steady. “She said yes.”

Javiera’s response is instant. She lets out a sound that’s halfway between a squeal and a laugh and sets her wine down blindly on the edge of a nearby console table. Then she launches toward you, her arms wrapping tightly around your shoulders, pulling you into a hug that’s so fierce and joyful it nearly knocks you off balance.

“Oh my God,” she whispers against your ear, voice shaking. “You guys—oh my God. You really did it.”

You’re laughing, a little breathless, your eyes prickling. “We really did.”

She pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes, cupping your cheeks with both hands. “You made him so happy. You make him so, so happy, do you know that?”

You nod, heart swelling with something that tastes like gratitude and disbelief all at once. She turns then and gives Pedro a light smack on the chest. “And you—you didn’t even tell me you were gonna do it tonight!”

“I wasn’t sure I was going to,” Pedro admits with a sheepish half-smile. “I’ve had the ring for months. It was just… something about tonight felt right. I saw her waiting for me, and I thought, why am I waiting?”

Javiera gives a small huff, but it’s fond. “You dramatic bastard. Of course you would propose at the SNL 50th.”

“Gotta keep things memorable,” he says with a grin. You laugh and hook your arm around his waist, leaning into the solid warmth of him. Javiera’s eyes soften again, and she shakes her head with a gentle, overwhelmed expression.

“I’m so happy for you two,” she says sincerely. “You already feel like family, but now it’s official.”

Pedro clears his throat. “You think we can skip the afterparty and celebrate somewhere quiet? Just us?”

Javiera arches an eyebrow. “Already reading my mind. Come on—I saw a quiet corner near a dressing room upstairs. We can raid the minibar and drink champagne off the network’s dime.”

Pedro snorts and mutters something about that being that real dream, and the three of you sneak away like teenagers skipping curfew.

——

The room is warm and quiet when you arrive, tucked high above the noise of the afterparty. Javiera kicks off her heels and flops dramatically onto the velvet sofa. Pedro follows behind with a bottle of champagne he charmed off a staff member and three mismatched glasses he dug up from the cabinet.

“No fancy toast?” you tease, settling beside him.

He grins, popping the cork and catching the foam like it’s second nature. “Only this: to love, to surviving premieres, and to you agreeing to marry my dumb ass.”

“Cheers,” Javiera chimes, clinking her glass against yours then Pedro’s before sipping. “Seriously though, I’ve never seen him this happy. Like, ever.”

Pedro leans back, stretching his arm behind you on the couch, pulling you in closer until your head rests against his shoulder. “That’s because I wasn’t.”

You glance up at him. His eyes are on you, deep and fond and full of things you don’t have words for. But his hand squeezes your shoulders, and it’s enough. You know.

For the next hour, you talk and laugh and let the world fall away. Javiera tells stories about Pedro when they were teenagers—how moody he got when he went to high school, how dramatic he was in college theatre when he called her up on the phone. Pedro groans and groans, but he doesn’t stop her. He just keeps sneaking glances at you. Like you’re a secret he still can’t believe he gets to keep.

Eventually, Javiera tops off her wine, toasts the air, and says, “I always knew it would be you.”

You blink, a little flushed from the champagne. “Me?”

She nods. “You anchored him. Not in the way that held him back. In the way that reminded him where home is.”

Your throat tightens. Pedro reaches for your hand again. You let your fingers thread through his without a second thought.

“Well,” Javiera says, standing and stretching, “I should probably leave the lovebirds alone before Pedro starts making out with his fiancée in front of me.”

You laugh. “You mean again?”

She points at you with a grin. “See? She gets me.”

Pedro just throws his head back and groans, but you can see the light in his eyes—soft, safe, proud. The second the door clicks shut behind his sister, he turns toward you, both hands now cradling your face.

“You sure this is real?” he whispers, brushing your cheek with his thumb. “You sure you want all of it—me, the chaos, the cameras, the weird hours?”

“I don’t want all of it,” you murmur. “I want you. And that just happens to come with the rest.”

His lips part like he’s about to say something—then closes them again. Instead, he kisses you slow and long, and when he pulls away, you’re both breathless and smiling.

“Then let’s go back to the hotel.”

——

The city had quieted, its pulse dimmed to a slow, golden heartbeat. New York at night was always full of chatter and laughter, but here—on this particularly little street—it felt like the whole world had paused just for the two of you.

Your heels tapped softly on the pavement, your arm tucked securely into Pedro’s. The scent of rain lingered on the breeze. The streets still shimmered faintly from earlier rainfall, reflecting the haloed glow of streetlamps and the soft lights from windows overhead. Everything around you felt suspended in amber, dreamlike and impossibly still, except for the warmth radiating from the man beside you.

Pedro swayed ever so slightly with each step, not drunk, but warm and light in that way that only a couple glasses of champagne, good company, and the high of love can make a man. His fingers brushed against yours over and over until he finally laced them tightly, like he couldn’t stand the space between you even for a breath.

You caught yourself glancing again—at your hand in his, at the ring that glinted beneath the streetlight with every tiny movement. Your chest fluttered every time your gaze landed on it, like it was still sinking in. That it was real. That it happened. That he happened.

Pedro noticed your silence and slowed slightly. “You okay?” he asked softly, tugging your joined hands toward his chest.

You nodded, lips curling into a stunned, dazed smile. “Yeah. Just… it still doesn’t feel real.”

Pedro stopped walking entirely.

The sudden stillness made your pulse skip, and you looked up at him, curious. He was watching you with that soft, unreadable expression—like you were some incredible piece of art that he’d stumbled upon and was trying to memorize before it disappeared.

“You keep saying that,” he murmured. “That it doesn’t feel real.”

You swallowed, heart thudding. “Because I’ve never felt like this before. Like—like someone actually chose me. Wants me.”

Pedro reached for your other hand and held them both between his. “I didn’t just choose you. I found you. The realest thing that’s ever happened to me.”

You felt the prickle of tears press against the corners of your eyes, but Pedro leaned in, kissed your knuckles, and said, “But you know what? I get it. Sometimes when something feels that big, that good… it’s hard to believe it’s really yours.”

He smiled, crooked and conspiratorial. “So I think we need to do something about that.”

“Like what?” you asked, blinking back emotion.

Pedro looked around, then—without warning—stepped out into the middle of the street, planting his feet right beneath the glowing streetlamp. You froze on the sidewalk, watching him in stunned disbelief.

“Pedro… no,” you warned, already sensing what was coming.

“Yes,” he said, with a gleam in his eyes. “Absolutely, yes.”

He the raised both arms wide to the sky and shouted from the top of his lungs with unabashed joy, “Hey, New York! She said yes!”

The words echoed through the street, bouncing off brick walls, slipping into alleyways, startling a bird from a nearby tree.

You covered your mouth, heart leaping in your throat.

“I’m gonna marry her!” he yelled again, spinning once in the street with outstretched arms. “She said yes to me!”

You half-ran to him, trying to grab his coat sleeve. “Pedro! Stop!”

But he was grinning too hard, his voice still ringing with giddy disbelief. “I’m gonna marry the love of my life and I want the whole world to know!”

Your laugh escaped before you could supress it, bright and surprised and full of love.

He turned toward you, his voice dropping into something warmer and quieter. “You’ve been wondering if it’s real?” he asked. “Well, now the entire city knows. The whole damn world, if I have anything to say about it.”

You looked up at him, heart nearly bursting. “You’re impossible.”

Pedro stepped closer, cupped your face in both hands, and whispered, “I’m yours.”

Then, from above, the creak of a window made you both glance up.

An elderly woman with a crown of silver curls appeared in a second-story window, bundled in a pale blue robe, peering out into the street with a sleepy but intrigued expression.

“What on earth’s going on down there?” she asked, squinting slightly.

Pedro waved up at her like a kid caught sneaking cookies. “Sorry, ma’am! I proposed to the love of my life and she said yes. I got a little too excited.”

Her face slowly broke into a wide, toothy grin. “Is that right?”

Pedro nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

The woman chuckled and leaned out just a bit further. “Well then—congratulations to you both. That’s a beautiful thing.”

“Thank you,” you called up with flushed cheeks.

“But maybe…” she added with a soft twinkle in her eyes, “…save the yelling for the honeymoon, alright?”

Pedro threw his head back and laughed, genuine and unashamed. “You got it.”

She gave a playful little salute before pulling back inside, and the window eased shut once again. The warm glow behind the glass flickered off, leaving you both in the quiet golden hush of the streetlight once more.

Pedro turned back to you, hands out. “See? Even she thinks it’s a beautiful thing.”

You walked into his arms without hesitation, your face burying into the space between his shoulder and neck. He held you tightly, rocking slightly on the balls of his feet.

“I love you,” you whispered.

“I love you more,” he murmured. “You’re it for me. Always have been.”

You leaned back, hands curling into the lapels of his coat. “I was really scared, you know. When we weren’t… when I thought I lost you.”

Pedro’s thumb brushed your cheek. “I was scared too. But I’d lose everything before I lost you again. I won’t ever stop showing you how much I love you.”

Your throat felt thick again, voice catching. “Then don’t stop.”

He kissed you softly, slowly, reverently—beneath the soft glow of the city, as a new chapter began with nothing but love, the night, and the echo of joy in your joined hands.

——

The door to the suite whispered shut behind you, the soft click echoing in the quiet like the final note of a song. Stillness settled around you like a silk sheet, thick with anticipation and warmth. Pedro didn’t let go of your hand. His fingers, strong and a little rough from years of training and working out, curled tightly around yours—like letting go even for a moment wasn’t an option.

The light from the streetlamp slipped into the room through the open curtains, soft shadows dancing on the walls, but Pedro’s eyes never left your face.

He studied you as though you were the only thing in the world worth looking at. As if the whole night had led to this moment—just the two of you, no red carpets, no camera flashes, no careful interviews or tailored suits. Just him, in his slightly wrinkled brown long sleeves under his brown jacket, and you, now barefoot on the hotel carpet with your heart thudding like a second heartbeat in your throat.

“You’re still shaking,” he murmured, lifting your joined hands and brushing his lips across your knuckles.

“From what?” you whispered.

He smiled, barely, a quiet tug at the corner of his mouth. “From everything. From me asking you to be mine forever. From you saying yes.”

Your breath caught at the sound of it again—yes. That word had never felt like enough before, but tonight, it had cracked your world wide open.

Pedro stepped forward, one hand reaching to cup the side of your face, the pad of his thumb brushing lightly across your cheek. His touch was reverent, feather-light, as if you might vanish if he pressed too hard.

“Can I take care of you tonight?” he asked, voice deep and low, a little hoarse with emotion. “Not just touch you… but love you. Slowly. Fully. The way I’ve been wanting to all night.”

You could only nod. You were already melting from the look in his eyes alone.

His kiss was soft at first—just a meeting of lips, a shared breath, a question. But when your arms slid up around his neck and your fingers aliped into the curls at the nape of his neck, he deepened it, tilting your head, kissing you like he had nowhere else to be for the rest of his life.

The kiss turned unhurried and tender, his lips moving with purpose, coaxing yours open with a slow, aching sweetness. His hands moved—over your back, your waist, your hips—tracing familiar paths with new intensity. Every brush of his skin against yours sent heat coiling low in your belly.

When he stepped back to unzip your dress, it wasn’t rushed. He held your gaze the entire time, dragging the zipper down slowly, like each inch was a revelation. The fabric slipped off your shoulders and pooled at your feet, and Pedro’s breath caught audibly in his throat.

His eyes trailed down your body, hungry but awed—like he was taking in a painting he could never quite believe was real.

“You’re unreal,” he whispered, brushing his hands along your sides, as though grounding himself in your warmth.

You helped him out of his jacket, his long sleeves, his pants with his belt—each layer discarded with purpose, not urgency. When your hands met his skin, he shivered. His body was warm and solid beneath your touch, and you traced every plane and dip with slow curiosity, like you were memorizing him all over again.

When he finally lowered you on the bed, it wasn’t with dominance or urgency, but with something softer. He followed you down, his body hovering over yours, his gaze locked on your face.

“I don’t want to go fast,” he whispered against your lips. “I just want to feel you. Every single part of you.”

You nodded, voice lost. Your legs parted to cradle him, and he settled between them, his chest pressing to yours, skin on skin. The heat of him made you stutter, your body already aching for more.

His kisses trailed down your neck, your collarbone, the soft rise of your breasts. He took his time—kissing, stroking, murmuring soft words of love against your skin. Each touch was like a promise. Every kiss felt like it carried years of devotion behind it.

When he took one of your nipples into his mouth, his tongue slow and warm, your back arched instinctively, a moan spilling from your lips. Then he soothed it with his hand, worshipping you with the kind of patience that made you ache.

“Let me take my time with you,” he whispered. “You don’t have to hold anything back. Not tonight.”

When his mouth moved lower, pausing at your navel, your thighs trembled underneath his touch. With a questioning look he held his hands on your hips, not going further without your permission. When you gave him a slow nod, he pulled your underwear down with careful movements, and as the piece of garment fell on the floor next to the bed, he was already between your legs again. He kissed the inside of one thigh, then the other, his beard brushing sensitive skin and making your whole body shiver.

Then his tongue met you—gentle, slow, savouring. He moved like he knew every sound you’d make before you did, every place to kiss and lick and flip to bring you closer, then pull you back, only to start again. His arms wrapped around your thighs, holding you open, holding you steady, as he coaxed you to the edge with infinite care.

When you came, it was with a cry of his name and your fingers tightening in his curls. He didn’t stop until the tremors passed, until your breath started to even again. He kissed his way back up your body, the taste of you still on his lips, and you met him with a kiss that was more desperate now, full of need and gratitude and love.

“Please,” you whispered against his mouth. “I need you inside me.”

Pedro reached between you, aligning himself slowly, and when he pushed in, your whole body curved into him. The stretch was delicious, the pressure grounding, and the groan he let out as he sank into you made your head spin. He stayed still for a long minute, just holding you, your foreheads pressed together, both of you breathing hard.

“You feel like everything I’ve ever wanted,” he whispered.

Then he began to move—slow, deliberate thrusts that made your body hum. He kissed you between every roll of his hips, told you how much he loved you with every stroke.

The build was slow. Deep. He never lost eye contact. His hand stayed laced with yours, his body cradling yours as if he needed you as much as he needed air.

When your second high came, you felt it rise like a tide, sweeping over you as you clung to him. Pedro buried himself deep, his movements growing a little more urgent, his voice shaking as he whispered your name into your neck.

He followed you seconds late, pulsing inside you with a low, shuddering moan, his body trembling with the force of it. When he collapsed against you, it was with his arms wrapped tightly around your waist, like he couldn’t let go. His breath warmed your skin as he kissed your shoulder, your collarbone, the curve of your jaw.

“You’re going to be my wife,” he murmured softly, reverently. “God, I’m so lucky. I love you so damn much.”

You turned your face to his, pressed a kiss to his temple. “Forever,” you whispered. “I’m yours.”

And wrapped in his arms, you believed it. Down to your bones, you believed it.