a/n; boom take this whle i work on chem!teacher gojo ^_^
your dressing room door is locked. your back’s pressed hard to the mirror, the glass cool against your shoulder blades. your legs are locked tight around gojo’s waist, heels digging into the small of his back, and he’s buried so deep inside you it feels like he’s never leaving—his breath hot and uneven where it fans across your throat.
“fuck, you feel unreal,” he groans, forehead resting against yours, one hand gripping your thigh so tight it’ll bruise, the other braced flat against the wall to keep him from unraveling completely.
“don’t stop,” you whisper, head tilting back, lashes fluttering. “don’t even think about stopping.”
his mouth crashes into yours breathlessly, his tongue sliding against yours. and then he goes back to start moving—hips rolling slow at first, but deep enough to make your head spin, then faster, rougher. he can’t help himself. the sound of skin slapping against skin fills the small space, desperate and slick, your breath catching with every thrust. your fingernails rake down his back. he moans into your mouth, a broken, vibrating sound that makes your pussy clench.
and then—
knock! knock! knock!
“y/n? we need you for touch ups!”
and you both freeze.
he’s still inside you. still hard. still throbbing.
your eyes snap open. you glance at the door, then grin widely and wicked.
“give me a sec!” you call out, voice breathless but still weirdly steady.
the hallway goes quiet.
gojo’s face is buried in your neck now, trying not to laugh. “you’ve gotta be kidding.”
you look down at him, his cheeks flushed, white hair a mess, lips kiss bitten and eyes blown wide with pure need.
“yeah,” you whisper, grinding your hips into his again. “now fuck me quieter.”
and he does.
his thrusts turn slower, somehow more controlled, every drag of his hips deep enough to make your toes curl. you choke on a moan, biting your lip so hard you taste metallic, cold blood. his hand claps over your mouth, eyes locked on yours, pupils blown and dilated.
“you’re insane,” he mutters under a breathy chuckle, voice all cracked. “what if we get caught-”
you lick a long, slow stripe across his palm so he could remove it off your lips.
re9 minor spoilers, fem!reader referred as wife, older actor!leon, use of pet names, completely selfish.
"all the extras are really hardworking and incredible." his husky voice fills almost every living room in the world. Leon Kennedy speaks with the interviewer about his latest work, alongside his castmate, on tv. he giggles. "i could never play an infected, no way. i'm not built for that. neither the character is"
"but seems like the character is made to be a husband!" everyone's murmurs and giggles give him time to smirk. the interviewer rereads her papers with visible curiosity. "tell us, was it a last minute change? something about the fanbase?" he laughs, so clear that it also makes you smile from the audience. you've never sat this close to the interview stage. "will any of the original characters make a comeback with a matching ring?" everyone shuts up to hear his answer. you feel like no one's moving, even breathing. the tension is dense between the public, and he smiles to himself, knowing perfectly what he's doing. he sits right, wide shoulders too big for the plastic chair and crosses one leg on top of the other elegantly. his eyes wrinkle, both due to age and to the devilish grin he shows before answering.
"well, i know any of the answers would cause a big confrontation between fans. i still want them to enjoy and feel like this is a safe place for them, as weird as it sounds in an apocalypse context" everyone laughs at his words. "that being said, i would avoid revealing who he is married to. we also need some secrets, especially for an elite agent." the interviewer nods a couple times.
"you know the news weren't well received for most of your fans, right? his all-time crush, for the past 10 years, married! unbeliveable. they're happy it's just fiction."
his side smile softens when his blue eyes find you between the fans. he touches his ring on his hand as if it was a secret code between you. then, he rearranges his big body in the tiny chair again.
"well, imagine when they learn i got married too." no one moves for a second. he raises a brow, legs crossed again. "i really like to get in character, y'know?"
"i can't believe you said that" Sherry's voice can be heard on the speaker of his car. he drives calmly home, one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting on your thigh. "dad, god, you shouldn't check twitter." Leon laughs and Sherry sighs on the other line of the phone. "i just hope it's not too much to handle. being famous because of work is something, but being so because you've married half world's crush is devilish." he hums, agreeing with her. his hand squeezes your leg softly.
"it'll be fine, sweetheart." he hums, low voice, just for you to hear. "don't let my social media manager scare you. she's in her training period." Sherry acts offended through the car's speakers, under the soft laugh of your husband. "thanks, Sherry. i'll see you tomorrow. come have lunch at home."
"is it included on my training as subsistence allowance?" she automatically sighs. "god, i have to talk less to you. i'm inheriting your humour. see you tomorrow, dad. i hope you can sleep with the constant sound of death threats over the internet."
she hangs up quickly, and Leon sighs next to you. "see, i'm... i'm not planning on taking you to any event you're uncomfy at." he whispers. "we will do this at your pace, doll." you nod under his attentive gaze, and the wrinkles around his eyes accentuate his soft gaze. the ring shines under the moonlight while he searches the parking card.
today's revelation was also premedited and decided between both of you. even when it scared you, it was necessary. he was tired of the public eye, of acting as the hot single he used to be when he was twenty. it's not the age, and not the mindset. he loves you, why would he want to hide it? he would love to retire. this last project, and done. casting Grace was a big success, as the girl has everything needed to make the sequels work. Leon finds himself calm thinking about retiring. just him, you. cooking at home at a slow pace, letting the music move your bodies around the kitchen. spending a lazy saturday tangled in some blankets he bought for you on his trips, body cuddled against his, his warmth and shape felt on your back. his lazy kisses on your shoulders, his strong arms taking you closer.
"i wanna take you on dates and walk around the city by your hand." his voice sounds so sweet while he parks. "kiss you in every corner i find and spoil you with any jewel that i see." the engine stops after he pushes the off button softly. his hand reaches your cheek, pulling you closer. "i just... i wanna do everything with you. at your pace, mhm?" he smiles again. he guides your hand to his neck, before leaving a kiss against your lips. "if you let me..." his lips are soft, and you melt against him while he grips your hair a bit tighter. you've missed him while he was away, surrounded by extras, cameras and staff; but he's back here, with you. his hand finds the curve of your waist, resting big and hot against it. he parts, his eyes darken as he gets close again, as if he was trying to memorise all of you, kissing the corner of your lips, dragging them down to your jaw, your neck. he sends chills down your spine, your skin feels sensitive under his mouth. he groans before parting again. "we should get home." you nod, as breathless as him, before he steals a peck from you.
he leaves the car and opens your door, hand waiting to help you get out. he cages your hand on his before closing the car and walking home. you should take the direct elevator from the parking to your apartment, but the street was quiet and the weather nice for this hour of the night. he guides you outside, hand opening the heavy door for you while not letting you go. the moon and the stars welcome you as soon as he closes. you walk slowly around your building towards the entrance. he kisses you against the pillars and carries you inside, unable to let you go, after all this time far from you.
it's early when messages wake you up, resting on your husband's chest. you try not to wake him up while stretching, scanning the room slowly as you try to find your phone. there, Sherry has sent a couple pictures. you recognise your clothing as well as Leon, and he has your body caged against the pillar of your building. you blush while you keep seeing the pics, followed by the headline "Fans React as Leon Kennedy Publicly Kisses Wife Hours After Shocking Marriage Reveal". he moves lazily, hand sliding the blanket up your shoulder, not letting the soft breeze that enters from the window touch your skin. he kisses your shoulder and his beard tingles you. he hums. he glances at the screen, unimpressed.
one brow lifts. his voice is still thick from sleep when he speaks.
"didn't know i needed public permission to kiss my wife"
thea’s note: hii! first chapter is here! i’m so excited!! let me know your thoughts in the comments!! also, in my mind, bucky is in his late 30s and the reader is in her mid to late 20s!! i’m working on a playlist for this series so also let me know in the comments if you’re interested in that!! MWAAAHHH <33
You arrive glittering.
Not because you feel glittering — God, no — but because there are cameras and lights and screaming voices and every flashbulb insists that you must be a thing that shines. You step out of the car and the world goes up like a match being struck: bright, abrupt, blinding.
You’ve survived auditions, call sheets, sleepless nights memorizing sides, being told you are too green, too soft, too unformed. You survived your own doubts. But none of that prepared you for this — for the sound of your name ricocheting off hundreds of strangers’ mouths, like they’ve always known it, like it’s theirs to call.
The carpet feels endless, too red, too loud. You feel yourself becoming something — a symbol, a performance, something glossy and unreachable — and yet inside you are still the girl who used to rehearse monologues in a bathroom mirror until her voice cracked.
And then the air shifts.
You feel him before you see him.
Like a change in weather.
James Buchanan Barnes — Bucky to everyone who pretends they know him — steps out of his own car down the line, and the crowd tilts toward him like a field of flowers leaning into the sun. The noise sharpens, goes higher, becomes hunger.
He walks like someone who has done this for decades. Not tired of it, just… unsurprised by its desire. Like the world wanting him is just gravity now.
He wears the age difference like a tailored suit — not something to hide but something that fits. Lines at the corners of his eyes that aren’t exhaustion but laughter, whiskey, late-night memories he doesn’t share. His jaw is rougher now, scruff just this side of lazy but intentional. His tie is slightly loosened. He looks like he didn’t need to try.
And you?
You feel twenty-two in a way that is louder than anything else.
You stand straight anyway. You step forward into the light because that is what you are here to do.
The photographers shout for you. Your name. Your name again. They call it like encouragement, like demand. You turn your head, you give them angles, the pose you rehearsed, chin just slightly down, soft eyes, don’t squint, breathe through your mouth so your lips part just enough.
You are doing fine. Perfect, even.
Until someone shouts his name.
Just his.
And the carpet erupts.
You can’t help it — your eyes look for him.
And his are already on you.
Not lingering. Not dramatic. Just there. As if he’d been waiting for you to turn. As if of course you would look to him first.
The stories about him were campfire tales on set — whispered in makeup trailers and rehearsal rooms:
He used to break hearts like habits.
Back when he was younger, before he grew quieter.
Before he learned to dance with his own reputation instead of letting it eat him.
You didn’t believe them.
Or maybe you did.
It didn’t matter — because meeting him the first time was not rumor. It was impact.
You drag your gaze away. You breathe. You keep smiling.
But the knowledge sits low in your ribs:
He’s dangerous for you.
A handler taps your elbow and murmurs, “Move to your mark,” and you nod, stepping forward down the line. Your heels click, your dress whispers against your legs, your pulse is performing acrobatics in your throat.
There’s a pause. A shift again.
Then his voice, close enough to feel at your spine:
“Big night.”
You hadn’t realized he’d moved toward you.
He stands beside you now for the joint photos they want — the leads together — the pairing they will market to death. His cologne is warm, something cedar and smoke, something that feels like a memory you haven’t had yet.
You don’t look directly at him. You look at the cameras.
You say, without moving your mouth much, “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” His tone is easy. Light. But not careless.
“Call me kid.”
His laugh is soft. Private. Only for you.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
The photographers direct you: closer, shoulder to shoulder, bodies angled. He steps in. His hand moves to the small of your back — just a guiding gesture for the cameras. Innocent. Expected.
Your body reacts like he set you on fire.
You keep smiling. You’re good at that. You’ve practiced that. But your breath catches because he is warm and present and steady and real in a way none of this glittering chaos is.
He feels it, the little jolt that runs through you.
You know he does.
But he doesn’t move away.
He just holds the pose.
Confident. Unbothered.
Like standing next to you is the most natural thing in the world.
A photographer shouts something about how good you look together.
He glances sideways, barely a tilt of his head. Just enough for you to hear the quiet murmur:
“Told you you’d handle this.”
“This?” Your voice comes out too soft. Too honest.
“All of it.” His eyes stay forward, but his words aim straight at your skin. “You belong here.”
The carpet, the lights, the noise — it all blurs.
For one suspended second, there is only him.
And the terrifying thing isn’t that he says it.
It’s that you believe him.
The cameras explode again. The crowd roars his name. Someone calls for you to look their way — and you both turn, in sync, like choreography you never rehearsed.
Your heart is a wild, beating animal inside your chest.
He doesn’t look at you again.
He doesn’t need to.
He already knows he’s in your bloodstream now.
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The interview line is a hallway of spotlights and smiles sharpened into weapons.
One reporter after another, each with the same questions dressed in different phrasing. The same compliments wrapped in shiny bows. The same jokes rehearsed long before you ever arrived.
It’s a performance of being you.
Or, at least, the version of you they want: bright-eyed, grateful, star just beginning to rise.
Your cheeks are beginning to ache from smiling. Your pulse hasn’t slowed since the carpet. You’re good at keeping your breathing even, answering clearly, seeming like you belong here — but your nerves buzz in your bones like electricity looking for ground.
You know he’s somewhere behind you in the line — but you do not turn to look.
You cannot afford that.
You know what happens when you do.
A handler touches your waist lightly and guides you to the next interviewer. You settle into position on the taped mark. Your dress sways just a little around your ankles, the shimmery fabric catching the glare of the overhead lights.
“Congratulations on the big premiere!” the interviewer says, gleeful.
You smile. “Thank you. It’s surreal.”
They ask the usual questions. You answer like you’ve practiced. Like you’ve learned the difference between truth and presentation.
And then the interviewer glances past you — just over your shoulder. Their eyes light up. Their tone shifts.
“Speaking of the cast — James Barnes is joining us. Perfect timing.”
Your breath pauses.
You don’t turn.
But you feel him arrive.
It’s not dramatic. It’s not loud.
It’s simply presence. A gravity shift. A subtle warm pressure in the air.
He steps beside you, just close enough that the sleeve of his suit could brush your bare arm if either of you moved even half a breath closer.
“Sorry to interrupt,” he says, voice smooth, warm, threaded with the faintest amused curve. “Didn’t want to miss the fun.”
You look at him then — because you have to — and the small, knowing flicker in his eyes tells you he’s been watching you longer than the camera has.
The interviewer beams. “We were just talking about the film! How was it working together?”
He doesn’t answer right away.
He looks at you.
Not the way one looks at a colleague.
Not like someone reciting a PR-approved compliment.
He looks at you like there is something worth seeing.
“It was easy,” he says finally, voice deliberate, steady. “From day one.”
Your stomach folds in on itself.
You try to keep your stance calm, composed. But there is a question under your tongue, pressing: Why does it feel like we’re speaking in code?
The interviewer laughs. “Easy? That’s high praise. What made it easy?”
His jaw flexes just slightly — like he’s choosing words.
He keeps his gaze forward now, but his voice is lower, like the words are meant to be heard first by you.
“She listens,” he says. “And she cares. More than most people understand you need to, in order to do this.”
Your breath catches.
He speaks like this is not about acting.
The interviewer doesn’t catch the undercurrent; of course they don’t. They’re already pivoting, asking about the emotional scenes you filmed together. You answer as best you can, keeping your voice steady, your eyes on the interviewer even as you feel him there — warm, steady, unflinching.
Then, the inevitable:
“Some people are calling this your breakout role,” the interviewer says, turning back to you. “Do you feel like you’re ready for all of this attention?”
You hesitate — not because you don’t know the answer, but because honesty rises like a tide, threatening to break surface.
Before you speak, he does.
“You don’t need to ask if she’s ready,” he says, the hint of a smile in his voice — not cocky, not teasing, but sure. “Just watch her.”
The interviewer laughs, delighted by the soundbite. “Is that your official endorsement?”
He finally turns his head — just enough to meet your eyes — and the look there is different now. Not the playful glint from before. Something softer. Older. Warmer. Something that knows what it costs to stand where you are standing.
“Yeah,” he says, gentle, sure. “Keep an eye on her. She’s going to be the one everyone’s talking about in a year.”
Your throat goes tight so quickly you almost forget to breathe.
The interviewer reacts in excitement, already thinking of article headlines and pull quotes. You keep your expression steady — polite, grateful, professional — but your heart…
Your heart is a storm.
Because praise from critics is one thing.
But this?
A man who has survived the blaze of fame and come out the other side — telling the world you belong here?
It hits somewhere deep. Somewhere soft. Somewhere raw.
When the interview wraps, the lights shift and the handler moves to usher you to the next spot — but he touches your arm, light, checking:
“You okay?”
Barely a whisper.
Not for the cameras.
Just for you.
You nod.
But the truth is no — you are not okay at all — because something unnamed has begun to settle in your chest.
Something warm.
Something dangerous.
Something you do not yet have language for.
He smiles — but not the public smile, not the charming grin the world knows. This one is smaller, nearly hidden, like a secret shared.
“Good,” he says. “Just keep breathing. The rest will come.”
Then he lets go.
And the moment dissolves back into the noise, the lights, the endless line of interviews — but your pulse doesn’t slow.
Because something has shifted.
Not on the carpet.
Inside you.
And there is no turning back from that.
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It comes back to you in pieces.
Not a memory so much as a temperature.
A particular way the air felt.
Thick.
Expectant.
Like something was about to begin that you did not yet understand.
The lot was bigger than you imagined — all white trailers and cables and yellow tape on concrete. People moving with purpose. Voices calling scene numbers and equipment needs and coffee orders like some vocabulary you hadn’t learned yet.
You walked through it all clutching your little binder of annotated script pages like a lifeline. Trying not to look as young as you felt.
The director found you first — warm, excited, already thinking six shots ahead. Praise pouring out like confetti, the kind that feels good but doesn’t land anywhere.
“You’re going to be brilliant,” they said, hand on your shoulder. “He’s going to bring out the best in you.”
He.
You’d heard his name whispered the night before — in the makeup trailer, in the wardrobe room.
Rumor spoken like prayer.
Bucky Barnes is intense.
Soft-spoken until he’s not.
Used to be reckless with his heart. Used to be reckless with others’.
Got older and quieter, but some men don’t lose the gravity. They just learn how to wear it differently.
You’d nodded. You’d acted unbothered.
But even then, something restless had stirred in you. Something like anticipation disguised as nerves.
The director led you across the lot to the rehearsal space — a warehouse nearly empty except for taped marks on the floor and two chairs near a script supervisor. Bright afternoon light spilled through tall windows, catching dust particles that drifted like slow snowfall.
And he was already there.
Sitting in one of the chairs.
Elbow propped on the armrest.
Hand resting against his jaw.
Reading sides he probably didn’t need to read.
A man who had long since memorized how to hide his own storms.
He looked up when the door opened.
Not dramatically.
Not like in a movie.
Just… simply.
Eyes lifting.
Landing on you.
And that was the moment you knew.
Not because of anything he did.
But because your whole body recognized him.
Like you were stepping into a scene already written somewhere under your ribs.
The director said your name like an announcement: “This is her.”
Something gentler happened then — the smallest shift in his expression. Not surprise. Not interest exactly. More like confirmation.
As though he’d been expecting you.
He rose from the chair — unhurried, like the world always had time for him.
“James,” he said, offering his hand.
You took it.
His palm was warm.
The grip firm but not claiming.
“Nice to meet you,” you said, and hoped your voice didn’t betray the tremor running down your spine.
He said your name — and when he did, it was quiet.
Like he tested the weight of it.
Like he didn’t want to waste it.
You had spent weeks preparing for this. Rehearsing character motivations, arc development, emotional pacing.
None of that helped with this.
Because no acting textbook covers what to do when your scene partner looks at you like he already knows where the soft parts of you are.
He didn’t stare.
He didn’t smirk.
He didn’t give off the practiced charm of a man used to being wanted.
No — he looked at you like someone reading weather.
Assessing.
Considering the storm patterns.
Like he wanted to learn you, not impress you.
The director talked for a while — blocking, emotional cues, tone of the first scene — but the room felt like it had narrowed to just two points:
You.
Him.
And the distance between.
You sat when they told you to sit.
Opened your binder.
Tried to steady your breath.
He leaned back in his chair. Script resting loosely in one hand, legs stretched out just enough to look at ease. A man comfortable taking up space without needing to demand it.
You caught him watching you once — not your face, but your hands. How tightly you were holding your pen. How your thumb pressed into your palm like a warning.
His voice cut through the quiet.
“You nervous?”
You didn’t look up. “Should I lie?”
He huffed a soft breath — not quite a laugh, but the idea of one.
“No. Don’t waste your time lying to me.”
You looked up then.
His eyes were blue.
Not the dramatic kind.
Not the movie-star kind.
The kind that looked like they had once been too bright and were now softened by years of surviving their own intensity.
“Okay,” you said, exhaling. “Then yes. I’m nervous.”
His gaze held steady — not pitying. Not superior. Just… present.
“Good,” he said.
“Good?”
“Means you care.”
The director called for a run-through before cameras.
You and him moved to the marked spots.
Your first scene together — close. Emotional. Loaded with unsaid things.
You stepped into your character.
He stepped into his.
And when he looked at you in that scene — not as you, but as her — the world changed shape.
Not because it was romantic.
Not because it was dramatic.
But because something inside you recognized him again — in character, in silence, in breath.
You forgot the lines for just a moment.
Not because you didn’t know them.
But because the gravity shifted.
His voice was softer when he delivered his dialogue than it had been in rehearsal.
Not changed — just adjusted.
To you.
After the run-through, the director praised the chemistry.
Someone joked about how natural it felt.
People laughed.
But when the room began to move again — when the noise returned — you were still anchored in that quiet, impossible awareness.
You hadn’t even spoken to him beyond a handful of words.
And yet some part of you already knew:
He would matter.
Maybe too much.
Maybe exactly enough.
But either way —
Your life had just changed.
And you were the only one who felt the ground shift.
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Time bends strangely when you’re being watched.
The interview line dissolves behind you, swallowed by handlers and coordinated movement, and soon you’re being guided through velvet ropes and unwritten hierarchies into the theater where everything you made will be projected ten times larger than life.
Your heartbeat is a slick, restless thing at the base of your throat.
He walks beside you.
Not leading.
Not following.
Just there.
But it feels like the world notices anyway — like the heat between your bodies exists in visible wavelengths.
The theater is dim except for the soft amber aisle lights. The crowd murmurs — coats shifting, whispers weaving, laughter sparking in tiny pockets. You feel the collective waiting.
You are shown to your seats — and of course they are together.
Lead talent, they say, like that explains everything.
You slide into your seat. The dress folds around you like water. The air is cool enough to raise thin goosebumps along your arms.
He sits beside you.
Not close enough to touch.
Just close enough that if either of you stopped holding yourselves exactly the way you are holding yourselves, the space between would collapse.
You look forward. At the screen. At the still nothing of it.
He’s quiet for a long moment — the kind of quiet that doesn’t feel empty.
Then—
“You handled that well,” he says. Voice low, meant for you alone, in the hush before the film begins.
You swallow. “The interview line?”
“The whole thing.”
And there’s something like… approval there. Not the kind given from above. Not patronizing. No — more like recognition.
Like he’s seen this battlefield before and sees the way you’re standing on it.
You take a breath. The air smells faintly of popcorn and perfume and warm fabric.
“Thank you,” you say, even though something in you wants to ask why it matters to him at all.
He doesn’t respond right away. Just shifts one elbow on the armrest between you — not touching, just… near.
The lights dim further.
The audience hushes into a single held inhale.
And as the studio logo flickers into blue light, you feel it:
Him turning his head, just slightly, toward you.
Not to look at you.
To make sure you are ready.
It is absurd how much that undoing lives in your chest.
The movie begins.
There you are — on screen — younger by months but worlds away from now. You watch yourself move, breathe, break, rebuild.
But the strange thing isn’t seeing yourself.
It’s seeing him.
It’s seeing the way he looked at you even then.
Not romantic.
Not hungry.
Like he saw you.
Before anyone else did.
Before you even knew how to see yourself.
The first scene between your characters arrives — the one you filmed on your first day. The one where your breath had caught without warning.
The audience reacts — soft murmurs, the smallest shift of attention, leaning forward.
You feel every muscle in your body tense.
Beside you, he leans in.
Just enough for his shoulder to nearly brush yours.
“Breathe,” he murmurs.
Barely a whisper.
Barely sound.
But you hear it.
Of course you do.
Your body is tuned to him whether you admit it or not.
You exhale.
On-screen, your character looks up at his — and there it is, the moment where something unsaid sparked to life.
You remember filming it — the way the room felt smaller. The way silence thickened between you. The way the director had whispered perfect under their breath.
You remember your pulse being a desperate thing.
And now the whole room gets to witness it.
Your stomach flips — not with embarrassment, but with something resembling… grief? Longing? An ache for something that was never spoken but lived in the spaces between breaths?
In the dark, he shifts just slightly, enough that his knee could touch yours if you moved even a fraction.
But he doesn’t touch you.
He doesn’t have to.
The restraint is the touch.
Another scene passes. Laughter ripples through the crowd at a line you improvised. Your chest warms. You glance at him — quick, instinctual.
He is already looking at you.
Not smiling.
Just watching.
Softly.
Like he’s proud in a way he doesn’t know how to disguise.
Your breath stutters.
You look forward again.
The screen light flickers over both your faces — white-blue-gold-blue. And in the dark, the world feels smaller. Simpler. Like just the two of you exist in a quiet universe.
Halfway through the film — during a moment of silence — his voice reaches you again, soft enough that you almost think you imagine it:
“See?”
You blink. “See what?”
He doesn’t look away from the screen.
“Why they’re all looking at you.”
You don’t say anything.
You can’t.
Because the thing you feel is not vanity.
It’s not pride.
It’s something tender.
Something terrifying.
Something like being witnessed.
The film moves on — scene after scene — and the tension between your on-screen characters becomes the tension in the room. The kind you can’t disguise. The kind you can’t perform.
You feel warm. You feel too aware of your own breathing. You feel like if you looked at him again, something would break open in your chest.
So you don’t look.
And neither does he.
But the space between your bodies is not empty.
It’s alive.
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Applause begins like rain — scattered at first, then swelling, filling the room all at once.
The credits roll. Your name appears larger than you’ve ever seen it, and the theater responds with something that sounds like belief.
Your chest goes tight.
Not painful — just full.
You rise with everyone else. The lights return slowly, taking their time with you. People turn in their seats, smiling, congratulating, touching your arm, praising with the frantic brightness of those who want to say I was here first.
But it all blurs.
It all floats.
Distant.
Because he is right there beside you. Standing. Straightening his jacket. Running a hand through his hair like he’s shaking off sunlight.
You don’t look at him.
But you feel him.
You move together toward the aisle — not walking as one, but falling into step like you have done this for years. Like your bodies know something your minds are still catching up to.
Someone stops him. Someone else stops you. Your hands brush as you step aside for different greetings, different compliments. The contact is nothing.
But your entire pulse skips anyway.
You keep smiling. Thank you, yes, so grateful, unreal, unbelievable — the words all folding into each other like they mean the same thing.
Eventually, a handler waves you both toward a side exit — smaller, quieter, away from the main flow of the crowd. You follow, heels tapping soft rhythm on carpet, the dress whispering around your legs.
He follows too. Or maybe you followed him.
You can’t tell anymore.
The door swings shut behind you, and the noise dims to a hum on the other side of the wall. Like you’ve stepped out of the world and into the space between moments.
A narrow hallway. Warm light.
No cameras here.
Just breath.
Just you.
Just him.
You stop without meaning to.
Or maybe you did mean to.
He stops too — close, but not invading. Just enough that the air seems to vibrate between your bodies.
For a moment, neither of you speaks.
Your heartbeat is too loud. You’re certain he can hear it.
You’re certain the world has narrowed to this one hinge of time.
He looks at you then — really looks.
Not like on the carpet.
Not like on the interview line.
Not like on set.
This is the look of someone taking inventory of the truth.
“You alright?” he asks, quiet.
Your first instinct is to lie. Smile. Say yes. Keep the mask on. But the mask feels… wrong here.
So you exhale.
And you shake your head. Just once.
He nods. Not surprised. Not worried. Just… understanding.
“It’s a lot,” he says softly.
You swallow. “More than I thought.”
His gaze doesn’t waver.
“Yeah. It always is, the first time.”
There’s a weight behind that sentence.
A history.
A memory you have not earned the right to touch.
But he stands here anyway. Sharing it, somehow.
Your hands twist together at your waist, and his eyes flicker down — a small movement, barely there — before returning to your face.
Then, slowly, he steps closer.
Not to touch.
Not to close the space entirely.
Just close enough that you can feel the warmth of him.
Close enough that your next breath trembles.
His voice drops to something almost private.
“You did good, you know.”
You laugh — quiet, embarrassed, too small.
“I don’t know. I kept thinking I was going to mess up.”
“You didn’t.”
You lift your head. “How do you know?”
He tilts his head, and there is something like softness at the edge of his mouth.
“Because I was watching.”
There it is.
The truth neither of you will name.
Your breath stutters. His does too — barely, but you feel it, like a shift in the air pressure.
He looks at you like you are something fragile and dangerous at the same time.
Like he knows exactly what this is and exactly why it shouldn’t be touched.
You step back — not because you want space, but because you need to breathe.
The distance resets the world.
He notices. His expression doesn’t change, but something in his posture does — a tiny loosening, a silent thank you for holding the line with him.
His voice comes low, almost gentle:
“Ready for what comes next?”
The words land like a question and a warning.
You don’t answer.
You can’t.
Because there is no safe answer to that.
Because yes is too much.
And no is a lie.
So you hold his gaze.
And he understands.
Of course he does.
A small breath leaves him — not frustration. Not disappointment. Something steadier.
Respect.
He nods once, slow.
Not breaking eye contact.
And then the door at the end of the hall swings open — handlers calling both of your names, the next moment ready to swallow you up again.
You look away first.
You walk forward first.
He follows.
But something has already taken root.
Something that will not go away.
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You remember it all too well. It was late.
The kind of late that settles into your bones, where the air feels thinner and the world feels smaller, like everything outside this moment has gone to sleep.
You had made it through your first emotionally heavy scene — the one where your character cracks open, the one the script said required rawness, the one that had lived under your skin since the table read. And you had done it — or at least, you hoped you had — but the weight of it stayed on you like a second skin.
You stepped outside the soundstage to breathe.
The night air was cool.
Not cold — just enough to remind your lungs they were real.
The studio lot was quiet now, most of the crew gone, the set pieces sleeping in the dark. A couple of floodlights buzzed overhead, throwing long shadows across asphalt.
You leaned against the trailer wall and lit a cigarette.
You didn’t even like the taste.
You just needed a moment that belonged to you.
Something to hold.
Something to ground you.
The smoke curled upward, slow and silver.
Then the door of the neighboring trailer opened — and he stepped out.
Not stumbling. Not searching. Just… arriving.
He didn’t look surprised to see you.
He didn’t look like he expected it, either.
He just existed in the space with the quiet kind of confidence older men carry — not performance, not ego, just a familiarity with his own presence.
He walked toward you — slow, unhurried — hands in the pockets of his coat, hair a little mussed from running his hands through it. He looked tired in the way people look when they’ve given too much of themselves on camera and haven’t figured out how to take it back yet.
He stopped beside you, not close enough to assume familiarity — just close enough to be companionable.
Neither of you spoke.
The night didn’t need words yet.
After a moment, his eyes flicked to the cigarette between your fingers.
He let out a breath that was almost a quiet laugh — barely there, just the exhale of someone who understands too much.
“You’re too young for that,” he said.
Not scolding.
Not patronizing.
Just noticing.
You didn’t look at him.
You took another drag.
“So are you,” you said.
He huffed — an actual laugh this time. Soft. Real.
“Probably.”
You offered him the cigarette.
He didn’t take it.
He plucked it from your fingers instead — slow, delicate, like he was removing something breakable — and then dropped it to the ground, crushing it under the heel of his boot.
You stared at him.
He didn’t apologize.
He just said, “There are other ways to come down from a scene.”
“Like what?” you asked, folding your arms to hide the tremor in your hands.
He shrugged. “Breathing. Music. Shower hot enough to peel your skin off. Whiskey, when it’s a bad day.”
“Which was today?” you asked.
He didn’t answer for a long moment.
The night stretched around you.
The floodlights hummed.
Then he said, quietly, “Not for me.”
You turned your head to look at him.
He was watching you.
Not intensely — not the kind of look that takes something from you — but the kind that waits.
The kind that says:
I saw what you did today.
I saw what it cost.
You don’t have to pretend with me.
Your chest tightened.
“I didn’t know if I got it right,” you said softly.
“You did,” he replied without hesitation.
“How do you know?”
He looked up at the night sky — empty except for the washed-out haze of city glow — and then back at you.
“Because it was honest,” he said. “And you can’t fake honest.”
The words landed somewhere deep — low in your ribs, where belief and longing share the same room.
You wanted to look away.
You wanted to hold the moment still.
You did nothing.
He leaned back against the wall beside you — not touching, but near.
The kind of nearness that builds its own gravity.
“You did good today,” he murmured.
You almost told him he didn’t have to say that.
But you didn’t.
Because you needed it.
Because you wanted him to be the one saying it.
You let your head fall back against the trailer wall.
You let the quiet return.
After a while, he spoke again — softer this time.
“You’re going to have to learn how to put yourself down after scenes like that,” he said. “Otherwise it’ll eat you up. This job — it doesn’t end when the cameras cut.”
You looked at him then — really looked.
At the lines beside his eyes.
At the tired shadows under them.
At the history sitting in the slope of his shoulders.
“Did it eat you?” you asked.
He didn’t look surprised by the question.
But he didn’t answer quickly, either.
He took a slow breath.
Exhaled just as slow.
“Yeah,” he said. “Once.”
The floodlight buzzed. The air felt still.
He didn’t say more.
You didn’t push.
Some truths don’t need audiences.
Some are only meant to be held, not spoken.
You nodded.
He nodded back — a silent acknowledgment of what had passed between you.
After another long moment, he pushed off the wall.
“Come on,” he said softly. “You should sleep.”
You expected him to walk away.
He didn’t.
He waited for you to move first.
So you did.
And the two of you walked back across the lot — side-by-side but not together — saying nothing at all.
But the silence wasn’t empty.
It was a promise.
One neither of you had agreed to.
One neither of you had named.
One that had already begun.
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It was weeks later.
You were no longer the new one trying to memorize where the marks were taped on the floor. No longer the girl who held her script like armor. You had learned to breathe inside your character. To live inside her skin. To let her heartbeat run parallel to yours without swallowing you whole.
And he — he was steady as always.
Steady like a tide comes in.
Steady like gravity.
Steady like something you could lean on, if you were foolish enough to try.
The scene was a quiet one.
No shouting.
No crying.
No fast movement.
Just the kind of silence that means something is about to happen.
Your character had just revealed something. Not everything — just enough. Something vulnerable. Something sharp. The kind of vulnerability that asks for nothing but is still a question.
And his character was supposed to be the audience to that.
Witness, not savior.
The crew quieted in that way they only do for scenes that matter. The director didn’t say much. They didn’t need to. The room already understood what this moment was supposed to be.
You took your mark.
He took his.
The distance between you was small — close enough that you could feel the warmth of his body across the air.
“Whenever you’re ready,” the director said.
You didn’t even hear action anymore.
You simply stepped into it.
The scene asked for stillness.
So you gave it stillness.
Your character speaks first.
Voice soft.
Words stripped of pretense.
The kind of line that can only be said once in a story — and only when it matters.
You remember the way your voice wavered — not because you were acting, but because something in the words had been sitting in your chest for days, waiting to come out.
You lifted your eyes to him.
And he was already there.
Not acting.
Not performing.
Seeing.
He didn’t blink.
Didn’t look away.
Didn’t soften or tighten or adjust for the camera.
He received you.
There is a kind of intimacy in being looked at like that.
A dangerous one.
A quiet one.
A truthful one.
Your breath caught.
Not loudly.
Just enough to shift something in the room.
Your next line came out lower than rehearsed.
Warmer.
Truer.
He stepped closer — that was in the script — but the way he did it wasn’t.
Slow.
Not hesitant.
But like something inevitable.
His gaze never left yours.
You didn’t move back.
You didn’t breathe.
You didn’t know how.
His character was supposed to touch your cheek next — gentle, grounding, careful.
He lifted his hand — exactly as written.
But the moment before the touch — the space just above your skin — that was the thing.
Your breath shifted.
His did too.
No one else in the room existed.
His hand cupped your cheek.
Warm.
Steady.
And your eyes closed — not because your character would — but because you would.
Your heart was a live wire.
You opened your eyes again — slow, like waking up.
And he was there, pupils darkened, jaw tense, breath deep and controlled like he’d had to rein himself back into his own body.
The scene gave you your final line.
You spoke it.
Soft.
Bare.
True.
And that was when something happened the script never asked for:
Neither of you stepped away.
The silence settled.
The air held itself.
The director didn’t call cut.
The crew didn’t move.
No one breathed.
Because everyone could feel it.
The invisible thread.
The pull.
The moment that was not character, not blocking, not craft.
Just you and him.
Your eyes stayed locked.
His thumb barely — barely — brushed your cheekbone.
Not enough to be deliberate.
Enough to undo you.
Your pulse hammered.
His throat worked in a swallow.
Your bodies did not move apart.
The scene was over.
Every instinct inside you said:
Don’t move.
Don’t break this.
Don’t breathe.
And then —
“Cut.”
The word broke the spell.
He dropped his hand.
You stepped back.
The world returned.
Crew started adjusting lights. Someone laughed. Someone rolled cables. Someone complimented the natural tension. Someone said the chemistry was unreal.
You couldn’t look at him.
But you could feel him.
A gravity at your back.
A pull you did not know what to do with.
You went to your mark for the reset.
You stared at your own hands.
You tried to slow your breathing.
Behind you — the sound of him breathing out through his nose.
Calm.
Measured.
Controlled.
Like he had put something dangerous back behind a door.
But doors like that are never locked.
Not really.
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The night was almost over.
The interviews were done.
The cameras had stopped flashing.
The red carpet had cooled from something electric into something close to normal again.
The theater lights spilled onto the street. Cars idled at the curb, waiting to take people back to hotel rooms, afterparties, quiet apartments where their costumes would finally fall away.
You stood near the entrance, arms wrapped loosely around yourself — not because you were cold, but to keep your body from floating off into the air. You could still feel the premiere inside you — the lights, the voices, the questions, the eyes on you.
Your first premiere.
Your first leading performance.
Your first time seeing yourself that big on a screen.
Too much and not enough all at once.
And then — like gravity remembering you — he appeared beside you.
Not from across the room this time.
Not from a shadow or a doorway.
Just there.
Like he had known where you would be.
Like he always would.
He didn’t speak right away.
You didn’t either.
The night hummed between you — busy and loud and somehow distant. Cars. Voices. Laughter. Music drifting from somewhere nearby.
But here — in the small pocket of space you shared — it was quiet.
Finally, he said, “You okay?”
You didn’t answer immediately.
Not because you didn’t know — but because you did.
And saying it out loud felt like stepping onto a ledge.
You nodded. “Just… taking it in.”
He hummed — a soft, approving sound.
“You handled yourself well,” he said. “Better than most do their first time.”
You glanced up at him.
There was something in his tone.
Not mentor.
Not co-star.
Not friend.
Something warmer.
Something proud.
Something careful.
“You meant what you said earlier,” you murmured. “About the paps keeping an eye on me.”
His mouth curved — not a smirk.
Something real.
“I don’t say things I don’t mean,” he replied. “You’re going to be big. People are going to know your name. Soon enough you’ll be tired of hearing it.”
You wanted to laugh — or deny it — or brush it away with something light.
But you didn’t.
Because you remembered the smoke break.
And the scene where the world stopped.
And every small moment in between where he looked at you like he recognized something in you.
Something dangerous.
Something familiar.
Something he couldn’t name either.
You exhaled slowly. “Thank you.”
He looked at you — really looked — and something softened in his eyes, the way something softens only when no one else is watching.
“Don’t thank me,” he said quietly. “You did the work. You earned this.”
You felt your heartbeat where it lived — deep in your ribs, where breath and want intertwine.
A driver called out a last boarding for the cast van.
A producer waved at him from across the pavement.
Someone was ready to pull him back into the night.
But he didn’t move.
Not yet.
You stood close — closer than public should allow — close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off him, not touching but nearly.
Your bodies had always known how to find that distance.
That half-inch of space that feels like a question.
He lowered his voice — quiet enough that only you could hear it.
“You did something on that screen tonight,” he said. “People saw you. Really saw you. That’s rare.”
Your breath caught.
He watched that happen.
His gaze didn’t leave your face, even when someone called his name again.
“Get some rest,” he murmured. “Tomorrow’s going to be loud.”
You nodded.
Though neither of you moved.
For a moment — the kind of moment that could tilt an entire future — he leaned in.
Not a kiss.
Not a touch.
Just close enough that the air changed.
Close enough that his breath brushed your cheek.
Close enough that you felt how carefully he was holding himself back.
Close enough that you knew — he felt it too.
Then he stepped away.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Measured.
He walked toward the waiting car.
Crew. Publicists. Cameras. Flash.
But before he got in — he looked back.
Just once.
A look that was not for the public.
Not for the movie.
Not for the story you’d filmed.
A look that said:
This isn’t over.
We both know it.
We just haven’t said it yet.
And then he was gone.
Leaving you standing in the warm spill of streetlight, heartbeat loud in your chest, the night too full, your lungs too tight, the world newly tilted.
summary: you meet will for the first time at the table read | Will x fem!reader
notes: part 2 of lights! camera! action! series <3 ok so im obsessed with this au already. I love actor will
content: actor!will, fluff, awkward and nervous will, slight flirting
taglist: @pretendyoucantseeme @williamlenneys @theoreticallythe @thechurchboyniall @urinternetfairygf @luvbuttlestv @lilyyxoii @pookietv @lxzzxebunny @lenneyswhore @wherethezoes-at @st3viez3 @kislnd @mirrorinthemeadow @calico-lou @loveheart-123 @sdmnpact @smzyyx @arthurtvslover @chair-things @l3nney @aqraxiia @lostdeerinthemist @peachmd @willuver - send a message or leave a comment to be added <3
series masterlist!
The table read room always feels the same, no matter the project.
Too bright. Too quiet. Everyone pretending they’re relaxed while holding onto their scripts like lifelines.
You arrive early – you usually do – slipping into a seat near the middle of the long table, setting your coffee down beside your name card. Your script is already creased at the spine. Tabs peeking out from the edges. You’ve read it enough times to hear the rhythm of it in your head, the pauses, the things unsaid between lines.
You’re calm. You always are at this stage.
Then the door opens.
You don’t look up straight away – not until you feel it. A shift in the air, the kind that doesn’t announce itself loudly but still insists on being noticed.
When you glance up, you see him standing just inside the room.
Will Lenney looks… younger than he does on screen. Less polished. Like someone who still expects to be asked if he’s in the right place. He pauses, eyes flicking over the room, his grip tightening slightly on the script in his hands.
He looks nervous.
Not the charming, self-aware nerves he has in interviews – real ones. The kind that are scary and that live in the shoulders and the jaw, you can see it in the way he takes a deep breath before stepping fully inside.
Your chest warms unexpectedly.
He catches you looking. For a split second, his expression flickers – surprise, recognition, disbelief – before he smooths it into a smile that’s careful around the edges.
“Hi,” he says, walking over. “Sorry, I just- this is the table read for Right Place Wrong time, yeah?”
“It is,” you say, smiling. “You’re exactly where you’re meant to be.”
Something in his face eases at that. Just a fraction.
“Good,” he says, exhaling. “That’s reassuring.”
He introduces himself even though neither of you needs it. His handshake is warm, a little tentative, like he’s unsure how much space he’s allowed to take up.
“As if I wouldn’t know who you are,” you tease gently.
He laughs – quiet, genuine – and there it is. That softness people always talk about. The thing that made you notice him before the internet did.
“You’d be surprised,” he says. “I still feel like I’m on borrowed time with all of this.”
You sit beside each other when everyone’s called to the table. You’re aware of him in a way that sharpens everything. The sound of pages turning. The brush of his arm when you both reach for your coffee at the same time.
The read begins.
You slip into character easily, but you don’t disappear into her the way you usually do. Not fully. Part of you stays anchored to the present – to the way Will listens.
He doesn’t rush his lines. He waits for yours. Responds to the feeling of them rather than the words. When you look up, you find his eyes on you more often than not – intense, not hungry – just attentive. Like he’s genuinely curious about what you’ll do next.
It makes something in you unfurl.
You realise you’re smiling during your scenes together. Not because the script asks for it, but because it feels right.
Between scenes, you catch him rubbing his thumb along the edge of the page, grounding himself. His knee bounces slightly under the table. Every now and then, he glances at you, like checking you’re still there.
When the director finally calls a break, the room fills with chatter, but he turns to you immediately, relief written plainly across his face.
“You’re incredible,” he says, and this time he doesn’t trip over the words. “I knew you would be. I just-” He shakes his head, laughing softly. “It’s different when you’re actually in the room.”
You tilt your head. “Different how?’
“Real,” he says. Then, flushing, “Sorry. That sounded-”
“It didn’t,” you assure him. “I know what you mean.”
There’s a pause. A comfortable one.
“I love you in The Last Summer We had,” you say. “But honestly? I saw you before that?”
His head snaps up. “You did?”
“Yeah,” you nod. “That little BBC Three drama. The one where you played the brother?”
His mouth falls open slightly.
“No one’s seen that,” he says.
“I did,” you reply. “And the short film you did in uni – the black and white one. You sat on that bike the whole time like you were waiting for your life to start.”
He stares at you, stunned.
“That-” He swallows. “I didn’t even think that still existed.”
“It does,” you say softly. “And you were brilliant. Even then.”
For a moment, he looks like he doesn’t quite know where to put himself. Like praise from you carries weight he hadn’t prepared for.
“You saying that,” he admits quietly, “means more than… it means a lot.”
You hesitate, then say, “You know, there’s a moment in one of your scenes – the way you hesitate before you speak 0 it reminded me of something I try to do in my own work. Letting the silence do the talking.”
His eyes light up at that.
“That’s – yeah,” he says, animated now. “That’s exactly what I was going for. In-” He stops himself, smiling sheepishly. “Sorry, I’m rambling.”
“No,” you say quickly. “I love this stuff.”
You find yourself talking – really talking – about the things that matter to you in your films. About choosing when to speak and when to let the silence talk for itself. He listens like every word is gospel, responding with insights that surprise you with their thoughtfulness.
When someone eventually calls you both back to the table, you’re reluctant to stop.
At the end of the read, as people pack up and drift away, Will lingers beside you.
“Hey,” he says, nerves creeping back in. “Would it be alright if we- I mean, just for rehearsals. Or talking about the script. Or-”
You’re already pulling your phone out. “I’d really like that.”
His smile this time is brighter. More certain.
As you walk out together, the hallway feels quieter somehow.
“This film,” he says, glancing at you. “I think it’s going to matter.”
You meet his gaze, feeling something steady and unfamiliar settle in your chest. “Yeah,” you say. I think so too.”
he still says the time you fake dated was the best performance of his life and chuckles about it like it's a secret only you two share
he loves to watch movies with you and has an impressive set of obscure films he wants to share. even tho he acts nonchalant about it, you know he's dying inside
he absolutely cannot stand when you turn any of his movies on. you find it way too hilarious not to
he takes his brothers out weekly, to make up for the time when he did not
he's very much afraid of you punching him
when he wakes before you, he lingers, drawing patterns on your back, without fail, every morning
he's embarassed of asking you to help dye his hair
he does not get jealous easily, which is something you did not expect. that's why a top goal for you is make sukuna jealous
he takes the pain medicine only when you're not around the house and stuffs it in the back of a drawer
he loves doing his nails black and sharp
he can't get enough of you playing or singing and is always curious about certain aspects of your life revolving around music
he would eat anything you cook, even if it's straight up inedible. as long as you made it, it's perfect
doesn't drink
he loves hugging you or just slotting himselg in your space, like a big and huge cat (wait, isn't that a tiger??)
he tries to be like before, before the accident, to be the very best version of himself. beats himself up when he does something wrong
actor!Bucky x fem!actress!Reader (no use of y/n, l/n, reader is not described in any great detail)
Warnings: Hollywood AU, language, internet nasties, flirty!Bucky, a little power imbalance, age-gap (Bucky is around 40, actress reader is closer to 30)... This chapter has smut, bad language, imposter syndrome to the extreme, angst, breaking Bucky's heart, breaking your own heart...
I know I've made you wait for this one and I can't express how sorry I am for that. I fully got distracted by the shiny new WIP (Strategic Interests) and then I ended up doing about eleventy billion ficlets... anyway, I come to you with this new chapter and also most of the next chapter in the bag... You might want your tissues for this one. It's angsty.
Read on AO3
Word Count: ~6k
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JANUARY 2026 - Part 2
You went back to your table with your heart in your shoes. The award felt heavy in your hands, tarnished with the weight of disappointment. It made what should have been such a joyful moment taste bitter.
You could feel Bucky's eyes on you but avoided looking over at his table. The next few awards announced were a blur. Photographers buzzed around getting reaction shots, and you were careful to not get caught with any connection to Bucky.
You still hadn’t quite forgiven Sam for the Instagram story. One blurry, photo of you hoisted over his shoulder, laughing, taken down in a matter of seconds.
But it only took half that for people to start asking questions.
Then Bucky won.
You were on your feet without thinking, as he had been for you.
He looked shocked to the core.
“Guys like me, we don't get this kinda thing. Action movies aren't awards movies - so they tell me. This is for the actors who get told they're not enough and they'll never make it. You will.” He looked for you, held your eye. “You remind me why I do this.”
Your eyes filled with tears, overwhelmed with pride. Your stamped down the disappointment from the conversation you'd overheard, Steve handed you another glass of champagne, and you made every effort to get your head back in the room.
You saw him slip back into the room a couple of minutes later, just as the press pack in the back room were gearing up for the final two awards: Best Drama Film and Best Comedy or Musical.
PR teams bustled between tables like stagehands, checking seat were filled, clearing the path. Everyone pretending they hadn’t already mentally checked out, that their heels weren’t killing them and their cheeks didn’t ache from smiling.
You didn’t look at Bucky. Not really. But you felt him, two tables over. The heat of his presence - how it buzzed at the edge of your focus. The way your body knew he was there before your mind caught up.
Best Drama was announced. His film. The room erupted, chaos and champagne toasts, hands clapping too hard. He stood again, blinking like he couldn’t quite believe it, and for a second - just a second - his eyes flicked to yours. You smiled.
Yelena and her team were beside themselves. Bucky stood proudly, shoulder to shoulder with Joaquin Torres.
And then, with the last award of the night, it was your film. Best Comedy or Musical. The roar around you was muffled, like you were underwater. Steve squeezed your hand. Bruce was whooping. Someone shoved you gently to your feet.
The walk to the stage felt longer than it had earlier. Heavier, somehow. Like the weight of the night had finally settled into your bones. When you looked out at the sea of glittering faces, you didn’t search for him.
But you felt his eyes on you anyway.
You stood behind Bruce and his team, tucked between Steve and the choreographer, the lights hot on your face.
You kept smiling. You didn’t know where to look.
Bucky, still at his table, looked up at the stage with something that almost looked like awe. Or heartbreak. Or both.
You looked away before it could mean anything.
The music swelled. The lights dipped. The crowd stood again, and the whole ballroom shimmered with gold and noise and champagne highs.
It was over.
And all you could think was, now what?
You were hustled backstage to the press line. The winner’s circle - the biggest winners, the brightest stars congratulating one another.
He was by your side in an instant, his embrace appearing nothing more than professional.
“Congratulations sweetheart, I told ya,” he whispered in your ear, daring to place a kiss on your neck, hidden by your hair. Your gripped his arm, letting the weight of him ground you.
“You two - together, yeah?” one of the handlers called. “Drama and Comedy - golden pair!”
Bucky stepped to your side automatically and put a careful arm around you.
“Smile,” someone said. A dozen shutters clicked.
You tilted your head just so, statue gripped tight in both hands. He looked straight at you.
“Careful,” you murmured without moving your mouth. “Someone might think we actually like each other.”
His jaw twitched. “You did a hell of a job tonight.”
“Don’t,” you said softly.
More flashes. More applause.
You held the pose. Professional, through and through.
You were pulled in different directions, obviously. You hadn’t expected to be able to stick together and even if you had, it would have raised more questions than were already circulating on Page 6.
You were funneled toward the ballroom exit with the other winners, all velvet and sequins and sparkling eyes. The statue felt slippery in your hand now, the high buzz of the moment starting to taper off. Someone handed you a flute of champagne. Someone else clipped a wristband to your arm.
The after party - the first of many - was already pulsing.
Later, at god knows which of the parties, you spotted him near the bar, his head thrown back in a rare, unguarded laugh. Sam clapped him on the back, and he turned just enough for you to catch the edge of that smile - the real one, the one he didn’t hand to cameras. Your heart caught.
God, you loved him.
You felt it, the moment your heart clenched like it never wanted to let him go, and then half a second later the realisation that you’d have to. That in a few short weeks you wouldn’t be in the same places at the same time. You’d have to get on with your lives and your work and those things didn’t necessarily involve each other.
He found you in the crowd like he always did. Eyes on you like a heat-seeking thing, and then he was moving - threading through the chaos like the rest of the night didn’t matter.
You didn’t move. But something in you... shrank. Just a little. The weight of the statue in your hand suddenly unbearable.
“Hey, superstar,” he murmured, slipping in beside you. His hand went instinctively to your waist, his thumb brushing the silk of your dress. He kissed your cheek. “You were magic.”
You let yourself lean into him for a moment. The safety of it. The warmth.
Then you shifted your award between you, not intentionally, just... something to hold. A buffer.
The drinks had been flowing, the press had all but disappeared, but the fear of some errant photographer catching you still lingered.
“I still feel like I’m going to wake up in a panic, late for curtain,” you said with a smile. “Like it wasn’t real.”
“It was real.” His voice was steady, sure. “You earned every bit of it.”
You nodded, eyes on the lights overhead. If only they knew.
Lulu and Dani found you then, screaming your name, throwing their arms around you, burying you in perfume and lipstick and laughter. You let them sweep you away. You needed their noise.
You caught Bucky’s eye once over Lulu’s shoulder. He smiled softly, something private just for you.
You smiled back. But didn’t go back to him.
Not yet.
“You were unreal,” Dani breathed. “I'm so fucking proud of you, baby!”
You smiled, grateful, aching.
Lulu was already taking blurry selfies, and you tried to look like you weren’t falling apart quietly behind the eyes.
You stepped aside to call your dad. He didn’t pick up, but you left a message, your voice wobbling at the end. Love you, Dad. I won. I wish you were here.
When you turned back, Bucky was back with Sam, something easy between them. A shared history, or maybe just shared exhaustion. He caught your eye and didn’t look away.
The crowd moved like a tide between you, the parties never seemed to end. Champagne glasses clinked, the music pumped through the room - live bands, real life rockstars, string quartets. You’d heard them all in one night. People kissed cheeks and talked deals and took shots with their agents.
And still, underneath it all, underneath the sparkle and the noise and the congratulations, was that feeling like you’d missed a step. Like you were waiting for the end credits.
You sipped your drink. Dani handed you another. Lulu spun you toward the dance floor. You let yourself float - weightless, golden.
But part of you was still holding your breath.
Cinderella got until midnight and you could feel your own approaching with each passing ceremony. The minute the Oscars were over, your dress would turn to rags and you'd have to leave your Prince behind.
You knew you should have taken a leaf from the real Cinderella’s book and danced till you dropped. Made every second count. But the comments you’d overheard had stuck in your mind. You wanted Bucky to celebrate, to enjoy what would surely be a pivotal moment in his career.
You reached for Dani, “can you tell Bucky I'm going back? He should stay, I'll sleep in your room tonight.”
She frowned but nodded and approached Sam and Bucky. He shook his head lightly, disagreeing with whatever Dani was saying, then he hugged Sam tightly and made his way to you.
“C’mon baby, let’s celebrate just us?”
“You don’t have to -”
“I want to, we should be able to get out of here together,” he insisted, holding out his arm.
He lead you through a maze of corridors marked for staff, saying hello to everyone you passed along the way. The hotel kitchens were dark and empty, you followed to the loading bay and out of a side door where a car was already waiting for you.
He opened your door, and then went round to the other side.
“How’d you know where to go?”
“Sam told me the way out if we want to avoid the press outside. I figured you’d want to.”
You nodded and leaned into him, watching the city lights blur in the window.
The suite had been tidied up while you’d been gone. Someone had come in and cleared away the clutter left behind from when you’d been getting ready.
You kicked off your shoes the second the door closed behind you, the familiar hush of carpet grounding you in your own skin again. The award sat heavy in your hands. You put it down like the metal had been burning your skin all night.
Bucky loosened his bowtie as he crossed the room. “We made it,” he said with a low laugh, voice scratchy from the night. “You ok?”
“Yeah,” you said. Too quickly. “Just tired.”
He moved behind you, slipped his arms around your waist, and pressed his face to your neck. “You were fucking incredible tonight. I hope you know that.”
You let your head rest against his shoulder. Closed your eyes. “Thank you.”
There was a pause. His hands didn’t move - like he was afraid too much affection might crack you open.
When you finally exhaled, you murmured, “I just need a minute.”
He kissed the crown of your head. “Take all the time you need.”
You drifted into the bathroom, slipping out of the gown, letting the soft linen robe swallow you up. When you returned, he was shirtless on the edge of the bed, fidgeting with his watch. His eyes lifted to meet yours. Concern flickered, but he didn’t ask. He never pushed.
You walked past him, ignoring the award on the dresser.
Then you went to the balcony, cracked open the door, and stepped out into the night.
The air bit at your skin, cold and cruel.
You wrapped the hotel robe around your shoulders and leaned forward on the railing, breathing in the city.
“Jesus babe,” Bucky muttered, stepping out behind you. “You’re gonna kill us both standing out here like that.”
“I just needed air.”
He came to you quietly, wrapping himself around your back, arms warm and firm, chin at your shoulder. “Talk to me, sweetheart,”
You hesitated. “I don’t know if I’m built for all this.”
“All what?”
“This,” you gestured out at the city lights, the distant hum of Hollywood glinting below. “The press, the pressure. The dresses and photoshoots and pretending I know what I’m doing.”
“You’re not pretending,” he said quietly. “You’re doing it. You’re living it.”
“I don’t feel like it.” Your voice cracked. “I feel… lucky. And luck runs out. I'm too soft for it all.”
He looked at you, really looked. Not at the makeup or the awards or the picture perfect version of you the world had seen all night.
“No,” he said. “You work. You try. You've been doing it for years. That’s not luck. That’s you.”
He turned you gently to face him, the robe slipping a little. His hands found your hips.
“I don’t want to get in the way -”
“Of what? You’re not in the way, it feels like I’ve waited forever for this.”
“It's so easy for you, you're solid, bankable. You can carry a movie, and everyone loves you. I'm just going to be another phase. You know this isn’t real, it can’t last. Once we get to March, we’ll hardly see each other, I'll be back home trying to make the rent and it’ll all become a chore and we’ll resent each other -”
You knew you were ranting. You couldn't stop the words from spilling out.
“You want real?” He asked firmly, “let me show you what’s real.”
He pressed you into the cold glass of the balcony the city spread out behind you, his hands reverent and hungry on your skin. His mouth on yours. The robe slipped off your shoulders and onto the floor.
“You wanna do this here?” you gasped.
“Uh-huh,” he murmured. “Don’t worry. You’ll warm up real quick.”
He turned you toward the railing, pressing warm, wet kisses along your spine, one arm tight across your chest, the other sliding down your belly, between your legs. You whimpered, forehead pressed to the cold metal.
“Yeah?” he asked, his mouth hot on your shoulder.
You nodded quickly. “God, please.”
And that was all it took.
It was desperate, sharp and fast and a little bit messy. The kind of raw connection that left fingerprints and bruises.
He pushed into you from behind with a low groan, his hand braced against the rail beside your head. You cried out, breath fogging the glass in front of you.
“Fuck, baby,” he growled. “You feel like you were made for me.”
You clawed at the rail, needing more, needing everything. “Harder, Bucky, please.”
He gave you what you asked for.
He heard her on the phone when he woke up. Sunlight streamed in through the blinds they’d forgotten to close after he’d brought her inside and they’d warmed up in the shower.
“I’m not sure where it’s gone,” she whispered into the handset. She fiddled with the screen and another voice filled the room as the call went to speakerphone.
“C’mon sis, Dad wants a picture. He says congrats and don’t get cocky. Also he wants to know why he recognises the tall guy that’s in all the pictures on the Daily Mail website.”
“The Daily Mail can get to fuck,” she muttered, pulling the award out from under a pile of clothes. “Anyway, if he’s on that trashy website, there’s a million pictures on there, surely?”
“Ahh he wants one of his little girl and her award. Send him a selfie.”
“Alright, alright, tell him to call me when he’s back from work, yeah?”
“Will do. Congratulations dickhead, love you.”
“Love you too, tosser.”
She hung up and dropped the phone next to the two awards.
“You and your brother always talk to each other with such love?” He teased, his voice still heavy with sleep.
“It’s the only way he knows I care,” she smiled, sliding back into bed. “Good morning, Golden Globe winner.”
He smirked, “good morning yourself, fellow Golden Globe winner. Still feel like it’s not going to last?”
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure someone from that murder cruise movie is going to knock that door down and steal the award.”
“Ok, first of all,” he said, pulling her into his lap, “that movie was dogshit. Secondly, they’ll have to come through me.”
She laughed, but there was still a hesitation there, a lingering uncertainty that he wasn’t sure he could take away for her.
They ordered room service and were descended on by Dani and Lulu and Sam, all nursing hangovers.
The remains of a huge breakfast scattered across the coffee table. She’d curled up next to him again, toes tucked under his thigh, while Lulu recapped the drama from some after-after-party he’d been spared.
Dani was scrolling through headlines occasionally emitting little gasps that were either joy or concern, or possibly both.
“Ok,” she said eventually, “Daily Mail’s got at least ten high-res shots of you two in the same room, none of which scream couple unless you know what to look for. But some of these TikToks are starting to catch fire. People have zoomed in on him walking straight to you in the winners room, and the fans are frothing.”
“Let them froth,” she said, wiping a smear of croissant from her chin. “I’m allowed to talk to people at parties. Even Bucky Barnes. Also, if I have to hear the words ‘Daily Mail’ again today, I’m going to hit something.”
Lulu snorted. “Yeah but your face when he said you remind him why he does this was pure girlfriend behaviour.”
“He wasn’t talking directly to me, it was like…a general reminder, right, Buck?”
Bucky just smiled, tried not to let himself hope too hard. He was happy to be her soft place to land, even if no one else could see it yet. Even if part of her still flinched when people looked too closely.
“Some of these photos, wheeeew! Girl, you look so hot. I knew that dress was the right call.” Dani beamed.
“Becka knows what she’s doing,” she shrugged. “She said there’s some really good options if we go to the Oscars.”
“If? Honey, I think there’s no ifs on that,” Lulu said sternly.
“She’s right,” Bucky said, reaching for the coffee pot, “on the very slim chance you don’t get a personal nomination, the film will have plenty so you’ll be there anyway.”
“And it is a very slim chance,” Lulu continued on his behalf. Gold Derby has you at 5/1 to win, let alone be nominated.”
“Can we stop talking about this please? It’s giving me the heebie jeebies. Like tempting fate.”
Sam’s phone buzzed loudly on the table. “Oh shit,” he muttered, then grinned. “Sorry sweetheart, we cannot stop talking about this. BAFTA noms just dropped.”
She perked up. “Wait, really? I thought that was tomorrow?”
Everyone scrambled for their phones. Bucky reached for his but didn’t rush.
“Holy shit,” Lulu gasped. “You’re in!”
His heart kicked. He looked up.
Her hand covered her mouth. Her eyes were wide, “fuck off!”
“You’re in,” Dani confirmed, scrolling fast. “Best Actress. It’s you, the French girl from the war thing, the family drama one - Jesus, you’re in really good company.”
She blinked hard. “I wasn’t expecting…”
Bucky couldn’t stop smiling. He pulled her into a hug and she melted against him, just for a second, her body trembling with disbelief.
Then she looked up at him, suddenly guilty. “Wait, are you -”
Sam winced a little. “Nah, man. Not this time.”
Bucky kept his smile on. “Hey, it’s fine. It’s your moment. I get to be your plus one.”
She didn’t say anything. Just nodded, kissed his cheek, looked back at the phone in her hand pinging non-stop with notifications.
He didn’t say anything either.
But something cold settled in his chest, heavy and slow.
It wasn’t jealousy. Not exactly.
It was just... she’d barely looked at him before turning away.
And he was proud of her. Christ, he was so proud.
But still. For just a second - just one - he wanted her to look at him like he mattered in the way she mattered to him.
The moment passed. But the ache didn’t.
He felt it in the silences. Every time she looked at her phone - at the noise and Hollywood circus.
Her face fell, “well that didn’t take long,” she muttered, handing Lulu the phone.
“Cabaret girl still riding high on Bucky Barnes’ coattails all the way to the BAFTAs - they need to get a sodding life. This your achievement, babe. I promise you no one else thinks like this -”
“They do though.” She said quietly. He looked up as she looked away from him. “I heard some people talking last night.”
Dani looked ready to throw hands. “What’d they say?”
She wouldn’t look at him, or couldn’t - he wasn’t sure.
“They said -” she dragged her hand over her face, taking a deep breath. He watched Lulu and Dani exchange glances. “They said fucking your way to the top never gets old.”
Lulu looked at the ceiling for divine intervention. Dani’s mouth opened, then closed.
Before anyone could answer, her phone rang.
“It’s my dad,” she said quietly, taking the phone and leaving the room.
As soon as she left, Dani and Lulu exhaled.
“Well that’s shitty. No wonder she wasn’t in the partying mood.”
“It’s also a fucking lie - no offence, Bucky.”
“None taken. If I find out who -”
“You’ll keep quiet buddy,” Sam interjected. “You know you can’t do anything here.”
“He’s right," Dani muttered. "Just be there for her."
"If she'll let him." Lulu arched an eyebrow.
"We'll talk to her."
"She's pulling away," he said quietly. "She already thinks this'll be over before the Oscars."
"We'll talk to her," Dani repeated.
She didn't sound convinced or convincing.
The rest of the day blurred into interviews and champagne and congratulatory messages you barely had time to read.
And then you were both booked solid.
Interviews. Panels. Fittings.
For a week every conversation started with “Golden Globe winner, BAFTA nominated…”
You caught flights to opposite coasts, days of endless press - the final push before the Oscar nominations were finalised.
You told yourself it was normal.
That you were both just busy.
That you'd reconnect once the dust settled in a day or two.
But the dust didn’t settle. Not really.
And even when it did, you couldn’t. Something in you stayed tightly braced, like you were waiting for the rug to be pulled.
You smiled in photographs, laughed in interviews, gave all the right soundbites thanking the cast, the fans. But it all felt… borrowed. Like trying on someone else’s life and finding it didn’t quite fit.
You told everyone it was a fluke. That the film was doing the heavy lifting. That it was just a good year and you were along for the ride.
You said it enough that Dani finally gave you a look.
And then she told you to sit down.
“What are you doing?” She demanded gently. “You looked radiant. But you were holding your breath the whole night of the Globes and you have been ever since.”
“Have I?”
“You do this thing,” she went on. “Right when you get something good - something big - you start building the fire escape.”
You scoffed and went back to the email from your publicist about an interview for BAFTA weekend. “I’m not.”
“You are. You’re scared it won’t last, so you start planning your exit.”
You handed her the phone and she read the email. “Jesus, they want you one-on-one at the Vaudeville, in front of a live audience… That's amazing, babe!”
"It's all happening too fast and too slow at the same time." You said, your voice laced with fear. “I'm not sure what's my own anymore. What if I'm only getting this stuff because of Bucky?”
"Who give a shit what anyone else thinks? You know how hard you've been working for years. What are you really scared of? That he won't wait for you, or that he will?"
"Dan, he could get any woman he wants. Supermodels, gorgeous, young influencers. Surely he's not interested in me sticking around."
“I think you're wrong. He's in love with you.” Age said firmly, taking your hand. “And you don't get to decide for him. Let him in, let him be there for you.”
You didn’t say anything. Just sat there with your fingers tightening around hers.
You wanted to believe her. Wanted to believe he loved you. That this was real. That you were enough.
But the higher you climbed, the louder that little voice in your head screamed you're not supposed to be here.
Dani squeezed your hand, then stood and kissed your hair. “You don’t have to have it all figured out right now. Just don’t run from something good because it scares you.”
You nodded, but didn’t move.
The next morning, you were standing in the bathroom, half-dressed, toothbrush dangling from your mouth before a breakfast meeting, when the scream came through the suite like a bullet.
“Oh my fucking god!”
You froze. “What?”
Dani’s footsteps thundered across the room to the half open bathroom door. “Best Actress. You got it.”
Your stomach flipped. You teetered into the bedroom, toothpaste still foaming, hair half-curled. Lulu was already pulling up the livestream on her phone. Dani was crying.
“They just announced it, I swear to god - watch, it’ll be on again in the recap. Oh my god, babe, you’re going to the fucking Oscars!”
Somewhere across the room, your phone buzzed. Then buzzed again. Then didn’t stop.
“Wait - what about Bucky?” you asked, heart pounding.
“He’s in,” Lulu confirmed. “Best Actor. It’s both of you.”
A strange sound escaped your throat. Half laugh, half sob. You sat down hard on the edge of the bed with your head in your hands.
Dani filmed it. Of course she did. You didn’t even care.
The bedroom door flung open, Bucky and Sam the other side. He wrapped you in his arms, lifting you off the floor.
“I told you, didn’t I tell you?!” He laughed, elated, excited. It was infectious.
Sam was on the hotel phone ordering champagne. Lulu was calling your dad. Dani was crying again.
You rode through the day on a wave of euphoria and a string of calls from journalists, friends, old teachers, distant cousins. Everyone wanted to congratulate you.
Maybe it would be ok.
Maybe you did deserve it.
Then your phone rang again - this time, your publicist.
“The Academy wants to know if you’d consider performing.”
“…Performing?”
“A medley. From the film. Live. At the ceremony.”
You stood, staring at the huge Cabaret billboard you could see from your window, your stomach turning over.
“I’ll think about it,” you heard yourself say, not knowing what else to say.
And there was no time to dwell on it either, the nominations had flooded your calendar with screenings, meetings, glad-handing and lunches.
He slipped into your shared room after the noise had died down following yet another industry party. Held by his studio for his film, you’d been able to take a night off. He was still in his tuxedo trousers, shirt unbuttoned, barefoot.
He smiled when he saw you, slowly, proudly, and so in love.
“This is incredible,” he murmured, folding you into his arms. “I’m so fucking proud of you.”
You nodded against his shoulder. But you couldn’t say it back.
Not because you weren’t proud of him. You were. You were in awe.
But something about it all was unravelling you.
And you didn’t know how to tell him that.
So instead, you kissed him. Soft. Grateful. A little desperate.
He kissed you back like it was the only thing in the world that made sense. There was no red carpet, no cameras, just this. Just you.
He guided you backwards to the bed, slowly, carefully giving you an out, a chance to say not tonight.
You didn't want to say not tonight. You wanted to lose yourself in him, to bring everything inward until the whole world consisted of the two of you and nothing else.
When he finally moved over you, slid into you with a groan that sounded like he'd found home, heaven and salvation all at once, it felt like something cracked open. Like the space between your bodies, your minds, had finally narrowed into something you could handle.
You wrapped your legs around his waist, your nails scraping down his back as he rocked into you, slow and deep and unyielding. His forehead pressed to yours.
"I need this, I need you," you breathed.
“I'm going nowhere," he murmured. "Not without you."
His pace picked up, rougher now, chasing something neither of you could name. Each thrust dragged you closer to the edge, a mix of pleasure and emotion that threatened to swallow you whole. You clung to him like gravity had shifted, like he was the only thing holding you down.
You came again with a cry muffled against his shoulder, and he followed, hoarse and shaking, burying his face in your neck.
You collapsed beside him, both of you sticky with sweat, the sheets twisted between your legs. He propped himself on one elbow and dragged a hand through his hair, still catching his breath.
You curled into his side. His fingers traced lazy circles on your skin. He kissed your shoulder once, then settled behind you.
Sleep came easier than you expected.
But the morning brought the weight back.
You were already dressed when he woke up, standing by the window, arms folded tight over your chest. Watching the sun rise over the sprawl of LA like you might find clarity in the haze.
He sat up in bed, hair rumpled, squinting at you.
“You ok?” he asked.
You nodded, but didn’t turn.
He got up, crossed the room, wrapped his arms around you from behind. His chin on your shoulder. You leaned back into him instinctively, letting him hold you up.
And for a second, it felt like maybe this was enough.
But then he spoke. Stepping away from you, holding you at arms length.
“We’re winning everything,” he said quietly, eyes locked on hers. “So why does it feel like we’re losing each other?”
You looked away. Your hands were shaking.
“I don’t… I’m not - Look, you don’t owe me anything, Bucky. You’ve got a whole life waiting for you -”
“So do you.” His voice was low, rough. “But, sweetheart, you keep walking away from it.”
The silence stretched between you. Heavy and sharp.
He stepped closer. Not touching you, just reaching out in the space between.
“Did I do something?”
Your chest cracked open. “No,” you said quickly. Too quickly, too defensively. “God, no. You’ve been - this whole time, you’ve been...” You shook your head and tried to swallow the enormous lump of emotion stuck in your throat. “You’re not the problem.”
He waited. Watched you crumble.
“Then what is?” He pleaded. “Baby, I want to help - please?”
You blinked, and the tears fell.
“The Globes.” Your voice splintered. “That night when I heard those people talking. Saying it was a quiet year. I was just lucky. That I didn’t deserve it.”
Bucky swore softly under his breath. “You can’t believe that crap.”
“I already do,” you whispered.
That was the truth. The rot you couldn’t scrape out. The voice in your head that sounded so much like them, so much like fear and so much louder than love.
He stepped forward, hands out. “You don’t have to do this alone.”
You broke. Finally, completely.
“I think I do, Bucky.” Your whole body shook. “I love you. But I can’t do this. I - I need to go home.”
He stared at you like the ground had dropped out beneath him. But you were already moving, already throwing things into a bag, your mind racing to come up with a plan.
“Are you coming back?” he asked hoarsely, still caught off guard by your snap decision.
Your breath caught. Your heart was in pieces.
“I don’t know,” you mumbled through tears. “I don’t even know if I want this anymore -”
“Me or the career?” His voice cracked.
You looked at him, broken. Watching his heart break and knowing you were the cause.
“I don’t know,” you sobbed. “I don’t know.”
He didn’t speak.
Just stood with his hands curled into fists, jaw locked like if he moved, he might shatter.
You wiped your face with shaking fingers. Picked up your bag.
“I'm so sorry,” you whispered thickly through your tears.
Neither of you said goodbye.
Not really.
The hotel door clicked shut behind you, and it felt like the end of something.
Maybe everything.
You weren't brave enough to call the girls, so you fired of a quick message.
Going home. Can someone collect the rest of my stuff from Bucky's suite please? Will call you later xx
You'd never arrived at the airport without a flight booked before. Everything was normally so meticulously organised, but this time you found yourself at the BA check-in desk clutching your passport and begging to be put on the next flight to London.
Five hours waiting at LAX, a twelve hour flight and a three hour train ride. Less than twenty-four hours after running your own life, you were where you needed to be.
The cab pulled away quietly, tires cracking over the frostbitten tarmac. You stood at the bottom of the short garden path, your bag slung over your shoulder.
Your hand hovered over the door handle for a moment before you turned it.
It opened from the other side before you could push.
“Dad -” your voice cracked immediately. Your face crumpled.
“Oh, pudding,” he said sadly on seeing you.
You didn’t even try to smile. Just stepped into his arms like you were fifteen and heartbroken and coming home from youth club early. He held you tightly in a familiar bear hug.
“I didn’t know where else to go,” you mumbled into his jumper. Your voice cracked again. “I’m sorry -”
“Don’t be daft,” he said gently. “You’re home. Come on, I’ll get you a brew.”
You kicked your shoes off in the hallway. The house smelled like toast and fabric softener and somehow, faintly, your mum’s perfume.
He didn’t ask questions. Just let you crawl onto the sofa and pulled the blanket off the back of it, tucking it around your legs like he used to when you were sick.
You sank into the cushions. The same pictures on the mantlepiece, the same afternoon quiz shows on the TV. It all made you feel young again, and not in a good way.
Just small.
Small and tired and done.
He came back in, pressed a fresh mug of tea into your hands, and sat down beside you with a sigh.
For a long time, neither of you spoke.
Then, finally, quietly, he said, “Your mum would know what to say. She always did.”
You stared into your mug until tears filled your eyes. You wanted your mum more than anything. Her hug, her reassurance, her tenacity. But the man next to you on the sofa was equally important.
“You don’t have to be her,” you whispered sadly.
He didn’t say anything.
You looked at him. “I missed you, Dad.”
His jaw tensed, blinking fast. He rubbed a hand over his face and nodded.
“Yeah, well,” he muttered. “I watch all your stuff, you know. Pretend I don’t sometimes, but I do.”
That made you huff out a laugh through your tears.
You set the mug down on the coffee table and leaned into him, curled into his side with the blanket clutched in your fists.
He let out a slow breath.
“That young man you’ve been hanging about with,” he said after a pause. “He the reason you’re here?”
You nodded, barely.
“Did he hurt you?”
“No,” you whispered. “I hurt him.”
He was quiet for a long time, just rubbing a slow circle between your shoulder blades.
“Then go easy on yourself, love,” he said gently. “If he’s worth the tears, he’ll wait. And if he won’t… you’ve still got me.”
You let out a small, broken laugh against his chest.
He wrapped an arm around you and said nothing else. Just held you, his own tears landing in your hair while you cried into his jumper for the things you lost, for the things you gave up, and for the man you loved but couldn’t hold onto.
The filming process is an intense and tiring one. People get closer than you would expect. There’s no real space for distance—not when you’re spending hours, days, and months together in the same blood-stained costumes, crawling through fake mud, and sprinting from choreographed hordes of the infected. The schedule is relentless. Call times at 4 AM or even 11 PM to get the perfect shots. From the first warm, buzzing hours of morning, to the hollow, delicate quiet of night, where voices soften and glances linger longer than they should.
So it’s no surprise to anyone that you and Abby, your co-star, grow close. A bond forming not with grand gestures, but in the in-between moments: in the makeup trailer where she hands you a granola bar without being asked, during downtime where you're both slumped over a couch flipping through lines, or wrapped in thick coats during late-night pickups in freezing woods. A friendship blooming gently between takes, stitched together with jokes, inside references, and quiet companionship.
During late-night rehearsals, huddled under scratchy set blankets, reciting lines like whispered secrets. Between takes, when she pulls a fake blood smear off your cheek with the sleeve of her hoodie and grins like it’s normal.
She’s always been kind to you, right from the first table read. You remember how that day had felt — fluorescent lights, coffee gone cold, nerves tangled tight in your chest. You remember the first table read—stale coffee, scribbled notes, nerves curled tight in your chest like wire. It was your first big job. The first time your name was printed on a call sheet next to actors you’d watched on screen, in a show people were actually anticipating. You wanted to be good. You needed to be good.
Everyone sat around the long table flipping pages, already slipping into character. You were halfway through your second scene when you stumbled—your tongue catching, a word mangled in your mouth. You laughed nervously, trying to recover, your cheeks burning.
But no one rolled their eyes. No one sighed or looked away. One of the older actors, Joel, gave you a reassuring nod. Someone else made a light joke to ease the moment. The room softened. The cast—so much more seasoned than you—met your mistake with kindness, and you held on to that.
Still, later, as you gathered your script and tried to disappear into the background, Abby approached you with that soft confidence of hers.
“Want to run lines later, just us?”
You nodded, surprised—and relieved. Her smile lingered as she walked away, and you found yourself wondering what her real laugh sounded like. Not the polite one. The one she'd use when no one else was around.
You’d spent the whole day shooting a chaotic chase—running from stunt actors in torn makeup and prosthetics, tumbling down snowy hills, slipping and swearing and laughing through it. By the time the director called cut, you could barely feel your hands.
Someone tossed you both a blanket. Abby didn’t hesitate to pull it over your shoulders, scooting closer. She handed you her coffee. You sat there, shoulder to shoulder, steam curling between your faces, watching crew members adjust lighting.
Neither of you said anything. You didn’t need to.
You were choreographing a heated argument for Episode 5 — the big turning point for your characters. The fake meeting room was echoey and too bright, the stunt coordinator running through blocking while the director hovered nearby with script notes. Abby’s voice rang out, sharp and electric. You answered, stepping toward her with a force that surprised even you. Her eyes locked with yours—angry, wild, alive. You open your mouth to keep arguing, but no sound came out.
You’d forgotten the next line, vanished from your head.
The silence was deafening.
The stunt coordinator cleared their throat. You blinked. Abby blinked. You both laughed it off. But something had cracked open. A tension neither of you had admitted yet. A moment that shouldn’t have meant anything… but did.
And then, of course, there were the kisses.
Because your characters were one of the central couples. A slow-burn, enemies-to-lovers arc that had the internet foaming at the mouth, spinning wild theories, and counting glances ever since the trailer for season two dropped. It didn’t help that the writers loved to give you every cliché in the book: bandaging each other’s wounds, brushing fingertips over bruised cheeks, forbidden touches, whispered apologies. And then, the inevitable kisses.
They weren’t the fake, peck kind. Real, intense, close-up shots. They were slow, burning, intentional— the kind of scenes that ended with neither of you pulling away fast enough. Then the director would yell “Cut!” and you had to compose yourself for the next take, ignoring the fast pace of your heart and the butterflies in your stomach.
Your characters weren't meant to be a couple from the beginning, it just kinda happened throughout the filming process. The crew saw the interactions both in screen and off and decided to add the storyline to the show. A fact that you absolutely did not lose sleep thinking about.
They saw something. Something that maybe you didnt notice, or didn't want to notice.
A few weeks before the season finale wrapped, you did a round of interviews together. Press junkets meant long days in hotel rooms decorated with fake plants and branded posters behind you. One after another, the questions came: plot hints, favorite scenes, behind-the-scenes stories. You answered with practiced ease, laughing at the same jokes you’d already heard in three other interviews that morning.
But then a new interviewer leaned forward, smiling with real curiosity.
“So—what’s it like filming The Last of Us? The tone is so intense. How do you carry that around day to day?”
You started to answer, talking about the hours of emotional prep, the physical exhaustion of action scenes, the night shoots. But the interviewer cut in again, gently:
“And how is your dynamic in real life… What’s the hardest part about playing enemies when you're clearly besties off camera?”
Abby nearly choked on her water. You both laughed— hers easy, yours a little forced.
“That’s a very generous assumption,” you joked, looking at her through the side of your eye.
Abby leaned forward toward the mic, still smiling. “No, but seriously—it’s hard sometimes. I have to scream at this one,” she gestured to you, “and meanwhile, she’s giving me puppy eyes. It’s unfair.”
“Puppy eyes?” you echoed, mock offended. You laugh, shaking your head slightly, now looking at the interviewer, continuing to talk. “ We spent a lot of time together, on set and off. We had seen each other laugh, and we have seen each other cry. “
“Especially you” Abby interrupted. “Yeah especially me” you said rolling your eyes. You looked at Abby, the beginning of a grin tugging at your mouth. “I think we just got lucky. We clicked early, and it made everything easier.“ Abby nodded. “Yeah. It helped that we took care of each other, I think. Especially on the hard days.”
After a beat, she turned to you, eyes soft but playful. “It’s weird to pretend to hate you.”She said, tilting her head towards you, her voice a bit more serious all of a sudden, but subtle enough that to the average person wouldnt notice.
The interviewer laughed, scribbling something on their notepad. But you could feel something in the room shift—just a little. A breath longer than usual between you. A glance that lingered. You smiled down at your lap, hoping the cameras didn’t pick up the heat rising in your cheeks.
Abby was still looking at you when the next question started.
You didn’t realize it at first. Not until a month into the press tour.
You were sitting cross-legged on the floor beside her, the both of you surrounded by wriggling puppies. A bright blue backdrop was rolled out behind you, stretching beneath your shoes and under the soft chaos of fur and tails. Behind the camera, the crew chuckled quietly while the interviewer asked the same recycled questions—your characters, the storyline, your “off-screen dynamic.”
It should have been like any other shoot. But it wasn’t.
Maybe it was the way the light hit her hair, turning it to liquid gold as it spilled over her shoulders. Maybe it was the way your knees kept bumping and neither of you moved away. Maybe it was just the chemical high of being surrounded by small creatures with tiny tongues and too-big ears.Or maybe it was what she said.
She was talking about the show—about the world-building, the weight of grief and survival, the emotional arc of your characters. And she spoke with so much clarity, so much love for the work itself, that it stunned you. Her eyes lit up when she got excited, and she gestured with her hands in these sharp, specific ways, like she was building something real in the air between you.
And as you listened, something inside you shifted.
Because it wasn’t just the beauty of her smile, or the sparks from your every shared glance.
It was admiration. Deep-rooted, overwhelming admiration.
You were in awe of her—of the way she thought, the way she cared, the way she saw the world.
And somewhere in the middle of her laugh—her real laugh, the one she only used off-script—you felt it settle into your chest.
A truth you hadn’t let yourself name until now. You were in love with her. With the one person who knew you in ways no one else ever had.
The next few weeks blurred by in a haze of cameras, airports, interviews, hotel rooms, and restraint. You tried not to think about it, tried to bury it.
You told yourself all the reasons you shouldn’t feel this way. You worked together. You spent nearly every waking hour in each other’s space. Every glance, every joke, every shift in body language was being recorded, replayed, dissected online. You had seen the compilations fans made of your every interaction, zooming in the eyes and hands during press tours and behind the scenes leaks. Everything you shared was already under a spotlight.
You couldn’t risk it—not the show, not your friendship, not the fragile, sacred thing that had grown between you. Because if you said something, and she didn’t feel the same— or worse, if she did and it all went wrong— you’d lose her.
That’s what your brain told you—stern, logical, insistent.
But your heart? Your heart didn’t care.
It painted pictures behind your eyes when you weren’t looking. A life with her. Days spent traveling. Nights curled together on a too-small couch. Lazy mornings. Grocery runs. Her head on your shoulder while folding laundry. Mundane things that, with her, felt like magic.
You smiled. You laughed. You answered the same press questions with the same lighthearted rhythm. And all the while, you loved her in silence.
Carefully. Hopelessly. Constantly.
Because she was the closest thing to home you’d ever found— and you couldn’t bear to risk losing her just to find out if she felt it too.
You were completely, hopelessly screwed.
After that day, something in you began to shift. Not all at once. Nothing dramatic. Just small things—subtle acts of self-preservation.
You started keeping a little more distance. Leaning a little less when you sat beside her. Laughing without looking too long. Letting the space between your bodies stretch further than before.
You told yourself it was for the best. Because now, everything felt heightened. Every moment alone with her was laced with tension. Every smile from her made your chest ache in ways you couldn’t explain. You began to dread the softness in her voice when she said your name, because your body heard it as something it wasn’t allowed to be.
So you pulled away. Carefully. Quietly. Hoping she wouldn’t notice.
But Abby noticed.
At first, it was confusion in her expression—tilting her head at you when you ended conversations too soon, when you excused yourself from dinners with the cast, when you sat one chair farther than usual in interviews. You caught her watching you more often, brow furrowed like she was trying to solve a puzzle she hadn’t meant to find.
One night, after a long day of press, she knocked on your hotel door holding two cups of coffee and a movie queued up on her phone. Like old times.You hesitated before opening the door. And when she handed you the cup, you didn’t let your fingers brush hers like you used to.
She noticed that too.
She didn't say anything—not then. Just curled up on the opposite side of the bed, eyes flickering between the screen and your profile in the glow of the hotel lamp. But the silence between you had changed. It wasn’t the comfortable kind anymore. It was full of things unsaid.
You wanted to tell her the truth. That you were pulling away not because you cared less—but because you cared too much. That being around her was starting to hurt. That every small thing she did—every laugh, every spark of passion when she talked about your work—was undoing you.
But you didn’t say it. You stayed quiet. Because loving her from a distance felt safer than losing her altogether.
And so, night after night, you played your part. You showed up to interviews, smiled for photos, answered fan questions. You nodded when someone mentioned your "great chemistry" and kept your eyes on the floor when she talked about your friendship. But still—every time she looked at you like she was trying to read a language you no longer spoke, your heart cracked a little deeper.
The blinding flashes of the cameras, everyone screaming your name to get your attention and capture the perfect picture that would get them their pay/check for that month. It's all too much, but you don't notice it this time, as your focus is set just a few feet in front of you.
Abby, with her hair styled in a messy shag and a criminal olive green suit, was grabbing the waist of her girlfriend of two years. They look perfect together—picture-perfect. Their bodies angled just right, their smiles wide but effortless. Abby leans in to say something and her girlfriend laughs, head thrown back, fingers tightening around Abby’s.
Suddenly, your outfit feels too tight, the flashes brighter, the shouting louder, and the distance even bigger.
But then you pulled away. You had to. You told yourself it was kindness. That distance would protect you, both of you. That silence was better than guilt, or confusion, or regret.
But standing here now, a few steps too far from where you wish you were, all you feel is the hollow echo of what you didn’t say.
You feel your heart shatter into a million pieces. You knew she had someone. They hadn't been out together in a while and their last post was over a month ago. You had kinda forgotten about her. Your mind erased her to allow your wishes and fantasies to run wild—stupid, reckless fantasies.
You take in a deep breath and try to compose yourself, facing the cameras once more and putting on another Oscar-worthy performance, smiling and posing as if you didn't feel a knot forming in your throat, how your eyes burned, and your fingers twitched, trying to stop the little life you imagined with her from slipping away.
Because she wasn't yours, and she never will.
Hiii! This is my first time ever writing like seriously and in English so please be kind. If you have any constructive criticism or I messed up in something, please let me know! Hope you liked it!
