Written In The Stars
(Garfield Logan X Batsis!Reader)
Word Count: 5,215
Debrief: A fake relationship. A holiday movie. Two heroes who are great actors, but suck at pretending.
Case Notes: Merry Christmas, ya filthy animals!
You’re already in the conference room when it happens.
Script in hand. Fingers tight around the pages like they might float away if you loosen your grip at all. You tell yourself this is fine. You’ve faced down meta-humans, alien invasions, your father’s disapproving eyebrow— this is just a table read.
Just your first major film role. Just your first lead. Just a room full of award winning actors, studio executives, and a director whose last movie shattered about 7 different box office records.
No pressure.
You feel eyes on you— an assistant director hovering nearby, doing a terrible job pretending they aren’t. You know why. Everyone here knows why. Bruce Wayne’s daughter doesn’t walk into a room without causing a ripple.
You’re mid-breath, mid-don’t panic, when the door opens, and You don’t have to look up to know who it is.
Garfield Logan strolls in like he owns the place—hoodie, easy confidence, that stupidly bright smile that has absolutely no right to be as disarming as it is. He pauses when he sees you, eyes widening just enough to sell it.
Like he didn’t already know. Like you didn’t see him last week, bruised and laughing while you wrapped his ribs after training.
“Hey,” he says, casual, charming, perfectly rehearsed, “You must be Y/N Wayne.”
You force yourself to look up. To smile. To play the part.
Across the table, the director lights up like they’ve just witnessed fate in real time. This, apparently, is what a perfect first meeting looks like.
You give Garfield a polite, distant, celebrity-approved smile, hand extended in that princess way that the media always comments about.
“Garfield Logan, right?” you say, “I’m a huge fan of Space Trek 3000.”
He grins, wide and familiar. The exact grin he gives you during Titan briefings when he knows he’s about to be annoying on purpose.
You’re internally screaming. Because you’ve patched this man up with your bare hands. Because he knows exactly who you are when the mask is on. Because this whole ‘pretending not to know each other’ is ridiculous, even if it is necessary.
“Big fan, huh?” Garfield says, sliding into the chair beside you. Of course the name cards put him there, leads should sit together, “Guess that makes us even. I’m a big fan of… uh… fashionable rich girls?”
You don’t even look at him when you kick his shin under the table. Lightly. Mostly.
He flinches but keeps smiling, keeps the bit going like a professional. You can practically hear his internal laughter.
The director leans toward the producer, voice hushed but thrilled, watching the two of you interact, “This chemistry is insane.”
“Hopefully it films just as well.”
You risk a glance at Garfield.
He shoots you a look that says, ‘Told you we could pull this off.’
You narrow your eyes back, ‘you are impossible.’
He only grins wider.
And somehow, as the table read begins and your voices fall into rhythm— easy, natural, and warm— you realize the worst part isn’t pretending you’ve never met.
It’s realizing how effortless it is to pretend you’re falling in love.
Which is horrible isn’t it?
After all, this is Tim’s friend. He’s your younger brother’s age, and things have always been too easy with him.
But this is just acting.
🎄❄️🎁❄️🎄
A month in, the nerves are gone. That almost scares you more. Almost.
Spring has crept in around the studio lot— trees green again, sunlight warm instead of sharp— but the soundstage is permanently frozen in December. Fake snow crunches underfoot. Garland hangs from every possible surface. Someone keeps the thermostat turned down so the breath fogs just right on camera.
You’re standing in the middle of a very fake town square, wrapped in your character’s coat, script still in hand.
Blocking today.
Everyone’s still on book, still calling lines now and then, but the movements are coming together. The movie is starting to exist. That alone makes your chest feel tight.
“Okay,” the director calls, clapping once, “Let’s walk through the tree-lighting scene again.”
This is the one.
The scene where your character— Wren—introduces T’ren to one of the cheesiest Earth traditions imaginable. Lights. Music. Hot drinks. Community warmth manufactured in the name of Holiday Spirit.
You take your place near the massive evergreen prop. Garfield steps in opposite you, and you think for a moment how lucky he is to already be green, an not needing hours of makeup. He’s already wearing that slightly lost look he’s perfected over five seasons of playing aliens.
Only this one is softer. Curious instead of commanding.
You watch him tilt his head, script half-lowered, eyes tracing the lights woven through the branches.
“In my culture,” Garfield reads, voice careful, accented just enough, “illumination is purely functional.”
You smile at him— at T’ren— and answer from the page, “Here, it’s not about function. It’s about the magical feeling that bubbles in your chest when you look at them.”
You reach for his hand on the cue, fingers brushing his palm.
Even knowing it’s coming, even having done it a dozen times already, the contact still sends something warm up your arm.
“Hold there,” the director says softly, “That’s good. That’s really good.”
Garfield’s thumb shifts, running against your knuckle in a way that’s not exactly in the blocking notes.
You glance up at him.
He’s watching the lights like they’ve genuinely surprised him.
And for half a second, you forget the cameras. Forget the crew and the script. The world has simmered down to just this moment.
You remember him on rooftops instead, looking at city lights after missions, grinning like he was on top of the world, joking about whatever had happened that night.
“Okay,” the director continues, oblivious to the internal battle you were fighting. “Y/N, you’re explaining the tradition. Garfield, you’re… learning.”
Garfield lets out a quiet laugh in character, “You do this every year?”
“Every year,” you say in agreement, looking from him to the lights. Then, because the line feels natural, you add softly, “Even when things get hard.”
The director straightens, “—That wasn’t in the script.”
You freeze.
Garfield doesn’t. He smiles at you, warm and real and a little too sincere, “I like that.”
The director’s eyes light up, “Keep that. Let’s keep that.”
You drop your gaze back to the page, heart thudding. Because that line didn’t come from Wren.
It came from you.
They reset you for another scene— hot cocoa this time. Styrofoam cups standing in for something meant to feel comforting and familiar.
You mime blowing on the drink while Garfield frowns at his cup.
“It is… aggressively warm,” he reads.
You laugh. It slips out before you can stop it, “Yeah, That’s kind of the point.”
“Again,” the producer murmurs from behind the monitors, “They’re effortless. Just look at them.”
Garfield leans closer under the guise of hitting his mark.
“You’re doing amazing,” he murmurs, just for you, “You know that, right?”
You swallow, “So are you.”
He tilts his head, soft green eyes gazing at you, “Guess stepping out of the box wasn’t such a bad idea.”
You don’t answer, because suddenly you’re aware of something dangerous blooming beneath the surface. This isn’t just acting anymore.
This is comfort. Routine. A closeness that feels real enough to forget where the line is supposed to be.
🎄❄️🎁❄️🎄
Lunch starts as a mercy.
It’s summer now, the soundstage doors thrown open between takes, fake snow traded for real sunlight. Filming days are long, and you’ve been running lines since sunrise when Garfield leans over during a reset and murmurs, “You want to escape before they feed us another sad catering salad?”
You don’t even hesitate, “Abso-fucking-lutely.”
No disguises. No big production. Just the two of you walking a few blocks from the lot, scripts shoved into tote bags, sunglasses pulled on more out of habit than secrecy.
It’s innocent.
You sit at a little outdoor café tucked between two shops, heat shimmering off the pavement. Garfield orders something vegan. You steal a fry off his plate without asking.
“Rude,” he says, grinning.
You smile into your drink, “Please. I’ve been stealing your food for years, and now it’s rude?”
He snorts— then catches himself, glancing around, “Wow. Method acting really has us deep in character.”
You kick his foot under the table this time, lighter. Familiar. It’s easy. Too easy.
He talks about wanting to do something weird after this movie— indies, voice work, maybe theater. You talk about how surreal it feels to be here, how this is the first time something is yours without your father’s shadow looming quite so large.
When you head back to set, shoulders brushing, it doesn’t even occur to you that anyone is watching.
🎄❄️🎁❄️🎄
The director notices immediately.
Not in a bad way.
Garfield is mid-laugh when you return, saying something under his breath that makes you grin, and the director claps their hands together.
“Yes,” they say. “This. This is exactly what I want. My leads actually like each other.”
The producer hums approvingly, “It reads on camera.”
No one thinks anything of it. You’re friends. Colleagues. Comfortable.
It’s perfect.
The next morning, it isn’t.
You’re halfway through your coffee when your phone starts vibrating like it’s possessed.
Dick.
Kori.
Barbara.
Even Alfred.
You open a text from Garfield first.
Garfield:
So… have you looked at the internet today or should I warn you?
Your stomach drops.
You open your browser.
There you are. Sunglasses, hair loose, laughing across a café table. Garfield across from you, leaning in, elbow on the table, looking unbearably fond.
The headline screams:
HOLIDAY ROMCOM LEADS HEAT UP SUMMER — ON-SCREEN CHEMISTRY SPILLS OFF CAMERA!
There are more. Dozens. Speculation. Analysis. Slow-motion clips of him smiling. Of you touching his arm.
You feel dizzy.
You didn’t even know anyone was around.
The director calls a meeting by noon.
You sit across from them and the producer, hands folded in your lap, nervous pulse loud in your ears. Garfield sits beside you, leg bouncing.
The director doesn’t look upset. He looks excited.
“This is great,” he says.
Garfield blinks, “sorry— what?”
The producer slides a tablet across the table, analytics glowing on the screen, “Engagement is already spiking. Fans are eating this up.”
You swallow, “We were just having lunch.”
“And that’s perfect,” the director says brightly, “Natural. Unplanned. Authentic.”
Garfield’s knee stills, cause he’s bee in the industry long enough, he knows what’s about to be said, “You’re not suggesting—”
“A soft PR relationship,” the producer finishes, “Nothing scandalous. Just leaning into what people already think.”
Your chest tightens.
The director leans forward, “Look, I wouldn’t push this if it didn’t already work. But the chemistry is lethal. Come premiere time? This could boost ticket sales significantly.”
You glance at Garfield and his expression is careful now. Guarded in a way you’ve only seen before missions.
“This would be fake,” he says slowly.
The producer shrugs, “So is acting.”
The words hit harder than you expect. The director smiles at you, gentle and disarming, “Think about it. You’re both professionals. And honestly? The audience already believes it.”
You nod because you don’t trust your voice.
Later, alone with Garfield outside the trailer, the summer air feels heavier than it should.
“I hate this,” he says quietly.
You let out a shaky breath, a slow nod before tucking some loose hair behind your ear, “Me too.”
He looks at you then— not Captain Tork, not T’ren, not a romcom lead— but Garfield. Your friend. Your teammate.
“We don’t have to say yes,” he adds.
You know he means it. You also know the machine you’re up against.
You don’t talk about it on set.
You get through the rest of the day on muscle memory alone— hit your marks, say your lines, smile when needed. It’s only once the trailers thin out and the sun dips low that Garfield finds you sitting on the steps behind your trailer, shoes kicked off, script abandoned beside you.
He lowers himself next to you without asking.
“Okay,” he says gently. “Boundaries.”
You huff a laugh, nudging your shoulder to his, “Straight to business. So unlike you.”
“Has to be,” he replies, “Otherwise this gets weird fast.”
You glance at him. The guy you’ve seen a million times but he’s not Beast Boy now, or T’ren, just Garfield, green hair still damp from sweat, eyes tired but earnest.
“Rule one,” you say, “No lying to each other.”
He nods immediately, “Non-negotiable.”
“Rule two,” you continue, “anything physical for cameras gets discussed first. No surprises.”
“Agreed,” he says, “Absolutely agreed.”
You exhale, shoulders easing a fraction.
“Rule three,” he adds, hesitating just a bit, “We don’t let this mess with… us. Whatever this is.”
Your chest tightens as you nod in agreement, “Yeah.”
Silence stretches between you, heavy but not uncomfortable.
“Rule four,” you say quietly, “We keep our hero lives out of it. Er, mine at least. No leaks. No jokes. No ‘slips.’”
Garfield smiles faintly, a short, breathy laugh passing his lips, “I like not dying. So yes.”
You finally laugh, and He nudges your shoulder, “And if either of us wants out?”
“Immediate stop,” you say, “No pressure. No guilt.”
“Deal.”
He holds out his hand like it’s a business agreement. You take it.
🎄❄️🎁❄️🎄
The call comes three days later.
You’re in your apartment, curled on the couch with takeout when your phone lights up.
Bruce Wayne calling. A picture of you and him from the family gala last year.
You stare at it and you consider not answering.
You answer anyways, “Hi, Daddy.”
There’s a pause on the other end— long enough that you know he’s choosing his words carefully.
“Are you dating Garfield Logan?” he asks, Straight to the point. Of course.
You close your eyes, breathing out an answer, “No… I mean, yes. But also no.”
Another pause.
“Explain,” Bruce says, calm but sharp. The same tone he uses in the Cave.
You sit up, “It’s a PR relationship. The studio suggested it after paparazzi photos. We agreed to lean into the rumors for the film.”
Silence. Longer this time. You know your father well enough you can practically feel him assessing risk, motive, fallout.
“So you are pretending to date,” he says slowly.
“Yes.”
“For publicity.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re comfortable with this?” he asks, cautious, worried for his daughter.
You hesitate, but answer carefully , “I’m… aware of what it is. We set boundaries. I’m safe.”
Bruce exhales. You don’t hear him do that often.
“Garfield Logan is a known hero,” he says, “That helps.”
You smile faintly, “High praise.”
“I’m serious,” he continues, serious now, “Public attention invites scrutiny, honey. Scrutiny leads to patterns. Patterns lead to discoveries.”
“I know,” you say softly, “I won’t let it touch my other life.”
Another pause.
Then, quieter: “If it stops being pretend—”
“I’ll tell you,” you interrupt, already knowing what he wants, “Immediately.”
He hums, thoughtful.
“And if it becomes a problem,” Bruce adds, “I will intervene.”
You snort, a relieved giggle following, “I assumed.”
But his voice softens, just a little, “I trust you, sweetheart.”
The words land heavier than any warning could have, “Thanks, Daddy.”
When you hang up, your phone buzzes again, a text this time.
Gar 🦖:
Everything okay? You went quiet.
You type back before you can overthink it.
You:
Bruce knows. It went… better than expected.
Three dots.
Gone.
Three dots again
Gar 🦖:
Wow. I feel honored
and slightly terrified. 😬
You smile despite yourself.
You:
Get used to it, Captain Tork.
A moment later:
Gar 🦖:
Hey. For what it’s worth…
I’ve got you. Fake or not.
Your chest tightens and you set the phone down, staring at the ceiling.
Because somewhere between boundaries and phone calls and pretending, you’re starting to realize that the butterflies in your stomach are probably not something you can continue to brush off as acting.
🎄❄️🎁❄️🎄
You wake up in a different city with your phone already buzzing.
New hotel. New time zone. New headlines.
The morning shows have been talking about the movie for days now, teasing “a surprise announcement” from its leads, and by the time you’re being ushered into a car with tinted windows and a PA rattling off reminders, you know exactly what today is.
Your first real PR moment. Not photos on a carpet. Not rumors and speculation. Confirmation… sorta.
Garfield sits beside you in the back seat, legs folded awkwardly, suit immaculate in that way that looks effortless on him. He glances over, catching the tension in your shoulders.
“Hey,” he murmurs, “We’ve got this, Mama. Relax.”
You nod, fingers tightening briefly around your coffee cup, the nickname that once made you roll your eyes making something twist in your chest now, “We’re just… talking.”
“Exactly,” he says with a soft grin, “and You’re great at that.”
The studio rep riding shotgun turns around, “Ten minutes out. Once you’re on the couch, keep it warm, keep it genuine. If they ask about the relationship—”
“We confirm,” Garfield says easily, but your stomach flips anyway.
🎄❄️🎁❄️🎄
The studio is bright and buzzing, cameras everywhere, applause light on, warming up the audience. You sit side by side on the talk show couch, knees angled toward one another just enough to read as intimate without being overplayed.
The host grins at you both, “So. Holiday romcom. Sci-fi twist. And apparently… romance off-screen too?”
The audience ooohs.
Garfield laughs first, easy and unbothered. He looks at you like he’s proud to be sitting there at all.
“Yeah,” he says, “We are together.” The words landing clean and confident.
You smile, a little smaller, a little more careful, “We didn’t plan for it to be public this way, but we’re happy, and we’re excited about the film.”
Humble. Grounded. Safe. The kind of answer that PR training has been pushed onto you since you were a teenager (Thanks, Bruce.)
The host nods, delighted, “Garfield, you’ve played aliens, captains, heroes. What’s different about this project?”
Garfield doesn’t hesitate, looking at you like you hung the stars, “Her.”
He gestures to you, hand warm at your back. The audience melts.
“She’s incredible. She works harder than anyone on that set, and she brings this heart to the role that makes the whole story just work.”
You smile at him, cheeks warm, “That’s very kind.”
The host laughs, “Very Wayne of you.”
You shrug lightly, “I just feel lucky to be there, really.”
The interview wraps with applause, clips of the movie trailer rolling on the monitors behind you— snowy kisses, glowing lights, a love story frozen in December while the world outside bakes in summer.
It all goes perfectly.
It’s when you leave that things shift.
The exit corridor behind the studio is narrow, meant for staff, not crowds— but word travels fast. A cluster of fans has gathered behind the barricades, phones out, voices overlapping.
“Garfield!”
“Y/N!”
“Over here!”
Security moves ahead of you, but the space is tight. You smile, wave, try to keep moving.
Someone reaches out, fingers brushing your arm. You flinch before you can stop yourself.
“It’s okay,” a voice says, too close, and unfamiliar, “Just a photo—”
The hand grabs your wrist. Not hard. Just startling enough that you jump a bit.
Garfield reacts instantly.
He steps in front of you, grip firm as he pulls your hand free and shifts you behind him. His body becomes a wall, broad and unyielding, one arm stretched back to keep you there.
“Don’t touch her,” he says.
The crowd goes quiet. A couple fans murmuring indistinctly.
The guy laughs nervously, “Hey, man, I was just—”
“You were just crossing a line,” Garfield cuts in, voice low, controlled, dangerously calm, “Back up.”
Security surges forward now, pushing the crowd back, but Garfield doesn’t move until the space clears. He glances over his shoulder at you.
“You okay?”
You nod, heart hammering, but not from the unwanted interaction, “Yeah.”
Only then does he relax— just a fraction— as he guides you forward, his hand settling at the small of your back.
Inside the car, the door shuts and the noise drops away.
Garfield exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair, “I hate that.”
You swallow, “You didn’t have to—”
“Yes,” he says immediately, before softening, “I did.”
You look at him, your gaze drifting over his features. This was supposed to be fake. Scripted. Safe. But the way he stood between you and the world didn’t feel like acting.
And as the car pulls away from the curb, city lights blurring past the window, you realize the danger isn’t the fans or the cameras.
It’s how real this is starting to feel and how hard it’s going to be to keep pretending it isn’t.
🎄❄️🎁❄️🎄
Filming wraps quietly.
Not with a big party or a dramatic goodbye— just a final “cut,” a round of applause, hugs exchanged under fake snow, and the slow dismantling of a world that pretended it was winter while you learned how to fall into something you weren’t supposed to name.
The PR relationship doesn’t end when the cameras do. The studio wants it to continue until just after the premier at least. And if anything…the relationship deepens.
🎄❄️🎁❄️🎄
The vacation is Garfield’s idea.
“You’ve been running nonstop for months,” he says over the phone, voice warm and lazy in a way that makes it hard to remember you’re both supposed to be busy people, “Come disappear with me for a bit.”
“Disappear where?” you ask.
“Tropics,” he replies immediately, “I know you love the beach. Somewhere with water so blue it looks fake and drinks with tiny umbrellas.”
You laugh, “That sounds very unlike you.”
“I contain multitudes, mama.” he says. “Also I found a place with zero paparazzi. Allegedly.”
You agree before you think too hard about it.
The photos that leak later— leak is generous, the paparazzi wasn’t there per se, but it wasn’t free of people. And you and Garfield are recognizable people. The photos are soft and sun-drenched. You barefoot in the sand. Garfield grinning like the world has finally stopped trying to eat him. His arm slung around your shoulders, your head tipped toward his chest like it’s always been there, his lips on your temple.
Fans lose their minds.
🎄❄️🎁❄️🎄
When you fly to LA between his filming blocks on Space Trek, it’s less dramatic and more domestic than you expect.
You curl up on his couch while he runs lines. He makes you coffee the way you like it without asking. You steal his hoodies because they’re comfortable and because you like the way he pretends to protest even though he really doesn’t care.
You catch yourself thinking about how This feels normal. That thought scares you.
He walks you through studio lotsand keeps a hand at your back out of habit more than show now. People smile when they see you together. No one questions it anymore.
Fans have deemed you Beauty and the Beast— a play on Garfield’s hero name and your previous pageant queen status.
🎄❄️🎁❄️🎄
The flowers start arriving at the Manor in late fall.
The first bouquet is enormous— bright, ridiculous, tropical blooms that clash hilariously with the stately foyer. Alfred raises an eyebrow when you come down the stairs.
“From Mr. Logan,” he says calmly, placing the card back into the peg, “He has excellent taste.”
You groan, “He’s showing off.”
“Perhaps,” Alfred replies, “Or perhaps he simply wishes you to smile, Miss.”
And you do Every time. The notes are short. Thoughtful. Sometimes teasing.
‘Saw this and thought of you.’
‘Miss you, mama’
‘Tell Bruce I promise I’m not corrupting you. Much.’
You text Garfield pictures of the arrangements, and he reacts with way too many heart emojis for someone who insists this is still technically fake.
🎄❄️🎁❄️🎄
The fan edits are unavoidable.
Slow-motion clips from the movie. Stolen moments from interviews. Vacation photos layered with soft music and captions like:
‘The way they look at each other 😍’
‘Look at them. I can’t.’ And
‘May this kind of love smack me in the face’
You send one to Garfield at two in the morning.
You:
Explain why this has 2 million views.
He replies almost instantly.
My Beast 💚:
Because we’re adorable. Next question.
You send another. One where he’s looking at you on the talk show couch like the rest of the world faded out.
You:
You’re not even subtle.
My Beast 💚:
Yeah, well. Neither are you.
He sends you a selfie he took from the vacation, you didn’t even know he had taken it. The two of you were curled up in bed, and you’re giggling, nuzzling your nose just under his jaw.
You stare at the screen longer than necessary.
🎄❄️🎁❄️🎄
One night, after a long day and too much thinking, you finally say it out loud, “This doesn’t feel like PR anymore.”
Garfield is quiet for a moment on the other end of the call.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “I know.”
Neither of you says what that means.
But when you hang up and glance around your room— at the flowers, the fan edits, the memories piling up— you realize something has shifted permanently.
The movie is finished. The story is out of your hands.
But whatever this is? It didn’t end when filming wrapped. It’s still rolling.
🎄❄️🎁❄️🎄
Christmas comes back around like a full circle moment you didn’t see coming.
The city is cold again. Actually cold this time— not air-conditioned December, but real winter that bites at your cheeks and fogs your breath. Lights wrap every lamppost outside the theater. Artificial snow drifts down for effect, catching in your hair and on Garfield’s shoulders as if the universe itself decided to lean in.
The premiere is huge.
Spotlights sweep the crowd. Fans are already screaming your names. Reporters cluster behind barricades, microphones poised. The movie’s title glows above the entrance in the same frosted-blue lettering you memorized months ago.
You stand just inside the car door, waiting.
Garfield turns to you first.
He’s wearing a white suit— tailored perfectly, subtle enough to be elegant but intentional enough that anyone with eyes will clock the color choice immediately. His tie is black, simple, matching the button up underneath.
You’re in white.
Not bridal— nothing that loud— but soft and luminous, like fresh snow under streetlights. Clean lines. Winter elegance. When you step closer, it’s impossible to ignore.
Matching. On purpose.
Garfield’s smile falters for half a second when he looks at you.
“…wow,” he breathes. “Okay. I might actually forget how to walk.”
You laugh, nerves buzzing through you like electricity, “You’re the one who picked the outfits.”
“Yeah,” he says, still staring, “But I didn’t account for you looking like that.”
The handler opens the door.
“Ready?”
You slide your hand into Garfield’s, second nature now.
“As I’ll ever be,” you say.
The red carpet explodes around you.
Cameras flash so fast it feels like lightning. Your names overlap in a dozen voices. Garfield lifts your joined hands slightly, waving with the other, grin wide and genuine.
You keep your smile softer. Gracious. Calm. The Wayne polish still there, but warmer now. LHappier.
They eat it up.
“Look this way!”
“Together!”
“Garfield, kiss her cheek!”
Someone laughs from the press line when they spot it.
“Oh my god— is that mistletoe?”
You follow their gaze.
Hung deliberately above one of the photo markers is a sprig of mistletoe, red ribbon tied neatly at the stem. You freeze for half a second, heart stuttering.
Garfield notices instantly.
He leans in, voice low, “Guess we’re contractually obligated.”
You snort, “I don’t think mistletoe is legally binding.”
“Let’s not test that theory.”
He turns fully toward you then, hands settling at your waist. The world seems to hush— not silent, but focused in on the moment.
“Okay?” he asks quietly.
You nod.
He kisses you. Not rushed. Not showy. Just warm and sure and real. The same kind of kiss he’d given you a hundred time now without the cameras around.
The crowd goes feral.
You hear shouting, applause, whistles. Someone yells that this is ‘better than the movie already.’ Snow drifts down around you as if timed, catching in Garfield’s hair when you pull back, laughing softly.
He rests his forehead against yours for a heartbeat longer than PR requires.
🎄❄️🎁❄️🎄
The film is a blur. Laughter in the right places. Sniffles during the quiet scenes. Applause at the kiss you filmed months ago when neither of you realized how much it would come to mean.
When the credits roll, Garfield squeezes your hand.
“You were amazing,” he whispers.
“So were you,” you whisper back.
for the first time, it doesn’t feel like a compliment between co-stars. It feels like truth. Like the honesty that slips from your lips after missions.
The car door shuts behind you, sealing out the noise.
Silence rushes in.
Then Garfield’s mouth is on yours again— hungry this time, relieved, restraint unraveling in the dark. His hand cups your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek like he’s making sure you’re still here.
You laugh softly against his lips, “Hi.”
“Hi,” he breathes, “I’ve been waiting all night to do that without cameras.”
You kiss him again, slower now, savoring the taste of him, When you pull back, his forehead drops to your shoulder for a moment.
He exhales— long, shaky, a brief kiss placed on your neck.
“Okay,” he says softly, “I need to say something before I chicken out.”
You still, your gaze shifting to his face as He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes bright and focused, serious in a way that’s all too familiar from titans work.
“I don’t want this to be pretend anymore,” he says, hands cupping your cheeks again, “I don’t want PR or soft launches or ‘we’ll see.’ I want—” He swallows, “I want you. For real. Official. No asterisks.”
Your heart pounds.
“Garfield—”
“I know,” he rushes on, “I know this started fake. I know the world got there before we did. But somewhere between the flowers and the vacation and, and you flying out just to sit on my couch while I ran lines…” He laughs quietly, “It stopped being a bit.”
He takes your hands, pressing them to his chest so you can feel how fast his heart is beating.
“As far as I’m concerned,” he says, voice rough, “you might just be the love of my life.”
Your breath catches.
He looks almost nervous now. Vulnerable in a way you’ve only ever seen in the quietest moments after failed missions.
“I don’t need an answer tonight,” he adds quickly, “I just— needed you to know.”
You don’t hesitate.
You lean in, kiss him softly, reverently, because you want this too, just as much as he does.
When you pull back, your forehead rests against his, “it’s real,” you say. “It’s been real.”
His smile breaks like a sunrise.
“Yeah?” he whispers.
“Yeah.”
The car rolls through the city, Christmas lights blurring past the windows, and for the first time since this all began… there’s nothing left to pretend.
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