Work Text:
“It will pass.”
That’s what everyone had said.
“You’ll work together, you’ll click and you’ll crush. Everyone does. How can they not?”
Always followed by that patient, knowing smile. “But as soon as it ends, the crush won’t linger. You’ll move on. Keep it as a flowery little memory of a great time.”
Then why does it still not feel like it, three months later?
You toss your round brush into the makeup bag, miss, and let it clatter onto the floor. The sigh that follows sounds heavier than it should. The trailer is quiet except for the faint hum of the air conditioner and the chaos you’ve been trying to tame for an hour now. Every time you pick something up - a stray bobby pin, a half-used tub of pomade, a hair clip that still carries the faintest hint of his cologne - you linger. You remember.
Three months since wrap, and you still remember.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You’ve been a hairstylist long enough to have brushed, curled, and teased the heads of Hollywood’s elite. You’ve worked early mornings, impossible deadlines, and a parade of faces so famous you stopped flinching at names a while ago. Not to brag - just to say, this shouldn’t have been any different.
But it was.
It started like every other assignment.
A polite knock on your trailer door, and a voice that carried warmth even through the thin wood.
“This hair and makeup?”
You turned, already smiling out of habit, when the door opened and he peeked in - dark curls, brown eyes that somehow looked soft even at an ungodly hour, the kind of polite smile that didn’t belong to a man who’d been on a dozen talk shows in a week.
“At your service,” you said, gesturing to the chair.
He stepped inside, and somehow the trailer felt smaller. Not in an uncomfortable way - more like he brought a kind of quiet gravity with him.
“Thank you,” he said, holding up two coffee cups. “I brought peace offerings. I know it’s early.”
You tried not to grimace. Coffee - your eternal enemy. You hated the stuff. The smell, the taste, the way it lingered. But the gesture was sweet, thoughtful in a way most actors weren’t. Usually, you were the one offering them comfort - tissues, hair spray, calm hands before a long shoot.
So you smiled, thanked him, and set the cup down beside your brushes.
He took the seat, setting his own coffee in his lap. “Be gentle,” he joked.
“I’m always gentle,” you replied, stepping behind him, hands hovering before they made contact.
The first few minutes were routine - sectioning, brushing, product. He made it easy. Some actors needed coaxing, or stayed silent like they were doing you a favor. But Pedro talked.
“So you’ve been on set long?” he asked, tone curious, not performative.
“Couple of years. I started in TV, then film. Guess I like waking up before sunrise and living on dry shampoo.”
He laughed, low and genuine. “That’s commitment. I’m usually half-asleep through hair and makeup. You must have seen things.”
You grinned. “Oh, the stories I could tell. But I’d lose my job.”
“Then tell me the nice ones.”
And you did - little harmless bits about production chaos, actors who fell asleep in your chair, directors who used too much dry ice. He laughed at all the right moments. You found yourself smiling more than usual, easing into the morning with a kind of warmth that wasn’t caffeine-induced.
He was attentive - not in a flirty way, but present. When you spoke, he actually listened. His eyes followed you in the mirror, soft and amused, and when he smiled, the corners wrinkled in a way that felt like sunlight.
You focused on his hair to distract yourself - thick salt-and-pepper curls, softer than you expected. Your fingers worked through them, methodical and careful, and you noticed the way his shoulders dropped a little under your touch.
He exhaled, a small sound of relaxation.
Happens all the time, you told yourself. People relax when you touch their scalp. It’s practically science. Still, there was something grounding about it - the weight of his trust, the way the quiet stretched between you in a comfortable hum.
“So,” he murmured, “what’s the verdict? Is there hope for my hair?”
You smiled, catching his gaze in the mirror. “Oh, plenty. It’s got character. That’s what we call it when it’s stubborn.”
He grinned.
When you finished, he leaned forward to look in the mirror, pulling a pair of glasses from his shirt pocket. You watched as he examined your work, turning his head left, then right.
“And here I was thinking nothing could tame my bedhead,” he said, smiling at his reflection - then at you.
“Yeah, well, they don’t call me an artist for nothing.”
You caught a faint whiff of his cologne as he stood - warm, woody, something that lingered just a second too long.
“Good luck out there,” you said automatically.
He laughed, soft and startled. “You know that’s bad luck, right?”
You smirked. “Sue me.”
He paused at the door, hand braced against the frame, one foot already out into the sunlight. “Would not dare it. Who’d be working magic on my hair tomorrow then?”
“See you bright and early,” you said.
He lifted his cup, and you mirrored the gesture with your untouched one.
“Fresh and fruity,” he said with a grin, and then he was gone - just like that, leaving a strange, bright quiet behind him.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Fresh and fruity,” you mumble under your breath. You don’t sound it. You don’t feel it.
The day had been long - the kind of shoot that stretches you thin, where every touch-up feels endless and every smile starts to ache in your cheeks. Still, the work was good. Steady. It paid your bills and got you places. Literally.
Three months ago, you were on a production in New York, shuffling between trailers and tiny on-set kitchens, learning how to live off coffee and granola bars. Now, you’re on Spain’s coast, soaking in the tail end of summer. Sunshine. Sea breeze. The promise of cold white wine after work and the kind of laughter that keeps exhaustion at bay.
It should be enough. It is enough.
You grab your small clutch, take one last look around the trailer - lights off, tools packed - and reach for your phone. Not because you’re expecting anything. Just out of habit. The screen stays blank. No messages.
Of course.
You shove it into your bag, lock the door behind you, and step out into the golden hour.
The air smells like sunscreen and salt. Crew voices drift from the terrace down by the beachside restaurant, music spilling faintly through the open doors. You can already hear the laughter - loud, warm, familiar. For a moment, you let it wash over you, convincing yourself it’s enough to drown out the quiet hum that always starts when you think of him.
You join the group just as someone raises a toast. A few glasses clink, and you sink into a chair, grateful for the distraction.
“Finally!” Susan, one of the sound designers, calls out. “We were about to start gossiping about you.”
“Please do,” you say, reaching for the pitcher of sangria. “Just make sure it’s flattering.”
The table erupts in laughter.
It’s easy to fall into it - the rhythm of inside jokes and crew banter. The table is cluttered with small plates: jamón, olives, patatas bravas, half-empty wine glasses catching the light.
“I’m telling you,” Susan says, picking up mid-story, “it was as if they tried to sabotage the sound design for that stupid sex scene. The amount of takes it took -" she pauses, mock exasperated, “I cannot.”
Everyone bursts into laughter again. You laugh too, though a little quieter, wine glass half-raised to your lips. Because of course that’s what she’s talking about. The day that’s been burned into your memory in every humiliatingly detailed way.
You can still see it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
That morning.
The trailer door opening.
Two coffee cups in his hands.
He’d made it a habit by then - three days in a row, always showing up with coffee. You’d long passed the point where you could confess that you hated the stuff. Also: he looked way to roughed up today to break the bad news to him now.
“Oh no,” you said, watching him slump into the chair. “Rough night?”
He exhaled, loud and theatrical. “Sex scene day.”
You laughed softly, spinning your comb between your fingers. “Ah. My condolences.”
“Yeah, it’s -" he rubbed his face, voice muffled. “It’s not that it’s bad, just… so fucking awkward.”
You grinned, pulling a section of his hair forward. “I can imagine. Half-naked, twenty people watching, someone yelling about lighting?”
He looked at you through the mirror, a mix of amusement and dread in his eyes. “You get it. People always think it’s glamorous. Like, no. It’s sweaty and weird and someone’s holding a boom mic over your head.”
“Don’t forget the intimacy coordinator.”
“Right,” he groaned. “Lovely person, by the way, but still… hard to feel sexy when someone’s yelling ‘lower your left shoulder.’”
You laughed again - genuinely, the kind that warmed your chest. “You know, I could offer you a plan B. Hide here all day, I’ll swear you never showed up.”
He chuckled, that rich, warm sound that hit somewhere low in your stomach. “You’d get fired.”
“Worth it,” you said lightly, reaching for your spray bottle.
He smiled, the corner of his mouth curling. “You’re dangerous.”
“Only mildly,” you replied, focusing on his curls, running your fingers through them, methodically working in product. You tried to ignore how his shoulders relaxed under your touch, how the air between you shifted.
“You ever think about how weird all that intimacy stuff is?” he said after a pause. “Like, pretending.”
You tilted your head, curious. “Pretending?”
“Yeah.” He hesitated, gaze drifting in the mirror. “You know… all that connection without connection. I don’t know. It’s not really my thing.”
You hummed thoughtfully. “Yeah, I get that. I could never do it, either. Kissing someone, touching them, all for show? Without feeling anything real? That’s just - weird.”
His eyes flicked up to meet yours in the mirror. There was something quiet in them. Curious. Almost searching.
“So you’re an emotional connection seeker then?”
You blinked, caught off guard by how direct it sounded.
“What?”
He smiled faintly. “There are all kinds of bonds. Some people crave physical closeness. Some need… shared experiences. Others -" his gaze lingered, soft and steady - “they can’t fake intimacy unless it’s real. Unless there’s trust.”
The words sank into you slowly, like warmth spreading through cold fingers.
“That’s me,” you admitted, maybe too quickly. “Abso-fucking-lutely. I’ve never had a one-night stand in my life.”
You regretted it the second it slipped out. Way too personal for 5 a.m. banter with a man you’d only met four days ago. But he didn’t laugh. Didn’t tease. Just looked at you, steady and unbothered, something thoughtful behind his expression.
“Same,” he said finally. “With the connection, I mean. One-night stands…” He shrugged. “I was young once.”
You grinned. “You still are! Look at you, rocking your - what - late forties? Fifties? Don’t say sixties!” you mock and put your hand in front of your mouth to fake shock. “You look FABULOUS for your age!”
“Careful,” he warned, feigning offense. “Respect your elders.”
“Oh, please. You don’t even get to complain about age when the internet collectively decided you’re their daddy.”
He groaned, dropping his head back against the chair. “I hate that word.”
“Well,” you said, smearing product between your palms, “you’re not helping your case, Mr. Salt-and-Pepper.”
He laughed, and it vibrated through the space - through you, if you were honest. His head tilted back as you pulled a few curls into place, his temple brushing lightly against your stomach. You froze for half a second before forcing your fingers to keep moving.
Professional. Stay professional.
“Besides,” you added quickly, “good dilfs are hard to find. They’ve got to milk the cow while it lasts.”
He made a face. “Did you just call me livestock?”
You grinned. “A very attractive livestock.”
“Wow. I feel so flattered.”
“Hey, I’m just saying, your hair screams take me right now.” You gave one last fluff of the curls. “Let me know when you want me to join you on set for a touch-up.”
He turned in the chair, grinning. “Dangerous,” he said again, voice low but amused.
You rolled your eyes. “Go make your awkward art, Pascal.”
He saluted you with his coffee cup, and then he was gone, leaving behind that same warm scent, the faint buzz of laughter, and something else you couldn’t quite name.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You drop onto the bed like a felled tree.
The hotel room swallows you in its too-white sheets and sterile stillness, all crisp linens and no soul. You let out a long groan, half-exhausted, half-defeated, the kind that comes after a night that ran too late, too warm, with too much laughter and just enough wine to make you forget the early shift tomorrow. Hell, makes you nearly forget another thing too.
You’d had chemistry with people before - plenty of them, really. It was part of your job and part of who you were. You were the one who made people feel at ease in the chair, who bridged awkward silences with light jokes and warmth. You’d been told you had “that energy” - friendly, open, the kind that could charm a brick wall into small talk. And maybe you’d flirted here and there too, casually, playfully, in the harmless, ephemeral way people in the industry do to make long days a little less dull.
But this?
Nothing about this was casual.
You bury your face into the pillow, as if pressure could squeeze out the memory of him. Pedro.
Your stomach flips at the thought of his laugh, the way he’d tilt his head when listening, how his eyes found you in the mirror before you even realized he’d entered the room. Every tiny thing he did had etched itself into you, burned there with impossible precision.
You roll onto your back and stare up at the ceiling, trying to will yourself into dreamless sleep. It doesn’t work. He’s there again, cutting through your thoughts with that same easy, gentle presence he had off camera.
You sigh. You really should’ve known better.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“You could’ve just told me!”
“It was so nice thoooouuugh,” you whined, dragging the vowels until he laughed. “You were so considerate, and I didn’t want to break your poor little heart!”
You’d fallen into this rhythm weeks ago, the two of you. It was easy now, familiar. Banter flowing as naturally as breath, teasing disguised as affection, affection disguised as teasing.
Pedro stood across from you, mock-offended. “You owe me, like, sixty bucks,” he said, counting imaginary coins into his palm. “That’s at least two weeks of coffee I brought you, only for you to throw it out when I wasn’t looking.”
You grinned and flicked a strand of hair from his forehead. “I’ll PayPal you double if that means you forget my rudeness.”
Today was the first day he hadn’t shown up holding an extra cup. Not because he’d forgotten, but because you’d overheard him joking yesterday with the caterer and one of the grips - about how you “hate coffee with the kind of passion people reserve for bad exes.”
Pedro had laughed then, not unkindly. But this morning, he came in empty-handed.
He slumped into the chair, curls still damp, and tilted his head back. You stepped behind him, fingers finding their familiar path through his hair.
“So,” he asked, voice lazy, “what is it you like instead?”
“Oh, you know,” you teased, eyes catching his in the mirror. “A ceremonial matcha, freshly prepared while watching the sunrise over the ocean.”
He chuckled, that deep, warm sound that seemed to reach right through your skin.
Then you realized he was asking because he actually wanted to get you something else next time. The thought made your pulse stutter. “Really, don’t worry about it, Pedro. I’ve got my hydration station,” you gestured to the lineup of water bottles on the counter, then dove back into your work, trying not to think about the faint crease between his brows.
He smiled again, but there was something shadowed in it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You scrolled through your phone, pretending to look busy, when the door swung open. You looked up - and immediately curse the way your heart jumps.
“Cannot provide a sunrise, I’m afraid,” Pedro said, stepping in with that same easy smile. “Unless we make a run for it and head to Coney Island.”
Before you could reply, he pressed something cold into your hand. “Buuuut,” he continued, “I can provide this.”
You blinked down at the cup in disbelief. Iced matcha latte.
He stood closer than usual that time - no chair, no professional distance - just the scent of his aftershave and the warmth of his body, his height turning the small trailer into something cramped. He must’ve gone out of his way to find this.
Stupid, charming man.
“Well,” you began, aiming for playful but hearing sincerity slip through, “aren’t you the sweetest.”
“That’s my middle name,” he grinned, eyes fixed on yours.
You laughed - nervous, breathy. The ice clinked softly as your hands shook. You cleared your throat and broke the gaze before you could melt into it. “Then I’ll make sure to go the extra mile with your styling today. Even throw in a little neck massage if you like.”
He tipped his head back, chuckling. “Spoil me, please.”
You did. With pleasure so.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You drop your bag just inside the door and collapse onto the couch without even turning on a light. L.A. hums outside your window, that strange mix of neon and loneliness that only this city can pull off. Spain was a success - everyone said so, and technically, it was. The kind of job that looks shiny on a résumé and maybe even gets you a call or two for what’s next.
But now the high of production has curdled into the quiet of waiting. Waiting for the next project. Waiting for the next flight. Waiting for life to start moving again.
You have a few weeks before you’re due back on set, just enough time to unpack your suitcases and your thoughts - both of which sit in messy piles around you. Enough time to water your plants. Pay your bills. And, ideally, to get rid of that fucking crush on fucking Pedro Pascal.
You press your palms to your face and groan. “Get. A. Grip.”
You haven’t seen or heard from him in weeks. Not one text, not one message, nothing that would even remotely justify the way your stomach still flips when someone mentions his name. Everyone told you it would fade. It always fades. It’s just proximity, they said. Intensity. Shared hours, early mornings, late nights. It’s a set crush, not real life.
But if that’s true, why does it still linger?
Why does it still hurt?
You think about calling your best friend, but you already know what she’ll say - she’s been saying it for weeks. That you’re being ridiculous. That you’re a grown woman, successful, independent, absolutely not the type to fall for a man just because he’s kind and funny and devastatingly charming. And a celebrity.
You know she’s right.
You are grounded. You’ve built your career from the bottom up, no shortcuts, no handouts. You’ve dealt with egos and long hours, with people who think “crew” means invisible. You pride yourself on knowing where you stand.
And yet.
Here you are, half-drunk on leftover feelings for a man who lives on another planet and probably can’t even walk down the street without being stopped for selfies.
Who are you kidding? He’s probably been on three sets since then, met dozens of new people, made a hundred of them laugh.
You try to laugh, too. Bitterly. You even remember scrolling through production announcements one night - not stalking, just browsing - hoping, maybe, you’d find a job that overlapped with one of his. Just a coincidence. A professional reunion.
It didn’t work out, of course.
Because why would it?
You stand, stretch, and drag yourself toward the shower, telling yourself to wash it off. The crush. The ache. The longing.
But the moment the hot water hits your skin, the memory rises like steam.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was such a cliché, you almost laughed when it started. Rain pouring down like a stage cue, sheets of it, loud and merciless.
You heard him before you saw him - the heavy footsteps, the sound of him running. The door to your trailer swung open and there he was, breathless, curls plastered to his forehead, rain dripping from his jacket.
“I forgot my umbrella,” he groaned, voice pitched somewhere between despair and laughter as he dropped into the chair.
You couldn’t help it. You laughed. “Should I even bother working on your hair? You’re a lost cause!”
He pressed a hand dramatically to his chest. “You wound me.”
You turned to your closet, grabbing one of your spare umbrellas. “Better to have bad luck on your last day than on your first,” you teased, holding it out to him. “Lucky for you, I come prepared.”
He straightened immediately, eyes lighting up. “Cariño, lucky me indeed.”
And then he looked at you - properly looked - and it hit you how hard it had become to stand under that gaze. Not because it was uncomfortable. Because it wasn’t. Because it made you feel seen.
“So,” you said, trying for casual, “last day, huh?”
“Finally,” he exhaled, dragging a towel through his hair before catching your eye again. “But…” he smiled, softer this time, “I’ll miss your massages. Big time.”
You snorted. “You can always book me for one. I’ll start a side hustle.”
“You’d make millions,” he replied without missing a beat.
“Only customer: Pedro Pascal,” you said, writing the headlines through the mirror. “Front page news.”
He laughed. “And he’d give you the best reviews.”
You smiled, still working through his hair, the silence between you dipping into something almost tender.
Then, quieter, he added, “Seriously though. I had a blast working with you. Not just saying that - you made my mornings.”
You froze for a moment. The air shifted. Something heavy and warm pressed against your chest.
You managed a small smile. “Ditto,” you said, voice weaker than intended. “It’s not common… that crew like me get seen by you guys.” You caught his gaze again in the mirror and quickly added, “And I’ll never drink a matcha latte without thinking about you…r coffee faux pas.” You saved yourself from confessing too much.
That earned a laugh, thank God.
The rest of the styling passed in a comfortable quiet. You focused on every small movement - his reflection, the sound of his breathing, the shape of his shoulders under your hands. Every detail you knew you shouldn’t memorize and did anyway.
When you finally finished, you brushed off your hands. “There you go, Mister Pascal. It’s been an honor serving you.” You made a mock bow, and he grinned, standing up, the umbrella now in his hand.
“Will you be at the wrap party next week?” he asked, casual but not really.
You shook your head. “Unfortunately not. I’ve got another project starting. Off to Spain.”
“Too bad,” he said, and there was that little dip again in his voice - a warmth shading into something that sounded like regret. “Then… this is goodbye?”
You opened your mouth to respond, but before you could, he stepped forward and pulled you into a hug.
It wasn’t polite. It wasn’t quick. It was full-body, solid, real. You could feel the wet fabric of his jacket, the steady beat of his heart against your chest, the smell of rain and shampoo and warmth.
For a second, you forgot how to breathe.
When he finally pulled back, your brain was too fogged to process anything except the umbrella between you.
“Well,” he said with a crooked smile, “nearly goodbye. I still have to return this to you, lifesaver.”
You laughed, shaking your head. “See you then, I guess.”
He waved it playfully as he left.
You never saw that umbrella again.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Okay that’s it. actual tears. you are crying actual tears for this man.
And it’s not like you drown in self-pity, not even close. You’re not the type to spiral in the mirror or beg the universe to rewind. And you sure as hell aren’t hoping to change his mind - to let him see what he’s missing out on. Because there isn’t much to miss out on, is there?
You sniff into your pillow and curse your damn heart. Curse yourself for being this emotional connection seeker, this idiot magnet for warmth and attention. Because frankly? That’s what got you into this mess in the first place.
That and him.
Him, being an absolute charmer, that impossible mix of soft voice and teasing smile that makes you think you’re different, even though you knew better. You always knew better.
And the worst?
You can’t even be mad at him. Not properly, because it wasn’t a game. It wasn’t some manipulative ploy to make you fall. It was just… him being him.
A stupid menace to your heart. A beautiful, clueless heartthrob who doesn’t even realize the ruin he leaves behind.
You let yourself fall onto your back and stare at the ceiling. The tears come hot and stupid, tracking down the sides of your face into your hair. Hiccuped sobs fight their way up your throat, and you press your sleeve to your nose because, honestly, dignity left the room an hour ago.
“It’ll… it’ll pass,” you mumble to no one. Your voice cracks. “Just… takes time.”
How much time though?
How much until the ache fades into background noise, until the scent of him stops sneaking up when you open your work bag, until a casual mention of his name doesn’t feel like a blade?
Another wave starts to rise - sharp and cruel - and you grope blindly for your phone. Distraction. You need distraction. Anything that isn’t him.
You’d curated your entire digital life to keep him out of it. Muted his handle, blocked the tags, unfollowed, unfriended, un-everything’d. Your feed now a careful construction of fluff and nothingness - golden retrievers rolling in snow, a barista drawing hearts into cappuccino foam, travel reels of places you’ll never visit except for work, because work is the only thing that still makes sense.
You scroll like someone trying to dig their way out of grief. Fast, desperate, until motion itself becomes comfort.
A video catches your eye - a make-up artist painting faces in the theme of types of death.
“dying of a broken heart.”
You choke on a bitter laugh. Poetic. Cute. Revolting. You want to throw your phone across the room.
Instead, you shove it under your pillow and roll to your side. Sleep. You need sleep, not meaning.
You shut your eyes. Breathe. One. Two.
Then your phone vibrates. A pulse right against your ear.
You freeze.
No. Not now. You don’t want to talk to anyone. Not your friends, not your colleagues, not anyone who might say hey, welcome back, let’s hang. You don’t want to socialize. You don’t want to participate in the world. You just want to not feel for a while.
But then it hits you - you never told your mom you got home safe. She’s probably checking in. She always does.
So you fumble for the phone, wiping your face with your sleeve again, blinking through the blur.
Unknown number.
Your stomach drops.
For a heartbeat, everything goes quiet.
You open the message anyway.
Hey. thought you might like to know: i am still missing your neck massages. P.
P.S.: sorry if this is creepy. please do not find this creepy. i mean it in a very uncreepy way.
P.P.S.: please dont spread this number. that would be very stressful for me.
P.P.P.S.: oh god it’s, creepy isn’t it?
You let the phone slip from your hand until it lands on your chest, screen still glowing.
Staring at the ceiling, wide-eyed, heartbeat suddenly loud enough to feel in your throat your mind spirals.
What the fuck.
You stare at your phone for at least an hour. Maybe more. You just don’t… know. The glow of the screen burns faintly into your retinas, a ghost image every time you blink. The clock in the corner keeps moving forward, proof that this is real time, that you haven’t slipped into some absurd daydream where everything suddenly makes sense again.
You’ve decided a few things in that hour.
First: this is Pedro. Obviously. The neck massages. The panic about sounding creepy. The nervous apology tripled down into oblivion. And the P.? Yeah. It’s him.
Second: this isn’t a cruel joke. He was a joker, sure - always throwing in something unexpected, a line that landed somewhere between charm and chaos - but cruel? Never. Not once.
And lastly: you are not dreaming. This is your actual, godforsaken reality. And this reality? It overwhelms the fuck out of you.
You exhale slowly, realizing your breathing has at least calmed down. No more hiccup sobs, no more uneven gasps that shake your chest. Your tears have dried somewhere between disbelief and exhaustion.
You read his message again. And again. And again.
You know every word by now - every self-conscious pause, every little plea in those P.S. lines. Maybe you even typed out a few replies - half drafts, ghost sentences - before deleting them, because what even is the right thing to say? What’s his intention here? A social check-in? A nostalgic ping to make sure you’re still alive? Maybe he has some new project and thought, hey, she’d be perfect for it?
But that’d be a weird way to start the conversation, wouldn’t it?
Then again, he was a little weirdo. That’s what made him, well… him.
You two had bonded over exactly that - being oddballs orbiting a world that didn’t quite know what to do with people who felt too much, joked too fast, cared too hard. That strange comfort of recognizing your brand of weird in someone else.
But ignoring this? That’s not an option. Not answering would be the death of you. The what if would chew at your brain until dawn.
So you have to. You just… have to.
Your thumbs hover above the keyboard, frozen like you’re about to trigger a bomb.
Then, finally, you type:
Sorry, have already forwarded that number to anyone I know and their grandmas. Text me the weirdest messages you get!
P.S.: I have not started my business for excellent massages yet.
P.P.S.: not creepy. Just mildly unhinged.
You hit send before you can think twice.
A squeal escapes you - an actual, audible, feral noise - and you slap a hand over your mouth in pure mortification. Oh god. You’d pay money to unhear yourself. You flop backward, phone still in hand, eyes squeezed shut like that could undo it.
You don’t even get to decide whether your text hit the right balance of lighthearted and intrigued - because your screen lights up again. Another message.
Then another.
Help, have already received 53 feet pics, three marriage proposals and one ask if I have the number of Oscar Isaac.
You laugh. It bursts out of you, wet and hoarse but real. Before the sound fades, another notification hits.
Sorry for the nightly disturbance. Just wanted to reach out. How are you doing? How was Spain? You’re back in LA now, right?
And that - that one does you in.
Because he knows. Still. Three months later. Remembers where you went, what you said you’d do, the timeline you’d casually mentioned. And something in your chest twists hard enough to sting. New tears threaten again and you actually groan at yourself.
“Emotional little bitch,” you mutter.
You type back, fast enough to outrun the ache:
I am great. Just collapsed on my bed and plan not to move for the next 48 hours. Spain was… beautiful, hectic, stressful, fantastic. How’s your life going? Full schedule, I guess?
You stare at the screen, sniffling a little laugh. It’s ridiculous. Absurd, even. You’re texting with him. As if nothing ever happened. As if it’s the most normal thing in the world.
The typing bubble appears. Disappears. Appears again. Your heart does cartwheels.
Spain just is that girl, right? Schedule’s full as usual, but I’ll manage. And… you sure about those 48 hours? Because I found a fantastic matcha place I think you’re going to love.
You blink. Reread. Reread again.
That cannot mean what you think it means. Right? He’ll just send you the address. That’s what people do. Normal people. He’s being polite, sharing a tip, right?
You try to focus, to stop the trembling in your hands. Okay. Think. Careful but not cold. Curious but not desperate.
You type:
You had my curiosity, but now you have my attention! Great matcha? Here in L.A.? I think you have to spill the secret.
You send it, immediately doubt every word, then reread it again to reassure yourself it’s fine. It’s fine. It’s totally fine.
It’s playful, open, neutral. No implication. No pressure.
The minutes drag. The silence stretches, taut like a wire.
What’s he doing now? Typing a whole essay? Choosing his words carefully? Maybe he’s asleep already. Maybe the message was a fluke, a late-night impulse he’ll regret by morning.
You roll onto your side, staring at the phone like it might whisper the truth if you look hard enough. Your pulse is ridiculous, the kind that belongs in a chase scene, not your quiet bedroom.
Then the ping. Sharp, immediate. You nearly drop the phone, fumbling as you sit up straighter, spine tense like posture equals readiness.
How about I show you instead?
Your breath catches halfway out.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You cannot believe it. You CANNOT believe it.
You are actually sitting in an actual café - two iced matcha lattes sweating gently on the wooden table in front of you - waiting for him.
Your knee bounces under the table, and you try to steady it by crossing your legs, but that only makes the motion shift upward, jittering through your chest instead. You tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, eyes flicking around the café like you’re trying to memorize it - or distract yourself.
It’s a small place, tucked just off a quieter street in Silver Lake. The kind of spot that smells faintly of roasted beans and eucalyptus candles, where every table has a little glass jar of sugar and a single stem in a vase - daisies, mostly, with the occasional dried sprig of lavender. Sunlight filters through wide windows, catching the steam off mugs and the soft hum of a playlist that probably has an entire fanbase on Spotify. Conversations buzz low around you, gentle and warm.
After you had pinched yourself approximately one thousand times to confirm that yes, he really did write that message, you had replied - as cool as humanly possible. You’d typed something breezy and casual like, “Sure, sounds fun, I can manage that.”
He had followed up with a handful of details: the café name, the time, and one particular request - sit inside, at a table toward the back. Less visible from the street.
You had immediately understood. Of course. The paparazzi.
It wasn’t like A-listers couldn’t grab coffee in L.A. without chaos, but still - the chance was always there, lurking in the periphery. And if you’d learned anything from the months you’d worked near him, it was that he didn’t crave the circus. He liked quiet, safe corners of the world. So, you take the adjustment gladly, trading the golden California sunlight for the café’s cozy amber lighting and a little privacy.
Still, your gaze darts to the door every time it opens.
He’d said he would show up a little later. Standard procedure - not walking in together, minimizing attention. You know that. You understand that.
And yet… a small, traitorous voice in your head keeps whispering that maybe he won’t come. That maybe it was polite impulse texting. That maybe you misread everything.
You silence it.
Even if this is just a friendly catch-up - even if it’s nothing - it’s still him. The fact that Pedro Pascal asked to meet you, to grab matcha, to see you again after months, is enough to make your pulse sprint.
You keep telling yourself not to call it a date. It’s not a date. No one said the word date. No asking out happened, no “ride into the sunset” declarations. This could very well be a social check-in, a how have you been, a good to see you again.
Nothing more.
And yet -
Your heart rate explodes the second the door opens and you see him.
It takes a double take, sure, because he’s dressed like every effort went into not looking like himself. Black baseball cap. Plain navy hoodie. Jeans that are definitely too soft and too worn to be designer. Sunglasses - of course. Still, it’s him. Even without the grin, you’d recognize the way he moves - unhurried, loose, as if he’s learned how to take up space without ever demanding it.
You almost raise a hand to wave him over - but stop mid-motion, halfway up. What if he doesn’t want the attention? What if someone does notice him? So instead, you wait.
And then he spots you.
The moment feels suspended, like film slowing down. He tilts his head slightly, lifts his glasses just enough to show his eyes, and that grin - that stupid, heart-crushing, butterfly-summoning grin - spreads across his face.
Oh, you’re done for.
You stand awkwardly, halfway between composure and complete meltdown, and before you can say anything, he’s already crossing the café. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t second-guess - just wraps you into a hug that feels like a warm drink after a freezing walk home. His arm settles firm around your back, and your brain blanks out for a full two seconds.
“Hey,” he says, his voice low and familiar, all warmth and gravel. It ripples through you like static. Then he leans back, glancing at the table. “Oh no, you already ordered? I would’ve.”
You laugh a little, trying to look casual even though your entire nervous system is in meltdown mode. You let go - reluctantly - and gesture for him to sit.
“I have to get out of my coffee debt with you, remember?” you say, smiling.
He laughs, that quiet kind of laugh that lights up his eyes. “How could I not? Biggest scam of the century.”
You both sit, and somehow the small table feels even smaller now. His arm brushes yours as he settles in, and you swear your pulse hits an entirely new BPM record. But he doesn’t seem to notice - or maybe he does, and chooses kindness by pretending not to.
He nods at your cup. “So? What’s the verdict?”
You take a deliberate sip, savoring the earthy sweetness. “Not traditional ceremonial,” you tease, “but, you know… closest we can come.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “Still the expert, huh?”
You shrug, playful. “Someone has to keep the standards high.”
The air between you shifts, warm and steady. Slowly, your heart rate eases - not completely, never completely, but enough that you can breathe without counting your exhales. Conversation slides easily into place, soft and natural, like slipping back into an old rhythm neither of you lost.
He asks about Spain, about the trip, and you tell him the funny bits - the chaotic moments, the beauty, the exhaustion. He listens. Really listens. His gaze flicks to your hands when you gesture, to your face when you laugh. He shares little stories too - set anecdotes, random things about travel, the way he accidentally ordered eight espressos in Italy once because he forgot the plural.
It’s easy. Disarmingly easy.
And while you try to play it cool - sipping your drink, tucking hair behind your ear again, pretending you’re not melting from proximity - there’s one persistent thought you can’t shake.
How on earth are you ever going to recover from this crush now?
Because this - this quiet laughter, his sleeve brushing yours, the way his knee nearly touches yours under the table - this feels dangerously like something you’ll never stop replaying once it’s over.
And when he looks at you again, smiling like he knows exactly what you’re thinking but will never call you out on it - yeah. You’re doomed.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You are certain by now: your plane back from Spain must have crashed. There’s simply no other explanation. You must have died and gone to some cinematic, too-good-to-be-true afterlife, because -
WHAT. THE. HELL.
After your cozy café reunion and the easy flow of conversation, Pedro had suggested a walk. A little park nearby, he’d said, as if it was the most casual thing in the world. And of course, you said yes. What were you going to do, say no to that face?
It started off perfectly ordinary - a stroll along a tree-lined path, the late afternoon light soft and golden, the kind that makes everything look like a film still. You talked and laughed, bumping shoulders every so often, each small touch an electric jolt you pretended not to feel.
And then, because apparently the universe loves poetic timing, the first drop of rain hit.
Then another.
Then - an entire sky’s worth.
Now you’re both half-sprinting, half-laughing through sheets of rain, your shoes slipping on wet pavement, until you find shelter under the overhang of a tiny garden café that’s long closed for the evening. It’s barely enough space for two people, which means your bodies are pressed close - almost too close. The air between you hums, thick and damp, and every breath feels shared.
You’re both soaked. Water drips down your arms, clings to your lashes, traces down your neck. His curls - god, his curls - are plastered to his forehead, rain still dripping from them. He’s laughing, chest rising and falling fast, his grin utterly unguarded.
“If only we had an umbrella now, right?” you say between breathless laughs, voice light and teasing.
He looks at you, eyes glinting beneath the low brim of his cap. “I might have thought about bringing back yours.” His tone is playful, but there’s something low under it - something that curls around your spine.
“Oh really?” you challenge, still catching your breath. “But then you decided on becoming a criminal and steal my stuff instead?”
Pedro tilts his head, eyes narrowing like he’s turning the thought over in his mind. Rain drums a rhythm against the awning above you, the air filled with its soft roar. “No,” he says finally, voice quiet. “I wanted to have a second reason to write to you.”
The words hit harder than they should. Like a well-aimed punch of warmth to your lungs, knocking the air right out.
You open your mouth - something witty, something to defuse the spark - but nothing comes. Because no matter how you twist it, that was a flirt. A genuine, deliberate, no-escape flirt.
And he’s looking at you like he meant it.
The moment stretches.
You can hear your pulse now, a thrum that matches the rain. You swallow, acutely aware of how close he is - close enough that you can see the droplets sliding down his temple, the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw.
“Sorry,” he murmurs after a heartbeat, voice softer now, almost uncertain. “Was that… creepy again?”
His question snaps you out of your stunned silence, and you shake your head quickly - too quickly - sending tiny arcs of rainwater flying. “No! No, it’s not creepy, I just -" You blink up at him, words tripping over themselves. “You haven’t… touched your matcha today.”
Oh god. Wow, that has to be the worst kind of comeback you could have come up with.
A laugh escapes him - low, quiet, completely disarming. “I hate matcha,” he then admits, voice rumbling, the corners of his mouth twitching up.
And before you can find a single coherent thought, he leans in.
It’s tentative at first, a soft brush of lips - a question rather than a statement. Warmth beneath the chill of the rain, gentle and unbearably careful. You freeze, breath catching in your throat. And then instinct takes over.
Your hands - already trembling from cold and adrenaline - find their way to the back of his neck, sliding through the damp curls there, pulling him closer. That’s all the permission he needs.
It’s not practiced or staged, not the perfect kind you see on screen. It’s messy, breathless, the kind that tilts your whole world on its axis. His hand moves to your waist, firm and grounding, while yours tangle deeper in his hair, feeling the soft resistance of the curls between your fingers.
He makes a sound then - low and rough, more growl than sigh - and the sound alone lights something inside you.
“Promise me,” he breathes, still close enough that his words brush your lips, “to do that as often as possible.”
Every suppressed thought, every maybe, every almost that had been simmering between you since that first text bubbles up now, breaking free in a rush of rain and heat. You tilt your head, and his lips part against yours, deepening the kiss again until you’re both chasing breath and losing it in the same motion.
The world narrows to the taste of him - faint coffee and something darker, something like electricity - and the way he murmurs against your mouth when you pull back just slightly.
You grin, heart pounding so loud it might echo. “It’s gonna cost you.”
His fingers slide down your arm until they find your hand, his thumb tracing a slow line across your skin. “Not until your coffee debts are paid,” he murmurs.
You laugh - soft, dizzy, happy - and when he kisses you again, the sound disappears between you, swallowed by the storm.
For the first time in months, you don’t care what happens next. Not the headlines. Not the what-ifs. Just this - the rain, the warmth, the quiet miracle that somehow, unbelievably, he came.