Chapter Text
The call had started with good intentions.
A spare moment between cities. A sliver of time carved out of chaos. A plan to finally, finally, find one night—just one—to sit across from each other over dinner instead of another glowing screen.
Ariana’s phone was propped on the nightstand beside a mostly-melted candle. Her face was soft with evening lamplight and sleep-swollen eyes, hair scraped into a half-bun under the hood of her sweatshirt. She was blinking up at Cynthia’s face on the screen like it was the only thing tethering her to the Earth. Which, honestly, it kind of was.
Cynthia, all crisp cotton and hotel lighting, was balanced between elegance and exhaustion on the other end, scrolling through a synced calendar on her tablet. The edges of her voice were rough with sleep, but her posture was straight, alert. Controlled. Ariana knew that look—knew how often Cynthia masked how tired she was until she collapsed between the sheets with a groan and a muttered I’m fine.
There was something strangely intimate about the space between them tonight, even through a screen. Familiar. Domestic, almost. Like they could’ve been planning groceries instead of desperately searching their calendars for two spare hours in the same city.
Cynthia squinted at a date and sighed, running a hand over her freshly shaven scalp.
“Yeah,” she murmured, resigned. “That’s not gonna work either.”
She sighs, frowning at her calendar as she swipes across her tablet with a little too much force. On the other side of the FaceTime call, Ariana watches from bed, face lit softly by the glow of her own screen. The clock on her nightstand reads 11:47 PM. She not sure what it reads on Cynthia’s end. She’s wearing one of Cynthia’s hoodies—soft and oversized, sleeves swallowed past her hands—and twisting the drawstring between her fingers like it’s going to conjure a miracle out of their increasingly chaotic schedules.
“I can’t do the twenty-first,” Cynthia murmurs, her brows furrowing as she scrolls. “I’m in Madrid that whole week, press and fittings and that fundraiser thing. I fly out to again the next day.”
Ariana exhales, flopping back onto the pillows with a dramatic groan. “Ugh. Okay, what about the twenty-fourth?”
Cynthia checks. “You’re in Chicago. Dress rehearsal.”
Ariana bites her lip and lets her head loll to the side so she can look at the tiny FaceTime square on her phone screen. “We’re gonna die without ever going on a real date, aren’t we?”
Cynthia cracks a faint smile, even though she looks as tired as Ariana feels. She’s lying against a sea of pristine white hotel pillows, eyes slightly smudged from makeup she hasn’t had the energy to take off. “Dramatic.”
“Factual,” Ariana says, curling her legs up to her chest. “We’ll be those tragic lovers who never made it to dinner because capitalism and international flights kept them apart.”
Cynthia snorts and tosses the tablet aside with a soft thud. “Don’t tempt me. I’ll start crying.”
It’s been months since they finally admitted it—after all the near-misses and mistakes, the paparazzi photos and PR smoke screens, the fake dating and the very real feelings they’d danced around for too long. They came out the other side together, and for a while it had felt perfect. Better than perfect. They’d announced it to their teams in a meeting full of shocked silence and slow clapping. They went dancing again afterward, grinning like fools, barely able to keep their hands off each other.
And then… life.
Work came roaring back with a vengeance. Cynthia, always elegant and efficient, had been flying back and forth between London, Italy, and L.A.—securing brand deals, finishing up scenes for a streaming series, attending hush-hush meetings for upcoming projects no one could talk about yet. Ariana had stayed in New York, juggling her own movie shoot with everything else: little appearances, late-night rehearsals, label meetings, secret recordings. And then there was the announcement—the one that had sent the internet into a frenzy.
Her first tour in almost six years.
The news broke a while ago. Tickets had sold out in less than an hour. Twitter imploded. Her team lost their minds trying to control everything. She hadn't stopped moving since.
Now, despite their best efforts to see each other between flights and calls and long, sneaky hotel visits, the truth was setting in: they were apart more than they were together. And Ariana hated it.
“I just miss you,” she says softly, the words slipping out on a breath she tries to restrain, like she’s afraid that if she gives them too much weight she’ll sound pitiful—needy in a way she knows Cynthia will never mock but she still tries to temper anyway. Her voice comes out small, round at the edges, almost childlike with longing.
Cynthia’s expression melts instantly, her whole face loosening into something tender and instinctive, as if Ariana’s confession reaches her like a hand to the chest. “I miss you too, sweetness.”
And god, that voice—warm, dusky, dipped in affection—Ariana swears it pools somewhere behind her ribs.
Her lips curl upward, helpless. It never gets old, hearing Cynthia call her that. Never fails to light her up from the inside out. She tucks her chin into Cynthia’s hoodie, the collar brushing her mouth, and blushes softly. “I know it’s silly,” she murmurs, “but I was really excited about our first real date being soon.”
“It’s not silly,” Cynthia says immediately. There's an earnest sharpness to it, like Ariana has somehow insulted something precious. “I want that too. I want it to be… perfect for you. Not just a rushed dinner before a flight or in between interviews.”
Her voice drops, gentles. “You deserve the works, Ari. Wine, candles, good food… a dress I’ll end up taking off after dessert.”
Ariana makes a tiny wounded noise, burying half her face in the hoodie. “Stop. That’s literally so rude when you’re like a thousand miles away.”
Cynthia’s smirk blooms slow and mischievous. “I didn’t say it wasn’t on purpose.”
Ariana groans, flopping backward for dramatic effect. But when she sits up again, it’s with a soft seriousness, fingers curled around her phone like it’s a heartbeat. “But seriously—we’ll figure it out. Doesn’t have to be perfect. We’re already perfect.”
A beat. Her eyes soften. “And once the tour starts, we’ll see each other again anyway.”
Cynthia sighs, the sound warm and resigned. “Yeah. Brazil.”
Ariana nods. “I land the day before the premiere. You’re getting there earlier, right?”
“Two days before,” Cynthia confirms. “Just enough time to get settled.” She hesitates, her gaze drifting somewhere Ariana can’t follow. “I was hoping you’d be there sooner.”
“I wanted to be,” Ariana says, frustration tugging at her voice. “But they won’t budge on my shoot schedule. I wrap late the night before, and then it’s straight to the airport the following morning.”
Cynthia nods, quiet. Her eyes drop for a moment, lashes lowering like she’s embarrassed by her own disappointment. “I get it.”
“I hate it,” Ariana whispers.
“I know.”
And Cynthia says it softly, like she wishes she could reach across the screen and press her palm to Ariana’s cheek, ground her, soothe the sting.
Ariana watches her girlfriend attempt to pout, her lips softening into a shape that shouldn’t be as devastating as it is. It squeezes something tender in Ariana’s chest. “Don’t pout, baby.”
“I can pout,” Cynthia insists, burrowing into the pillow with regal indignation. “You pout all the time.”
“Yeah, because it’s my thing,” Ariana argues, pretending offense. “You can’t steal my brand.”
“Mhm.” Cynthia hums, cheek squished into the pillow now, eyes glinting with amusement. “Trademarked sadness.”
Ariana grins, an involuntary thing, soft and small. “I wish I was holding you right now. So you didn’t have a reason to be sad at all.”
There’s a pause. A warm one. One that settles between them like a blanket, thick with affection and quiet ache. Shared silence that never feels empty—only full, like it’s carrying everything they don’t know how to say out loud.
“I wish that too,” Cynthia finally whispers, voice so soft it sounds reverent. “More than I know how to say.”
Ariana feels her heart flutter and ache at the same time, swelling with that familiar ache she gets only for Cynthia—want tangled with devotion. “Please don’t stress about this date,” she says gently. “We’ll make it happen. We always do.”
“No promises,” Cynthia murmurs, but her voice wavers, betraying her.
Ariana gives her a look—one of those slow, unimpressed don’t start with me looks—and Cynthia breaks instantly, smiling sheepishly as she wiggles deeper into her pillows, her whole body folding into softness.
“You’re so lucky you’re cute,” Ariana mutters, pulling the blankets up as she adjusts her phone.
“I know,” Cynthia says, smug in that lazy, irresistible way she gets when she’s tired and affectionate.
Ariana rolls her eyes, smiling. “You wanna fall asleep on the phone again?”
Cynthia shrugs, though her shoulders are already sinking with sleepiness, lids lowering like warm shutters. “Yeah. If you’re not sick of me.”
“Literally never,” Ariana whispers, rolling onto her side, her own voice thinning with fatigue and tenderness.
The screens shift—a shuffle of fabric, light, angles—until they each find a position that feels like closeness despite the distance. The quiet hum of the connection lingers between them, gentle and steady, like a pulse. A lifeline. A bridge. A borrowed constellation linking two separate rooms into something shared.
Ariana watches Cynthia blink slowly, lashes kissing her cheeks, breaths slowing. She can almost smell her—jasmine and warm skin and the faint trace of her favorite body oil. Every memory of her feels alive behind the screen, close enough to touch yet just out of reach.
But only for a little longer. Brazil is a week away.
And no matter what the world demands of them—interviews, cameras, jet lag, headlines—this part, this gentle nightly tether, this sweetness that keeps insisting itself into their lives… this is real. This is theirs.
She smiles, eyes fluttering closed. “Night, Cyn.”
“Night, baby,” Cynthia whispers, already drifting, voice soft as a lullaby.
The line stays open until morning. Just in case the distance gets lonely.
The days that follow slide by in a blur, not rushed or frantic, but full—beautifully full—like she’s living several dreams at once and somehow keeping them all balanced in her palms.
Her mornings start early, earlier than she likes but not earlier than she minds, because she asked for this. All of it. And somewhere deep down—beneath the nerves, beneath the pressure, beneath the tight coil of wanting everything to be perfect—there’s a steady hum of certainty: she’s ready for this life now. Ready for all the pieces she once worried she wasn’t allowed to hold.
Wicked cracked the door open. For Good blew it wide.
People don’t question her seriousness anymore. Not after those performances. Not after watching her sink into Galiinda with everything she had, then step into the Good Witch and pour herself out all over again. The industry saw it—the grit, the dedication, the studied technique she’d worked her ass off for—and now doors she never imagined are swinging open, scripts rolling in like waves hitting the shore.
She’s filming Focker-in-Law during the day, and for the first time she feels like she’s choosing roles with the same intentionality she’s watched Cynthia master for years. She thinks about her whenever she sits down with her team, whenever she reads a new script, whenever she asks: Do I want this? Or do people want me to want this?
Cynthia never pushes. Never hovers. Never tells her what she “should” do. She just offers perspective—soft, steady, golden—like laying down a hand for Ariana to grab onto, never dragging, never leading, just supporting.
It makes Ariana fall for her a little more every day.
Her makeup brand is thriving, her perfume line expanding, her music blossoming in ways she thought she might never let herself experience again. And the tour—God, the tour—still knocks the breath out of her when she thinks about it. The first in almost six years. She’d been terrified. She still is, in that low, familiar ache under her ribs. But therapy and the right people and the right partner have made the fear manageable. Not gone, but held.
So yes—her schedule is packed. She moves from meetings to fittings, from run-throughs to interviews, from set to studio, back to set again. Her days wind tight like spools of thread, each hour accounted for, each minute tossed into something worth doing.
But the little slivers of time? The cracks between obligations, the five-minute breathers, the slanted rays of free space squeezed between makeup chairs and car rides?
Those she gives to Cynthia.
Always.
They text constantly—tiny check-ins, stolen emojis, pictures of their lunches, updates on silly little things. Ariana sends voice notes when she’s walking down hallways or waiting for lighting adjustments. Cynthia sends blurry photos from the backseats of cars in different countries, timestamps in foreign time zones. There’s always something back and forth between them, something small and grounding.
Ari knows Cynthia’s even busier than she is. It’s impossible not to know. Cynthia moves through the world like she’s sprinting across constellations—hopping continents like stepping stones, slipping into new cities before her jet lag has even caught up. Every night she seems to be in a different hotel bed, a different timezone, a different silk robe half-bunched around her shoulders.
And every night, without fail, she calls.
On their late-night FaceTimes, Cynthia looks soft in a way that makes Ariana’s breath catch—eyes heavy-lidded and warm, voice low and velvety from exhaustion, her cheek smushed into whichever pillow she’s stolen from the hotel bed. She’s so clearly spent, Ari can see it in everything: the gentle slope of her shoulders, the delicate drag of her blinks, the way her voice dips lower and slower the longer they talk.
She should be asleep. She should have knocked out an hour ago.
But she stays awake anyway.
For Ari.
For herself too—Ariana can tell. Especially with the way Cynthia makes these tiny, helpless noises anytime Ariana gently urges, “Baby, get some rest.” Little sighs, real and unguarded, as if the thought of ending the call physically pains her.
It’s adorable.
It’s a little heartbreaking.
And it hits Ariana in the chest every single time.
But then there’s the other part—the part that’s decidedly not adorable. The part that turns Ariana molten.
Because sometimes—often—Cynthia starts their calls already a little undone from exhaustion, already pliant, already sleepy-soft. And Ariana, god help her, has learned exactly how to tip her over the edge in that state.
It starts with a tone—her voice dipping into that low, honey-slow register she only uses for Cyn. She’ll murmur something sweet, something teasing, something warm right into the mic. And across the screen, she can watch Cynthia melt. Watch her shoulders drop. Watch pleasure and fatigue wrap around her like two hands guiding her down.
She gasps. She whines—these airy, breathy sounds that go straight to Ariana’s spine. She grows pliant in the way only she can—body arching slightly, back curving, thighs shifting just a little under the blankets.
Ari shouldn’t feel powerful about it. She absolutely does.
Because even thousands of miles away, she can still have Cynthia in the palm of her hand—soft, sweet, and undone just from the intimacy of her voice.
And afterwards… afterwards might be Ariana’s favorite part.
Cynthia will be blinking slow, lips parted, face flushed in that tender, glowing way that makes Ariana want to show up at her hotel door and kiss her breathless. She always puckers her lips at the camera, asking for a kiss like a sleepy child, then burrows under her blanket with a tiny huff. And she’ll still, somehow, refuse to fall asleep before Ariana does.
“Just… stay with me…” she’ll mumble, rubbing her cheek into the pillow.
“You’re barely awake,” Ariana will whisper back, smiling so wide her cheeks hurt.
“Don’t care. Want you beside me…”
And Ari will give in, because how could she not? Watching Cynthia drift, hearing her breathing fall into that soft rhythm Ariana knows by heart—it makes her feel chosen in a way she’s never been chosen before.
Ariana’s never been loved like this. Never been wanted with this much certainty. Never been seen so completely she feels like her heart has a spotlight on it.
It’s overwhelming in the sweetest, most delicious way—like a slow ache behind her ribs, warm and pulsing, proof of something that keeps growing even through distance.
And damn, she misses her. Not just for the heat, not just for the late-night unraveling. But for all of it—every soft, sleepy, ridiculous, beautiful part of her girlfriend who she can’t wait to get her hands on again.
She doesn’t believe there’s a better woman for her on this planet. Not when every night ends with that sleepy voice whispering, goodnight, baby. Not when even the distance feels softened by effort.
Which is why, when Sunday finally rolls around, Ariana is practically vibrating. Not because her schedule is suddenly lighter—if anything, it’s packed tighter than ever—but because they’d planned to call earlier than usual today.
She’s in her hotel suite in Manhattan, hair still damp from a shower after a long rehearsal day, wearing soft pajama shorts and one of Cynthia’s old set hoodies she stole weeks ago. She paces without meaning to, excitement coiled inside her, bouncing on her toes every few seconds.
Her phone lights up.
Incoming FaceTime: my elphie <3
Ariana nearly drops it in her haste to answer.
Cynthia appears on screen instantly—sunglasses on, glossy and oversized, hat covering her recognizably bald head, her lips shiny with balm. She’s pushing one of what is probably five luggage trolleys with one hand, weaving through an airport terminal, and the background noise is loud but the sight of her makes Ariana’s entire body go warm.
“There you are,” Cynthia says, smiling so wide Ariana feels it in her own teeth.
Ari’s grin could power all of New York City with its brightness. “Hi, baby.”
Cynthia laughs, adjusting her glasses. “You look excited.”
“I am excited,” Ariana says, cheeks heating. “You’re calling me from an airport. That means you’re one step closer to Brazil.”
“And you’re one day away from being there yourself,” Cynthia reminds her, switching the phone to her other hand as she dodges a couple with rolling suitcases. “I can’t believe it’s finally happening.”
Ariana bounces on the balls of her feet, unable to stop herself. “I’ve been waiting all week to see your face like this.”
“Like what?” Cynthia teases.
“Like…” Ariana gestures vaguely at her screen. “Sunglasses indoors, chaotic airport energy, looking like a celebrity trying to escape TMZ but still ridiculously perfect.”
Cynthia’s smile turns molten. “I’m just trying to find my gate, sweetness.”
“And looking gorgeous doing it,” Ariana insists.
Cynthia bites her lip, tries to hide her grin, fails.
Ariana feels her heart swell to the point of physical ache.
In twenty-four hours, she’ll be boarding her own flight. Soon after, she’ll be touching down in Brazil.
Then, she’ll be in Cynthia’s arms again.
And nothing—not distance, not time zones, not work obligations or press tours or the entire world’s eyes—can dull the thrill of knowing she’s heading straight toward her girl.
Ariana can barely keep herself from vibrating straight off the mattress as Cynthia walks her through her plans for the day. There’s something intoxicating about watching her girlfriend move through an airport—sleek sunglasses, travel bag bumping lightly against her hip, that natural glide in her step even when she’s sleep-deprived. And her voice, low from the morning and threaded with travel noise, is doing something warm to Ariana’s ribcage.
“So I’ll land in São Paulo around four,” Cynthia says, adjusting her glasses while weaving through a cluster of travelers. “Jonny’s team is scooping us from the airport, then we’re grabbing dinner. Something easy. He said he found a little place that’s calm and not swarming with cameras.”
Ariana coos immediately. She can’t help it. “That sounds so nice, baby.”
“It will be,” Cynthia replies, sounding almost as pleasantly surprised as Ariana feels. “I’ll finally have an evening to breathe. Maybe take a little nap before we talk tonight. I want to be awake for you.”
That last line nearly knocks all the air out of Ariana.
She curls her toes under the blanket. “Stop saying things like that when I can’t touch you.”
Cynthia laughs, a low, rich rasp that sends heat skittering across Ariana’s stomach. “Just telling you the truth.”
Ariana presses her face into her shoulder, beaming into the oversized sleeve of her hoodie. She kicks her feet against the carpet like a teenager with a crush. “I can’t wait to see you,” she blurts, voice soft and a little pathetic. “Like actually see you. Your face. I’m gonna kiss you for, like, ten minutes straight. Maybe longer.”
Cynthia laughs, warm and low and devastating. “Ten minutes? That’s all?”
Ariana gasps in offense. “Don’t tease me when you look this good in an airport.”
Cynthia pauses to respond to someone from her team, voice lilting and casual before snapping right back into their conversation without missing a beat. “I miss you too, you know. I’m trying to focus, but you’re making it very hard.”
“That’s the goal,” Ariana whisper-laughs, tucking her knees to her chest. She watches Cynthia navigate check-in, watches her charm airport staff with that easy smile she reserves for strangers, the one that’s polite but not too warm.
The warmth is all for Ariana.
“I’m serious.” Ariana sits up violently, hair bouncing. “Do you know how insane it’s been missing you? Do you? Because I think I’m actually going to pass out when I see you.”
Cynthia laughs outright at that, the sound bright enough to draw a few curious looks from the people passing her by. Every now and then she turns her head to speak to a team member trailing behind her, or murmurs a polite “thank you” to airport staff showing her which lane to enter. Her multitasking is impressive—Ariana would be much too preoccupied studying her girlfriend’s face—but Cyn handles it all with an easy grace while still talking to her.
Ariana loves her so much. Stupidly. Stupidly much.
“Okay,” Cynthia says at last, stepping into the tunnel toward her gate. “They’re calling my group. I’m boarding.”
Ariana instantly pouts. “Already?”
“I know,” Cynthia groans, genuinely regretful. “I’ll text when I land, alright? Promise. I have to go, sweetness.”
Ariana pushes her lips into the most dramatic, theatrical pout known to mankind.
Cynthia melts. “Oh, baby. Don’t do that.”
“Then stay on the phone,” Ariana shoots back.
Cynthia’s laughter comes through faint but warm, her smile widening as she stops to scan her boarding pass. “I wish. I love you.”
Ariana softens instantly. “I love you more.”
“Not possible.”
“Actually scientifically proven.”
Cynthia rolls her eyes behind her sunglasses—Ariana can feel it—even as she steps forward. “Goodbye, Ari.”
“Bye, beautiful,” Ariana whispers, voice going gentle as the call ends.
The moment the screen goes dark, she lets out a squeal so high-pitched she has to bury her face in a pillow. Days. Just days until she can feel Cynthia’s hands, smell her perfume, kiss her until she can’t think straight.
The rest of the day unfolds in that floaty, anticipatory haze: two meetings about setlist possibilities, a production call about lighting rigs, a discussion about new script offers and roles people want her for—roles she wants to earn properly, audition for, work for. Honor the craft. Respect the process the way a true professional does.
She’s stepping out of a meeting when Cynthia’s text comes through: Landed. followed by a little airplane emoji.
Ariana only has time for a quick okay baby 🥺💗🫶 before her manager pulls her into another discussion about choreographers and fittings.
Barely two hours later—midway through explaining why one set piece needs to be redesigned—her phone buzzes again. She glances down discreetly.
A photo fills her screen.
Cynthia and Jonathan, both in soft, casual clothes, clinking glasses at a tiny restaurant table. Jonny has a glass of wine; Cynthia—sweet, exhausted Cynthia—has a water with lemon. She looks relaxed, radiant in a way travel rarely allows her.
Ariana’s mouth twitches into a smile she tries (and fails) to smother.
Underneath the photo, she types into their text thread:
tell jonny he’s dead to me for hugging u first
She sends it beneath the table, then forces herself to return to the meeting, even though her whole body is vibrating with longing.
Later—when she’s finally free—she opens the thread again and finds a new message waiting for her.
my elphie <3: just keeping her warm for you 😉 —JB
Ariana snorts out a laugh so loud her driver glances at her through the rearview mirror.
She texts a dramatic stand down bailey and then slumps back against the seat, realizing her stomach is gnawing at itself. She’s starving.
She orders vegan pad thai from her favorite little spot, carries it into her flat when she arrives, and drops her things with zero grace. Her whole body feels like it’s exhaling for the first time all day.
Within seconds she’s on the couch, legs tucked under her, pad thai on the coffee table—
—and she’s already hitting the FaceTime button on Cynthia’s contact.
Her heart flips as the screen rings.
Cynthia answers on the fourth—maybe fifth—ring, her face appearing on the screen with her cheek smooshed deep into the hotel pillow. Her eyes are heavy-lidded with sleep, still glazed in the gentle haze of a nap she clearly hasn’t fully left behind. Ariana lets out a soft, delighted gasp the moment she sees her.
“Ohhh, look at you,” she coos, eyes twinkling as she brings the phone closer to her face. “You look like a little angel.”
Cynthia stirs, lifting her head as the connection steadies, a slow, dreamy smile stretching across her lips. Her cheeks are printed with faint pillow lines, and she looks positively enchanted with the world in that moment—like someone who’s just woken up from a storybook dream and wants to tell you all about it.
“Hi,” she says, voice low and syrupy, blinking slowly like she’s still getting her bearings.
Ariana melts. Instantly. She’s practically radiating fondness from her spot on the couch, feet curled beneath her, her fingers tightening slightly around the phone. She’s barely able to sit still, vibrating with quiet anticipation. This woman is real, she reminds herself, pulse fluttering. This woman is mine.
“How was your nap?” she asks, trying and failing to sound normal.
“Delightful,” Cynthia says, voice thick with softness, if a little raspy. “These sheets, Ari. I don’t know what they put in them. They’re like—like clouds wrapped in lavender. I feel like I woke up in a fairytale.”
Ariana giggles, grinning so wide her cheeks ache. “You’re such a dork.”
Cynthia shrugs playfully, leaning back against the headboard and pulling her knees to her chest, the comforter pooling around her hips. “Well. Wouldn’t you be one too if you just took the best nap of your life?”
Ariana just keeps smiling, teeth biting into her bottom lip, watching her like she can’t get enough—which is true, because she can’t. “Honestly, yeah. I love when you’re like this.”
Cynthia blinks at her, still beaming, eyes flitting all over the screen like she’s trying to drink in every inch of Ariana’s face. “Tell me about your day, baby.”
Ariana exhales, shifting to sit up straighter. “Mmm, it was fine. Busy. Meetings, calls, more tour stuff. I swear we’re reconfiguring the setlist every six hours.”
Cynthia hums knowingly.
“Oh,” Ariana adds, narrowing her eyes. “And Jonny sent me that sly little ‘keeping her warm for you’ text, which was actually rude, thank you very much.”
That makes Cynthia laugh—head tilted back, nose scrunching, her whole body shaking beneath the comforter. “You know he means well.”
“I know. Not well enough.”
“You’re adorable,” Cynthia murmurs, reaching up to scratch at her scalp, still smiling. “Jonny and I were talking about this little photoshoot we’ve got scheduled before the London premiere. Just for some light press. Nothing crazy.”
Ariana nods, chewing thoughtfully on her bottom lip as she picks up the forgotten pad thai container beside her.
“But mostly,” Cynthia continues, “it was just good food and good company. He’s good. You’ll see him again soon.”
Ariana hums, breaking apart her chopsticks. “I better,” she mutters, mouth already half full. “But not before I see you. I’ve got priorities.”
Cynthia watches her chew with amused affection, but her brows lift a moment later, a faint crease appearing between them. “Hungry? That’s not your first meal today, is it?”
Ariana stops mid-chew. “No,” she lies breezily, avoiding eye contact.
Cynthia arches an eyebrow. “Ariana.”
“I swear it’s not,” Ariana insists, even as she shovels another mouthful in like she’s starving. “Just… my first real one.”
Cynthia sighs, mildly stern but too sleepy to really chastise her. “You’re lucky you’re cute.” She echoes Ariana’s sentiment from a few nights before.
“You’re lucky you’re cute,” Ariana counters, mouth full, grinning.
They lapse into silence for a little while, just the sound of Ariana eating and Cynthia watching her with that half-lidded, dreamy gaze. Eventually, the Brit starts to sink lower into the sheets, shoulders relaxing as her head lolls slightly to one side.
Ariana notices immediately.
“You’re getting sleepy again,” she says gently.
“I’m not,” Cynthia argues, voice soft and stubborn.
“Baby…”
Cynthia perks up slightly, immediately offended. “Nuh uh, the whole point of my nap was so I could stay up and talk to you! ”
Ariana giggles, heart clenching. “I’m not sending you away, babe. I’m just saying—you look cozy. And I love you too much to keep you up if you’re jetlagged.”
“I am cozy,” Cynthia says dramatically, tugging the blanket tighter around her. “But you’re trying to get rid of me.”
“Cyn—”
“No no. I see what’s happening here. My own girlfriend. Bored of me. Trying to kick me off FaceTime.”
Ariana snorts, nearly dropping her chopsticks as she sets the container aside and gives Cynthia her full attention. “I cannot believe you’re being dramatic right now. That’s literally my thing.”
“I’m expanding your brand,” Cynthia says sweetly, sticking her tongue out.
Ariana narrows her eyes playfully, propping her chin on her palm. “Okay, let’s think about it this way. If you sleep now, when you wake up… it’ll be closer to the time we see each other. Right?”
Cynthia hums, unconvinced.
“Right?” Ariana says, trying not to smile too hard.
Cynthia squints at her suspiciously.
“What’s it gonna take to get you to sleep, huh?” Ariana raises an eyebrow, her voice dropping to a teasing murmur. “You want me to talk to you?”
Cynthia arches a brow back. “You’re already talking to me.”
Ariana grins. “You know that’s not what I mean.”
Cynthia exhales an airy sigh, one that borders on dramatic, and hides half her face in the pillow, but Ariana catches the little smile tugging at her lips. She knows exactly what Ariana means.
“I’m just saying…” Ariana leans in, tone silky. “If you do need a little extra help falling asleep, I’m more than willing to provide, pretty girl.”
Cynthia bites her lip through a smile, unable to hide a little squirm. “You’re trouble.”
“And you love it.”
“I do.” Cynthia sighs, shifting onto her side. “But I’ll let you finish your dinner. I wouldn’t want to get in the way of what really matters.”
Ariana rolls her eyes fondly. “You’re being such a brat.”
Cynthia puckers her lips toward the screen, tired eyes glinting, voice low. “Kiss me goodnight, then.”
Ariana obliges immediately, lips pursed in the softest kiss she can offer through a piece of glass and miles of distance.
Cynthia pretends to be unimpressed, but she kisses back anyway. “Okay. I’ll sleep. But not for long.”
“Don’t set an alarm, Cyn. Just rest.”
“I’ll text you when I wake up,” Cynthia promises, voice already starting to drift again.
Ariana hums, heart full. “You better.”
And with one last soft smile, Cynthia ends the call, her sleepy face the last thing Ariana sees before the screen fades to black. She sits in silence for a moment, phone still in hand, heart thudding loud and happy in her chest.
Twelve more hours.
Just a few more until she gets to kiss her for real.
Ariana finishes her pad thai curled into the warm corner of her couch, licking a bit of sauce from her thumb as she starts an episode of Gossip Girl for background noise. It’s one of her comfort rewatches, something soft and easy to let her brain melt against. But even the snappy dialogue and ridiculous schemes can’t quite hold her attention tonight—her mind drifts every few minutes to Brazil, to Cynthia, to the press tour, to the anticipation humming beneath her skin.
When the episode ends, she sighs and checks her schedule for tomorrow. Her flight isn’t until seven in the evening, but her team insisted on picking her up around five. Which is fine. Fine in the technical sense. Emotionally? She wants it to be now. She wants to be airborne yesterday.
Her suitcases are already packed—have been packed for days, if she’s honest. Two big ones lined neatly against the wall beside the front door, TSA locks gleaming. A travel bag with Toulouse’s things sits atop one of them, the tiny embroidered paw-print tag flickering in the dim lamp light.
Myron is already at a friend’s house—he hates flying, even short distances, so he’s staying behind this time. Toulouse is the braver of the pair, but even he looks suspiciously at his carrier whenever Ariana walks near it.
A flutter of thought crosses her mind: I wonder if Cyn brought Gigi and Caleb. She usually brings them if she can, and Ariana loves seeing the way Cynthia softens around her dogs, how she curls around them at night, how she coos at them in that low British drawl that makes Ariana’s whole body warm.
But she hadn’t heard anything in the background earlier—no tiny paws skittering over hardwood, no bark, no jangling tags. She shrugs to herself. She’ll find out soon enough.
Before calling it a night, Ariana checks her email one more time from the couch, scanning for any last-minute updates:
Revised tour setlist mock-ups, press schedule for Brazil, wardrobe notes, two script follow-ups, a message from her vocal coach reminding her to hydrate and rest.
Everything’s in order. Everything’s moving.
She pushes up with a soft exhale, padding barefoot to her ensuite bathroom.
The light flicks on with a muted glow, gentle enough not to shock her already-prickling nerves. She grabs her headband—pink, fluffy, with a little bow—and slips it over her hair, smoothing the front with practiced precision.
Face wash. Warm water. Tiny upward circles with her fingertips. Her skin feels warm beneath her hands, soft, awake. Like the rest of her, unfortunately.
She catches her reflection smiling without her permission. She looks… happy. Electric. Tired in a good way.
She thinks about Cynthia during every step—Cynthia doing her own night routine somewhere in Brazil a few hours earlier, probably in her own silky robe with some expensive facial oil. Cynthia leaning close to the mirror to apply her moisturizer, lips parted in concentration. Cynthia humming something under her breath—maybe one of Ariana’s songs, maybe one of her own.
She thinks about the press tour too. Wicked: For Good. The moment she’s been waiting for—again. Except this time, everything’s different.
Last time, Cynthia was her best friend. Her anchor. Her quiet, steady place. This time she’s her girlfriend. Her partner. Her person. The one she gets to love out loud, no hiding, no pretending. The one she gets to hold in hotel rooms after long days. The one she gets to lean on in a way she never let herself before.
She can’t wait.
She finishes her skincare—toner, serum, moisturizer, lip mask—and brushes her hair until it falls in soft waves around her shoulders, then pulls it back into a ponytail. She flosses, brushes, swishes mouthwash, then turns off the bathroom light and pads back to bed.
She gets under the covers. She tries to get comfortable. She tries to breathe evenly. She tries to pretend she’s normal and can sleep like a normal person. She tosses to the left. To the right. Onto her stomach. Onto her back. She checks the clock.
One minute has passed. One.
She groans into her pillow.
Her mind is a carousel: Cynthia in her suite, tangled in sheets. Cynthia rolling over toward her. Cynthia’s sleepy voice behind her ear. Cynthia’s arms cinched around her waist. Cynthia’s body pressing warm and soft and insistent against hers. Cynthia murmuring baby against her neck. Cynthia kissing her shoulder, her jaw, her throat—
She squeezes her thighs together, pulse fluttering.A dangerous idea surfaces. She considers it.
A good old-fashioned orgasm might knock me out…
But the moment she pictures Cynthia beneath her—lips parted, eyes dark—her body lights up instead of calming down. Then she imagines Cynthia behind her, warm breath on her ear, hand sliding down her stomach—
“Nope,” Ariana mutters aloud, covering her face. “Nope nope nope. That’ll keep me up all night.”
She rolls onto her back, grabbing the nearest pillow to hug tight against her chest. Her heart won’t slow. Her skin feels too awake. Her brain is staging a coup.
She groans again. Louder this time.
Fine. If she can’t sleep, she can at least distract herself.
She fishes her iPad out from under her pillow, unlocks it with a swipe of her thumb, and pulls up Monopoly Go. She taps her way through boards, clacking her tongue when she gets attacked by a friend’s avatar, revenging them without hesitation. After a while she switches to Hay Day—feeding pixelated cows, harvesting wheat with far too much intensity, collecting little coins like her life depends on it.
Thirty minutes pass before her eyes start to burn from the blue light.
She huffs, drops the iPad onto the duvet, and finally—finally—lets her body sink deeper into the mattress.
Tomorrow she flies. Tomorrow she gets to see her girl. Tomorrow everything shifts into place again.
With that thought nestled warm behind her ribs, she closes her eyes and sighs.
Sleep doesn’t come easy. But it does come. Eventually.
After that, the morning comes fast.
Before the sky even softens from black to blue, Ariana is up, heart pounding in that slightly unhinged way that only comes from being this close to something you’ve waited weeks for. She practically springs out of bed—hair a mess, skin still warm from sleep—and makes a beeline for the bathroom, stripping as she goes, leaving a trail of her oversized tee and sleep shorts across the plush floor.
The shower is quick but necessary. Hot water, eucalyptus-scented steam, a loofah dragged swiftly over her skin. She towels off in a rush, tugging on soft leggings, a tank top, a zip-up hoodie. Her hair goes back in a slick bun, neat and practical, topped with a beige baseball cap. Sunglasses perch on her nose, identical to Cynthia’s usual pair. She lets herself have a little smile at that thought.
Minimal effort. Maximum stealth. She wants to slip through JFK like mist—if mist were accompanied by a very well-behaved dog in a pink travel harness.
Toulouse is already padding around the kitchen when she descends the stairs, ears perked, nails clicking softly across the tile. She coos at him, half-whispers a string of kisses against his fur as she sets down his bowl—food, water, a couple blueberries tucked on the side because he’s spoiled.
She throws a banana, protein powder, oat milk, and peanut butter into the blender and downs the smoothie in a matter of minutes, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand as she checks the time.
4:02.
Still early. Her team isn’t arriving until five. Everything is ready—the flat she’d been renting for filming had been packed up days ago. She’d been too eager to wait. Her two suitcases are lined up like soldiers near the door, pristine and impatient and she glances at them before turning back to her phone.
She unlocks it with a quick tap, thumbs flying to Cynthia’s name in her messages. Still no response.
Ariana pouts, letting out a quiet huff as she types.
okay i’m literally vibrating out of my skin rn
pls wake up or stop running laps around the hotel and gimme attention 🥺
(jk. kind of. i love you)
She tucks the phone away when nothing pings back immediately. Cynthia’s probably still asleep—Ariana hopes—or on one of her early morning jogs like the disciplined little overachiever she is. The thought makes her smile, then frown. Then smile again.
The hour that follows is slow torture. She paces. Scrolls. Double checks her chargers. Triple checks her passport. Toulouse watches her with narrowed eyes from the couch, tail flicking in subtle judgment.
By the time her team pulls up, she’s all but thrown herself into motion.
She tosses her bags in the back of the van with surprising strength for someone running on smoothie fuel, scoops Toulouse into her arms, and climbs into the backseat, already vibrating with excitement.
Her team greets her, cheerful but sleepy, and she hums along with them, answering questions, giving updates—but her brain? Her brain is already in the clouds. Already hurtling over the Atlantic. Already curled into Cynthia’s arms in a São Paulo hotel room.
At JFK, she tries to temper herself. She thinks she looks composed—sunglasses on, voice even, strides purposeful. But she keeps rocking on the balls of her feet and her fingers keep twitching toward her phone. Even Toulouse seems calmer than she does, leading slightly ahead on his leash like he’s more used to international flights than she is.
At the gate, her team handles everything. Ariana stays tucked to the side, checking her phone every few seconds.
Still no word from Cynthia.
She texts again:
getting ready to board bb…
by the time you wake up i might already be there
She bites her lip, adds a kissy selfie—pouty lips, tilted sunglasses, her tongue slightly poking out in a way she knows Cynthia loves—and hits send just as Simon nudges her arm.
“Feeling good?” he asks, grinning at her vibrating energy.
“Great,” she says, nudging him back. “Fine. Just trying not to explode.”
Simon chuckles and heads toward the counter. Ariana boards soon after, slipping into her seat with Toulouse settled under the one in front of her. Her team fans out across the rest of business class. She nestles into the wide seat, plugs in her headphones, pulls up her playlist, and finally—finally—lets herself breathe.
Imogen Heap. Cynthia’s smile. A deep, slow blink.
She drifts.
When she opens her eyes again, it’s not the sound of plane ambiance that wakes her.
It’s simmering silence.
The plane hasn’t moved. All the seats are full, the air thick with something—not tension, not yet, but confusion. Ariana looks around, forehead creasing. Her teammates wear shades of concern, a few of them already typing furiously on their phones. Simon is three rows back, jaw tight as he stares at his screen.
Ariana’s heart flutters in that not-fun way.
She unlocks her phone to check the time—well past their scheduled takeoff. Too late. Much too late.
She shoots Simon a text:
what’s going on? why haven’t we moved?
The message sends. She chews her lip.
Still no reply from Cynthia, either. She tells herself maybe it’s still early in Brazil. That Cynthia is probably tangled in white sheets, drooling on her pillow and dreaming of Ariana in a cute outfit at the airport. It’s her first free day in probably months. But the silence stings a little.
Simon’s message finally pings through:
Simon: significant flight delay. technical issue with the plane. no word on how long. might be a problem for us.
Ariana stares at the screen, blinking.
No.
Absolutely not.
This isn’t real.
She clutches the armrest, breathing out through her nose as frustration prickles behind her eyes. She could throw something. A shoe, a tantrum, her entire soul out the window. She wants to scream into the upholstery.
But she doesn’t. She grounds herself. She turns her music up a notch louder.
It’s fine. It’s fine. If it takes ten hours, she’ll wait. If it takes twenty, she’ll wait.
Half an hour later, the intercom crackles.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we regret to inform you that due to unresolved technical issues with the aircraft and no available backup at this time, this flight will be grounded indefinitely. We apologize for the inconvenience and will be working to accommodate all passengers as quickly as possible.”
Ariana’s heart drops straight through the floor.
She sits frozen in her seat as the murmurs begin, some angry, some exasperated. Toulouse lets out a quiet whine under the seat, sensing her shift in energy.
Tomorrow. Or later. Or who even knows.
Cynthia is waiting in Brazil. And Ariana is stuck in a seat on a plane that isn’t even moving.
She lets her head fall back against the headrest and closes her eyes.
“Cool,” she whispers to herself. “Totally fine. Amazing.”
But her fingers are already reaching for her phone, already unlocking it, already pulling up Cynthia’s name. Even if the Brit hasn’t responded yet.
Ariana texts Cynthia first, fingers moving fast but careful—intentional, measured.
slight delay, something w the plane so we haven’t taken off
nothing scary, just technical checks. i’ll keep you posted 💛 don’t worry
She adds a sun emoji for good measure, hoping it helps cushion the frustration that’s already clawing at her insides. She doesn't want Cynthia to stress—not when she'd finally gotten some real rest. Not when the whole point of this trip, besides press of course, was to wrap her up in a big kiss and show her how much she missed her, not make her worry.
Immediately afterward, she texts Simon:
any updates on alternatives? other flights?
The second she hits send, she hears her name quietly murmured by the flight attendant. They're being ushered off, row by row. Her stomach tightens as she tucks her phone away and stands, Toulouse’s crate snug beneath her arm. She offers the flight attendant a polite smile as she exits, her heart thudding against her ribs with every step back up the jet bridge.
The terminal is chaos. Quiet chaos, but chaos nonetheless—muffled complaints, dozens of simultaneous phone calls, the rhythmic tap tap tap of angry thumbs texting travel assistants. She weaves through the crowd, eyes scanning for Simon.
Her team is slowly gathering. One assistant reaches for Toulouse’s crate, offering to take him out and give him some air. Ariana nods gratefully, but her gaze is fixed on Simon—eyes narrowing in focus, breath steadying as she crosses the space toward him.
“Okay,” she says softly, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “What’s wrong with the plane?”
Simon meets her tone immediately, serious but calm. “They won’t say specifically, but they’re not taking chances. With how many planes have been having issues this year, it’s policy now. They’d rather ground it than risk something going wrong mid-air.”
She nods. “I respect that. I do. But what are we doing now?”
He sighs, glancing down at his phone again. “We’ve been trying every route—layovers, alternate cities, even red-eyes out of Newark or Philly. Nothing’s available that gets us there in time. The earliest, most reliable option right now is to wait for this plane to be cleared for tomorrow. They’re saying they’ll know by morning.”
Ariana exhales hard, dragging a hand down her face.
“What about private?” she asks, already knowing she doesn’t love the idea but grasping at every straw.
“Thought of that too,” Simon replies. “But flying into Brazil privately requires at least 48 hours notice for customs and flight clearance. Even if we found a jet right now, we wouldn’t be able to get it approved.”
Ariana grits her teeth. “So we wait?”
“That’s the best option we’ve got.”
Her nod is slow and reluctant. She can feel the pressure building at the base of her throat—tight and rising and dangerous if she lets it spill over. This isn’t just about a delayed flight. It’s the fact that she’d packed days early just to be ready. That she’d fantasized about the moment she reunited with her girlfriend like a teenager waiting for prom. That she might miss the Brazil premiere. That the world, yet again, seemed determined to wedge itself between her and the soft, sweet peace she’d been trying to make for herself.
But before she can say anything else, her phone rings. Her heart leaps.
She doesn’t even need to look. She knows.
Fumbling slightly, she pulls the phone from her hoodie pocket, thumb sliding across the screen as she answers.
“Hi,” she breathes, the word hitting the air like a prayer.
Cynthia’s voice spills through the line, low and warm and familiar.
“Hi, sweetness,” Cynthia she as soon as she picks up, voice soft but edged with urgency. “What’s going on? What happened?”
Ariana swallows hard, already blinking back the emotion that’s been slowly creeping up her throat since she was ushered off the plane. “It’s the plane,” she says, voice trembling despite herself. “There were some issues with it… and our flight got delayed.”
There’s a beat of silence, and then Cynthia’s tone sharpens, still gentle but a little tighter now, more alert. “Are you off the plane? Are you safe?”
That concern—the real, raw fear in her voice—makes the lump in Ariana’s throat swell all over again.
“Yeah,” she says quickly, trying to soothe. “Yeah, everyone’s off. We’re back at the gate, everything’s okay.”
“Okay. Good, good,” Cynthia murmurs, still clearly rattled but grounding herself. “So what now? When are they saying it’s safe to get back on?”
Ariana sniffles, trying to keep her composure. “Well… actually,” she starts, and her voice cracks, just slightly, just enough. “They’re saying it’s not leaving today. At all.”
A hush falls between them. The terminal buzzes on around Ariana—muffled calls, the squeak of suitcase wheels, the occasional bark from someone’s impatient child—but all she hears is the silence from Cynthia’s end, followed by a long, low exhale.
“Oh, sweetness,” Cynthia says, softer now, voice smoothing out like silk. “Is the issue that bad? Thank God they got you off… I don’t even want to think about what would’ve happened if—God, Ari, I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you.”
That’s when the tears finally break through.
Ariana doesn’t mean to cry. Not really. But something about Cynthia’s worry, the sound of her voice wrapping around her like a blanket, the way she’s not panicking but present, unflinchingly so—it unravels her.
“I’m okay,” she manages. “I’m okay, baby. I just…”
She trails off, blinking furiously, and Cynthia’s voice comes through again, as steady as ever.
“When’s your new flight?”
Ariana sits down slowly on the edge of a cold metal bench, knees a little too wobbly to hold her up much longer. “There isn’t one,” she says, barely above a whisper. “At least not yet. They’ve been checking everything—Simon said even flights with layovers, other cities, private options… but nothing will get us there in time.”
There’s another pause on the line.
“What do you mean?” Cynthia asks, still gentle, but Ariana can hear the shock creeping into her voice now.
“It’s just…” Ariana wipes her cheek with the back of her sleeve. “They’re saying our best option is to wait until they clear the plane, which might not be until tomorrow morning. There’s nothing else that’ll get us there sooner.”
Cynthia doesn’t speak for a moment. Ariana closes her eyes, presses the heel of her palm against her temple, willing herself to stay calm, to breathe, to not spiral.
Then Cynthia speaks again, low and warm and full of love.
“Okay. Okay, Ari. Everything’s going to be alright. I know this is upsetting. But they’ll work something out. We’ll work something out. You’re okay. That’s what matters.”
“But Cyn…” Ariana’s voice crumples. “I have to be there. I need to be at the premiere. There are people counting on me, and I’ve been so excited for this. We’ve been waiting for it since the last one ended and it’s the start of everything, and I just—” She gasps, shaky. “I can’t miss it.”
“You’re not letting anyone down,” Cynthia says, calm and unshakeable. “You’ve done everything you possibly could. And listen—this is just the beginning. We’ve got a whole tour ahead of us. If it doesn’t happen today, we move on to the next one. Paris is in six days. This is not the end.”
Ariana shakes her head, sniffling again. “But—”
“No buts,” Cynthia interrupts gently, but firmly. “Didn’t you tell me that everything happens for a reason?”
Ariana sniffles again, nodding even though Cynthia can’t see her. “Yeah, but…”
“If it applies to me, babe, it applies to you.” Cynthia’s voice dips, thick with affection. “Don’t work yourself up over something you couldn’t possibly control. No one will be upset. I’m not upset. I’m just relieved you’re safe.”
Ariana lets out a slow, watery breath, feeling a little more grounded beneath the sound of Cynthia’s voice.
“Yeah,” she murmurs. “But, Cyn… I really wanted to see you.”
Cynthia softens further. “You will see me, baby. That’s a promise.”
Ariana smiles, sad but small and real. She curls a hand over her chest like she can press those words deeper into herself.
Then, softer still, Cynthia adds, “Is it bad that I’m glad the plane didn’t leave?”
Ariana blinks. “Wait—what?”
Cynthia lets out a faint, embarrassed laugh. “I know, I know. It sounds awful. But when I woke up and saw your text—just that something was wrong with the plane—I panicked. I imagined the worst. I was calling you before I could even fully comprehend your text.”
Ariana’s heart aches in the best and worst way.
“Baby…” she says. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“It’s okay,” Cynthia murmurs. “As long as you’re alright, I’m alright.”
“Promise?”
“Promise, sweet thing.”
Ariana swipes the back of her hand under her eyes again, straightening slightly, her lips tugging into a barely-there smile. “Okay. If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.”
Ari’s about to say something more when she hears Simon’s voice call her name a few feet away, cutting through the crowd.
She sighs and brings the phone closer. “That’s Simon. I should go. I’ll text you the second we know more.”
“Of course. Take care of yourself, alright? Remember to breathe, text me for anything.”
“I will. I love you.”
“I love you too,” Cynthia replies, and there’s no hesitation in it—just warmth, just certainty.
Ariana ends the call and lowers her phone into her lap, closing her eyes for a brief second.
Then she breathes in deep—steady, focused—and stands, brushing her palms down her thighs as she makes her way back to Simon so they can sort out this mess.