ave's notebook @avreygrid - Tumblr Blog

Between The Lines

She’s Hollywood’s favorite heartbreaker. He’s Formula 1’s golden boy with a heartthrob smile. One offhand comment sparks a secret connection neither of them expected. Between fame, headlines, and disguises, something real begins to bloom—in the steady spaces between the lines.

Pairing: lando norris x actress! reader Genre: slow burn romance, angst TW: public shaming, mild swearing, media invasion, verbal argument

PART 1 | PART 2

All I could see were flashing lights which I didn’t bother anymore. The kind that burns afterimages into your retinas. The kind you don’t flinch from, because flinching is off-brand. You learn to stop blinking around the fifth press tour. Around the seventh, you start recognizing which photographers are behind which lens just by the way they shout your name. Around the tenth, the sound of buzzing camera shutters and journalists shouting one over another in curated chaos becomes something close to white noise—like applause, only sharper.

It was the third stop of the week–here in San Francisco on my newest movie press tour. The movie had been out there for about two weeks already, and we were finally reaching the end point of never-ending poses to the paparazzis, answering repeated questions from the journalists, and countless reenactments of the said “favorite scene”.

The room was perfectly staged, with white leather chairs, floral arrangements positioned just off-center for a sense of effortless charm. And me, in the middle of it all–exactly how they wanted me to. My Co-star, Bradley Hart, was fidgeting very visibly from his seat. His unfocused eyes could barely mask his hangover. I sighed remembering how much chaos he caused this morning. Courtesy to his manager, he had been unreachable since last night, and suddenly barged in the dressing room very late–reeked of alcohol.

I crossed my legs, adjusted the sleeve of my blazer, and gave the room my best version of attentive and effortless–hoping the attention wouldn’t shift to my co-star whose eyes looked bleary red. The press didn’t need to know that I’d been up since five, that the makeup and hair took three hours to look perfect, or that the back zipper on my suit had to be sewn shut by my stylist minutes before we walked out.

The questions came fast, voices blending together, some about the story, the character, the director. But even the praise felt like foreplay for the real question—the one they were always circling back to. My heart thumped—not with nerves, but with discomfort. That tight, crawling sensation under your skin when you're being watched too closely. Just when I thought I’d grown used to it, the feelings returned—quiet and sharp—reminding me I never really had.

Bradley was still blinking like the room was spinning a little too fast, and I was silently praying the cameras would crop him favorably. If anyone asked, I’d say he had a cold. Allergies. Anything but the truth.

I leaned slightly forward, feigning interest in a question about character development—one I’d already answered for the third time this week in different cities. I answered easily, gracefully. I knew this rhythm, I lived in it. I let the lines fall soft and thoughtful, let my hands move just enough to look natural. They nodded, scribbled on their notes, typed away on their laptop. I gave them everything but the things that were mine.

And then it came, slipped into the rotation so seamlessly I almost admired her for it. A voice I recognized. Lila Vance–a tabloid journalist from StarFlash Weekly known for spinning eye contact into scandal and compliments into traps. They were the first to report my breakups—before I even told my closest friends, well I hadn’t even confirmed the split to my manager yet. I’d expected her to come to at least one of the stops, and here she was. She smiled when I met her eyes, that performative kind of smile—polite but ravenous.

“In the film, your character jumps headfirst into love, even knowing it might end in ruin,” she said, voice sweet. “Do you relate to that in your real life?”

It cut through the static. Like a thread being pulled tight—sharp, inevitable. I blinked slowly as I tilted my head just enough to look amused, mischievous. A move I’d mastered years ago.

"Let’s just say... I know how to play the part." I let the smile linger. I leaned back, crossed my legs, smiled wider–the way they liked me. Magnetic, elusive, never too sincere.

“You know how it is,” I added, letting it purr. “I fall in love for a living. The rest is just rehearsal.”

Lila’s mouth curled at the edges–pleased, but not surprised. She got her quote. She always did.

There were more questions after that. I answered them. I posed for another round of photos, accepted another glass of water I didn’t drink. Somewhere in the back of the room, my manager was probably exhaling through her nose, already imagining the headlines being typed out before I’d even left the room.

“Heartbreaker strikes again.”“Still no stable romance for Hollywood’s most beloved commitment-phobe.”“She Won’t Be Tied Down: Y/N Responds to Romance Rumors With a Smile and a Sting.”

They didn’t always call me that. The headlines used to be kinder. Rising star. Innocent. America’s next sweetheart. Back when I still wore nervous smiles on red carpets and spoke too earnestly in interviews. Back before I understood the difference between being adored and being devoured.

The first time they called me a heartbreaker was after Milo Larkin. We dated for six months. He was an indie band vocalist with cheekbones the girls on TikTok created edits about. I liked him. I really did. But I was filming in Croatia, promoting a separate project in London, reading three scripts at once and sleeping maybe four hours a night. One morning, I texted him that I couldn’t keep up the pace. He told a friend, the friend told a blog, and suddenly I had “left him shattered.”

He was crying on a podcast. He told the world how I was too busy, too indifferent. Yet I didn’t say a word.

Then came Eliah.

The timing was perfect—or so I thought. I was still raw from what had come before, guarded in places I didn’t realize had been hurt. But Eliah was persistent in that soft, convincing way. Sweet words. Steady hands. All those earnest little phrases that sound like safety when you’re not sure what that looks like anymore.

“I don’t care about your past.”“They don’t know you like I do.”“Let them talk—I’m here.”

And I fell. I really fell. Not because I didn’t know better—but because I wanted to believe someone might mean it this time.

He broke up with me over brunch. Smiled the whole way through. A month later, he was dating someone more famous. Gave an interview about how “some people carry too much damage to be loved properly.” And still—somehow—I was the villain in that story too.

Then came Matias. Tom. A few more. Some real, some not. Names that looked good in print. Faces that looked good beside mine. We shared premieres, dinners, soft launches and soft goodbyes.

A couple of them broke up with me over text and still claimed I ruined them. Said I was too distant. Too complicated. One said I didn’t know how to be loved—as if he hadn’t spent most of our time together trying to mold me into someone simpler. Another one cheated. But I was the one painted cold for leaving.

By then, I had learned how to survive the fallout. How to keep smiling through a press tour when someone was leaking texts behind your back. How to let the rumors run their course until a new scandal replaced yours. How to let them call you a heartbreaker because it was easier than telling them the truth.

Because the truth was, I didn’t break hearts. I just never stayed long enough to let mine break first.

I threw myself to the sofa in the dressing room, releasing a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. The back of my stiletto had been digging into my skin for hours, and the white suit I’d been wearing felt suffocating. The schedule of the day was done, and they’d freed me to go home. The sun was still up there–so today was very rare.

The silence stayed. No knock on the door. The room had that odd post-event hum—like the air still remembered voices, even after they’d all left. My reflection in the mirror looked too polished to feel like this. Like someone who should be going to a dinner, or a rooftop party, or anywhere but here.

It always hit like this, after the buzz wore off. The questions. The cameras. The forced smiles and the knowing glances from handlers who assumed I liked this. I Chose this. Maybe I did, I used to be.

I stared at my phone. No new messages. Not one person I wanted to talk to. Not one I could.

Because this—this hollowed-out version of me after the lights—wasn’t built for small talk or shared dessert menus. She was built for slipping off heels with shaking hands and peeling off characters that felt like second skin.

My mind circled back to that question. “In the film, your character jumps headfirst into love, even knowing it might end in ruin, do you relate to that in your real life?” Well the truth is I fall fast. But not for the thrill of the fall. For the moment where it feels like someone sees you. Reaches past the glint and the camera-flash version of you and decides to stay. But they never do. Not when they realize the real thing—the whole thing—is messier. Harder. Too full of late nights and unanswered texts and someone who disappears into characters more than she ever lets herself be seen as one.

I’d been called cold for walking away. But no one ever asked what it felt like to stay. To pretend. To shrink yourself into something someone could keep. So I stopped trying. Stopped explaining. Let them write what they wanted to write, say what they needed to say.

I let my head fall back against the sofa and closed my eyes. For the first time all day, I let myself feel the stillness. Not fight it. Not fill it. Not perform.

Then came the knock—soft, familiar.

I didn’t even have to open my eyes to know who it was. Only one person knocked like that. Like they were checking the weather inside the room before stepping in. My manager. My best friend. The only one who didn’t flinch when the headlines got ugly or when I stopped talking altogether.

She slipped through the door and closed it gently behind her. No clipboard, no phone in her hand. Just herself, in jeans and a tired sweatshirt, the day unwinding at her shoulders like she’d carried half of it for me. She sat in the vanity chair, spinning it to face me. For a moment, she didn’t speak. Just looked at me the way she always did when she knew I was pretending less.

"How do you feel?" she asked gently.

I let out a breath, flat and tired. “Awful.”

Andrea nodded, her mouth softening into that half-smile she used when she wished she could fix things. “I’m sorry.”

I looked up at her, eyes heavy. “Did I ruin the headline?”

The silence came before the answer—her way of protecting me from it, even if just for a second. “Producers are talking,” she said carefully. “But they’re not upset. They thought you handled it perfectly. Gave just enough.”

I scoffed quietly, rubbing at the corner of my eye. “Right. Just enough mystery. Just enough charm.”

She gave a small shrug. “You gave them what they needed. You always do.”

A beat passed between us.

I pressed my palms into my eyes and sighed. “I don’t think I have anything left to give them right now.”

“Then don’t give anything,” she said softly. “Take something instead.”

I looked at her.

“There’s a brand event next week,” Andrea continued. “Nothing too flashy. Private list. You’ve already RSVP’d yes, remember?”

I squinted because I didn’t remember.

“It’s not press,” she added. “Just fashion people. A chance to wear something great, be in a room without expectations. Let someone else carry the questions for once.”

I hesitated. “I don’t know if I’m in the mood to make small talk.”

“Then don’t. Just show up.” She stood, smoothing the crease in her jeans. “Let the world spin around you for a night instead of trying to keep it upright.”

Her voice had that soft insistence again. The one she used when she wasn’t just being my manager, but my friend. The one who had seen me unravel and zip myself back up more times than I could count.

I leaned back against the dressing room sofa, exhaling. Maybe she was right. Maybe I didn’t need a plan. Or a comeback. Just a good outfit and a night off.

The intercom buzzed at exactly 10:12 a.m. I didn’t even have to check. Only one person in my life was consistent enough to treat “watching F1 at my place” like a religious obligation. It had been 2 months since the 2025 season started, and my older brother Josh never missed spending a single race weekend in my apartment, aside from last week where I had a back to back press release tour.

“Door’s open,” I called out, not moving from the couch.

A beat later, Josh barged in like he owned the lease—hoodie half-zipped, arms full of plastic bags, his keys still swinging from one finger. Chili barely raised her head from her blanket perch.

“My favorite sister,” he said by way of greeting.

“I’m your only sister.”

“Still counts.”

He dumped his offerings—large box of food, a suspiciously large iced coffee, and enough chips to host a children’s birthday party—on the kitchen island before collapsing onto the floor in front of the TV. Like clockwork.

“Do I even want to know what that is?” I asked, eyeing the mystery box.

“Something I promised I wouldn’t tell you until after you ate it.”

“Fantastic.” I yawned, pulling my blanket tighter around me. “And to think I feed you and let you abuse my air conditioning.”

“You let me because I bring joy to this bleak, glamorous life of yours,” he grinned, already queuing up the pre-race coverage. “Also because your TV is the size of a small country.”

I smiled despite myself.

It was like this every race weekend—him making himself at home, me letting him. Our version of family time. No red carpets. No emails. Just sound design so good it made the walls vibrate and commentary that played like white noise in the background of our siblinghood.

“So,” he said, mid-chip, “you still going to that brand thing next week?”

“Marné event? Yeah.” I made a face. “Andrea’s been working on my look for days. Threatened to cut me out of her life if I bailed again.”

“She wouldn’t survive two days without trauma-dumping in your texts.”

“True,” I laughed softly. “Anyway, I think I’ll go. Try to play nice. Smile for the cameras.”

He gave me a look—subtle, but knowing. “You okay?”

It was such a simple question. But from him, it hit different.

I nodded once. “Yeah. Just tired. Long week. The press stuff gets old.”

He didn’t push. Just reached for the remote, then lowered the volume. “Okay, so... this is actually why I asked.”

He scrolled through his saved clips on his phone and pulled up a recent interview—slick production, muted colors, Lando Norris front and center. I recognized the F1 logo in the corner. His grin flickered on screen, casual, a little too quick to be rehearsed.

The interviewer asked, “Any movie you watch recently?” “That new one with Y/N,” Lando said, sitting forward a little. “The acting? Really, really good. She’s—yeah. Something else.”

I blinked. Josh glanced at me, not trying to hide the smug smile creeping in. “Look at that. Guess you’ve got a fan.”

“I’m sorry,” I muttered, trying not to react. “Are we just... casually watching interview montages of men you know I’ll never meet?”

“You’re gonna meet him next week, actually,” he said casually.

I narrowed my eyes. “What?”

He shrugged. “Andrea didn’t tell you? She mentioned he might be at the Marné event. Something about mutual sponsors or... fashion crossover?”

I didn’t answer. I was still looking at the screen. Still processing the way he’d said my name. Like it was a fact, not a favor.

Josh smirked. “Also? You were the one who made me rewind a race once because you saw him on the podium and asked, ‘Who’s that orange guy?’ Don’t pretend you’ve forgotten.”

“I did not say it like that.”

“Oh, you so did.”

I tossed a throw pillow at him.

Josh ducked and grinned wider. He cracked open a can of something fizzy and flopped fully onto the floor like he was twelve again. The race broadcast flickered to life, the familiar hum of engines swelling through my living room like a second soundtrack. “Point is—you might be his favorite actress. Wild, huh?”

I curled deeper into the corner of the couch, legs tucked under me, Chili nestled somewhere behind my knees like a living heat pack.

It was last year’s Australian Grand Prix. I’d just gotten my sound system upgraded—something about needing “immersive silence” for line memorization—and might’ve accidentally bragged about it to Josh. He showed up that Sunday like it was a housewarming, arms full of snacks and unsolicited commentary. That race, Lando finished third. I wasn’t really paying attention; my phone was more interesting than engine sounds, and Josh wouldn’t shut up about the Ferrari 1–2 like it was a national event. But then I looked up. Just for a second. Saw him on the screen—brown curls messily damp from the helmet, his race suit half-unzipped, sweat clinging to his collarbone, his face flushed but lit with this stupid, breathless, elated smile. That was the first time I asked. Just one line. Barely a whisper over my iced coffee. “Who’s that orange guy?” Josh didn’t let me live it down until now.

“You know,” Josh said between mouthfuls of seaweed chips, “if you do meet him at the event next week, you should at least try not to look like you're in witness protection.”

I snorted. “Says the man who wore a hoodie to brunch last weekend because his ex was two tables over.”

He gave a wounded look. “That was survival instinct.”

“Sure it was.”

We fell into silence as the formation lap began. The commentary picked up pace. I watched the names flash across the screen—Verstappen, Leclerc, Hamilton... Norris.

My gaze lingered a second too long.

Josh caught it. “Wow,” he drawled, nudging my foot with his. “You are thinking about it.”

“I’m literally watching the race.”

“You’re watching him.”

I didn’t answer. Not right away. Because maybe I was. Not just watching, though—it was like I was seeing him differently now. Wondering if someone who drove at 200 miles an hour for a living could really be... thoughtful. Curious. Someone who watched movies with intention. Someone who meant things.

“That’s not the face of someone thinking about tire strategy,” Josh muttered, grinning.

“I’m just surprised,” I said, too casually. “He could’ve picked any film yet he said mine.”

The lights went out on the screen and the roar of twenty cars taking off swallowed the room. Chili let out a tiny huff, shifting against my legs, unimpressed by the noise.

Josh leaned forward, already locked in.

I let myself sink back into the cushions, arms crossed, eyes on the screen. I let the race carry us. Let the adrenaline of strangers fill the silence between things unsaid. My mind drifted once—to the Marné event next week. To flashes of cameras, polite conversation, maybe a soft smile from across the room.

And then, like flicking a switch, I pushed it down. Back into the box. Back into the quiet. Just me, my brother, a very spoiled cat, and twenty cars speeding toward a finish line.

By lap thirty-five, my brain had started to drift. No offense to the sport—the cars were still zipping around like angry wasps and the commentators were still shouting about DRS zones and tire degradation—but my attention had begun to unravel somewhere around lap twenty. Josh was fully locked in, fists clenched. I, meanwhile, had sunk deeper into the couch cushions, one hand absently scrolling Instagram while the other scratched behind Chili’s ear.

A few clicks. A few mindless stories. Sponsored content. Then, muscle memory took over.

Search bar. Lando Norris. Tap.

Just a little curiosity. For research.

His page loaded instantly—blue check, millions of followers, the usual. Fast cars, podium smiles, photos that looked like they’d been filtered through golden hour and a billion-dollar lens. Some with friends. A few alone. One particularly stupid one of him holding a baguette and wearing sunglasses, which made me roll my eyes and maybe smile—just a little.

And then, I blinked.

He followed me.

I stared at it for a second, trying to decide if I’d misread. Refreshed the page. Looked again. Still there.

I tilted the phone away from Josh automatically, as if he could somehow see the heat blooming in my face. My thumb hovered over the screen like it was holding a secret.

“He’s in second,” Josh muttered beside me, totally unaware. “If he times the undercut right, he might—wait, what’re you doing?”

“Nothing,” I said quickly, locking my phone. “Just—my feed. It’s full of... skincare ads.”

Josh gave me a suspicious side-eye. “Uh-huh.”

But I wasn’t listening anymore. My heart was still beating a little faster than before, and my head was now full of breadcrumbs.

He’d followed me. Before the event. Before any brand photo-op or formal introduction. And I didn’t know since when.

I swallowed, lips parting without meaning to. Something fizzy and a little nervous bubbled in my chest–it was familiar. That flicker of interest. Real, pointed, unexpectedly inconvenient interest. The kind that didn’t start with a smile across a room, but with a clip from an interview and the faintest feeling that maybe—just maybe—someone saw more than just the character I played. And maybe that’s how the fallout always began. Not with declarations or drama. But with quiet curiosity. A name typed into a search bar. A profile scanned too long. A follow-back that felt heavier than it should.

I stared at the blue Follow back button for a moment.

It shouldn’t have felt like anything. People did it all the time. Casual. Forgettable. A blink in the chaos of social media. But still, I hesitated. Thumb hovering. Heart nudging. It wasn’t like I hadn’t followed people back before. I had. Directors. Co-stars. The guy who played a tree in an off-Broadway production I was once in.

But this felt different. I stared for a second longer than I should have. Heart ticking a little faster, not because of who he was—but because of what it meant. Someone out there—that someone—had watched a film where I bled parts of myself onscreen, and still decided to stay.

I locked my phone without tapping anything. Set it screen-down on the table like it had teeth.

Josh, still oblivious, shouted something about undercuts and tire wear. Chili yawned in my lap, unimpressed. I leaned my head back against the couch, eyes on the screen—but my thoughts already half somewhere else.

Josh left a little after ten. The apartment was quiet again, the kind of quiet that didn’t feel heavy yet—just soft around the edges. Familiar. I turned off the TV. Chili let out a tired little grunt from the couch and didn’t bother moving when I stood up to clean. I did the usual: rinsed mugs, folded the throw blanket, wiped the coffee table even though it didn’t really need it. I wasn’t tired, not really. But I didn’t feel like thinking, either.

I showered. Pulled on an old sleep shirt. Did my skin care half-heartedly. When I got to brushing my teeth, I realized I’d left my phone on the edge of the sink. Screen still locked. Face-down like it was waiting for me.

I picked it up. Unlocked.

There he was. The last search in my bar. Lando Norris.

Still following.

I stared for a beat. Maybe two.

It wasn’t the kind of thing I should’ve been overthinking. A follow is a follow. Harmless. Fleeting. But something about the timing lingered—like he’d already made his mind up about me without expecting anything in return. I didn’t want to read into it. Not like I used to. I’d done that before—built whole fantasies out of kindness, turned curiosity into connection where there was none. I wasn’t thirteen anymore. Not seventeen. Not twenty-three and wrecked over someone who told me I was “too much, too fast.”

I should’ve let it go. Instead, I tapped Follow back.

The action was instant. Quiet. Not even a sound. But it felt loud in my chest.

Chili meowed softly from the couch, stretching across the blanket like she owned the place. I padded out of the bathroom and curled back up beside her, pulling my knees to my chest. My phone buzzed once—something unrelated, probably. Still, I locked it again.

Just one button. That was all.

No expectations. No dramatics. Just... maybe something. A quiet kind of maybe.

It was very sunny outside when I stepped out of my apartment. The kind of sunlight that felt too loud for what was supposed to be the most important audition of my year—maybe my entire career. Andrea had been waiting for me at the curb, leaning against the car with oversized sunglasses and a half-drunk oat milk latte, texting me in all caps.

Andrea: MOVE. FASTER. IF YOU MISS THIS SLOT I WILL UNFRIEND YOU IRL. Andrea: ALSO you left your lipstick. Again.

I slid into the passenger seat, clutching the sides of my script like it was something sacred. Andrea didn’t even greet me, just passed me the lipstick and a breath mint. “You good?” she asked, starting the car.

I nodded too quickly. “Yeah.”

“Liar. Want me to run lines with you?”

I shook my head. “If I say the words one more time, I’ll forget how to feel them.”

She didn’t argue. The drive to the studio passed in a blur of nerves. Andrea did most of the talking—last-minute reminders, light gossip about another actress who apparently showed up to her Kassner audition in full character costume, and a gentle reminder that if I booked this, she’d probably cry for a week. I stared out the window, trying to breathe. It felt like my lungs had shrunk overnight.

This wasn’t just any casting. It was Julian Kassner.

A man whose scripts moved like poetry and whose actors left his sets transformed. His last three movies had all been nominated. Two had won. Oscars. Cannes. That kind of pedigree. The kind you don’t just audition for—you beg for. People called him a genius. Others—usually off record—called him terrifying. He was famously professional. Gracious in interviews. But behind the lens, he didn’t suffer chaos. He didn’t work with actors who were distracted from the art. No scandals. No drama. No Page Six headlines.

I’d studied him in film school. Wrote a thesis about how his use of silence in Blue Night, Black Sky was more haunting than any monologue. And now I was trying out for the lead in his next film. The character—Leila—was a paradox. Soft-spoken but searing. She held grief like a weapon. And somehow I had to become her, for five minutes, in a cold room with strangers.

We pulled up to the production studio in Tribeca—white-bricked, discreet. Just a small gold plaque with the company’s name engraved. Andrea parked, turned to me, and placed a hand on my shoulder.

“You’ve got this,” she said. “Go make him regret ever working with anyone else.”

I gave her a tight smile, then stepped out into the warmth. The sunlight hit me square in the face—bright, unrelenting. The air tasted like metal.

The lobby of the production studio in Tribeca was predictably stark—glass, matte black accents that whispered importance. The kind of place that had seen careers ignite and implode in the same breath. I signed in, smiled tightly at the assistant who barely glanced up, then sat down on one of the low, painfully modern couches that looked more like art than furniture.

I didn’t dare pull the script out again. I’d memorized it backwards. Forwards. I’d worked with a coach for two weeks, even ran scenes with Andrea late at night over FaceTime, her eyes bleary, her notes sharp. But still—my fingers itched for something. Anything to ground me.

I opened my phone. And there, sat a very recent–unread DM from someone unexpected.

@lando: Hi! I really enjoyed your movies!! Looking forward to more of your acting :)

The same Lando who had smiled at the end of that interview clip like he hadn’t meant to say my name but did anyway. The same Lando whose profile I’d stalked the week before, whose curls I still remembered wild from last year’s Australian GP. The same Lando who shouldn’t have made my heart skip when I was about to audition for Julian fucking Kassner.

I stared at the message a beat too long before locking my phone like it had burned me. Not now.

The casting assistant called my name, I stood, legs shaking so slightly I hoped no one noticed. The room I walked into was dimly lit, as if even the light didn’t dare intrude. Julian Kassner sat at the far end of a long table—button-down rolled at the sleeves, glasses low on the bridge of his nose. Beside him, the producer—Melissa Greene, I think—was scribbling something quickly onto the sides of a printed script. Another woman, probably casting, gave me a warm nod.

They handed me a mark to stand on. Told me I’d be reading with a stand-in. Scene three. The moment after Leila learns her mother has died but refuses to cry.

I nodded once. Then something shifted.

I didn’t act. I became.

The words rolled out of me like they weren’t mine, like they’d always been there waiting to be used. My voice cracked at the right moment—not because I planned it, but because it had to. I could hear the breath of the woman across from me falter. I didn’t look at Julian. I couldn’t. I just stared past the reader, into a spot on the wall that wasn’t real, letting my chest cave in slowly.

By the end of the scene, my hands were trembling.

Silence.

Then the click of a pen. Julian leaned forward, studying me like I was a puzzle he hadn’t expected to like solving. The silence stretched for a second longer than it needed to. Then Kassner blinked and said, simply, “Thank you.”

I thought that was it. My cue to leave.

But then Melissa leaned forward, her face soft. “You seemed perfect for the character,” she said. “Thank you for bringing her to life.”

“We’ll be contacting you for the script reading,” Kassner added, his voice even. Measured. But I caught it—the faintest upward curve at the edge of his mouth. Not quite a smile, but something.

I smiled, bowed my head, and walked out of the room like my bones were made of spun sugar.

Outside, the air was too bright. My pulse was still thrumming. I didn’t even know where I was walking, only that I needed to move, to feel the weight of gravity again. I pulled out my phone on instinct.

The message was still there. Just a few words. No pressure. No ask. I stared at it. Thought of everything I’d just risked. Everything I wanted to hold onto. Kassner didn’t do scandal. Didn’t like distractions. If he even suspected I was flirting with the edges of another tabloid headline, the offer could vanish. Just like that.

I closed the app. Left it on read. And maybe in another life, on another day, I would’ve replied and said something charming, casual. But today, I kept walking.

The doorbell wouldn’t stop screaming.

At first, I thought it was part of a dream. Some nightmare sequence where I was being hunted down by paparazzi or ex-boyfriends or—God forbid—both. But then I cracked one eye open and realized it was real. The sunlight was slashing through the windows, lighting up my entire apartment like a stage I didn’t ask to be on.

I groaned, squinting at the intercom. Andrea’s face filled the screen, distorted and dramatic, like a found-footage horror film. She was aggressively mashing the bell like it owed her money.

“Stop it, Andrea!!” I yelled through the speaker, voice still thick with sleep.

“Finally!” she beamed, lifting a giant paper bag into the frame like it was a peace offering. “I brought food!”

I shuffled to the door, dragging half my soul behind me. As soon as I cracked it open, she breezed past me with the entitlement of someone who knew where the cereal was kept. Her shoes were already off, tossed somewhere near the welcome mat, and she was yapping at full volume before I’d even fully opened my eyes.

“Andrea,” I groaned, dragging my feet behind her, “I was unconscious. Dead to the world. Possibly flatlined.”

She ignored me completely, already unpacking the contents of her oversized paper bag like she was restocking a pantry she owned. “You had your big audition yesterday. You earned carbs. Also, you trended on X for, like, three hours.”

I collapsed onto the couch, face-first, arms sprawled. “Wonderful. Was it for my talent?”

Andrea offered no sympathy, just the clatter of croissants and iced oat lattes being lined up like offerings on the coffee table. “Actually, it was for the way you said ‘I fall in love for a living’ like you were about to eat the reporter alive. Which—iconic. But also terrifying. I’d be afraid to date you too.”

“Good,” I mumbled into a cushion.

Andrea settled into the armchair with that manic energy only she could summon before noon. “Anyway. You’ve got two hours to get yourself together before we leave.”

I paused mid-bite. “Leave for what?”

She blinked. “You’re kidding.”

My silence wasn’t kidding.

“The Solstice Studios x Marné event? The one we did fittings two weeks ago? The one where they’re low-key circling you for their next campaign? That one?”

I buried my face deeper into the pillow. “I thought that was tomorrow.”

She launched a croissant crumb at me. “It’s tonight. Sunset. Small, curated, no influencers—just moody creatives pretending not to know who you are while secretly praying you make eye contact.”

“Ugh. I can’t be perceived today.”

“Well, you’re going to be.” She scrolled through her phone, already coordinating something with someone important. “You’ve got the coat. You’ve got the attitude. You’ve got just the right amount of post-press day mystery energy. You’re going to look like the girl they write screenplays about.”

I groaned again, louder this time. “Fine. But only because I really like that coat.”

“And because you love me,” she smirked, sipping her latte like this was all part of her master plan.

I sat up slowly, blinking out the last remnants of sleep while Central Park shimmered beyond the glass. Two hours to transform into someone vaguely ethereal and emotionally complex. The kind of woman who wears Marné and says things like “I don’t do small talk.”

Andrea stood up, hands on her hips like a mom in a sitcom. “Now finish the food and go shower. You look like a ghost.”

I raised a brow mid-bite. “A ghost?”

“A very chic one,” she added, grabbing her phone and snapping a picture of my bedhead. “But still.”

The elevator dinged—soft, almost shy—before the doors slid open to reveal the rooftop.

Music floated in slow, dreamy waves through the warm air, something French and jazzy, threaded with just enough bass to hum in your chest. The space was minimal by design—concrete, glass, and tall silver heaters pulsing with warmth against the late afternoon breeze. String lights looped lazily above, casting everything in a kind of soft glow that made even the skyline feel like part of the decor. It was curated melancholy. The kind of place where everyone looked like they were pretending not to wait for someone.

The Marné suit was a liquid charcoal shade—tailored within an inch of its life, cinched at the waist with sharp lapels and slightly exaggerated shoulders, balancing edge with grace. The silk blouse underneath was the color of heavy cream, its collar undone just enough to suggest that everything about me was both intentional and accidentally perfect. The trousers skimmed the floor over pointed heels, and my hair was pulled back in a clean, low bun—the kind that said I didn’t need to try harder to be looked at.

And they were looking.

Some were subtle. A glance too long over the rim of a champagne glass. A pause in conversation that lasted a beat too long. Others weren’t.

“I heard she’s not very lucky in love,” someone murmured behind me, just loud enough to be heard.

“She acts it well,” another voice followed—dry, amused. “That last film? Gutting. She could sell heartbreak like perfume.”

I didn’t flinch. Just adjusted the strap of my bag, stepped deeper into the party, and let their words dissolve into the music.

Then, like clockwork, a familiar voice pulled me from the static. “Y/N.”

I turned and found myself face to face with Lucien Marné himself—linen shirt, tailored jacket, hair a little more tousled than usual. He looked like someone who vacationed for a living. He offered both cheeks, kissed the air beside mine, and smiled in that infuriatingly serene way designers always seemed to. “You look... devastating.”

“I dressed for the occasion,” I replied with a wink.

His gaze flicked briefly to the rest of the room. “And the occasion dressed for you, as always.”

“I have to say,” I told Lucien, lifting my glass slightly in a quiet toast, “your collection this season? Almost cruelly good. My stylists were both delighted and terrified.”

Lucien’s smile deepened, pleased in that quiet way artists are when you speak to their work instead of their image. “Ah, then I’ve done something right.”

Before he could say more, Andrea—who had been scrolling through her phone just minutes ago—suddenly lit up. “Lucien, you still owe me lunch in Milan.”

He laughed, pulling her into a brief hug. “I knew you’d find me.”

They slipped into conversation like old conspirators—talking about some stylist they both loved, a villa that changed hands, a dinner party I’d apparently missed by falling asleep too early. I let them chatter, sipping my champagne and nodding when needed, letting the glass cool against the inside of my wrist.

I wasn’t bothered. Not really. It was nice, actually—drifting just out of frame in a room that somehow always made me the subject.

Someone passed by with a silver tray, and I caught another glass—not because I needed it, but because it gave my hands something to do. I tilted my chin, letting the music roll over me as I took in the space again—conversations, silk, cologne, stiletto taps, curated laughter.

Eyes met mine across the room.

A trio by the ivy-covered railing. One whispered something behind her fingers. The others didn’t bother hiding their stares.

“She’s gorgeous, but you know... she’s never with the same guy twice.”

“I heard she broke Milo Hart’s heart.”

“She’s probably just here for the photos.”

Still—I smiled. Just enough to look unbothered. Maybe even a little amused.

I was mid-sip, letting the bubbles fizz at the back of my throat, when a tap landed on my shoulder. Not gentle. Not polite. The kind that makes your stomach jolt like a missed step.

For a second, I froze—tight-chested, startled, like someone had just cracked open the glass between me and the rest of the world. I turned sharply, prepared to armor up—only to be met with a grin I hadn’t seen in years.

“Hi!” he beamed. “It’s been too long!”

Charles Hubert. He looked almost exactly the same—maybe a bit scruffier, a little more tired in the eyes, but still boyish, still the type of handsome that made people trust him too easily. We’d gone to school together once upon a lifetime ago, before the fame, before the campaigns. And then he became a photographer—one of the good ones. We'd crossed paths again on a few shoots, made each other laugh, swapped war stories about this industry and all the ways it tried to chew us up.

“Charles,” I gasped, breaking into a real, reflexive smile as he pulled me into a hug I actually welcomed. “God, you startled me.”

“Sorry,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. “I wasn’t sure it was you until I saw that don’t-fuck-with-me expression. Then I knew.”

I laughed, breath easing in my chest. The kind of laugh that felt like a soft exhale in a night made of pretending.

“You look incredible,” he added, stepping back to really take me in. “Marné’s lucky you wore him tonight.”

I smirked. “I wouldn’t miss a chance to wear his masterpiece.”

Charles chuckled, brushing a hand through his hair. “So… are you still impossible to book coffee with? Or do I finally get a rain check after, like, five years?”

“Depends,” I teased. “Are you still ordering lavender oat lattes and calling them ‘masculine’?”

“Always,” he grinned. “Some things never change.”

It was only after the laughter faded, after Charles let go and started fumbling with the champagne glass someone had handed him, that I noticed someone standing just behind him.

Brown curls. Sharp features. A mouth curved with quiet amusement. And eyes—green, unmistakably green—fixed on me like he’d been watching the whole thing unfold, quietly entertained. He wasn’t trying to interrupt. Just... waiting. Patient, polite. Boyish in a way that felt dangerously charming. My smile flattened, posture re-centering into something cool and practiced. No warmth, no sparkle. Just polite interest and a perfect poker face.

Charles caught the shift, glanced between us, then lit up like he’d just realized he held the match to something potentially explosive.

“Oh—have you two met?” Charles asked, already stepping aside, already sure of the answer. “Lando, this is—”

“I know who she is,” Lando said, smiling.

It wasn’t smug. Just honest. Like someone stating their favorite song was already playing.

His voice hit lower than I expected. Smooth, a little amused, soft around the edges but grounded in that unmistakable British clip. He wasn’t wearing anything loud—just a dark jacket over a white tee, black trousers, clean sneakers. Effortless. But it wasn’t the clothes that stood out. It was the way he stood—anchored but not heavy, like he wasn’t trying to take up space but did anyway.

I turned fully toward him, the glass still poised in my hand like a defense mechanism. “Lando Norris,” I said, offering the faintest smile. “Of course.”

“I wasn’t sure you’d actually be here,” he said, then corrected himself quickly. “Or want to be seen here.”

I tilted my head, feigning casual curiosity. “Why wouldn’t I?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just met my eyes like he was looking for something—confirmation, maybe, or denial. Something under the surface I wasn’t sure I’d let show.

Charles cleared his throat, sensing he’d become background noise. “Right. I’m gonna… grab another drink.” He winked, lifted his glass, and slipped off like smoke.

And then it was just us. The rooftop and the skyline and a few yards of air that felt thinner than it had a minute ago.

“You clean up well,” I said, because it was the safest thing I could reach for.

He shrugged, boyish and unbothered. “I tried.”

I took another sip of champagne, letting the silence stretch long enough to feel a little dangerous. “So,” I said lightly, “You slid into my DMs.”

His eyes flickered, but he didn’t flinch. “I did.”

“Ballsy.”

“Was it?” he asked, that hint of a grin teasing the corner of his mouth. “It was a compliment. Not a proposal.”

“True. Still. It’s risky business—publicly claiming a favorite actress.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Only if she’s the type to take it badly.”

I raised a brow. “And if she’s the type to leave you on read?”

His grin turned rueful, but not bitter. “Then I’d say she had good reason.”

I paused. Let the words settle, let the wind tug lightly at the ends of my blouse, let the rooftop melt into the sound of music and soft murmurs. Then I stepped forward, just a little—close enough for the scent of him to reach me: warm, clean, vaguely expensive.

“I was in the middle of an audition,” I said.

“I figured.”

“For Julian Kassner.”

His brows lifted, impressed despite himself. “Serious stuff.”

“Exactly.” I gave him a wry smile. “He doesn’t exactly love actresses who flirt with controversy.”

His gaze flicked over me. “That what I am? A controversy?”

“Not yet.”

That earned a low laugh, not loud, but real. “You’re sharper than they make you out to be.”

“And you’re less reckless than I expected.”

“Don’t tell anyone,” he said. “It’d ruin my brand.”

Another beat passed. The breeze shifted. The city glimmered behind him like a half-finished thought.

He looked at me again—this time less entertained, more intent. “I meant what I said, by the way. About your work.”

I didn’t answer right away. Just watched him with the caution of someone who’d been admired for the wrong reasons too many times.

“I saw Crying in Third Person twice,” he added. “Once alone. Once with a friend who didn’t get it.”

“And did you?” I asked.

“I think I did,” he said. “You didn’t cry for most of the film. And somehow, that hurt more.”

My throat caught. Just for a second. Then I smiled.

“Okay, Lando Norris,” I said, eyes narrowing just slightly. “You can stay.”

He laughed softly. “I appreciate the mercy.”

Before I could say more, I heard Andrea’s voice behind me—sharp with curiosity, just a beat too quick to be casual. “Y/N.”

I didn’t turn right away. I didn’t have to. I could feel the shift in her energy, the kind that buzzes when your best friend realizes you’re talking to someone you probably shouldn’t be talking to this comfortably.

She stepped up beside me, eyes flicking between me and Lando with the kind of subtle interest only someone who’d known me for years could master. Then, smooth as ever, she extended a hand toward him. “Hi. Andrea. I manage her life when she lets me.”

Lando shook her hand with a polite nod, smile still lingering. “Lando Norris. I’m trying not to cause trouble.”

Andrea gave me a look. A very specific look. The kind that said, Oh, so this is who you’ve been standing here with, pretending to be chill.

Before I could glare at her, Charles reappeared and Marné swept in from the side like he’d just sensed the moment might be getting interesting.

“Well, this is a rare sight,” Marné grinned, greeting Lando with a designer’s cool affection. “Thank you for coming, truly. And I see you’ve worn the jacket. Looks even better in motion.”

Lando glanced down at the piece he was wearing—minimalist, tailored, sharp in all the right places. “Would’ve been rude not to. It’s ridiculously well made,” he said, running a hand across the lapel.

Lucien beamed, pleased as if Lando’s compliment had been a review published in Vogue. “We’ll make a model out of you yet.”

Lando laughed, easy and warm. “Don’t tempt me.”

Marné turned his attention to me, his expression a shade more mischievous. “And as for you, I’ll be stealing you for photos later. Don’t run off.”

“She won’t,” Andrea chimed in, one brow raised in warning. “Not unless she wants me to change her entire press calendar.”

I gave them both my best diplomatic smile, the kind I’d perfected for red carpets and exec rooms. But under it, my mind was still circling Lando. The quiet confidence. The way he looked at me like I was a person and not a headline. It was unnerving. It was also… unsettlingly nice.

The group around us began to shift again—someone called for Lucien, a photographer gestured for Andrea, and Charles disappeared back into the crowd with a muttered “save me one of those canapés or I’ll sue.” And just like that, we were back in the space between.

Lando stepped closer—not too close, just enough that our conversation felt suddenly separate from the rest of the party. “You don’t like these things, do you?” he asked, nodding toward the rooftop.

I arched a brow. “What gave it away?”

“You look like you’re trying to levitate out of your own shoes.”

That startled a laugh out of me. “Is it that obvious?”

“Only if you’re looking closely.” His voice was quiet now, like he didn’t want to share the moment with anyone else. “And I was.”

I looked away before I could smile too wide, lifting the glass again to hide behind a sip that didn’t quite mask the heat rising in my throat.

“This—” I gestured vaguely at the curated glamour, the filtered lights, the slow jazz and perfect tailoring “—is part of the job. It’s just not the part I’m best at.”

He nodded like he understood. And maybe he did. F1 wasn’t far from this world—just as much gloss, just as many cameras. Different brand of performance. Same pressure to smile through it. “I think you’re doing fine,” he said, voice low, like it was meant only for me.

The air between us shifted again—quieter, thicker, charged with something unspoken. Something that couldn’t quite be laughed off.

I held his gaze this time. “You’re not what I expected,” I murmured.

He tilted his head. “What did you expect?”

“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “Arrogance, maybe. A line or two. A little more... brand.”

“And instead you got?”

I considered him. “Someone who watched my movie twice. And understood it.”

He didn’t say anything right away. Just nodded once, as if accepting something neither of us had said out loud.

Before the moment could stretch too long, someone across the terrace called his name. Not impatient, but just enough to remind us this wasn’t a world that allowed long silences.

He glanced toward the sound, then back at me. “Will you be here a while?”

“Maybe.”

“That a real maybe?”

“Yeah,” I said.

His smile deepened—soft, slow, like he’d been waiting for that.

“I’ll come find you,” he said, stepping back. And then he disappeared into the crowd.

Andrea cornered me by the bar five minutes later, all raised brows and crossed arms like a mother catching her teenager sneaking back in past curfew.

“Well,” she began, drawing out the word like it was a sip of something scandalous, “he’s cuter in person.”

I didn’t bite. Just took a slow sip of my drink and pretended I hadn’t noticed her watching us from across the rooftop like a hawk in vintage Prada.

“And charming,” she added, tone light but layered. “Polite. Stared at you like you wrote his favorite song.”

“He was being nice,” I said, too quickly.

Andrea’s eyes glittered with mischief. “Uh-huh. And you were being completely unaffected? Just sipping champagne with your heart rate at a calm seventy?”

I glared. “Andrea.”

She grinned, raising her hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. I’m just saying. If you do kiss him—”

“Yeah,” I cut in, deadpan. “Never gonna happen.”

She blinked once, then smiled like she didn’t believe me for a second. “Sure, babe. Just make sure it doesn’t happen where anyone has a camera.”

I rolled my eyes, but her voice softened before she walked away. “Just be careful, alright? He seems lovely. But so did the last one.”

And with that, she vanished into the crowd, leaving behind a warning dressed like a joke.

I had drifted toward the far end of the rooftop, needing a minute to cool the flush off my cheeks—or maybe off my pride. There was a low cement wall near the edge, draped in ivy and a string of lightbulbs that blinked slow like heartbeats. I leaned there, half-turned toward the skyline, pretending to check a message I wasn’t writing.

That’s when I heard them. Two women, behind me, voices soft and perfectly poised—just loud enough to mean it.

“She always circles the room like she’s waiting for someone to chase her.”

“Please. She doesn’t wait—she calculates. It’s all part of the performance. The outfit, the hair, the wounded-siren look. Like heartbreak’s her accessory.”

A soft laugh. “And now Lando Norris? God, she really doesn’t know how to sit still.”

I didn’t move. Not even a breath. I just stood there, watching the city flicker while their voices faded back into the ambient music, my pulse like static under my skin.

They didn’t know I’d heard. That was the worst part. It hadn’t even been meant for impact. Just... casual cruelty, folded into prose and passed like hors d'oeuvres.

I swallowed, carefully. Tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear. And just as I began to turn—

“Hey.” His voice—low, unbothered, warm—cut through the noise like a lifeline. Lando. Holding two glasses, easy smile, oblivious to the storm I’d just walked through.

I blinked once. Then again, slower this time. Letting the shell harden back around me before I turned.

Lando stood there with both drinks in hand, casually backlit by the string lights, looking unfairly at ease. He held one out to me like we hadn’t just time-traveled through two different versions of this night—his, light and warm; mine, sharp and splintered.

I took the glass.

“Thanks,” I said, my voice a little too even.

He didn’t seem to notice—or maybe he did, but decided not to mention it. Instead, he leaned lightly against the ivy-covered ledge beside me, close enough that his shoulder nearly brushed mine, but not quite.

“They’ve got decent taste,” he said, gesturing toward the glass. “It’s elderflower something. Andrea made a face like I ordered a personality quiz, but I kind of like it.”

I gave a small, polite laugh. The kind that didn’t quite reach my eyes.

He glanced sideways at me. “You alright?”

I nodded.

He didn’t buy it. Not completely. But he didn’t push. Just sipped his drink, quiet for a moment before speaking again. “You know, I almost didn’t come tonight.”

That pulled my gaze. “Why?”

He shrugged, one shoulder rising. “These events aren’t really my thing. A lot of standing around, pretending you understand fashion, pretending you don’t recognize people you definitely recognize.”

“And yet here you are.”

His smile returned—gentle, boyish. “Heard someone I admire might be here. Thought I’d risk it.”

The words landed softer than they should have. Like they weren’t meant to disarm, but to tell the truth quietly. I looked away before he could read too much.

He didn’t speak again right away. Just let the silence exist, easy and unthreatening. And maybe that’s what got me most—how nothing about him felt performative. Not his presence, not his compliment, not even his patience.

“I saw your press video,” Lando added after a beat, eyes still on mine. “Something about ‘I fall in love for a living and the rest are just rehearsal.’” A pause, slight smile. “Do you really?”

I hesitated, glass hovering mid-air.

That line had followed me for weeks. Clipped into edits, quoted under headlines, printed in italics over moody stills of my face. At the time, it had felt like armor—something honest dressed as irony.

Now, with his eyes on me, it felt like something else entirely.

“Sometimes,” I said, voice quieter than I meant it. “Sometimes it’s easier to fall in love when there’s a script.”

He watched me for a long moment. No smirk. No clever comeback. Just… stillness. Like he was cataloguing the truth in what I said.

“But that means the feelings are real, right? Even if the story isn’t?”

I blinked, taken off guard. “Are you always this philosophical at parties?”

He smiled like he knew he was being caught doing something he shouldn’t. I let the silence stretch a beat, then tilted my head.

“Well,” I said, feigning thoughtfulness, “if we’re trading quotes... wasn’t it you who told AutoSport last summer that ‘emotions get in the way of winning’?”

That earned a low laugh. “Wow,” he murmured. “Pulling out the greatest hits.”

I shrugged, eyes steady. “Just wondering which version of you I’m speaking to. The one who waxes poetic on rooftops, or the one who thinks feelings are a liability.”

He took a step closer, casual but deliberate. The city lights reflected in his eyes like mischief bottled into green glass. “I didn’t realize you watch me so closely.”

I lifted my glass, masking the way my pulse jumped. “I don’t,” I said lightly.

He chuckled, but it was softer now. Lower. Like he knew we weren’t just flirting anymore. Like we both knew we’d just admitted something neither of us had meant to.

Flashes went off near the bar just before sunset, polite and strategic. The Marné team had gathered a few of us by the ivy wall for what they called “a few casual campaign moments.” The kind that would end up on moodboards and magazine spreads weeks from now. I let myself be guided into frame beside Lucien and two other actors I vaguely knew, my expression soft but unreadable, the champagne glass held just right in one hand. Somewhere in the corner of the shots, I knew Lando stood too—off to the side, in profile, talking to someone in a way that looked natural, effortless.

But when I stepped back, eyes scanning instinctively for him, I caught it—the way his gaze flicked over. Like he’d been doing the same.

It was subtle. A glance, a ghost of a smile, the kind of moment that felt too cinematic to be real. And maybe that was the problem. Everything lately felt a little too much like a movie.

We found each other again by the exit.

“Leaving?” he asked.

I nodded. “Yeah, the car’s downstairs.”

He made a soft noise of understanding. “Of course.”

The music had dipped into something slower now, almost mournful. A string of French vocals floated past like smoke. We stood like that for a moment—him with his hands in his pockets, me fiddling with the strap of my bag, both of us half in the glow of the heaters, half out. Like if we leaned just a little closer, we’d fall into something neither of us could take back.

“Well,” I said, exhaling, “goodnight, Lando.”

“Night,” he said. But his eyes lingered—just a second too long.

I turned. Walked. Waited for the elevator.

But something pressed behind my ribs. Something urgent and ridiculous and stupid. Something I thought I’d trained out of myself a long time ago. I turned to Andrea, who had fallen into step beside me, checking her phone.

“Andrea,” I whispered. “I know you’re going to hate me for this but I—”

She didn’t even look up. Just reached for the elevator button for me. “You don’t want to leave, yet?” she asked, then her eyes found mine–soft, sincere. “Go ahead, tonight is about you.”

My throat tightened. The doors hadn’t opened yet. There was still time. So I turned. I went back.

Back through the soft music and the slow laughter, past champagne flutes and curated faces and the hush of silk. Back toward him.

He was still there, hands in pockets, half-lit by string lights, like he hadn’t moved at all. And when our eyes met again, something in him shifted—slow, like recognition.

I stopped in front of him, breath slightly uneven. “I changed my mind,” I said softly. “About saying goodnight.”

We didn’t say anything when we slipped out the elevator. Didn’t plan it. He just followed, or maybe I slowed down enough for him to catch up. The doorman raised a brow as we exited, but neither of us acknowledged him. The street air was cooler than I expected, brushing soft against my skin. I pulled my coat tighter, heels clicking a little too neatly beside his sneakers.

“My apartment’s a few blocks,” I said, not looking at him.

“Then I’m walking you,” he replied, like it wasn’t a question.

So we walked. Past shuttered cafés and puddles that caught the reflections of streetlamps like spilled light. There was a rhythm to it—his hands tucked in his pockets, my steps measured, our silence crackling just enough to feel intentional. We fell into step like it wasn’t our first time. Like we had walked home together before, through a hundred other dusky evenings in a different city, in a life I hadn’t lived yet.

“It’s nice,” he said after a while. “New York at night.”

“You’re saying that because the horns haven’t started again.”

“I’m saying that because I’m walking next to you.”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t know how to.

The sidewalk shimmered slightly—leftover rain or streetlight tricks—and we passed a closed flower shop, its windows fogged with condensation. My heels tapped a little softer now. Like they knew we were easing into something quieter.

“Sorry,” he said quickly. “Too much?”

I shook my head, eyes narrowing—not angry, just searching. “No.. It's just.. you don’t even know me.”

His tone gentled. “Maybe. But I’ve seen enough to know you.”

I didn’t have a reply for that. Not one that made sense out loud. So I kept walking. And he followed. A moment passed in quiet. The city stretched around us like a stage set winding down.

“You live in Monaco, right?” I asked suddenly, glancing at him.

He looked a little surprised, but nodded. “Yeah. Monaco’s home now.”

“What’s it like?”

He considered it. “Peaceful. Small. A bit too polished sometimes, but it grows on you. The sea helps.”

“I’ve been once. Years ago. Everything felt like... a postcard.”

He smiled. “That’s pretty much it. Expensive postcards and old men who drive Ferraris slower than I do on a scooter.”

That pulled a laugh from me—light, real, slipping out before I could catch it. Then, just as we reached the corner, he added—casual, almost like an afterthought, “I could take you around. If you ever come back.”

My breath caught.

It was such a simple offer. Almost careless. But the words hung there between us, quietly shimmering with something more. With possibility. With the smallest echo of a promise. If you ever come back. Not just to Monaco. To him.

I didn’t say anything, just nodded. I didn’t know how to. Just let the silence bloom, thick with what-ifs and something I wasn’t quite ready to name.

We turned onto my street. My building was a soft gold shape in the distance now, a little too close for how far I suddenly wanted this walk to stretch.

“Why me?” I asked. “Out of all the people you could’ve slid a message to. Why mine?”

He looked straight ahead for a beat, like he was choosing the answer with care.

“I told you. I watched you in that film. Crying in Third Person. You didn’t perform it. You let it… bleed. Quietly. And honestly. It wrecked me in a way I couldn’t explain.”

I blinked. The city blurred a little at the edges.

“And then,” he added, “you said in that interview you fall in love for a living and the rest is just rehearsal. And I just thought… maybe someone should ask what it means to fall for real.”

The words settled in the air between us—warm and dangerous.

I stared blankly at him, yet the small grin escaped. “You really are mr. Philosophy.”

He grinned. “Sorry, happens only when I’m trying not to flirt.”

I laughed. “Try harder.”

“Fine,” he said lightly, “how about this—I read somewhere that you once dated someone in a band and made him cry.”

I tilted my head. “I didn’t realize you watched me so closely.”

“I’m observant.”

“Dangerous quality.”

“Only if it’s mutual.”

I didn’t respond. Just kept walking. But I smiled.

We reached the front of my building too soon. I stopped in front of the revolving door. “This is me.”

He nodded. Didn’t push for more. Just met my eyes and waited. I didn’t know what I wanted him to say. Or do. Or maybe I did and just didn’t know how to ask for it.

“Goodnight, Lando.” I said, “Thanks for.. walking me home.”

“Goodnight,” he said softly. “Thank you for letting me.”

He didn’t ask for more. Just stood there at the lobby, his hands still in his pockets, like he knew pushing would ruin whatever this was. And somehow, that restraint—the quiet, easy way he let the moment breathe—felt more intimate than anything else could’ve. I didn’t invite him up. But I also didn’t want him to think the walk meant nothing. So I held his gaze a moment longer, memorizing the softness there. The safety. Then I smiled, small but real, and turned toward the door. It clicked shut behind me like the close of a chapter I hadn’t known I was writing. I didn’t look back. I didn’t need to. Letting him walk me home had been enough.

The apartment was quiet when I slipped off my heels, dropping my tote by the door with a thud that felt louder than it should’ve. Golden hour was long gone. Everything had that dim, bluish hush of early evening, the city already humming under its breath outside. My blazer was half-off before I reached the kitchen, blouse untucked, hair loosened at the crown where the clips had started to pull.

I’d been in front of cameras all day—studio shots, street shots, a warehouse-turned-set in Brooklyn where the stylist insisted on Balenciaga boots in 29°C heat. My feet hated me. My shoulders hated me. But I was finally home. I cracked open the sushi container I’d grabbed on the way back, inhaling the fresh smell of salmon.

There was something oddly grounding about sitting at the kitchen island in a suit worth more than my first car, eating sushi with plastic utensils. I’d barely taken the second bite when my phone buzzed. Once. Twice. Then a third time, sharp and insistent.

I didn’t check it immediately. Just chewed, slow, savoring the brief stillness. But something in the back of my neck prickled—intuition, maybe. Or hope.

When I finally picked it up, there it was. I stared at it. Read the subject line twice, three times, like it might change if I blinked too hard. Then I opened it.

Subject: Callback Script + Reading Times — “Leila” From: [email protected] Received: 6:42 PM Congratulations, Y/N. Julian and the team were incredibly moved by your first audition. Please find the callback scene attached. We’d love to see your interpretation in a scheduled live reading this Friday. Time slots below. Let us know your availability at your earliest convenience.

I didn’t scream. Didn’t jump. Just sat there, plastic fork still in hand, heart racing in silence. I reread it. Then opened the script attachment like it might vanish if I moved too fast.

It was real.

They wanted me back.

And not just for a second look. For a reading. With the others. Meaning I was in the final circle now. Close enough to touch something I’d spent years telling myself not to dream too hard about.

I picked up my phone again—this time without hesitation—and tapped Andrea’s name. The call barely rang twice before she picked up.

“What?” she said, half-joking, half-panicked. “Are you dead or just finally taking vitamins?”

I smiled. “I got it.”

A beat. “Got what?”

“The callback. For Leila.”

There was a pause—sharp inhale, then—

“Holy shit. Holy shit. Are you serious?”

I could hear her pacing through her apartment, footsteps going uneven. “Did they send the sides? When? What’s the date?”

“Friday. They want a live reading.”

“You need to reply. Like, now. Wait—forward me the file too. I want to go over it with you before you fall down one of your psycho research rabbit holes.”

I laughed, warmth bubbling in my chest. “Already done.”

“No, I am already done,” she said, giddy and bossy all at once. “Now go reply. I’ll bring notes and sparkling water tomorrow.”

I opened the email again, clicked Reply, and typed fast—hands shaking but steady enough

Dear Julian and team, Thank you so much for the opportunity. I would love to participate in the callback reading. I’m available for the 11:00 AM slot on Friday and will be there prepared. Warmest, Y/N

I hit send. Then sat back on the stool, letting the aftershock ripple through my chest. A small, private smile tugged at my lips.

I was still sitting there—bare feet on the tile, half-eaten chicken rice beside me—when my phone buzzed again.

This time, it wasn’t casting. It was Instagram.

@lando sent you a message.

The preview read only one word: Hey.

I stared at the notification longer than I meant to.

Not because it was surprising—he’d followed me weeks ago, and we’d talked, lightly, at the party. Walked home together. Stood in my apartment lobby with that suspended almost-something. But still, seeing his name lit up there, soft and casual—Hey—felt like a thread being tugged gently. Like something unspooling.

I didn’t open it right away.

I just let the screen dim again and set the phone down on the counter beside my empty sauce cup. The hum of the refrigerator filled the silence, steady and low, while the city blinked outside my window in impatient yellow. I tipped my head back against the kitchen cabinet behind me and closed my eyes for a second. Let it all catch up.

The callback. The reading. My name on that cast list—almost.

And now this—Lando Norris. In my messages. Like it was nothing. Like he wasn’t a name spoken in headlines and half-warnings. Like we hadn’t just brushed shoulders in a night stitched together by string lights and the kind of almost-intimacy that clung to you after.

I breathed out slow.

He didn’t say much. Just hey. But sometimes one word from the right person felt like a door opening.

Still—I didn’t reply. Not yet.

Instead, I stood, cleared the empty container, rinsed my hands under warm water until the smell of food faded, and padded barefoot into the living room. The lights were off, but I didn’t switch them on. I just let the room stay hushed, bathed in the soft glow of the city through the windows. My phone buzzed once more from the kitchen island—just the screen lighting up this time, no new message.

I’d reply tomorrow. Maybe.

But tonight, I wanted to remember what it felt like to be still. To hold something good before reaching for more.

Muted light filtered in through the sheer curtains, casting soft shadows across the wood floors. I’d woken before my alarm—barely five hours of sleep behind me—and padded barefoot into the kitchen, where the silence felt heavier than usual.

I made tea. Not because I wanted it, but because it gave my hands something to do. The steam curled upward in slow ribbons as I leaned against the counter, staring out at the fire escape.

Somewhere in another timeline, I’d have texted someone—maybe a friend, maybe more than that—just to say I couldn’t sleep either. But in this version of my life, I sat quietly, letting the tea go lukewarm and unread messages stay unread.

I still hadn’t replied to him.

Not because I didn’t want to. But because I did.

By two, I’d traded the robe for real clothes, half-heartedly organized a corner of my closet, and answered four emails before opening Andrea’s call.

“You sound weird,” she said the second she heard my voice.

“I’m tired.”

“You always say that when you’re in your head.”

“I’m always in my head.”

She snorted. “Fair point. Okay, shoot—what’s stuck there now?”

I hesitated. Then, casually—too casually—I said, “Lando messaged me.”

Silence.

“Still haven't replied,” I added.

Andrea didn’t say anything right away. Then: “And why not?”

I busied myself straightening the hem of my sweater. “I don’t know. I didn’t want to be... obvious.”

“You’re not obvious,” she said. “You’re cautious. You think if you wait long enough, the feelings will sort themselves out for you.”

“That’s not true.”

“Oh really?” she said, dry. “How’s that working out for you so far?”

I exhaled through a soft laugh, reluctantly amused. “Okay, fine. Maybe I’m a little obvious.”

“Look,” she said, voice gentling. “You’re allowed to be a little curious. Just don’t lose yourself in someone else’s story. Not again.”

“I won’t,” I said. And for once, I almost believed it.

I made dinner just to have something warm in the apartment.

Halfway through chopping garlic, I played music. The kind of thing you’d hear in a film where people fall in love too easily and regret it more elegantly. The scent of olive oil filled the kitchen, and I let myself be distracted by the rhythm of it all—sauté, stir, sip, breathe.

The city glittered through the windows, lights catching on glass like stars that had decided to fall sideways. I ate alone, barefoot again, curled up in the corner of the couch with a throw blanket and my bowl balanced in one hand.

My phone sat next to me. Quiet. I tapped the screen once. Then again.

Still unread. Still unanswered.

By midnight, the air had thinned out into something cool and hushed. I was curled under the duvet, knees tucked up, scrolling mindlessly through photos I didn’t remember liking.

Then I found myself back in the message thread and finally—after days of ignoring it, I clicked the unread message.

@Lando: hey @Lando: had fun talking to you the other night @Lando: let me know if I ever earn a scene in your next film

I stared at it for a long time. Then—finally—I typed.

@Y/N: you’d have to audition @Y/N: i hear you’re good at corners, but how are you with subtext?

I hovered over the send button for a beat too long. Then tapped. The message slid upward. Neat. Deliberate. Done. I put my phone face-down on the nightstand. And let the quiet fill in everything I wasn’t ready to feel yet.

The week moved differently now—slower, somehow, even though nothing had stopped. The city still pressed forward in its usual rhythm, indifferent to the shifts happening inside my chest. After my reply to Lando’s message, there hadn’t been a reply right away. I told myself I wasn’t waiting—not really—yet my phone battery drained faster that night. It wasn’t until sometime after midnight, when I’d already washed my face and curled into the corner of my bed, that it buzzed again.

@Lando: subtext’s easy when the dialogue’s good @Lando: just don’t ask me to play someone i’m not

I read it twice. Then again. Let the grin bloom slowly before I pressed the phone to my chest like I could smother it into silence. I didn’t reply right away—didn’t want to seem too eager—but my thoughts tugged at the edge of sleep, nudging toward the possibility of more.

The next morning was rain-soft and unhurried. My apartment felt cocooned, half-lit by gray skies and the dull hum of city traffic. I brewed my coffee slowly, barefoot and wrapped in the same oversized shirt I wore to sleep, my hair still damp from a quick shower. There was an interview scheduled at noon over Zoom, something low-stakes and pre-recorded, and a stylist had dropped off a few potential outfits for the Friday reading. But for the first time in weeks, I wasn’t in a rush.

I padded around the kitchen island, sipping from my chipped blue mug, re-reading Lando’s message. I didn’t even notice when my smile pulled wide again.

By mid-afternoon, Andrea had arrived—loud as always, with iced coffee in one hand and a tote bag stuffed with garment bags in the other.

“Alright,” she said, dropping everything by the couch. “I’ve come bearing caffeine, couture, and chaos.”

“I already made coffee,” I said, raising my mug.

“Good,” Andrea replied. “You’ll need it.”

We spent the next hour combing through wardrobe options—soft neutrals, sharp navy, a maybe-too-bold tangerine silk blouse—and debating whether the reading would be taped or not. Andrea had already heard whispers. Two other names had surfaced. One of them had just landed a streaming series, the other had starred in a Cannes darling. Both were stunning. Both had connections. Both had agents who knew how to whisper in just the right ears.

“It’s a bloodbath,” Andrea said, chewing on the end of her straw. “But you’ve got Kassner’s attention. That doesn’t go away easily.”

I didn’t say anything. Just thumbed the edge of a hanger and nodded.

“And,” Andrea added pointedly, like she’d saved the juiciest headline for dessert, “they all know you got a callback. It’s out.”

I raised a brow. “Since when?”

“Since some staff can’t keep a secret in the group chat,” Andrea muttered, deadpan. “But it’s good. Buzz is good. Just don’t let it rattle you.”

It wasn’t the buzz that rattled me. It was the closeness of it all. The proximity to something I hadn’t let myself want fully until now.

I sat on the armrest, phone in hand, absently scrolling through her unread texts. My thumb hovered over Lando’s name.

Andrea noticed. “Still haven’t replied to that F1 boy?”

I didn’t look up. “I did.”

Andrea narrowed her eyes. “And you didn’t tell me because…?”

I shrugged. “I’m not sure if it’s anything.”

Andrea gave her a long look. “Right. And I drink celery juice because I love the taste.”

I rolled my eyes. But later, once Andrea left with promises to return early Friday with makeup and snacks, I sat on the couch in the fading light, phone cradled between both hands.

I stared at Lando’s last message again. Read it out loud under my breath, then replied.

@Y/N: good answer. but just so you know, no stunt doubles @Y/N: and I don’t do rewrites

There. Clever, but neutral. It gave nothing away. I hit send, tossed the phone aside, and buried myseld under a throw blanket—heart somehow both racing and warm.

The reply didn’t come immediately. But I didn’t need it to. And for the first time in months, the anticipation didn’t feel like anxiety. It felt like beginning.

The air in the Kassner's office felt colder than it should’ve been, like ambition had stripped the place of its warmth. A screen near the lobby looped muted clips from Kassner’s past films. His name etched discreetly on the wall like it didn’t need to announce itself.

I sat with my script folded neatly on my lap, thumb brushing the page edges like I was counting time. I wore the navy blouse me and Andrea had debated. Understated but sharp. Paired with clean black trousers and kitten heels I could actually stand in for more than five minutes. Andrea had done my makeup that morning—barely-there foundation, a trace of liner, and just enough blush to look awake.

I wasn’t nervous exactly. Not in the obvious, sweaty-palmed way. But my breath sat higher in my chest than usual. My mind refused to stop rehearsing the scene’s final line, even though I'd memorized it days ago.

They called me in third.

The casting director gave me a warm nod. The producer smiled. And Julian Kassner, sitting off to the side in that signature black button-down, gave the smallest raise of his brow. Not approval. Just... observation.

Across from me sat Reed Brody, who’d already landed two streaming series this year and looked like he walked out of a GQ spread. He smiled when I entered—faintly surprised. “Hey.”

I nodded back. “Hey.”

The assistant clapped the slate. “Scene four, Leila, callback round.”

And then everything fell quiet.

I took a breath, low and steady.

The scene began mid-argument—Leila, standing in a hotel hallway in Rome, soaked from a rainstorm, facing the man she once loved like a secret. The lines were spiky and wounded, but the subtext hummed below: she didn’t just want answers—she wanted to be known. Underneath the fight was history. A thousand untold truths. The memory of a summer that had never really ended.

I didn’t act the scene. I lived it.

My voice didn’t rise; it cracked in the right places. I delivered a line that should’ve been accusatory with quiet devastation. When Reed reached for me in the scripted pause, I didn’t move away—but I didn’t lean in either. Just stayed still. Heavy with restraint.

The final line sat on my tongue like a confession. “You don’t get to remember it sweeter than I do.”

Silence followed. Not awkward. Not empty. Just… still.

Kassner leaned forward, fingers pressed under his chin. “Thank you,” he said finally.

The casting director nodded. “That was… excellent.”

Reed broke character first, giving me a quiet grin. “Damn,” he murmured under his breath. “You went for the jugular.”

I smiled faintly, pulse still pounding somewhere in my wrists.

Julian stood. “Y/N, would you stay a moment?”

The others filtered out slowly. The door clicked shut behind them. He didn’t speak immediately. Just stepped closer, arms folded, eyes unreadable. “I’ve watched a lot of people try to play that scene,” he said. “Most perform the heartbreak. You understood it.”

I didn’t know what to say. So I said the truth, “I’ve lived it.”

He studied me for a long second, then nodded. “We’ll be in touch very soon.”

It wasn’t a promise. But it felt like the closest thing to one.

Outside, the sun had come out, casting slices of gold across the concrete. I stepped into it like someone coming up for air. I didn’t text Andrea. Not yet. I didn’t open Instagram either—even though I’d seen the green light by Lando’s name the night before, and part of me wondered if he’d been waiting too.

Instead, I kept walking. Through the noise. Through the light. Something had shifted. And whether I got the part or not—I had felt it.

The city was humming again—soft headlights flickering past my windows, the radiator clicking like it had something to say. I had changed into sweats and curled up on the couch, Chili snoring lightly at my feet. The callback was over. The adrenaline had burned itself out. And now came the worst part: the wait.

My phone buzzed. Josh.

I answered on the second ring, pressing the phone between my ear and shoulder while reaching for a glass of water.

“Hey,” I said, voice soft from the quiet.

“Hey, superstar,” Josh replied, voice full of that signature older-brother mischief. “So. Did you cry? Did they cry? Was there dramatic music and slow clapping involved?”

I smiled, settling deeper into the cushions. “No slow clapping. But I didn’t bomb.”

“You never bomb.”

“I have, actually. Remember that commercial audition in Glendale where I blanked and said ‘emotional tortillas’?”

Josh laughed—loud, delighted. “A classic. Still not over it.”

“Neither is my dignity.”

He let the chuckles fade before his tone shifted, just slightly. “Seriously though. You think it went well?”

I hesitated, thumb brushing the rim of my glass. “Yeah. I think so. Julian looked… engaged. In that quiet, terrifying genius way.”

“Engaged is good,” Josh said. “Terrifying genius is basically a compliment in director-speak.”

A beat passed, then he added, casual as anything: “You free tomorrow?”

I raised a brow. “I mean… maybe. Depends. Why?”

“Actually, never mind. Andrea already cleared your schedule for a few days.”

I blinked. “She what?”

“She said—and I quote—‘She’ll kill me if she doesn’t get a breather before the news breaks.’ So I made a move.”

“Josh…”

“I got two VIP tickets to the Japan Grand Prix,” he said, quick and smug. “Courtesy of the company. Our marketing team’s doing activation stuff with McLaren. I already bought the flights. We leave tomorrow morning. You and me. Let’s go on vacation.”

I sat up straighter. “You’re not serious.”

“I’m dead serious. Business class, baby. I even picked a hotel with a bidet.”

I laughed in disbelief, palm to my forehead. “Josh, I— I’m still waiting on a call. From Kassner. It could come anytime.”

There was a pause. Then softer, “If it comes, I’ll buy us the first flight home.”

I didn’t answer right away. Just let the silence stretch a little, my eyes tracing the glint of the city through my window.

“You’ve been working nonstop for what? Six months? A year? Even when we went to the lake house, you brought two binders and made us rehearse that script.”

“I mean.. I did land those roles,” I muttered.

Josh chuckled. “I know you did. But I want to see you breathe, Y/N. And eat ramen, drink your disgusting matcha. And watch a race with me. You remember races, right? You and me on the couch every Sunday like clockwork?”

I smiled faintly. “Of course I do.”

“Then come with me,” he said gently. “Even if it’s just for a few days. You deserve to be in a place where nobody asks you about red carpet looks or PR rumors. Just… sky trains and matcha and F1 engines screaming like war.”

I laughed again, heart tugging softly.

“I’ll pack my eye mask,” I said. “And my big sunglasses.”

“So that’s a yes?”

“That’s a yes.”

Josh whooped. “Let’s gooo! Okay, I’ll send the itinerary. Pack light. And maybe something Marné, just in case you run into, I don’t know, certain British drivers who might be in attendance.”

I rolled her eyes. “Bye, Josh.”

“BYE, MOVIE STAR.”

The call ended. And I stared at my reflection in the dark window for a long moment, something small and unnameable tugging behind my ribs. I didn’t know what Japan would bring. Or if the call from Kassner would come while I was across the world. But for the first time in weeks, I felt the flicker of something lighter—like a breath waiting to be taken.

We landed just after five.

The descent into Tokyo was smooth, the kind of quiet that felt earned after twelve hours in the air. I’d watched the sun slip past the window, staining the clouds in warm, diluted peach before giving way to the cool blue of early evening. Everything outside looked tidy, soft-edged, quietly precise—so unlike New York’s constant blur.

I stepped off the plane with a scarf knotted loosely at my neck, sunglasses still on despite the dim light. No one here knew who I was. I could’ve been anyone—jetlagged, underfed, overslept. It felt good.

Josh was already ahead, talking too loudly in the customs line, flashing his work badge like it meant something here. It kind of did. His company had some collaboration with McLaren—marketing, branding, some flashy cross-platform thing. I didn’t ask too many questions. I just let him drag me halfway across the world under the pretense of a “vacation.”

He’d said it so casually on the phone—two VIP tickets to the Japan Grand Prix, already booked the flights, Andrea cleared your schedule, you need this.

And maybe I did. Even if part of me still felt suspended, waiting for a call that hadn’t come yet.

By the time we stepped out into arrivals, the sky was that deep violet gray that never quite goes full black in a city this alive. Neon signs flickered politely. A vending machine hummed softly to itself near the curb. Our driver held up a neat sign with Josh’s name on it, bowing as we approached.

Tokyo felt... hushed. Like the volume of the world had been turned down just enough to let my thoughts breathe.

The drive to the hotel blurred past—clean streets, train tracks overhead, cherry trees just beginning to blush. Josh talked the whole way. About ramen shops and pit lane passes, about the driver lineup and tire strategies and some meme he’d seen of Lando holding three iced coffees at once.

I let him talk. My forehead pressed to the window, eyes half-lidded, heartbeat finally slowing for the first time in days.

The hotel was a soft-spoken kind of luxury—marble floors, warm lighting, staff that made you feel like silence was part of the design. Our room had a view of the skyline and, if you squinted hard enough, a pale silhouette of Mount Fuji ghosting in the distance.

I dropped my bag by the closet and sat on the edge of the bed. Shoes off. Hair down. Shoulders heavy but looser somehow. Like the tension was beginning to leak out, slow and quiet, with every breath.

Josh appeared in the doorway holding two bottles of iced tea.

“Figured this would stop you from face-planting before dinner,” he said, tossing one my way.

I caught it, unscrewed the cap. “Thanks.”

He plopped down beside me, shoulders knocking. “Still no call?”

I shook my head.

He didn’t push. Just leaned back on his hands and looked out toward the city like it might give us answers. “Maybe it’s good,” he said. “Means they’re actually thinking about it. Means it’s serious.”

I nodded faintly, sipping the tea. Floral. Strange. But not unpleasant.

My phone buzzed from somewhere in my tote.

I didn’t move right away. Then reached for it.

Not casting. No notification.

Then I absently tapped Instagram, found Lando's profile at the front row of my following's stories. I tapped it open.

@lando – 38m

It was blurry—a quick garage video, someone shouting about tire compounds in the background. Lando’s helmet was half-on, camera panning past the car. He caught himself in the reflection—just a flash of a grin, crooked and boyish, before the video cut off.

I smiled without meaning to. Closed the app. Set the phone face-down on the nightstand.

Josh glanced over. “What are you smiling at?”

I didn’t answer, just stood and stretched my arms overhead until my joints cracked.

“Come on,” I said, tugging his sleeve. “Let’s go find your three bowls of ramen.”

He whooped and grabbed his jacket. I didn’t tell him that in that moment—surrounded by soft Tokyo light and distant engines humming in garages halfway across the city—I felt something close to stillness.

It wasn’t peace, not quite. But it was the first time in weeks I hadn’t felt like I was running.

The air at Suzuka was different—brighter, somehow sharper. Everything hummed. The engines. The crowd. The morning sun pressing down on the asphalt. Even the air smelled like adrenaline—hot rubber, grass, fuel.

Josh was in heaven.

He wore his VIP lanyard like a badge of honor, walking five steps ahead, pointing out pit signage, quoting lap times from memory. I trailed behind, sunglasses on, hair tucked under a soft cap, jacket zipped up halfway. Incognito, but barely. The staff who scanned our passes definitely recognized me, but they said nothing. Japan had that kind of grace.

We followed a McLaren PR rep through the paddock—Josh’s company tie-in got us access to everything but the garage itself. That was fine. I didn’t need more.

I needed less.

I kept my head down as we weaved between tech carts and camera crews, past rows of branded umbrellas and people with walkies clipped to their belts. It was barely past ten, but the circuit felt like it had been awake for hours. Fans were already pouring in, their cheers echoing like waves from the grandstands.

Josh nudged me suddenly. “Left,” he said.

I looked. And there he was.

Lando.

Across the paddock, in that unmistakable orange and black McLaren gear, laughing at something a crew member had said. His curls were tucked under his cap, headset around his neck, fire suit only half-zipped and tied at the waist. He looked relaxed—grinning, easy—but focused underneath it. Like he’d already driven three laps in his head.

He didn’t see me.

I didn’t wave.

Just… watched. A blink too long, probably. He turned slightly, still talking, still laughing. The sun caught the edge of his jaw. That same crooked grin I’d seen in his story. For a second, the rest of the paddock blurred.

I wondered if he knew I was here. If he’d been looking.

I wondered if he’d check his phone during the driver parade and see the photo I almost posted from last night—a lantern-lit alley, quiet steam rising from a ramen bowl. I’d typed out a caption. Then deleted it.

Josh bumped my arm gently, pulling me back to earth. “Still just a guy,” he said under his breath, teasing.

I smirked. “Says the man who made me run for merch ten minutes ago.”

“That bucket hat was limited edition.”

We moved on, the moment folding back into the blur of media, mechanics, and sponsors. I didn’t see Lando again before the race started.

But I felt him—somewhere in the thrum of engines, the silence before the start lights blinked out, the crowd’s held breath as the cars screamed into turn one.

When the race began, I watched from the hospitality terrace, a headset pressed to one ear, Josh glued to the live timing screen beside me. Lando started P3.

I didn’t cheer when he overtook.

I didn’t gasp when he nearly lost it at Spoon.

But my heart did something strange every time his name lit up on the tower.

By lap 43, he was in P2 and closing in. I told myself it didn’t mean anything. That I wasn’t here for him.

But when he crossed the finish line second and raised a fist from the cockpit, I smiled.

Not because he won.

Because he looked up at the stands like he knew someone was watching.

The train ride back from Suzuka was a blur. My jacket still smelled faintly like engine smoke and yakitori. Josh fell asleep leaning against the window, mouth open, arms folded like he didn’t just scream through half the race like a teenage fanboy. I stared at the lights flickering past the glass, thinking about how the crowd had roared when Lando crossed the finish line second.

Thinking about how he hadn’t looked toward the cameras first. He’d looked up.

We got back to the hotel around eight. Josh crashed hard, muttering something about jetlag and sake and “wake me up next week.” I took a quick shower, braided my hair, and padded barefoot across the plush hotel carpet with Chili’s photo on my phone and an ache in my chest I couldn’t quite name.

I wasn’t tired.

Not in the way that sleep fixes.

By ten, I was out again—wrapped in an oversized coat, cap pulled low, earbuds in but music off. Just… walking. Tokyo at night had a quiet that felt respectful. Like the city knew how to give you space without demanding anything in return.

I found a tiny convenience store tucked beneath a closed karaoke bar and bought a can of matcha and a rice ball I didn’t eat. Wandered another few blocks. Checked my phone twice. No notifications.

I didn’t know if I was hoping for something or running from it.

Then I saw him. I thought my eyes had fooled me. But when he lifted his head, staring up to the distance, I'd recognized that profile anywhere.

Leaning against a railing outside a quiet pedestrian bridge, cap low, hoodie pulled up. Just him and the night and the soft hum of vending machines nearby. His phone dangled loosely in his hand. Like he’d been waiting. Or maybe just standing still long enough for the world to tilt toward him.

He looked to the side before I even said anything. His eyes caught mine like it was nothing. Like it was everything.

I stopped a few steps away. His eyes sparked—with recognition.

“I figured you'd be at some afterparty,” I said softly.

He shook his head, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “Didn’t feel like it.”

A beat passed. Wind brushed past us, lifting the hem of my coat.

“You were there,” he said.

It wasn’t a question.

I nodded once. “P2 looks good on you.”

He huffed a laugh, then glanced down at his shoes, scuffing one against the pavement. “You disappeared after the paddock.”

“I do that sometimes,” I said. “Disappearing.”

“Maybe,” he murmured, lifting his gaze again. “But you’re still here.”

I didn’t answer. Just let the moment stretch between us—quiet and electric, like the city had dimmed itself just to give us this space.

“I wasn’t sure if I’d see you,” he added after a beat.

“I wasn’t sure if I wanted to be seen.”

He tilted his head, studied me a little. “You always this cryptic?”

“Only with people who message me one-word greetings like ‘hey.’”

That grin broke—boyish and tired and stupidly endearing. “Worked, didn’t it?”

I smiled, small and involuntary.

He pushed off the railing, took a slow step toward me. “Come walk with me?”

It wasn’t pushy. Just a question. A thread gently held out. And for once, I didn’t pull away. I nodded.

So we walked—through empty alleys and glowing streetlamps, past vending machines and shuttered cafes, not saying much at all.

Sometimes the beginning doesn’t announce itself.

It just… walks beside you under Tokyo stars, not asking for anything but the quiet.

We didn’t talk much at first.

Just walked. Side by side. Our footsteps echoing soft against the concrete as the streets around us exhaled into their midnight hush.

Tokyo felt like it was holding its breath for us.

He had his hands tucked in his hoodie pockets, hood still up. I had my sleeves pulled over my fingers, one hand around the unopened can of matcha I’d bought but forgotten about.

“You always walk like this after a race?” I asked eventually, voice low.

He shook his head. “Only when I can’t sleep.”

I looked over. “Can’t or won’t?”

He gave a small shrug, eyes on the sidewalk. “Bit of both.”

We turned down a narrow street lit by one flickering streetlamp and the glow of a vending machine humming to itself like it had secrets. The air smelled like rain, even though it hadn’t fallen.

“You get that a lot?” he asked after a beat. “Insomnia?”

I nodded. “It’s not even about sleep anymore. It’s about what I have to feel first to get there.”

He glanced at me. Said nothing.

I kept going before I lost the nerve. “I used to think if I just kept moving—working, auditioning, pretending—then everything would stay outside of me. But it doesn’t. It just waits.”

His expression didn’t shift. But something in him stilled.

“I get that,” he said finally, voice quiet.

We crossed a small bridge—one of those charming, tucked-away pedestrian ones with red paint fading on the rails. The water below was dark, still. I paused in the center without thinking, and he stopped beside me.

There was a long moment where neither of us spoke.

Then he said, softly, “I’m not good at it either.”

“At what?”

“Stillness. Letting people in. Being… known.”

I looked over at him. “You seem good at it.”

“I’m good at noise,” he said. “At interviews. Banter. Fast answers and faster exits. But real stuff? That’s… harder.”

I studied his profile—soft jawline, mouth tight, eyes watching the water like it might blink back.

“Why?” I asked gently.

His jaw ticked once. “Because the last time I let someone see all of it, they used it to cut me.”

The words hung there. Bare, unpolished. I didn’t push. Just let the silence stretch between us like a net.

“I’m sorry,” I said after a while.

He shook his head. “No, don’t be. It’s old. Just… makes you think twice the next time.”

“Or three times,” I murmured. “Or ten.”

He huffed a soft breath, more exhale than laugh. “Yeah.”

I wrapped my arms tighter around myself and leaned against the railing.

“I think that’s why I didn’t reply to you right away,” I admitted. “Not because I wasn’t interested. But because I was. And I didn’t trust what that meant. Not with... everything.”

He turned to face me now, really looking. The air between us felt stiller than the water below.

“I’m not asking for all of it,” he said. “Not tonight. Not ever, if it’s not yours to give. But I’m here. If you ever want to share it.”

I blinked once. My throat went tight.

And then—because I didn’t trust myself to say something real without ruining it—I said, lightly, “You sure? I come with a lot of disclaimers.”

“So do I,” he said, that grin flickering back for half a second. “Mine’s just in smaller print.”

He stepped back from the railing first, nudging my shoulder lightly with his. “Come on.”

“Where are we going?”

“There’s a place not far,” he said. “Locals only. You’ll love it. Best ramen of your life.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Big claim.”

He gave me a look over his shoulder—smug, boyish. “Just trust me.”

We walked a few blocks through the quiet back alleys of Tokyo, our footsteps soft against the stone. The city had truly exhaled now—no honks, no voices, just the hush of neon reflections and the low hum of a vending machine somewhere behind us. The ramen spot was tucked between a 24-hour florist and a hardware shop that looked like it hadn’t changed in thirty years. No sign. Just a cracked wooden noren curtain over the door and the faint scent of broth that hit me like a hug.

Lando pushed it open. A small bell rang.

Inside, there were only eight seats. A couple of salarymen hunched over steaming bowls. A woman in scrubs laughed softly into her phone near the back. No tourists. No cameras. Just steam and soy and the warm clatter of real life. We sat at the end of the bar. The owner—an older man in a faded black apron—gave Lando a small nod of recognition, like they’d done this before. No fanfare. Just comfort.

“They serve ceremonial-grade matcha here too,” Lando said, unrolling his sleeves. “You know. In case you’re judging my taste.”

“I always am.”

His grin curved slow, deliberate. “Yeah, but you like me anyway.”

“I tolerate you,” I said, though my mouth was already twitching into a smile.

He ordered for both of us in quiet, easy Japanese. I tucked my hands into my coat sleeves, watching him speak, watching the familiarity settle around him like he’d worn it in.

“You come here often?” I asked, curious.

He glanced over. “When I’m in Japan, yeah. I found it during my first season. I’d just had a crap quali, couldn’t sleep. Walked around for an hour and ended up here. The guy behind the counter didn’t ask who I was. Just gave me tea and told me I looked like I needed carbs.”

“He was right.”

“He was wise.”

The matcha came first. Earthy. Smooth. Poured into two tiny cups without ceremony but somehow still reverent. I wrapped my fingers around the warmth and watched the steam curl upward.

Lando sipped his, then tilted his head. “So what’s it like?”

“What?”

“Surviving between the lines. Keeping the real stuff locked up while everyone else reads the script they’ve written for you.”

I blinked. He didn’t ask it like a trap. Just a gentle curiosity. Like he’d lived a version of it too.

“It’s like holding your breath in a room full of people who think you’re already singing,” I said eventually.

Lando leaned his forearms on the counter. “That’s a hell of an answer.”

I shrugged, quiet. “I guess I just got good at breathing where no one can hear it.”

He watched me for a second, eyes softer now. The corners crinkled a little when he smiled. “Well, for the record… I hear it. Even when you don’t say anything.”

Before I could reply, the bowls arrived—perfect, steaming, golden. Fat noodles, soft-boiled eggs, ribbons of pork and spring onions like art. Lando lit up like a kid on Christmas.

“Oh my God,” he said, pushing his hair back with both hands like the sight was too good to be real. “Tell me that doesn’t look life-changing.”

I laughed. Actually laughed. Pulled out my phone instinctively.

“You’re photographing the ramen?” he asked.

I aimed the lens at him instead. “I’m photographing your dumb happy face. And then the ramen.”

He smirked. “U gonna post that?”

I looked up over the edge of my phone.

“No way,” I said, more serious than I meant to. “I’m still waiting on the Leila call. Can’t risk it. Gotta be careful.”

He paused, chopsticks mid-air. “So you don’t want to get caught eating ramen with me?”

My mouth opened. “Of course not—” I stopped, blinked.

Lando tilted his head, lips twitching.

I narrowed my eyes. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Oh, I know what you meant,” he said, smug. “Just having fun watching you panic.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“You’re flustered.”

“Shut up and eat your noodles.”

But I couldn’t help the flush on my cheeks, or the stupid smile tugging at the edge of my mouth. And when he took his first bite and actually closed his eyes in delight, I snapped the photo anyway. Just for me. Just in case the moment ever tried to pretend it wasn’t real.

I woke to soft light slipping through the hotel curtains and the distant sound of a tram churning down the street. My phone buzzed faintly on the nightstand, but I didn’t reach for it. Not yet.

For a moment, I just lay there. Curled under the blanket, bare feet tangled in the sheets, listening to the hum of Tokyo waking up around me.

Josh was still asleep in the next room, judging by the faint snoring I could hear through the connecting door. I slipped out of bed and padded across the suite, tugging on one of the hotel robes and twisting my hair into a low knot. My reflection in the bathroom mirror looked soft around the edges—sleep-warmed, slightly puffy, like I hadn’t worn makeup in two days. Which I hadn’t.

I washed my face. Brushed my teeth. Opened the window slightly to let the city in.

Then, finally, I checked my phone. Twelve unread texts. Four missed calls (all Andrea). And—

X: 57 new notifications.

I blinked. Tapped. The first post hit like a splash of cold water.

@F1obsessed: wait was that ACTUALLY Y/N at Suzuka yesterday?? jacket, sunglasses, lowkey af but... that looked like her 🫢

@filmcrimes: if Y/N was at the McLaren paddock and I missed it I’m going to eat drywall

@mclando.jpg: not saying anything but the timing of her Tokyo trip + Lando’s grin post-race + the fact that she’s literally her... I’m watching this space 👀

@trendwatchqueen: Her PR team’s gonna pretend she was “on vacation” but she doesn’t just show up at the Japan GP.........

I exhaled sharply. Half-laughed.

The photo was blurry, taken from a distance—me in the paddock, jacket up, lanyard half-tucked into my jacket. Josh was beside me. You could barely see my face. But somehow, they still knew.

The comments were a mixture of awe, curiosity, and cynicism. A few kind ones. A few accusing me of chasing headlines again. Someone had tagged a three-month-old gossip article with a screenshot of Lando’s follow on my profile.

I scrolled once more, searching any evidence we'd got caught together last night. When I couldn't find any, I exhaled in relieve, then locked my phone. Set it down beside my untouched cup of tea.

There were no photos from last night. No one had seen us walking, or talking, or sitting side by side on a bridge. But still, the math was being done: Suzuka + his interview + the Instagram follow. And suddenly, the internet had a theory.

The thing was—I hadn’t done anything. I hadn’t posted. Hadn’t clung to his arm. Hadn’t worn a team cap or smiled for a single camera. I’d just been there.

And still, the story was writing itself.

I sat at the small table by the window, knees pulled up under the robe, and watched the city below. Tokyo moved forward anyway. Gracefully. Indifferently. No one here cared who I was or who I might be standing next to.

A small knock sounded from the door.

Josh’s voice followed, muffled: “Did you see X?”

“Unfortunately,” I called back.

He cracked the door open, still in pajama pants and a T-shirt with miso soup on it. “Andrea called me. She’s spiral-texting.”

“I know. I haven’t answered yet.”

“She’s gonna fly here just to wrestle your phone out of your hand.”

I smiled faintly, gaze still out the window. “Let her try.”

He padded in and leaned against the wall, sipping from a canned coffee. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

I looked up at him. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“No,” he said simply. “You didn’t.”

I let the quiet settle between us again, then added softly, “But I don’t know what this makes me. Not yet.”

Josh crossed the room, dropped a gentle hand on my shoulder. “You’re still you. Even if people are trying to turn you into a headline.”

I didn’t reply. I just reached for my tea, let it warm my hands, and stared out at Tokyo like it might give me answers I couldn’t Google.

I was still holding the teacup when my phone buzzed again. Not X this time. Not Andrea. Lando. His name blinked at the top of my screen like it knew I’d been waiting. I hesitated, thumb hovering. Then tapped.

@lando: so… you’ve broken the internet again

I stared at it. Then let the smallest laugh slip out, soft and surprised. I typed a response slowly, still curled in the robe, still tired.

@Y/N: yeah apparently

I smiled. Let the screen dim. Lit it back up again. Another message came in just as I was about to set the phone down.

@lando: for what it’s worth @lando: I’m glad you came

My breath caught a little. No joke this time. No emoji. Just… that. Simple. Honest. A thread being held gently, offered but not pulled. I stared at the message longer than I meant to. Not because I didn’t know what to say—but because it felt like the kind of text you don’t reply to too fast. Like it deserved space to breathe.

Finally, I typed.

@Y/N: me too @Y/N: even if I spent half the race trying to hide inside my jacket

@lando: you were very obvious @lando: but I liked it @lando: and last night.. you are not the worst company :p

My heart gave a quiet, traitorous thud. And for a moment, I forgot about the tweets. The storylines being stitched together without my consent. Because here, in this thread—he wasn’t a headline. He was just him. And I was just… me.

Typing slowly. Letting myself mean it.

@Y/N: ha ha funny @Y/N: you weren't so bad either @Y/N: and thanks for not pretending I wasn’t there

He replied almost instantly.

@lando: i couldn’t. you’re kind of hard to ignore

The screen was still lit with Lando’s message when Andrea’s name lit up underneath. I hesitated for exactly three seconds. Then picked up.

“Hi.”

“Are you kidding me?” Andrea’s voice came in sharp, breathless. “You’re trending in two countries and you didn’t even warn me?”

I winced. “Good morning to you too.”

“I’ve had three calls, two emails, and one panicked assistant asking if you’re dating a Formula 1 driver. And do you know what I told them?”

I sat down on the edge of the bed. “That I was following Josh around the paddock?”

“That you were in Japan, yes. Not walking into the most visible sporting event in Asia in sunglasses like a movie poster.”

I rubbed my temples. “To be fair, I was trying to blend in.”

“And yet,” she said dryly, “the internet CSI’d your ass in under four hours.”

I took a breath. Quiet. Measured.

“Okay. Look. I need to tell you something,” I said softly. “Just to give you a heads-up. Just in case.”

There was a pause on her end. “Go on.”

“I… saw Lando last night.”

Silence.

“I didn’t plan it. I was just walking. Couldn’t sleep. I ran into him. He saw me. I saw him. That was all.”

She exhaled like she was blowing air through a straw. “Y/N…”

“I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t—nothing happened, not like that. We just talked and ate. That’s it. I’m telling you now because I know what it looks like, even if it’s not what it is.”

Andrea sighed, long and tired. “No one’s caught that. Yet. But you need to be so careful. This is a pressure cooker. Leila is still in play.”

My heart tightened. “Has Kassner’s team said anything?”

“Yes,” she admitted. “They emailed this morning. Asking if the current media attention is expected to ‘escalate.’”

That pulled me up straighter. “And you said…?”

“I said no. That your trip was personal. Family. Low-profile.”

I swallowed. “And if they ask again?”

She was quiet for a beat. Then: “You tell me first. Always.”

I closed my eyes. “Okay.”

“And no posts. No vague captions. Not until we know where this is going.”

“I understand.”

Her tone softened. “I’m not mad.”

“I know.”

“I just want you to get what you’ve earned.”

I nodded, voice quiet. “So do I.”

We ended the call a minute later. I set the phone down beside my tea, which had long since gone cold. The truth was simple. I hadn’t done anything. But something had still begun. And this time—I couldn’t pretend not to feel it.

I didn’t move for a while after we hung up.

Just sat there in the middle of the unmade hotel bed, robe wrapped around me, phone warm in my palm. Outside, Tokyo glittered under soft daylight—indifferent to whatever storm had started swirling inside my chest.

I was reaching for my cold tea when my phone rang again.

Unknown number.

No hesitation this time. I answered on the second ring.

“Hello?”

A pause. Then a warm, professional voice, American. “Hi—is this Y/N?”

“Yes.”

“Hi, this is Sabrina Lee with Kassner Productions. I’m calling on behalf of Julian and the creative team. Is now a good time?”

My pulse skipped. “Yes. Of course.”

“Great. I’ll keep this brief—I know you’re traveling. First, I just wanted to thank you for your presence at the callback reading. Julian was incredibly moved by your interpretation. It’s rare, he said, to see someone understand silence the way you do.”

My breath caught. I managed a quiet, “Thank you.”

“There’s been a lot of internal conversation these past few days. A few final meetings still happening, but you’re one of two names in serious consideration for Leila. Julian asked me to personally make sure you know that. Whatever happens next, you’ve already shifted the room.”

I didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

Sabrina’s voice softened. “That said, there’s been some... recent online attention. Nothing disqualifying. Just noise. The kind of thing producers flag.”

I closed my eyes. “I understand.”

“We don’t need a public statement or denial. Julian’s not interested in clickbait. But he is protective of the emotional tone of this film. If you do choose to engage with the public narrative, he’s hoping you’ll do it with the same precision and restraint you brought to the script.”

Precision and restraint. I could do that. I already had.

“I understand,” I said again. “And thank you. For calling.”

“Of course. And—off the record?” she added lightly, like we were suddenly two people again instead of roles on a call. “You were my pick.”

I smiled before I could stop it. “Thank you.”

“We’ll be in touch very soon,” she said. “Safe travels, Y/N.”

The call ended.

I let the silence wrap around me, this time a little warmer. A little steadier. They hadn’t said it outright. But I could feel it. I was no longer just auditioning. I was in the room.

All I had to do now… was hold it.

New York City was louder than I remembered. Maybe it was just me. Or maybe Tokyo had carved out something softer in my brain, a gentler rhythm that didn’t slam the car door or honk before the light changed.

Josh hugged me at the airport before disappearing into the crowd with his backpack, already texting someone about vintage vinyl. I slipped into the backseat of my waiting car, hoodie pulled up, sunglasses on—even though the sun hadn’t fully risen yet.

By the time I reached my apartment, the sky had gone that silvery gray that made everything feel like a memory.

Inside, everything was where I left it. The folded laundry. The dog-eared script still sitting on the kitchen island. A half-empty matcha bottle in the fridge that had somehow survived the week.

I hugged Chili—who seemed to tolerate me today and fed her favorite treats. Took a long shower. Put on clean clothes and didn’t check my email.

There was nothing new yet. No subject line. No final word. Instead, I unpacked slowly. Ritualistically. As if the act of folding each piece back into its drawer might bring clarity with it.

Around noon, I curled up on the couch with my laptop open and half a bagel balanced on a napkin beside me. The city moved outside my windows like it always did—fast and full of its own stories.

I was reading the callback scene again—not out of necessity, but muscle memory—when my phone buzzed.

@lando sent you a photo.

Just that. No message.

I tapped it open.

It was a blurry shot from an airplane window. Dark sky. A trail of city lights below, twinkling through faint cloud cover. In the corner, the edge of a hoodie sleeve. His knee pulled up, like he was sitting curled into the seat.

A second later, the text came through.

@lando: somewhere over nowhere

I stared at it. The simplicity of it. I didn’t reply right away. Just held the phone in my palm, thumb resting over the screen like it might translate everything I couldn’t say out loud.

Then slowly, I typed:

@Y/N: i’m home the city’s loud you’d hate it.

He replied two minutes later.

@lando: maybe unless you were there too

And that… was it. No pressure. No push. Just a thread left open. Lightly held. I didn’t know what would happen next. Not with Leila. Not with him.

But for the first time in a long time, I wasn’t reaching. I wasn’t proving. I wasn’t performing. I was here. In the in-between.

And somehow, that felt like a beginning too.

It was just after 3 PM when the email came in.

I’d spent the past hour answering Andrea’s backlog of “housekeeping” notes—thank-you replies, brand inquiries, a gentle decline to a talk show offer—and was finally eating something that wasn’t toast when my laptop pinged.

The subject line froze me. My heart slipped sideways. I set the bowl down. Wiped my hands on my sweatpants. Clicked.

Subject: Chemistry Read + Director Meeting — “Leila” From: [email protected] Received: 3:04 PM Dear Y/N, Thank you again for your work in last week’s callback. Julian and the creative team were deeply impressed by your performance and would like to invite you to the next phase of consideration. This will consist of: – A chemistry read with Reed Brody, scheduled for next Thursday, 1:30 PM – A follow-up one-on-one creative meeting with Julian Kassner directly, same day We will provide sides, location, and prep materials in a follow-up email. Please confirm availability as soon as possible. Warm regards, Sabrina Lee Associate Casting Director Kassner Productions

I sat back, blinking.

Chemistry read. With Reed Brody—of all people. He was brilliant. Charismatic. Unpredictable. And, if rumors were to be believed, exhausting on set.

And then a meeting. Just me. And Julian.

No cameras. No audience. Just the two of us and whatever he needed to see in me that hadn’t already been said in a line of dialogue.

I clicked Reply before my nerves could start asking questions.

Dear Sabrina, Thank you for the update. I’m honored to move forward and confirm full availability for both the chemistry read and the meeting with Julian. I look forward to receiving the materials. Warmly, Y/N

I hit send. Closed the laptop.

Let the silence spread out around me. This was it. The last threshold. The space between maybe and yes. Between being one of two… and being the name at the top of the call sheet. And for the first time in weeks, the thought didn’t terrify me.

I called Andrea the second I’d finished replying the email. No greetings, no warmup.

“They scheduled the chemistry read. Thursday. Backlot Studio 4.”

There was a pause on her end, followed by a too-calm, “I know.”

I blinked. “You knew?”

“I knew,” she repeated, unbothered, like we were discussing weather patterns.

“How long?”

“Long enough to make sure your calendar stayed open and your outfits don’t clash with the walls.”

I sank onto the edge of my bed. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because I wanted you focused on Kassner’s meeting. And because I knew you’d freaked out,” she said. “Which, by the way, you’re doing now.”

I was quiet. My fingers picked at a thread on my sweatpants. “Do you know who else got called?”

There was another pause. This one was less strategic. “Yes.”

“And?”

Andrea sighed. “Arden. Arden Lin.”

My stomach flipped. Of course.

“She’s talented,” I muttered. “Really good. Especially in Running River.”

“She is,” Andrea agreed. “And her agent’s a total vulture. She’ll play dirty if she thinks it’ll get Arden the part.”

I leaned back, pressing the phone against my cheek like it could anchor me. “She’s the industry’s golden girl right now. Sweet, innocent, untouched. And I’m... not that.”

Andrea didn’t rush to disagree. She let the words hang before saying gently, “You’re not the image. You’re the real thing. There’s a difference.”

I swallowed. “So what now?”

“Now, you prep. You sleep. You don’t let this get in your head. You walk in like you’re the one they already want—and give them a reason to believe it.”

I nodded, even though she couldn’t see me. “Right.”

“And Y/N?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m not worried. Neither should you be. But keep your eyes open.”

“Always.”

It started with a message.

@lando: heard new york’s the best place to lay low. lucky for me i’ve got a local expert @lando: got a few days off before bahrain. planning to spend them the new yorker way @lando: recommendations welcome.

I stared at it, still in my robe, half-dressed for an impromptu self-tape I hadn’t even started filming. I didn’t reply immediately. Not because I didn’t want to—I did, maybe too much—but because my brain was too full. Kassner. Arden. The scene I needed to read for the chemistry test. My skin felt too thin already.

But an hour later, when I sat down with my usual matcha from 7th Ave and my cat curled by my feet, I gave in.

@Y/N: big final audition coming up. can’t afford a run-in with the papz right now. but I’ll send you recs @Y/N: starting with this.

I dropped a link to my favorite noodle bar in the Village. One he’d never find on his own. Then added a Google Maps pin, because I couldn’t help myself.

He didn’t reply until later that night, but when he did, he sent a photo — the corner of the restaurant’s menu with his watch half-visible in the shot, and a single word: Approved.

The next day, I sent him a bakery.

@Y/N: order the miso-butter croissant. trust me.

He responded with three fire emojis and a grainy zoomed-in pic of it already half-eaten.

@lando: what’s next, professor? this syllabus slaps

By the third day, I was knee-deep in script notes when he sent another message.

@lando: okay but hear me out @lando: what if.. and I’m just saying this hypothetically.... @lando: you came with me next time. @lando: strict disguise. full anonymity. we do a wardrobe swap. you wear something from my closet, i wear something from yours. no one would ever suspect

I paused, thumbs hovering above my phone, smiling despite myself.

@Y/N: so you’re suggesting we go incognito in full swap mode?

@Lando: exactly. add your cat and we’re unstoppable @Lando: let’s go be anonymous together

The temptation didn’t hit me all at once. It came in flickers—little tugs beneath the surface every time his name lit up on my screen.

Part of me wanted to say no. To stay focused. To stay smart. But then he’d send a picture of a miso croissant he’d half-devoured with the caption '10/10. Flaky like my dating history'.

Or a voice memo from some alley jazz bar he’d stumbled into that he said “smelled like cigarettes and poetry and your taste in movies.”

And suddenly I’d forget I was supposed to be cautious.

When he suggested going undercover together—the wardrobe swap—I stared at the message longer than I should’ve. My first instinct was to shut it down. Politely. Something like “Rain check. Can’t risk it.”

But the truth was, I didn’t want to rain check. Not this time.

After a full day of overthinking it, I closed my laptop, stared at Chili who tilted her head at me like she already knew, and muttered out loud, “Fuck it. Let’s do this.”

I sent the message.

@Y/N: i have one condition, big disguise, HUGE @Y/N: and we leave through the back exit

He replied in less than five seconds.

@lando: you just made my whole week @lando: Operation Fashion Fugitive commences.

PART 2 here

hii!! i was trying to make this as a oneshot but it exceeds the wordcount limit soo decided to split it into 2 parts ㅠㅠ anyways hope you like it <3

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