You two had been spending more and more time together ever since that acting night at his place.

Not just late-night line rehearsals anymore. Not just excuse-meetings with scripts on your laps and bowls of melting vanilla ice cream between you.

It became walks.

Hand in hand, sunglasses low on your noses, you strolled along sleepy, golden-hour Hollywood streets like you belonged there. Like the city was softer when he held your hand.

Ice cream became a habit — you’d tease him about it, rolling your eyes like ugh fine, vanilla again? But truth was, you loved the way he lit up every time he saw you enjoying it. You couldn’t stop licking the spoon like it was some kind of inside joke between you two — because it was.

You were off the undercover, too.

People noticed.

There were photos, headlines, blurry iPhone shots of him holding your hand outside a small gelato place near Sunset. At first, the rumors were insane. One blog insisted you were his long-lost secret daughter — you laughed so hard you nearly cried when you read that one.

But then came the real proof. The photos of him kissing you under that streetlight. His hand cupping your jaw like you were something he needed to protect, the kind of kiss that made people shut up and believe it. You weren’t a rumor anymore.

You were dating.

Officially.

He asked you — so sweet, like he thought you might say no — and when you said yes, nothing even changed. Because it already felt like it had happened. It was just words, really. The feelings had been there since the second his lips met yours in the back of that car.

And everything was better now.

Even acting.

Especially acting.

You were more in sync. The chemistry you used to fake for the camera now pulsed through your veins for real. Kiss scenes were electric. Natural. Raw. You didn’t have to pretend anymore — you just had to feel.

Like that day on set — one you’d never forget.

The script called for a slow kiss in the rain. You were supposed to kiss for a few seconds, hold the pose, then step back and deliver a line about forever.

But you didn’t step back.

Because the moment his lips brushed yours, something snapped. Your hands tangled in his shirt, his fingers buried in your hair, and the kiss just kept going. Deepening. Turning into something that had nothing to do with the script and everything to do with how badly you’d missed him all morning.

It went on... and on... until:

“Cut!”

The director’s voice sliced through the air like a bell.

You both jerked back, red-faced, breathless, completely disoriented.

Someone behind the camera snorted. “We get it, you’re in love. Save some for the bloopers.”

You could barely breathe from laughing. Hayden just grinned and tucked a wet strand of hair behind your ear like it was his full-time job.

“Oops,” he murmured, leaning in so only you could hear. “Didn’t know kissing my girlfriend wasn’t method acting.”

You giggled so hard you had to bend over.

And now?

You were at his place.

It was supposed to be a quiet night. No scripts, no lines, no fake kisses. Just you and him, a bunch of old movies, and an open-ended plan to do absolutely nothing together.

Movie marathon, he said. “Something with zero depth and lots of popcorn.” You’d both laughed when he picked The Notebook anyway.

You were sitting on his couch — more like melting into it — soft throw blanket bunched at your knees, the faint scent of vanilla still hovering in the room after the two of you shamelessly emptied an entire tub of ice cream. You’d insisted you didn’t want any, that you were over it. But then he smiled, lifted the spoon to your mouth, and somehow you were eating half the box again.

And now? You couldn’t even pretend to watch the screen.

The movie played on, but your eyes weren’t following the plot. They were tracing the sharp lines of Hayden’s jaw. The way his blue eyes caught the flickering light from the screen. How he rested his chin on his knuckles, calm and beautiful, like the main character in your own personal daydream.

You shifted closer without even meaning to. Your knees brushed his. Then your hand. Then your lips — at first just pressing gently to his neck, barely a touch.

He blinked, turned to you, smile rising in that slow, surprised way that made your stomach twist up.

“Hey,” he whispered, voice low and warm.

You didn’t answer. Just tilted forward and kissed his jaw next. Soft and slow, your lips brushing over the stubble you always secretly liked. You felt his breath catch — and yours followed.

And then his lips.

Still faintly cold from the ice cream. Still tasting like the vanilla you once hated and now somehow craved. Still familiar and new at the same time.

He kissed you back immediately — like instinct — his hand slipping under your blanket, over your thigh, settling on your hip in a slow squeeze that made everything in you go quiet.

You shifted again, this time onto his lap.

Your legs on either side of him, knees digging into the couch cushion, hands on his shoulders, forehead resting against his.

His arms wrapped around your waist, holding you like you’d disappear if he didn’t.

He was about to say something — you could see it in his eyes. That soft hesitation before he cracked a joke or confessed something that made you melt.

But this time you beat him to it.

“I want to make love with you.”

The words fell from your lips so quietly, you barely recognized them as yours.

You saw it hit him — the silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was full. Like the air in the room had thickened and warmed all at once.

He didn’t move. Just stared at you. Really stared. Like he wanted to make sure you meant it. That it wasn’t just heat or hormones or too much vanilla ice cream messing with your head.

So you leaned in and kissed him again. Soft. Slow. A kind of yes in itself.

And when you pulled back, his hand cupped the back of your head, thumb brushing your cheek.

“You’re sure?” he whispered.

You nodded, already smiling. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

He exhaled, forehead dropping to your shoulder for a second, his lips brushing your collarbone in a breathless laugh.

Then his hands slid under your shirt — not rushed, not greedy — just warm and reverent like he was memorizing every inch of you. His lips followed, pressing against your neck, your shoulder, your jaw.

The movie kept playing in the background, forgotten.

The Hollywood sign glowed outside the giant window.

And he kissed you like you were the only real thing in the world.

You didn’t expect it to feel like this.

You’d had sex before. Once. It was... fine. Quick. Loud music playing in the background, someone else's posters on the wall. It wasn’t bad — just not this.

Not like this.

Hayden was still kissing you on the couch, his hands gentle on your waist, his lips brushing yours like they were learning you — not owning you, not rushing, just knowing you. With every kiss, he was asking without words: “Are you sure?” With every breath, he was saying, “I’m here.”

And then he stood, cradling you in his arms like you weighed nothing at all. You squeaked a little in surprise, giggling as you buried your face into his neck.

“You really didn’t have to—” you whispered.

“I wanted to,” he said, smiling softly. “Let me take you there.”

There. The word sent a shiver down your spine, not out of fear — but anticipation.

He carried you down the short hallway, the warm light behind you casting shadows across the walls, the thud of your heartbeat louder than your thoughts.

When he pushed the bedroom door open with his foot, it was like stepping into a different world.

Soft lighting. His bed made neatly, but lived-in — like him. A navy blanket folded at the edge. Books on the nightstand. His cologne in the air, subtle and clean. Everything smelled like comfort and vanilla and him.

He set you down gently, like you were something precious.

You leaned back against the pillows, your breath catching as he stood above you for a moment, just looking.

“God, you’re so beautiful,” he whispered, almost to himself. “I don’t even know how to touch you without falling harder.”

You felt your cheeks heat up instantly. “Hayden…”

He crawled onto the bed, his hands finding yours, his lips brushing over your knuckles before he kissed you again. A little deeper this time. A little longer.

Then, slowly, carefully, he began to undress you.

Not with impatience — but like he was unwrapping a gift he wanted to savor.

He lifted your shirt first, inch by inch, his fingers brushing your sides, sending goosebumps up your skin. He kissed your stomach as he peeled it away, and your chest rose and fell in uneven waves.

Then your jeans — slowly tugged down over your thighs, his lips trailing the exposed skin, worshipping every new place he discovered.

You reached up, shyly covering your face.

“Don’t hide from me,” he said gently, pulling your hands away. “I want to see you. All of you.”

You nodded, eyes wide, heart thudding like it was your first time again.

Because with him — it was.

He kissed every part of you like a promise. Your hips. Your ribs. Your shoulders. Your cheeks. All with reverence. All with patience.

“You okay?” he murmured, eyes searching yours.

You nodded, swallowing hard. “More than okay.”

“Tell me if you want me to stop.”

“I won’t,” you whispered. “I trust you.”

He smiled at that. Something soft and shaken. Like your words undid him a little.

Then it was his turn.

You helped him take off his shirt, your hands trembling slightly as they skimmed over the lean lines of his chest. He kissed you the whole time — never stopping, never letting you doubt.

Once you were both under the blanket, tangled together in the dim light, he pulled you close, forehead to forehead, legs intertwining.

“You make me feel like this is the first time,” you whispered.

He chuckled, brushing your hair back. “It feels like that to me too.”

You looked up at him, your eyes full of something you didn’t know how to name yet.

Love, maybe.

He leaned in close again, kissing you slowly, whispering between every one.

“You’re perfect.”

“I’ve wanted this for so long.”

“I can’t believe you’re mine.”

He said it like he almost didn’t believe it. Like even as he held you in his arms — bare and warm and pressed against his chest — he still thought you might disappear.

But you didn’t.

You were right there, looking up at him, cheeks flushed and eyes glassy, your fingers playing nervously at the nape of his neck.

“I am,” you whispered back. “Yours.”

Something in his eyes flickered. His jaw clenched like he was holding back so much emotion all at once. And then he kissed you. Slowly, breathlessly, like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

And when he pulled back, your noses still touching, he asked softly, “Are you sure?”

You nodded, your voice small, a little shy. “I want you.”

His breath caught. You swore you felt it stutter against your lips.

He kissed you again, gentler this time — slow, deep, his hand cupping your face like you were breakable. Like porcelain and honey and stars.

Then he shifted above you, careful and steady, keeping his eyes on you. You felt the warm slide of his hand down your side, over your hip, the heat of his body pressing into yours, chest to chest, heart to heart.

When he moved between your legs, you let out the tiniest gasp. Not from fear — just the rush of feeling so completely wanted. His skin against yours, the way his hand smoothed over your thigh and cradled it around his waist, the way his voice dropped to a hush as he kissed along your jawline and said, “We can go slow.”

Your voice was barely audible. “Please.”

And then he was there.

You felt him, hot and hard and careful as he aligned himself, watching your face the whole time — like if you winced, even once, he’d stop immediately.

But you didn’t wince.

You moaned.

A soft, breathy little sound that made his eyes flutter shut.

You clung to his shoulders, gasping his name when he started pushing in — so, so slowly. You felt yourself stretch around him, and the feeling was intense, full, but not painful. Just new. Deep. Warm.

Your legs wrapped tighter around him instinctively, your breath caught between kisses.

“God,” he whispered, “you feel like heaven.”

You smiled through a moan, clinging to him, your fingers gripping at his back.

Once he was fully inside, he didn’t move right away. He just stayed there, his forehead pressed to yours, letting you adjust, letting you feel all of him.

“You okay?” he whispered.

You nodded. 

He smiled — that crooked, overwhelmed smile that only came out when you made him lose all sense of control.

Then he started to move. Slow at first. Deep and careful, like he was memorizing every sound you made.

You were soft beneath him. Warm, trembling, every little moan you let out like music to his ears.

His name fell from your lips over and over again, a shy, airy little sound — “Hayden… Hayden…” — like it was the only thing anchoring you to the earth.

He held your hand while he made love to you. Fingers interlaced. Thumb brushing your knuckles every time he rocked into you.

You felt everything. Every inch of him, every breath against your skin, every soft kiss along your neck. And every time he pulled out just enough to push back in, you swore your heart expanded a little more.

“I’ve never felt like this before,” you whispered.

He kissed your temple. “Me neither.”

You buried your face in his shoulder, letting yourself feel it all — the love, the pleasure, the quiet rhythm of your bodies moving together like you were made to fit this way.

“I love how you sound,” he whispered, lips at your ear. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

You whimpered softly, clinging to him tighter, your legs trembling now with how full you felt, how close you were. You weren’t loud. You were gentle. Breathless. Shy.

“Don’t stop,” you said, voice barely a whisper.

“I won’t,” he promised. “Never.”

And when you came — with his name on your lips, your body curling up into him, your whole soul pouring out through your fingertips — he held you through it, whispering sweet things against your skin:

“You’re mine.”

“You’re perfect.”

“You’re everything.”

He followed just moments after, burying his face into your neck with a broken groan, wrapping you in his arms so tight, like he was scared you’d disappear.

But you didn’t.

You stayed.

Both of you, sticky with sweat and trembling and flushed pink, legs tangled, hearts pounding like teenagers.

When it was over, he kissed your forehead. Your nose. Your cheeks. Your lips. Like he couldn’t stop.

And you whispered, blushing as you buried your face in his chest:

“…It really does feel like the first time.”

He chuckled, pulling the blanket up around both of you. “That’s ‘cause it’s real this time.”

“You know what would make this moment perfect?”

You blinked. “What?”

“More ice cream.”

You giggled, cheeks still flushed. “Hayden…”

And then you kissed him again, all slow and warm.

You didn't want to move.

His arm was heavy over your waist, your legs tangled together under the blanket, the scent of his skin still clinging to yours — vanilla, sweat, something so warm it made your head spin. His chest rose and fell against your cheek, and for a moment, you thought: I could stay here forever.

But then he whispered into your hair, “C’mon, get up. We’re going out”

You blinked, sleepily. “Out? Now?”

“Yeah,” he murmured, smiling against your temple. “You, me, a hoodie, and the same ice cream spot as last time. Let’s ruin their vanilla stock.”

You laughed into his chest, cheeks instantly warming. “Hayden, it’s midnight.”

“And your point is?”

You sat up, the blanket falling from your shoulders, revealing the lazy afterglow in your smile and the mess of your hair pinned up. He was already halfway out of bed, pulling on jeans, still shirtless, grinning like a teenage boy sneaking out after curfew.

“You’re ridiculous,” you muttered, sliding on your dress from earlier. “You're forty-four.”

He paused, grinning over his shoulder. “Forty-four and still got you to kiss me and finish a tub of ice cream in one night. Not bad, huh?”

You blushed so hard your ears went warm. “Shut up.”

“Make me,” he teased.

You threw a pillow at him. He ducked, laughing, then came over to kiss your cheek like it was his new favorite hobby.

It was really dark when you left his apartment. The LA air was warm, soft with the hum of a sleeping city. You held his hand as you walked — your palm small in his, your fingers swinging back and forth like you were daring someone to catch you two.

And of course, someone did. A couple on the sidewalk recognized him — they smiled, said something polite, and walked off without a fuss. But it was still enough to make your stomach flutter.

“You think they knew we were…” you began.

He smirked, pulling you closer. “Making out like teenagers not so long ago? Probably.”

You groaned. “Oh my god.”

He just laughed, tugging your hand as you reached the little corner ice cream shop — the same one, the same awning, the same sleepy worker behind the counter who definitely recognized you both from last time but was too polite to say anything.

You both ordered the same vanilla, like a joke you were in on now. He took his with extra sprinkles this time. You asked for whipped cream just to be annoying. He snuck a cherry onto your cone when you weren’t looking and declared it “garnish fit for a queen.”

You rolled your eyes, cheeks red.

“I can’t take you anywhere,” you muttered.

“That’s why you keep bringing me places,” he said, bumping your shoulder as you walked.

You found yourselves under the same palm tree from the first night — quiet, shaded, the Hollywood sign twinkling in the distance. You sat next to him, legs brushing, the glow from a nearby lamppost casting gold across his face.

You leaned your head onto his shoulder.

He leaned his cheek into your hair.

A silence settled, warm and heavy and perfect.

“You know,” he said softly, “I really like this.”

You smiled against his arm. “What, midnight ice cream and hiding behind palm trees?”

“No,” he murmured. “You. I really like you.”

Your heart flipped over in your chest. Like... actually did a whole somersault.

You tried to hide your face in your cone. “You’re so cheesy.”

“You like it.”

“No, I don’t.”

“You’re blushing.”

“I’m sunburned.”

“It’s nighttime.”

You burst into laughter, pulling away just enough to meet his gaze. His eyes were shining, all soft and slow like they’d never looked at anyone the way they looked at you.

He wiped a spot of whipped cream from the corner of your lip with his thumb, then kissed your forehead, just because he could.

“Say it,” he whispered.

“Say what?”

He nudged you with his shoulder. “C’mon.”

You smirked, dragging the last bite of vanilla off your spoon. Then, you tucked yourself into his side again, the stars above, the city glowing beneath, and the palm leaves rustling overhead.

And with a sleepy little smile, you whispered:

“I love ice cream.”

Your mind betrays you. Again.

You’re just trying to function like a normal person — finish your makeup, check your call sheet, memorize lines, maybe sip water like a hydrated adult. But no. Your brain won’t shut up. It keeps rewinding that night on loop, dragging you back to the taste of ice cream… and vanilla… and—

Let’s not call it a date. Actually, screw it. Let’s call it a date. It felt like one. Looked like one. Smelled like one.

Felt like… more.

And that’s the problem, isn’t it?

You don’t even like ice cream. That’s the punchline. You’ve said it your whole life. Too cold, too sweet, too overrated. Especially vanilla. Vanilla is like the color beige. Or reading a Wikipedia page. Serious. Predictable. Kind of boring.

And yet—

There you were. Sitting on the curb under a palm tree like a scene from a teen rom-com. Sunset dripping gold down the side of Hayden’s car. Warm concrete against your thighs. And him… holding out his spoon with this little glint in his eye like he was offering you a secret.

“Try this,” he said, spoon hovering in front of you. “Most underrated vanilla in L.A.”

You made a face. “You’re kidding. Vanilla?”

He didn’t answer — just tilted his head with a smug little smirk and held the spoon closer, like trust me. So you did. Because apparently that’s what you do now: trust Hayden Christensen with dairy products.

And when the taste hit your tongue?

Okay, fine. It was good. Actually, it was better than good.

It was smooth and soft and warm despite being cold. Sweet but not sickening. It melted quick, but in a really romantic way, like the kind of thing you’d taste while falling in love and never forget. You weren’t chewing exactly — but somehow it felt like you were chewing it while looking into his stupid blue eyes. And for some reason that made everything worse. Or better. You don’t even know anymore.

He laughed when you closed your eyes. “Told you.”

And your heart did something extremely inappropriate.

You ended up stealing three more bites. Not because you were into the ice cream. But because of him. Because of how his voice got lower when he said your name. Because of the way he’d look away and then back at you too quickly, like he was fighting something. Because every time his knee brushed yours, it short-circuited your brain.

And you were fine. Totally fine.

Until the car ride.

You sat in the passenger seat, finishing your own ice cream — some minty thing with chocolate in it — and stared out the window like you were in a Lana Del Rey music video. But your mouth still tasted like his vanilla. You’d eaten yours after, but the vanilla refused to leave. It lingered, like him. Light and loud. Sweet and serious. And kind of addictive.

Which is insane.

Because again — vanilla? Really?

And then you got to your apartment. And he pulled up to the curb and you unbuckled your seatbelt, mumbling something like, “Thanks for the ride,” with your cup still in your hand and your heart all out of place.

You weren’t expecting anything. You swear on your whole family. On your childhood hamster. On your goldfish named Bob that died after three days when you were nine. You didn’t expect anything.

You were halfway to the elevator, plastic spoon in your mouth, when he called your name. Soft. Curious. Almost like he was asking a question without saying one.

You turned around.

He was leaning on the side of his car now. One hand on the hood, one in his pocket. Looking at you like he was about to do something reckless and already regretted it.

And then he crossed the space between you in four lazy steps, stopped just close enough for you to feel the heat off his chest — and kissed you.

You don’t remember if you dropped your spoon. You don’t even remember what your name is.

You just remember the vanilla.

You remember his lips being softer than you thought they’d be. You remember the way his hand slid into your hair without hesitation, his thumb grazing your cheek like he’d touched you there a thousand times already. You remember the gentle pressure under your chin as he tilted your face up, and the pause before he kissed you — like a warning. Like he was giving you a chance to run.

You didn’t.

His kiss didn’t taste like mint. Or chocolate. It tasted like him. Like his vanilla.

And now it’s your favorite. Stupid, boring, beige vanilla is your favorite now. Because it tastes like his lips.

The lips that smiled at you across set. The lips that teased you when you forgot a line. The lips that called you “trouble” in that low, playful voice. The lips that kissed you like you were something worth craving.

Now you were back on set.

The break was over — just a few days, barely enough to reset — and now the cameras were up again, people buzzing around with call sheets and clipboards, makeup brushes tapping cheeks, someone yelling about lunch options.

And him.

Back to Hayden.

The second you saw him, it hit you like a truck.

Your heartbeat spiked like someone flipped a switch. Just— boom. Panic. Warmth. You forgot how to breathe, literally forgot. It wasn’t just nerves anymore. This wasn’t the usual oh wow he’s hot and famous and I’m intimidated by how blue his eyes are. No, this was a whole-body shutdown. A brain malfunction.

Because he kissed you.

And now your brain was showing you a highlight reel every five seconds — that slow lean-in, the way his fingers threaded into your hair, the press of his mouth on yours, the vanilla.

You were standing by the coffee table on set, pretending to sip water, pretending to scroll your phone, pretending to exist like a functioning adult. But all you could think about was his lips. On yours. The softness. The way his thumb traced your cheek like he was memorizing the shape of you.

How are you supposed to act normal after that?

You tried to breathe. You really tried. But then he looked up.

Hayden. From across the stage.

His eyes found you like they always do — too fast, too specific. Like no matter where you are in the room, he’s tuned into your frequency. He smiled, slow and warm, a little crooked like he wasn’t sure if he should.

You looked away so fast you nearly spilled your water.

And that’s when it hit you. This is real.

You were always a little flustered around him — okay, a lot. But this? This was a different kind of chaos. You couldn’t get his kiss out of your head. Couldn’t focus. Couldn’t breathe right. Even now, while someone from wardrobe was tugging on your jacket, fixing a seam, asking if you needed anything — all you could think was: I kissed him. He kissed me. And now I’m standing here like my mouth still belongs to him.

Lines? What lines?

You had five pages of dialogue to memorize. You’d read them. Rehearsed them in the mirror. Whispered them on the ride to set. But now they were just... gone. Blank. Evaporated like mist. Because your brain wasn’t storing words anymore — just sensations. Just memories of vanilla and soft lips and his hand in your hair.

You weren’t supposed to be this messed up about it.

You told yourself it was casual. A moment. A glitch in the universe. But now? Every time you blinked, you saw him. Every time someone said his name on set, your stomach did a stupid little flip like you were thirteen.

This wasn’t a casual crush anymore. This was a full-blown, heartbeat-hijacking, sanity-destroying emotional crisis.

You got called.

The set hushed. Lights shifted. Cameras clicked into place. You took your mark. Hayden took his. Not far from you — close enough that you could smell that same aftershave he wore the night of the kiss. Clean, soft, maddening.

You were fine.

You were fine.

Until the scene started.

“You don’t get to walk away from me like that,” Hayden said in character, stepping closer, voice low and urgent — the way it was written. “Not after everything we’ve been through.”

You turned slowly, your character’s scripted hesitation easy to fake now because it was real. He was looking at you like he meant it. Not as his character. As him.

“Maybe I’m tired of being the only one who—” Your voice cracked. Wrong line. Or was it? You couldn’t tell anymore.

Hayden stepped closer. You felt his hand graze your elbow — light, grounding, almost like you okay? but not out loud.

And then… it happened. The part you forgot was even in the script.

The kiss.

He leaned in. And you panicked.

Not visibly, thank God. But your brain just— short-circuited. When his lips touched yours (gently, softly, professionally?), your entire body flushed from head to toe like someone turned on the sun inside you.

It was so quiet on set. Too quiet.

And then — silence.

Because your next line didn’t come.

You just stood there, eyes wide, lips parted, blinking up at him like a girl who’d never been kissed in her life. Your brain? Empty. Gone. Zero thoughts, only Hayden.

Someone coughed.

Someone else said, “Cut?”

And your face went bright red.

“Let’s take a quick break!” the director called, cheerful and oblivious.

You didn’t wait. You just mumbled something like “sorrysorrysorry” and practically ran to the corner of the stage, hiding your face in your sleeve like a literal child.

And then you heard footsteps.

And then…

“Hey.”

That voice. That low, soft, Hayden-voice. You didn’t turn around. You couldn’t.

“Hey,” he said again, gentler this time. “You okay?”

“No,” you muttered into your sleeve. “I’m dead.”

He let out a quiet laugh behind you. “Don’t think they let ghosts on the call sheet.”

You peeked over your shoulder.

He was standing there with both hands in his pockets, trying to act casual but definitely failing. He rocked on his heels a little. Like he was nervous too.

You turned toward him just enough to glare. “I forgot all my lines.”

“I noticed.”

“I literally stared at you like a starstruck extra.”

“You looked cute,” he said before he could stop himself.

Your mouth dropped. “You did not just—”

“I did,” he grinned, suddenly cocky. “You were very… method. Like your character just got kissed for the first time ever.”

“I wasn’t acting!” you blurted.

Silence.

You slapped your hand over your mouth.

His brows lifted. A slow smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Weren’t you?”

You turned away again, hiding your burning face behind both hands now. “Kill me.”

“No can do,” he said. “But… I could help.”

You glanced sideways, suspicious. “Help?”

He shrugged, casually-uncasually. “Run lines. Practice. Off-set.”

“Off-set,” you repeated, like you’d never heard the phrase before.

He nodded. “You know… after filming. At my place. Just to make sure you don’t forget your lines next time I kiss you.”

You blinked.

Then blinked again.

“You mean… actually rehearse it?” you asked, trying to sound normal, even though your heart was doing cartwheels.

“I’m a method actor,” he said seriously, then grinned. “Kinda.”

You laughed. Your whole body actually did a little bounce, like your soul was kicking its feet inside you. He looked so proud of himself for making you laugh. Like a boy who just got a girl to smile at prom.

“I mean, if you don’t want to—” he started, suddenly shy.

“No! I mean—yes. I do. Want to.” You coughed. “Rehearse. The scene. Lines.”

He smiled again, softer now. A little blush crept into his cheeks. Not the kind you’d expect from a man who’s been famous half his life. But the kind you’d see on someone with a crush they’re pretending not to have.

Your heart folded like paper.

“Okay then,” he said, nodding like this was all extremely professional. “After wrap?”

You nodded.

“Cool,” he said, too casually. “I’ll text you.”

You tried to walk away then, tried to rejoin the cast and pretend your brain wasn’t still melting. But just as you turned, you heard him behind you.

“Oh,” he added, “and for the record?”

You turned.

He smiled again — lazy, warm, flirty. “That wasn’t just acting either.”

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You’d forgotten.

Like… totally.

You were still in bed, face half-smashed into your pillow, wearing an oversized tee and staring at the wall like a half-conscious possum when it hit you — Hayden.

Your phone was dead. Of course.

You rolled over, plugged it in, and waited through those agonizing seconds of rebooting while your brain scrambled to remember what day it was — what hour.

The second it lit up, his name was there.

Hayden: You can come at 9 p.m. You want me to pick you up?

Sent a while ago. You blinked at the time.

8:30 p.m.

“Oh my god,” you gasped, launching yourself upright. “Oh my actual god.”

You texted back with lightning fingers:

you: nooo i’m good!! i’ll come to you, i promise, on the way!!

Then you stared at yourself in the mirror. Thirty minutes. To look like a normal human girl. One who wasn’t in bed all day dreaming about a kiss.

Somehow, you managed.

Makeup on. Hair pinned up. A soft cardigan layered over a cute tank top. Casual, but… thoughtful. A little effort. Vanilla-colored, without meaning to. Or maybe because of him.

By the time you got to his place, the sky was dark and the skyline was glittering like it was showing off just for you.

His apartment was high up — top floor kind of high. And when he opened the door, standing there in a black t-shirt and joggers like he hadn’t tried at all but somehow looked better than most magazine covers, you almost forgot your name again.

He leaned on the doorframe, smiled slow.

“Wow,” he said, eyes tracing you gently. “You look…beautiful”

You rolled your eyes, stepping inside. “I look normal.”

You found yourself curled up on the edge of his massive couch, knees tucked under you, eyes wide as you stared out the floor-to-ceiling windows that framed the city like a painting. You could see everything — the sharp angles of downtown, the dim haze of the hills, and far in the distance, glowing quietly like it knew it was famous, the Hollywood sign.

The lights shimmered. So did your heart.

You hugged your knees. Tried to act normal. Not like you were in Hayden Christensen’s living room. Not like he kissed you. Twice. Not like you were minutes away from fake-kissing again. Not like you were sitting in the exact epicenter of your slow, soft emotional crisis.

Then he came back — barefoot, holding two bowls of ice cream.

“Peace offering,” he said, handing you one. “Vanilla. Of course.”

You took it with both hands, grinning. “You’re trying to brainwash me.”

“It’s working?”

You took a bite. Closed your eyes.

“…I hate how I actually start accepting this.”

“Just admit it,” he said, sitting beside you. “You’re turning into a vanilla girl.”

You laughed. “That’s the most tragic sentence I’ve ever heard.”

Eventually, the bowls ended up on the coffee table, still half-full. Hayden stood up, stretching his arms over his head, and looked down at you with a mock-serious expression.

“Alright,” he said. “Let’s rehearse. Before you forget all your lines again.”

“Rude.”

“True.”

You stood slowly, smoothing your top. Your palms were a little sweaty. The scene wasn’t long — just a few emotional lines and a kiss. Easy, technically. But nothing felt easy when he was this close. When his voice dropped like that. When his eyes looked at you like they remembered your mouth.

You stood facing him in the soft light of his living room.

“I don’t know if I can trust you,” you said, reciting your line. “Not after everything.”

His jaw tensed. He stepped closer. His voice was low. Controlled.

“I don’t want you to trust me,” he said. “I want you to feel what I feel.”

You inhaled sharply. The air felt thicker.

Then came the part you both knew was coming.

The kiss.

He paused — just like on set. Waiting. Making sure. Then leaned in.

And you let him.

His lips met yours gently. Slowly. No one was filming this time. No crew. No director yelling cut. No pressure. Just you and him. And the way your breath caught in your chest like it was wrapped in ribbons.

And that taste.

Vanilla. Again.

You could taste it on his mouth. Feel it in the softness. It was worse than before — better. Real.

And when he didn’t pull away — when his hand came up, brushing your cheek the same way it did that night outside your building — the acting fell away completely.

This wasn’t rehearsal.

You were kissing him.

Really kissing him.

He smiled against your mouth.

You pulled back just barely, flushed and breathless.

“That didn’t feel very scripted,” you whispered.

He tilted his head, eyes sparkling. “Maybe I’m improv-ing.”

You laughed, all nerves and warmth and light.

He stared at you for a beat, then said, soft and real:

“You make me feel like a teenager in love for the first time.”

Your heart dropped straight to your knees.

“You’re forty-four,” you whispered.

“I know,” he said, smiling. “Isn’t that insane?”

Neither of you moved for a while.

You were still standing in the middle of his living room, breathless, lips tingling, hearts a little too loud. Hayden’s hand rested on your waist like he forgot it was there. Or didn’t want to move it.

You pulled back just a little, still close enough to feel his warmth, and stared up at him with wide eyes.

“Did you mean that?” you asked.

His head tilted slightly. “Mean what?”

“What you said. The whole teenager thing.”

A soft smile bloomed on his face — shy, almost nervous, like he wasn’t used to being this open.

“Yeah,” he said. “Every word.”

You blinked, still reeling. “But you’re literally… you.”

He chuckled. “You say that like it makes me immune.”

“To… what?”

He didn’t look away. “You.”

Your breath caught.

“I’m completely—” he paused, searching for the word, “gone for you.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he said quickly, his voice dropping to something softer. “I just… I need you to know. I think you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen. Like it actually drives me crazy sometimes. I wait for the scenes where I get to touch you. Just a hand on your back, or brushing hair from your face — anything. I find excuses to stand closer than I need to. I memorize the way you laugh. And the way your eyes squint when you’re concentrating.”

You let out a soft, choked sound.

He took a breath.

“I try to play it cool, but I’m failing miserably,” he added with a crooked grin. “Being near you feels like high school. But worse. Because I’m supposed to know better.”

You stared at him. Absolutely stunned. “That’s… that’s exactly how I feel.”

His brows lifted.

You stumbled forward a step, rambling now, your voice shaking with affection and nerves and way too much honesty:

“I—I say weird stuff on set all the time just to get your attention. I fake little injuries so you’ll help me. I’ve literally forgotten lines just because you looked at me too long and I blacked out. And I get mad at myself all the time because I’m so young and bratty and chaotic, and you’re you — calm and talented and hot and grown. And I keep thinking I should act more mature or be less clingy but I can’t help it. You make me feel…”

You trailed off, overwhelmed.

He took a tiny step closer. “Feel what?”

You looked up at him. Eyes glassy, lips twitching.

“Like the world got really soft,” you whispered.

He melted.

“Come here,” he said, almost hoarse.

You didn’t hesitate. He pulled you to the couch, sat down, and tucked you into his side like it was the most natural thing in the world — your legs draped over his lap, your head resting against his chest.

The city lights stretched out below, glittering through the huge window. His hand stroked your back slowly, and yours curled into the hem of his t-shirt like it was home.

“You know what’s crazy?” he murmured, brushing your hair behind your ear.

“What?”

“You’re everything I didn’t know I was waiting for.”

You looked up. “Even with my weird fake injuries?”

He laughed. “Especially with those.”

You giggled, burying your face in his neck. “I do try to act cooler.”

“You’re perfect exactly how you are.”

You looked at him again. His blue eyes were so close. So impossibly gentle.

“You make me feel like I’m nineteen,” he said.

You leaned in and kissed him again. Soft. Familiar now. Like something you could do forever.

One kiss turned into two. Then three.

You kissed his cheek. His jaw. He kissed your nose. Your forehead. Your mouth again — lingering this time, his thumb on your chin, both of you smiling into it like idiots.

Eventually, you sighed and curled deeper into his side, your arms tucked between your chests, legs tangled.

“You’re warm,” you mumbled.

“I’m in love,” he whispered back.

You looked up, blinking.

His eyes didn’t move. “It’s true.”

You swallowed hard, suddenly breathless again. “I think I might be, too.”

Silence fell — not awkward, not unsure. Just full. Safe. Like you were both standing still in something too good to mess up with words.

Then you reached for the little melting bowl of ice cream on the coffee table and took a lazy spoonful, propped on his chest.

You chewed slowly.

He smiled, watching you.

And then you said it — quiet, sleepy, certain:

“I think I start liking ice cream.”

Love, xoxo

You don’t even like ice cream that much.

Well — not enough to sneak out of a press event in heels that pinch and a dress you had to tape to your boobs. But here you are, barefoot in the back of a black SUV, with your shoes in your lap and Hayden Christensen in the driver’s seat like this is totally normal.

“Is this kidnapping?” you ask, raising an eyebrow at him. “Should I be concerned?”

He peeks at you over his sunglasses, grinning in that calm, soft-lipped way he always does when you’re being a menace. “You said you were starving.”

“I said I was dying. That’s different. I could’ve meant emotionally.”

“Still counts,” he says, shrugging as he makes a left down Sunset. “And I know a place.”

You squint suspiciously. “You’re not gonna take me to some sad little frozen yogurt spot and say it’s ‘just like ice cream,’ are you? Because I’ll walk into traffic.”

“Ice cream,” he promises, hand steady on the wheel. “Real ice cream. Waffle cones. Sprinkles. The works.”

“And nobody will see us?” you say quickly, more cautious than you mean to sound.

He taps the brim of his baseball cap — the world’s most obvious attempt at being lowkey — and then glances down at his hoodie. “This disguise is bulletproof.”

You snort. “Hayden. You’re literally Hayden Christensen. You could wear a trash bag and someone would still be like, ‘Hey, is that Anakin Skywalker buying Rocky Road?’”

“I’ve done worse,” he mutters.

You don’t ask. You’re too busy smiling out the window like a kid being picked up from school early — giddy, a little guilty, glowing.

You’ve been like this around him for weeks.

Since day one on set, really. It was impossible not to be. He’d walk into the makeup trailer with a coffee and a quiet smile, his script tucked under his arm, hair tousled like he just rolled out of bed and still managed to look like a magazine cover. He’d joke with the crew and then say something soft to you — like “You good today?” — and it would rattle around in your chest for hours.

Hayden isn’t loud. He’s not flashy. But he notices things. Like when you chew on your pen during table reads. Or when your shoulders tense right before a kiss scene. Or how you always—always—pretend not to be freezing on sound stages, even though he’s already draped his jacket over your chair before you can pretend otherwise.

He’s dangerously easy to fall for.

But he’s also your co-star. And twenty-four years older. And in the middle of a comeback tour, which you refuse to ruin with some ill-timed scandal about him dating a dumb twenty-something with a thing for quiet guys who say your name like a secret.

So you’re friends. Romantically-charged, wildly emotionally irresponsible friends. But still — friends.

And yet… here you are. Getting ice cream. After hours. Alone.

You pull up outside a tiny, glowing corner shop that smells like waffle cones and nostalgia. It’s nearly empty, except for one teenager working the counter and a couple sitting by the window, too busy sharing a banana split to look twice at the two of you.

Hayden holds the door open and lets you walk in first.

“Ladies choose first,” he murmurs.

You shoot him a look. “Is this your way of asking me out without technically asking me out?”

He grins. “Is it working?”

You tilt your head. “…Depends on the ice cream.”

He laughs under his breath, low and surprised, and you feel something flip in your chest — sharp and warm and very real.

You both end up with giant cones — his with two scoops of vanilla (he says it’s underrated), yours with mint chocolate chip because it reminds you of summer camp. You sit outside on the curb under a flickering palm tree, the Hollywood Hills glowing behind you like a painted backdrop.

“I can’t believe you convinced me to ditch the after-party for this,” you say, taking a bite of your cone. “I was gonna network. Mingle. Get fake drunk and humblebrag about my IMDb.”

“Yeah,” he says, licking his thumb where his ice cream dripped. “But you’re having way more fun right now.”

You don’t deny it. You just look at him.

He’s sitting beside you like he’s twenty years younger — hoodie pushed back, one knee up, legs long and relaxed. There’s a smudge of ice cream on his lip, and his sunglasses are perched in his hair like he forgot he had them. He looks… boyish.

Happy.

You wonder, not for the first time, how many people ever get to see him like this.

“I never really liked after-parties,” he says quietly. “Too loud. Too many people pretending not to care.”

You nod. “You’d rather sit on a sidewalk eating vanilla ice cream with a girl who pretends she’s not obsessed with you.”

His eyes flick to you. “Are you?”

You grin, shrugging. “No comment.”

There’s a pause. A long one. But it’s not awkward.

It’s charged. Sweet. Like a held breath.

“I was thinking about you today,” he says suddenly.

You blink. “…Oh?”

“During the press junket,” he continues, picking at the edge of his cone. “You made me laugh. You always do.”

“You mean when I called you my ‘distinguished scene partner who smells like cedarwood?’”

He smiles, shaking his head. “No. Before that. You told that one reporter we bonded over our shared love of The Muppets.”

“I panicked! He asked how we connected so quickly. What was I supposed to say? ‘Oh, I don’t know, he looked at me one time and now I can’t stop writing our fake wedding vows in my Notes app?’”

He lets out a soft, stunned laugh — the kind he does when he’s caught off guard — and the sound of it makes your skin buzz.

You’re still smiling when you glance at him, but this time he’s already looking at you.

And he doesn’t look away.

He’s looking at you like it’s not a joke.

You lick a drop of mint off your thumb and glance away, heart thudding like you’ve been running — or sprinting toward something you can’t name.

“Don’t do that,” you murmur.

“Do what?”

“Stare like we’re in a movie. I already had to act all day.”

He doesn’t smile this time. Just blinks at you — slow, warm, unreadable.

“We kind of are in a movie,” he says finally, voice soft. “A weird little indie one. Terrible budget. Great casting.”

You huff a laugh. “God. You’re such a dork.”

He shrugs. “You like that about me.”

You do. Way more than you should.

He shifts closer on the curb, shoulder brushing yours — not by accident, not even pretending to be. You feel the fabric of his hoodie against your bare arm and try not to melt into a puddle on the concrete.

“You cold?” he asks, already half-reaching for his hoodie string like he’s about to offer it to you.

“I’m fine,” you say too fast.

You’re not. You’re flushed. Everywhere. It’s not the night air — it’s him. It’s how near he is, how casual it feels, like you’ve done this a thousand times before even though you haven’t even done it once.

A beat passes. The streetlamp above flickers.

Then, gently: “Hey.”

You look over.

He’s holding out his spoon — offering a bite of his ice cream.

The most vanilla move of all time. The literal flavor and the romantic gesture. You kind of hate how cute it is.

Still, you raise your eyebrows. “Sharing already? We haven’t even defined the relationship.”

He grins. “I thought this was a hostage situation.”

“You really should’ve gagged me then.”

Hayden coughs, nearly chokes on a laugh, and looks devastated for a second before muttering, “Okay, wow. Gonna pretend I didn’t think about that for a second.”

Your laughter bubbles out without warning, sharp and breathless and delighted. He looks so caught off guard, so embarrassed and boyish, you almost feel bad.

Almost.

“Here,” he says again, pressing the spoon closer. “One bite. Come on. It’s the most underrated vanilla in L.A.”

You roll your eyes, lean in, and let him feed you a bite of ice cream like this is a romcom you both accidentally wandered into. His fingers graze your chin. You pretend you don’t notice.

You don’t speak while you chew.

Neither does he.

It’s weirdly quiet for a city sidewalk — just distant traffic and the hum of the streetlamp above. The kind of stillness that feels… meant. Like the night’s trying to tell you something.

“So,” you say finally, licking your lips. “When exactly did you start planning this whole scoop-heist-romance thing? Was it before or after you saw me try to eat that cupcake on set and get frosting in my hair?”

“Way before,” he says without hesitation.

You blink. “Really?”

He nods. “Like… first week.”

“That early?”

“You were in the middle of this dramatic monologue,” he says, gaze thoughtful, “and halfway through, you realized your mic wasn’t even on. And you just went, ‘Cool, I’ll just go die in a hole then,’ and walked off.”

You laugh again, covering your mouth. “God. That was so humiliating.”

“I thought it was charming.”

“You thought me dying in a hole was charming?”

He nudges your knee with his. “The part before the dying.”

You grin down at your cone, trying to hide your stupid blushing face.

He lets the moment hang. Doesn’t rush it. Just sits there with his knee against yours like it belongs.

Then he clears his throat.

“I was gonna ask you out, you know.”

Your head snaps up. “What?”

“After the read-through. Back in week two. I was gonna ask if you wanted to get coffee. But then you joked that dating coworkers was a ‘cursed endeavor’ and I panicked.”

You stare at him. “I was talking about two of the PAs who got caught making out behind craft services.”

“I know that now,” he says, smiling sheepishly.

You blink. “You let a whole month go by because of that?”

“I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he says simply. “You’re too important to me for that.”

Your heart skips something.

Not a beat — it skips something else. Something deeper. Like time. Like hesitation. Like every excuse you’ve been telling yourself about why this shouldn’t happen.

You stare at him.

At his hands. His hoodie string. The little melted streak of ice cream on the pavement next to his shoe.

And you realize you’ve already decided.

You decided the second he said “I know a place.”

You take a breath. “So this is… what, then? Our first date?”

He tilts his head. “Would that be okay?”

You pretend to think. “I mean… no one’s ever fed me vanilla on the sidewalk before.”

“High bar.”

“I like to be courted properly.”

“Next time, I’ll bring a violinist.”

You nudge his knee this time. “There’s gonna be a next time?”

His smile is barely there — soft and shy and unmistakable.

“Only if I don’t mess up this one.”

You smile too. A little dizzy. A little dangerous. “You’re doing alright.”

He nods. “Okay. Good.”

And for a second, you think he might kiss you.

His eyes drop to your mouth. His hand shifts on the concrete. His shoulders go still — the same way they do on set right before he leans in for a scene, when he’s already decided what comes next.

You don’t move.

You wait.

You hold your breath.

But then — a group of teenagers walks past the shop, shrieking with laughter, and Hayden flinches back, just barely, like he remembered where you are. Who you are. What you’re not supposed to be doing.

You exhale softly.

He runs a hand through his hair.

“Too soon?” he asks, voice a little rougher now.

You glance down at your cone, then back at him.

“Not too soon,” you say. “Just… too many witnesses.”

His gaze flickers.

And then he nods — not disappointed. Just patient. Like he gets it. Like he’s willing to wait.

The drive back is quiet — not awkward, just hushed. Like something sacred happened that neither of you want to jinx.

You’re curled into the passenger seat with your shoes off again, knees up, licking the last of your cone while Hayden hums low to the radio. It’s some soft, acoustic thing — the kind of music people play in coming-of-age movies during scenes with a sunset and a head tilt.

You don’t know what station he picked. It doesn’t matter.

You’re thinking about how close he leaned in before those kids walked by. About how you didn’t move. About how it almost happened.

And how nice it is that it didn’t. Yet.

Hayden drums his fingers against the wheel, one hand tucked casually into the sleeve of his hoodie.

“You always eat ice cream that slowly?” he asks eventually, glancing over.

You lick your fingers deliberately. “I like to savor things.”

“That’s what you call getting chocolate on your elbow?”

You hold up your arm — and yeah, okay. There’s definitely a little drip on your skin.

You gasp. “How did I even—?”

Hayden laughs under his breath. “You’re an artist.”

You roll your eyes, trying to rub it off with a napkin. “You could’ve told me earlier.”

“I was enjoying the show.”

“Oh my god.” You toss the crumpled napkin at him. “You’re a menace.”

“Better than a diva.”

“You’re both. Don’t lie.”

He flashes that soft, very pleased grin — like getting called out by you is secretly his favorite thing.

You let your head fall back against the seat. “How are you this charming? You’re forty-four.”

He gasps dramatically. “You take that back.”

“You are!”

“Barely.”

“Hayden.”

“What?”

You gesture toward his face. “You literally do neck stretches before kissing scenes.”

“I have a stiff neck!”

You’re laughing so hard you nearly snort. “You also groaned when you stood up off that apple box last week.”

He raises his eyebrows, grinning. “Yeah? You were watching me stand up, huh?”

You freeze. “…No comment.”

He smirks and returns his eyes to the road, but his ears are just a little pink.

You try to hide your smile with your hand, but it's no use. He notices. He has to. But he doesn’t say anything.

Instead, as you hit a red light, he reaches over gently and pulls your seatbelt strap across your chest — adjusting it like it’s second nature.

“Too loose,” he murmurs, fingers brushing your collarbone.

You watch him.

You really watch him.

The lines around his eyes, soft from too much sun. The little scar at his chin. The way he licks his bottom lip after concentrating — like adjusting your seatbelt was surgery and not an excuse to touch you.

“You do that a lot,” you say quietly.

He tilts his head. “What?”

“Take care of me.”

His smile fades — not in a bad way, just in that way people do when they’re caught being genuine.

“I want to,” he says.

There’s something in your throat suddenly. Something thick and tight and unspoken.

You swallow. “Even when I’m a brat on set?”

“Especially then.”

You laugh — but it comes out quieter than usual. Smaller.

“Hayden,” you murmur, nudging your foot against his on the floorboard. “Why are you so nice to me?”

His hand stays on your seatbelt buckle for a second longer.

Then he lets it go. Drives forward when the light turns green.

“I don’t know,” he says finally. “You make it easy.”

You stare out the window — not because you’re embarrassed, but because you need a second to recover. He’s always been soft with you. Gentle. But tonight… he’s open. And that’s something new.

Something real.

You pass a gas station. A row of sleeping food trucks. A glowing billboard of the two of you in costume — his hand on your waist, your eyes locked like it’s fate.

The world keeps turning.

But your heart feels like it’s paused. Like it’s waiting for something.

Hayden pulls into the parking garage under your building and shuts off the engine, both of you staying in your seats for a moment. Neither one reaching for the door handle.

You look over at him — at the way he’s angled toward you, thumb resting on the steering wheel, jaw clenched like he’s fighting the urge to say something brave.

You don’t want him to fight it.

You want him to say it.

Instead, he says: “I had fun.”

You nod. “Me too.”

“I mean it,” he says. “Like… I haven’t felt like this in a long time.”

You swallow hard.

You want to tell him you know the feeling. That it’s terrifying. That you thought this would be just a passing crush — a silly set romance — and now you’re here wondering what his hand would feel like if it were resting on your thigh instead of the gear shift.

He leans forward — just a little.

You do too.

Not kissing. Not yet.

But your faces are close now. Close enough to breathe each other in. Close enough that if he reached for you — if he cupped your cheek, or laced your fingers together — you wouldn’t stop him.

You’d lean in.

You’d fall.

But instead of kissing you, he raises his hand to your face… and tucks a piece of hair behind your ear.

You nearly stop breathing.

“I want to do this again,” he says softly. “Not just ice cream. Anything. Everything.”

You nod, throat thick. “Okay.”

He looks at you for a second longer — eyes flicking down to your lips — and then back up again.

But still, he doesn’t kiss you.

He just opens your door for you.

And when you get out, you realize your legs are shaking.

You close the car door softly — like the sound might break something.

Behind you, Hayden leans against the driver’s side, arms folded loosely across his chest.

“Night,” you call over your shoulder, already walking toward the elevator, heels dangling from your fingers.

“Night,” he says, too quiet for anyone else to hear.

You don’t turn around. You can’t. Not unless you want to kiss him without thinking. Not unless you want to ruin the slow, golden magic of this not-quite-a-date by making it something too big, too fast.

You told yourself it wasn’t a real date. That it didn’t mean anything.

But it does.

It does mean something. Every second of it.

And now that you’re walking away — now that it’s ending — your chest is tight with the sudden, awful ache of leaving something unfinished.

Like there’s a line you didn’t say. A step you didn’t take.

The elevator doors are only ten steps away when you hear it:

“Hey—wait.”

You stop.

Don’t turn. Just freeze.

There’s a beat. Then the soft shuffle of footsteps behind you — quick, urgent.

You turn around just in time for Hayden to catch up, breath uneven, eyes wide and stormy under the garage lights.

“Hayden—?”

And then his hands are on your face.

And then—then—

He kisses you.

Not hesitantly. Not carefully. But like something broke open inside him and this was the only thing left to do.

You gasp into it — stunned, overwhelmed, completely lit on fire.

His mouth is warm, sure, a little desperate. One hand cradles the back of your head, the other tilts your jaw just enough to deepen the kiss — to make it real and full and felt.

You kiss him back like you’ve been waiting for this all your life.

Because maybe you have.

Maybe every moment on set, every almost-touch, every held breath and loaded look — maybe it all led here. To the sticky scent of ice cream on your fingertips. To your bare feet on garage concrete. To Hayden Christensen holding you like a secret he’s finally ready to tell.

When he finally pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours, breath still ragged.

“I wasn’t gonna,” he whispers. “I told myself I wouldn’t.”

Your eyes flutter open. “So what changed?”

“You started walking away.”

Your lips part, a stunned little sound catching in your throat.

“And I couldn’t let you,” he says. “Not before I knew.”

“Knew what?”

He pulls back just enough to look at you — really look at you — and everything in his face is open now. Unguarded. Lit up from the inside.

“That you’d kiss me back,” he says simply. “That this wasn’t just me.”

You stare at him.

“It’s not just you.”

He nods, eyes glossy. “I know that now.”

Silence falls — a kind of soft, full silence. The kind you want to live inside.

He tucks another piece of hair behind your ear. That same gesture from before, but slower now. Sweeter. Reverent.

“Was that okay?” he asks, like he didn’t just completely ruin you with one kiss.

You nod. “It was… perfect.”

He exhales, smiling like he can finally breathe again.

You lean into his touch, eyes fluttering shut, and whisper, “I really don’t like ice cream that much.”

He laughs — full and soft and completely in love.

“I know,” he murmurs. “I just needed a reason to get you alone.”

You look up at him, grinning. “You could’ve just asked.”

“Would you have said yes?”

You reach up and cup his cheek. “Every single time.”

His hand slides into yours then — warm, calloused, a little unsure — and it makes your heart twist.

“I should let you go,” he says, even as he takes a step closer.

“Yeah,” you whisper, stepping into him.

“Early call tomorrow,” he reminds you.

“Mmhm.”

You squeeze his hand.

He squeezes back.

And finally — finally — you say goodnight.

But it’s different now. He lets you walk to the elevator again, this time watching with the calm confidence of someone who knows this isn’t the end.

Just the beginning.

And as the doors slide shut behind you, you realize your cheeks hurt from smiling. Your heart aches. Your lips still tingle from the kiss.

You cover your face with your hands, heart slamming against your ribs.

And for the first time in forever, you fall asleep with a smile you don’t want to lose.