Did Somebody Say Meatloaf?

That's new, you thought to yourself. Those words hadn’t been in any of the previous takes —you would know. Because you wrote the script.

Beyond you there was a loud call of "CUT" and you and Damien broke away from each other.

The lights had barely cooled before the crew started packing up. Cameras off. Ladders clanked. Everyone laughed it off like any other sketch—but your brain couldn’t stop replaying that line.

He had to know what he was doing. Had to feel the same pull you did when he leaned just a little too close during rehearsals. When he remembered your coffee order without asking. When his hand lingered on your back a beat too long during blocking.

But he hadn’t said anything since the take. No jokes. No debrief. Not even a casual “good job today.”

So you wandered to the props room, telling yourself you needed to return the fake roses—but really, you just needed space to breathe.

The air inside was stale with fabric softener and old Halloween wigs. You stood in the dim light, staring blankly at a plastic bouquet in your hands like it held the answers.

That’s when the door creaked open.

“Hey.”

You didn’t need to turn to know it was him.

“Thought you went home already,” you said, keeping your voice casual. You hated how breathless it came out.

“Yeah, well… couldn’t leave my dignity behind with the plastic sword and fake bouquet.”

A small laugh escaped you, despite the storm in your chest.

He stepped in, shutting the door behind him. Now you were alone, boxed in by old costumes, unspoken feelings, and the echo of a not-so-scripted line.

“You were really good today,” Damien said, quieter now.

“You too,” you replied, fingers still fiddling with the bouquet. “You always are.”

He hesitated. You could feel it. The way the air tensed between sentences, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite push it out.

You turned to face him slowly. Your heart thudded against your ribs.

“Was it just acting?” you asked, voice soft but steady. “What you said during the scene?”

He blinked. The question landed with force. You watched it hit him.

“Which part?” he asked.

“The part where you said…” You took a breath. “You make me feel like I’m not pretending when I’m with you.”

There was a pause. A long one. One that stretched thin like glass. “It wasn’t in the script,” he finally said.

You stared at him. “I know,” you replied

He scratched the back of his neck, eyes darting to the floor, the ceiling, anywhere but yours.

“I shouldn’t have said it,” he muttered. “Not like that. Not when everyone was there.”

“Then why did you?” you cut in, stepping closer.

His eyes finally met yours. Warm, wide, unsure.

“Because it’s true,” he waits for a reaction, trying to garner whether he should continue. “And I didn’t think I’d get the chance to say it for real.”

Silence cast over the two of you, one beat, two, then three. Just your heartbeat hammering in your ears and Damien standing four feet away like he’d just set something fragile down between you.

“You’re an idiot,” you whispered.

He blinked rapidly, one of those cute blinks where his entire face seemed to scrunch in confusion. “What?” 

You sighed. “You didn’t need a script Damien, you could’ve just told me. Weeks ago. Months, even.”

He let out a breathy laugh. “Yeah, well. It’s easier to pretend when there’s a camera in front of me.”

“Then let’s stop pretending.” That hits him hard, it feels real. Raw.

He reached out and gently took the bouquet from your hand, setting it aside on a cluttered shelf of old wigs and rubber chickens. Now empty, his hand hovered mid-air like he didn’t know what to do with it now.

So you took it in yours.

Fingers laced, hesitantly at first—then tighter. Solid.

“I wasn’t acting either,” you said.

That’s all it took.

He kissed you like he’d been holding his breath for months—soft at first, then surging forward, hands cupping your face like you were something delicate he never thought he’d get to hold.

No lights. No audience. Just you and him. Off script. Exactly where you both wanted to be.

Moments pass like this, it feels like an eternity. You were so wrapped up in Damien’s hoodie and the warmth of his hands when the props room door creaked open again.

“Hey, have either of you—”  Shayne’s voice echoed through the room “OH. Oh my god.”

You and Damien sprang apart in an instant. You nearly tripped over a pile of pirate hats and Damien knocked over a stack of prop pizza boxes trying to straighten up.

Shayne stood frozen in the doorway, holding a mic pack in one hand and a deeply offended expression on his face.

“...Is this why the roses are missing?” he deadpanned.

“It’s not what it looks like!” Damien blurted, voice cracking just slightly. He wasn’t sure this was something you wanted people to know about just yet. It’s not like you’d had any time to define what this was. 

You raised an eyebrow at him.

“Really?” Shayne scoffed. “Because it kind of is exactly what it looks like.”

“Okay, fine,” Damien said, sheepish. “It’s mostly what it looks like.”

Shayne crossed his arms, leaning against the doorframe like a judgmental sibling. “I leave for five minutes and suddenly it’s Smosh: After Dark.”

You groaned and dropped your face into your hands. “Can we please not make this a thing? It just… happened.”

“Mmm-hmm. Sure.” The blonde man turned to leave, calling over his shoulder. “I’m definitely not texting the group chat about this.”

“Shayne, I swear—”

But it was too late. You heard the unmistakable ding-ding-ding of notifications going off as he walked down the hall, already typing like a menace.

Damien sighed and looked at you, wincing apologetically. “That could’ve gone worse.” He admitted.

You snorted, already laughing despite yourself. “Yeah? How?”

“Shayne could’ve taken a picture.”

Your phones buzzed simultaneously.  [📸: “caught in 4K”] [Message from Shayne: “At least pretend you’re not in love during work hours???”]

You looked at each other—slightly overwhelmed but laughed nonetheless.

Damien reached for your hand again, unbothered now. “Guess we’re not really off script anymore, huh?”

“Nope. But hey—maybe this version’s even better.”

And this time, you kissed him again on purpose—with the door locked.

////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Bonus:

The next morning you arrived on set to find hell waiting for you in the office kitchen.

Someone—and by someone, you meant Shayne—had printed out a screenshot of the blurry caught in 4K photo and taped it to the fridge.

Written in red Sharpie beneath it: “Smosh’s Cutest Couple (We’re All Disgusted)”

Courtney was already there with coffee and a grin the size of Jupiter. She leaned against the counter, an air of smugness radiating from her.

“So… How long have you and Damien been sneaking off into tiny rooms to make out?” she asked, handing you a mug labeled with Shayne’s face as the Chosen on it. You could almost hear his mocking voice in your mind.

You groaned. “Can I get, like, one day of peace?”

“Absolutely not,” Courtney beamed. “This is the most romantic thing to happen here since Angela tried to serenade a toaster for a sketch.”

You barely had time to respond before Ian walked in, took one look at the photo, and sighed like a disappointed—but secretly proud—dad.

“Okay,” he said slowly. “So... this is finally happening. You two finally confessed?”

“Wait, you knew?” you asked. Ian had always been aloof around the office. You never thought he paid enough attention to know anything about your feelings for Damien.

“I didn’t know, but I had a strong suspicion after the sketch last night when Damien improvised that line and then stared at you like you were the last cupcake at Crafty.”

You stared at him.

“...That is shockingly specific.”

“I have eyes. Also, Damien asked me if it would be ‘unprofessional’ to fall for your co-star. So.”

“IAN—”

“It was cute,” he shrugged. “Very theatre camp energy. I support it.”

Right on cue, Damien walked into the kitchen. He froze mid-step as all heads turned toward him like a sitcom audience waiting for his punchline.

“Oh my god,” he muttered. “Shayne, did you seriously—?”

“Hard launch, baby,” Shayne declared proudly from across the room, holding up a bagel like a trophy. “You’re public now. I’m your manager.”

“You’re fired.”

“Can’t fire me. I’ve already booked you two for a fake couple’s therapy sketch next month.”

Damien turned to you, totally red, totally flustered—and smiling anyway.

“You okay?” he murmured, just for you.

“Yeah,” you said, bumping his arm with yours. “Kind of loving it, actually.”

Just then Angela popped her head in. “SOMEONE TELL ME WHO WON THE WILL-THEY-WON’T-THEY BET—”

Courtney grinned “ME. Obviously.”

 Ian rebutted, “Technically, I said they'd be official before the next Try Not to Laugh, so I get partial credit.”

“I said there would be confessions via interpretive dance. So I think I win emotionally.” Shayne decided.

You and Damien exchanged a look. He reached down, gently laced his fingers with yours, and squeezed.

“Might as well lean into it,” he whispered. “We’re officially the bit now.”