han !

"too late, my head’s already huge," rhett murmured, a low, gritty chuckle escaping his throat as his thumb continued that slow, tantalizing stroke against the soft skin of her inner wrist. he didn't care that his split knuckles were still stinging from the rubbing alcohol; the only thing he was actually feeling right now was the sudden, heavy thud of his own heart against his ribs at her admission. he didn't give her a second to back away or hide behind that playful tone, his dark eyes locking onto hers with a sudden, sharp intensity that stripped away all the joking banter. the cocky smirk on his face softened just enough to let something a little more honest, a little more feral through, his uninjured hand reaching up to cup the side of her jaw, his thumb smoothing over her cheek to tilt her face up. "and i wouldn’t have to butt into your life if you stopped letting other guys think they have a shot at something that's always been mine," he breathed, leaning down just enough that his lips almost brushed against hers as he spoke. "so go ahead and call me stupid, riley, but we both know i'd do it again right now."

── riley swallows, visible, as rhett takes the initiative to lean forward just a little more, the hand not currently clasped between hers rising to cup her cheek. she should pull away from it, probably. she should remind him that this hadn't worked the first time, or the third, or the eighteenth. it wouldn't work, because she was always going to be riley, and he was always going to be rhett, and those two things couldn't mix without someone ending up hurt, or angry, or self-sabotaging ( and, let's be real, it's usually her. she can admit that ). she doesn't pull away this time, though, and maybe it's because she realizes her words are truer than she thought; she has missed him, even more than normal. his words ignite something in her chest that spreads lower, spreads to the tips of her fingers, warms her from the inside out. "stupid," she repeats, as he gives her the invitation to say it, but there's no more heat behind it. no more frustration. her eyes betray her and flicker, once, down toward his mouth, before meeting his eyes again. "i miss that, too," she admits. "really being yours." ...and then she's pushing herself up off of her knees, back to standing, the proximity of their faces broken. she still has ahold of that injured hand of his, shifting her grip to his wrist. "come on. i have gauze inside."

DREW STARKEY as RAFE CAMERON in OUTER BANKS 3.08

"what does being gay have to do with being nice, you heinous witch? you're gay as hell and you aren't nice either — why are you on her lap? gay. that's fucking gay, you're gay, gay and mean and crazy, marina. happy pride month to you too. how are you going to kick me out? i'm driving," all of this is barked right back, directed over his shoulder, hands shaking against the wheel. flynn's not sure what she's even so upset about. sure, he'd taught them all a little bit of korean when the road rage took over a couple of minutes ago, but it's not like they crashed. he's driving fine ( he isn't ), he knows the way to his family lake-house ( he's lost ), and everybody in this car is his worst enemy. ( actually, they're his dearest friends. flynn's just not good with people; even his favorite people, not good with them. tonight, they'll be roasting s'mores like this didn't happen. don't tell them, but he's pretty excited for this trip. ) his eyes catch carmen's in the backseat, and for an instant, he feels a beat of terror. do not crawl up here. do not.

── birdie just lets the squabblers squabble, very apparently used to it. and she is; the entire time she's known flynn and marina ( which, yes, is a long while ) they've been like this, so she knows to let them battle it out. much like carmen she hasn't been interrupting, only offering the occasional snort or shake of her head to accompany one of the many, many times they call each other gay. which they are, of course. both of them, and carmen, too. everyone in this car is gay, so... points for accuracy? marina climbs into the back and birdie wastes little time in giving her room, only to be pleasantly surprised as the brunette's leg hooks over theirs, as their eyes catch. there's some warmth to birdie's pale face, too, a little gleam in her eye at the physical contact. "we can leave 'em at a burger king. do those still have the little indoor playgrounds? they do, right?" they don't, actually, not anymore, but don't squash the nostalgia. "she's not in my lap," they argue at flynn, just for the hell of it, hand dropping to tug on marina's leg a little, hook it further up toward their hip, shrugging a shoulder. "that's a little closer. that better, flynnie? gay enough for you?"

is ricky a glutton for punishment, or is he just a sucker looking for a good time? is there much difference between the two? resolution to revisit that later — he falls back and allows graham new space, now that it feels like the playing field is leveled. playing for keeps, playing to win, it’s all for naught. ricky likes to play for the love of the game and the warmdown after. “you gonna’ thank me real sweet when we find it?” his answering grin is cheeky, innocent. but he’s abandoned shame completely, eyeing graham readily. until he stands, not bothering to wait for the last few minutes of ricky’s shift. shouldn’t be surprising, but damn … glutton for punishment seems more viable now. he bites his tongue, turns back to closing duties with a petulant pout. never puts the last drink into the system, but has every intention of holding it over gray’s head later, when all is said and done. ricky takes his sweet time gathering his things and saying his goodbyes. broaching on too much sweet time, really. he has it in his head that graham’ll wait. when he finally leaves out the side entrance and the cool outdoor air hits his face, he lingers. lights up at the sight of graham under streetglow. “my chariot or yours?” what’s graham going to do if he’s mad about the extra time anyway? break up again? ha! 

── gray can tell that ricky is taking too much time to leave ( he could have predicted it, in fact, if asked about it ahead of time ) but he doesn't mind. he stands on the street and watches the other people move along the boardwalk toward their cars, scrolling on his phone with a marlboro red between his teeth while he waits. and by the time the brunette has finally closed up shop and joined him, that very same cigarette is a smear of ash underneath one of his shoes, and the phone is re-pocketed in favor of letting his head tip over in the other man's direction. "mine." he answers ricky's question easily, nodding his head toward the old coupe that will be all-too-familiar to ricky, given how much time he'd spent riding passenger or, on occasion, splayed across the back seats. those images are flitting through gray's mind right now, admittedly, as he leads the way across the parking lot, tugging his keys free of his front pocket and spinning them around an index finger. "so, what the hell do i get if you don't find it? if your debt just keeps piling up?" doors unlocked, gray loops around to the driver's seat and starts the car, not bothering to wait for ricky to be settled inside, first. he doesn't have to ask for directions, of course, and wastes no time in peeling off from the curb, on the fastest route to ricky's place.

PURSUIT:  The  sender  runs  ahead  with  the  receiver  struggling  to  catch  up.

every protective instinct elara possessed flared to life the second she saw those tears, the sight of peach’s red-faced, sniffling form by the curb making her own chest ache with a fierce, burning anger that completely overshadowed the dinner and the friends waiting inside. elara closed the distance between them, her fingers catching peach’s wrist to stop her from aggressively smearing her face before tenderly using her thumb to wipe away a stray tear from her flushed cheek—a touch that lingered with a quiet devotion that blurred every line of their friendship. there had always been an unspoken, electric undercurrent humming between them, a heavy pull that elara constantly choked down and chalked up to her own stupid, one-sided yearning because she was too terrified to admit she wanted more. "i heard enough to know that mattie is a fucking idiot," elara murmured, her voice a soft, fierce rumble as her gaze dropped to peach's lips before locking back onto her tear-filled eyes, desperate to prove she could be so much better than him. "don't you dare apologize to me, peach. you don't have to fake being fine, and you definitely don't have to go back inside to put on a show for them; let me take you home and actually take care of you for once."

── wide, watery eyes settle on elara's face as the other woman presses closer with a snatch of her wrist, keeping her from wiping any tears away on her own, and... doing it for her. and peach is no stranger to kind or tender touches, not from any of her friends; she's a touchier person herself, always draped over laps or pinching cheeks, squeezing sides or giving pecks to the forehead. she's affectionate in that way, always has been, so elara showing her the same brand of tenderness isn't foreign to her... except, it is, like this. there's a static in the air between them as the other woman's thumb glides over her cheek, clearing a newly-fallen tear away, and at the insult to mattie, peach ducks her head a little bit. he is an idiot, for the record, and she knows that. she knows that, but she keeps trying to make it work anyway, because she has a hard time letting anything — or anyone — go. "i don't want to steal you away from the party," she disagrees as elara offers to leave with her, to take her home, though the thought is instantly appealing. peach does not want to go back into that room with her friends, red-faced and teary-eyed, none of them asking what happened because they already know. "i can just call an uber, i can..." she frowns as she trails off, pushing a puff of air between her lips as she lets her eyes lift from the pavement, back to elara's face. "you'd do that? come stay with me?"

TYRIQ WITHERS — Reminders of Him, 2026

"i'm sorry, though. it was fucked. it was really... really fucked."

── seven. that's how many times noah's palms collide with kelsey's chest, how many times kelsey stumbles backward, how many times he pushes forward again. seven, seven times. teddy's eyes are refusing to look at him, teddy's shoulders hunched in defensive shame, teddy's voice giving him an explanation. at first, he doesn't want it. he doesn't want an explanation, doesn't want any answers, he just wants to be angry. he wants to scream until he's red in the face, wants to kick sand into watery eyes, wants to turn around and walk away... but he won't, and he knows that. they both know that. "it was. it is fucked." this is spat out at the sand, too, the same patch of sand that they're both talking to right now, rather than at each other. kelsey is the meek one and noah is the harsh one, for a change. kelsey is the one with the bowed head and noah is the one with the balled fists, with the fire behind his eyes. he's the one feeling betrayed now, and honestly? he's thinking maybe he deserved it, a little, but not to this extent. he didn't deserve thinking this man, the man he'd been a half-hair away of admitting he was in love with, had died. he didn't. he didn't. "so you just... stayed gone." his head shakes, bewildered, as the shoving stops and his chest starts to rise and fall a little slower, emotions regulating by some small degree. "you didn't... you didn't call or text or... or leave some kind of— some kind of note?" angry, still, hurt, still. "it's been years, and you didn't think that maybe you could eventually come back?" to me is in there, somewhere. tacked on, nonverbal, at the end. you didn't think you could come back to me? trust me with this? try and face whatever demons you have after you, together? no, of course not.

even though the intent of distraction had been abandoned in favor of far more selfish pursuits, carmen seems plenty distracted. julian has no complaints about the other man moving closer, seemingly forgetting their present circumstances for the moment. "really? it's just... a building," julian laughs, swiping through a few more of the photos, "i don't know how pretending some bugs and breezes being supernatural is supposed to be fun." he says nothing as carmen leans back again, leans back, too, smiling over at carmen at the response. a part of him wants to pick carmen's brain, to know more about why he's so insistent about fate, but it feels like a question for another time. besides, he already asked his questions. "no, i can't say i'm familiar with floam, your childhood was clearly more interesting than mine," he chuckles, leaving his second answer alone for now. but julian is more than pleased with the answer, tucks the response away. he'll come back to it later. "your turn."

── "it was that, like... squishy shit. kinda like slime but with beads in it. you know?" it doesn't matter that julian likely has no idea what he's talking about, and also likely doesn't care, carmen gives the explanation anyway. maybe it's because he doesn't know how to close his mouth ( true ), or maybe it's because he really doesn't know how to close his mouth when he's feeling a little nervous ( also true ), or maybe it's a combination of both mixed with the fact that he is... realizing that he likes that smile on julian's face, a lot. the sound of that light laugh, the way he cants his head. carmen likes it, and he's apparently going to be left wondering why julian asked if he was seeing anyone, seeing as an explanation doesn't follow. he swallows again, throat bobs again. "...right! right, my turn. uh." he flounders for a second, but manages to regain his footing, shoving a sweaty palm back through his hair, leaning against the wall of the elevator again. he'd really like to return the question, see if julian is, maybe, single too... but he felt like that was cheating. "favorite thing to do to pass the time? besides, you know, getting stuck in elevators." the smile on carmen's face is a sweet one, but really he's mentally beating himself up for that, for that lame joke.

Carrie Fisher, from The Princess Diarist.

there's a large part of her that wants to put it all back in whatever box he'd pried open, shoving her feelings down even deeper to salvage whatever might be left of their innocent friendship. but his words strike a chord with her— frankly, she's just as exhausted of tiptoeing around the unspoken. whether or not they act upon it, having it out in the open has taken a weight off of her shoulders and she couldn't imagine shouldering it again. even more, she would never ask sutton to shoulder it again. he derails her with a host of images dara had never really pictured in her own life, too far removed from any sort of stable relationship to think she could have one of her own. still.... the images aren't unpleasant, and in fact she can feel her flush creeping down her neck at the mention of a kiss. how long has he wanted to do that? and does he know that her own dreams have often been plagued with the same thoughts? she realizes after a few beats of silence that he's finished speaking and it's her turn to respond, but all dara can manage is a few deep breaths before her shoulders straighten. "——— you can kiss me, if you want."

── if sutton had still been speaking, that would have shut him up. and he was ready to, for the record. he could've kept going, and going, and going, until he finally landed on something that would convince dara to at least give this a try, to at least not turn him away, not let them sink back into only friendship and nothing else. he could have, but as dara answers him, he's painfully glad he hadn't still been talking, because her answer would've shut him up in a dramatic, comical way. his jaws would've snapped closed and his eyes would've widened — which they are doing, now. his eyes are widening, fluttering open a little further, and he sucks in a silent breath through his nose. there's a pause, one in which he should probably ask her something along the lines of are you sure? or you trust me enough? but he doesn't. he doesn't ask her anything else, doesn't say anything else, just... walks forward. he closes the distance between them and slips a hand around the back of her neck, pulling her to him. it isn't rough and it isn't sudden, but it is quick, done in a way that leaves neither of them any room to double back or change their minds. his lips meet hers, head tipped forward to catch hers as its tipped back, and he kisses her. cradling her face between both hands, keeping her close to his chest, he kisses her in a way that he hopes conveys every little thing he feels for her.

NICK ROBINSON in  VOICEMAILS FOR ISABELLE (2026)  written and directed by Leah McKendrick

"first of all, i'm great on skates." his voice dropped, still playful, but something competitive woven into the words. "like, objectively. statistically, probably." taylor's gaze flicked down to dean's annoying mouth again. "second, try a compliment to get head." taylor's mouth twitched, hands belled into fists against his thighs. "but i'm still willing to hear an offer. room service? spa services? what are you offering?"

── "come onnnn, can't take a joke?" it was, for the record. it was a joke, because dean knows how good taylor is on the ice. he's seen it firsthand, and from the stands while he and his buddies watched the tail-end of games, on tv on their own off days. he's seen taylor during games and practices, seen the skill he has. so, yeah, it's a joke; an obvious one, especially coming from someone like dean. though, when taylor butts back in to defend himself, to make that claim that he's great on skates, dean allows his eyes to roll, and he bites his tongue. he waits, listens as he's instructed to throw out a compliment, and... he takes the opportunity, damn-near immediately. his head lolls a little to one side, trance-like, and he even goes so far as to bat his eyelashes once or twice. "what if i tell you i like your eyes? that good enough? 'cause i do. could get lost in them, really." and this... isn't entirely a lie. he does like taylor's eyes; he'd noticed them almost immediately, after they'd sat down. the dramatics help to cloak this truth, though, to make it seem like more joking. "spa service... i can do spa service, too. i'm good at a massage."

"twenty questions fuel," caleb repeated, and then laughed as he processed the suggestion fully. not a bad way to ease their way into their date together, especially when he was out of practice with this kind of thing. he uncrossed his arms—finally, regaining circulation—and let his hands settle on the table, palms down. "okay, but fair warning, i have a talent for making things competitive that probably shouldn't be, especially games that have rules. i'm, like, genetically engineered for it. my mom had to ban board games for family game night after the 'chutes and ladders incident' of 2001." he made a face at the memory, then shrugged. "less said, the better. but i'm just saying, if you ask me a question and it's not a good question, i reserve the right to retaliate with an even worse one."

── "lucky for you, i'm not competitive. i'll let you win, but i'll be nice about it and make it look like an accident." naomi says this in an almost giddy way, nose wrinkled in a playful smile at the mental image of a younger caleb, flipping game boards any time he started to lose. while they wait on the barista to come back by their table and see about any desserts, she sets her sights on... well him, of course, but on kicking this thing off. twenty questions, getting to know him beyond the admittedly very handsome face. "okay, alright, i'll start out good. let's see..." she drums her fingers on the tabletop a couple of times as she makes a show of thinking, before shrugging one shoulder. "i'll keep it easy, first round. if you were any animal, what would you be?" not exactly straightforward, but better than the usual line of 'what's your middle name?' or 'favorite color?' questions, in her opinion.