Serena

Anyways! Im still writing whenever i get a free minute but i dont have a lot of those tbh hahah

BUT! Its coming, slowly but surely so please be patient and keep your eyes peleed for that

Also! Let me know if there is anything in particular that you would like to see from me or from our girls (Abby and Sevika) and i could add it to the story or use it in other posts.

Part 1 ♡

Exhausted from college, you show up at a frat party—and get caught in a teasing, electric game with Sevika, the magnetic hockey captain, that quickly ignites into something raw and unforgettable.

Cw: slow burn, porn with plot, sexual content, alcohol use, public sex, grinding and fingering (r! receiving).

Wc: 5.7k

A/n: first time writing smut, kinda nervous. I went out the past weekend and this is sorta inspired by that...

College had been exhausting in the kind of way no one ever warned you about. Not just the late nights hunched over a laptop or the endless readings that blurred into each other, but the constant, invisible weight of trying to keep up—with grades, deadlines, friendships, expectations. Most nights, you kept your head down, letting the week dissolve into coffee cups and fluorescent library hours, the glow of your laptop eating away at your sleep.

You liked parties, sure. In small doses. A couple here and there, just enough to feel tethered to campus life without letting it consume you. But this one? You hadn’t planned on it.

The invite came from Jayce, a guy in your history class, someone you’d partnered with once on a project and had been friendly with since. “You’re coming tonight, right?” he’d asked casually after the lecture, like it wasn’t really a question. “Biggest party of the semester. You can’t miss it.”

If it had been up to you, you probably would’ve stayed in. But Powder made sure that wasn’t an option.

Powder, your anchor since the very first semester, had a way of dragging you into life whether you liked it or not. You’d met in a cramped lecture hall, sliding into the seat beside you with a too-bright smile and a pen she’d borrowed without asking. From then on, she’d simply decided you were hers—study partner, confidante, partner-in-crime.

So when you mentioned Jayce’s invite in passing, Powder’s face lit up like you’d just offered her front-row tickets to her favorite band. “Oh, we’re absolutely going,” she declared, already rifling through her closet like it was a settled fact. “No way you’re rotting in that dorm again. Not when I’ve got a killer top that hasn’t seen the light of day.”

And that was that.

By the time the sun dipped low, she had you wrangled into an outfit you weren’t sure you’d have chosen yourself, hyped on her infectious energy and the kind of promises only best friends could make: that you’d stick together, that you’d have fun, that tonight would be good.

The party was at one of the biggest frat houses near campus, the kind of place you knew by reputation alone. The house itself was old, practically sagging under the weight of its own history—peeling paint on the siding, ivy tangled up the brick, a porch wide enough to host twenty people. Inside, it was chaos: tapestries thumbtacked to warped walls, mismatched couches jammed into corners, Christmas lights strung across beams where the ceiling drooped too low. The air smelled like sweat, cheap beer, and a cocktail of colognes sprayed too liberally before the doors opened.

Powder tugged you into the crowd with her usual enthusiasm, blue hair bouncing as she grinned back at you. At first you danced alone, swaying with the beat, but soon strangers pulled both of you in, spinning you around like you’d known them for years. You laughed until your sides hurt, Powder cackling every time she tripped and dragged you down with her.

There was freedom in it. The noise, the movement, the reckless joy of not caring if you stumbled or sang along too loudly. A drink pressed into your hand—sweet, sharp, burning down your throat. Then another. The nerves dulled, the edges softened. Everything felt lighter, easier.

At some point, you pulled out the little digital camera you’d been carrying everywhere, snapping pictures in the strobe: blurry smiles, glittering cups, your own portrait caught by a way too drunk Jayce. Powder photobombed nearly all of them, pulling faces and dragging strangers-turned-friends into frame until the memory card began filling with crooked, joy-soaked shots.

By the time you ducked into the kitchen for another drink, your cheeks ached from smiling, your hair clung damp to your skin, and your throat was raw from shouting lyrics over the music. Powder was somewhere behind you, probably hustling people into another impromptu dance battle or trying to barter her way into a beer pong table. For the first time in weeks, you weren’t thinking about exams or assignments. You were just… here.

You reached for the cheap vodka bottle on the counter—only to have another hand snatch it first, tipping a generous pour into their cup.

“Hey!” you blurted, more startled than angry, eyes snapping to the thief. And then you saw her.

Sevika. The captain of the hockey team, the kind of person who existed at the edges of your world—close enough to be familiar, distant enough to feel untouchable. You’d seen her at parties before, at random hangouts, at that one game Powder dragged you to in the name of “school spirit.” She was friends with Pow’s sister, so there was casual overlap: a couple of hellos, the occasional text in a group chat, maybe a lingering look or two—but nothing more. Until now.

She was impossible to ignore.

Broad-shouldered, towering over most of the crowd, every inch of her looked carved, deliberate, like a sculpture built to last. Over six feet tall, all muscle and sharp lines, with silver eyes that shimmered under the LED lights like liquid mirrors. A scar traced down her cheek, catching the glow of the kitchen and somehow making her more striking, not less. She met your gaze with an easy confidence, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips—a challenge and a tease rolled into one.

Your stomach flipped.

She tilted the bottle slightly, daring you to react, and the briefest spark of electricity shot through the air between you. Even over the music, the laughter, the crash of voices spilling in from the living room, you felt it. Then she tilted the bottle toward you. For a moment it hovered in midair, like a test. “Go on,” she said, her voice low, carrying just enough over the music. “Take it.”

Your hand darted out, but at the last second, she pulled it back, pouring another shot into her own cup. You groaned, rolling your eyes as you leaned your hip against the counter, arms crossing over your chest in mock annoyance.

Finally, she handed you her drink, testing if you could handle something stronger. It’s not generosity, it’s a dare. You could see it in her eyes.

The briefest brush of her fingers against yours sent a spark up your arm, and you had to force yourself not to linger on it. Sevika leaned against the counter, posture relaxed but radiating that quiet power that made looking away feel impossible. 

You brought the glass to your lips, already bracing yourself, but the burn still blindsided you. The liquid hit your tongue sharp and merciless, scorching all the way down your throat like fire disguised as fruit. You forced the swallow anyway, unwilling to let her see hesitation, but the grimace broke through before you could stop it. Your eyes watered, your nose scrunched, the sour heat biting deeper than you expected.

It was too much, too heavy, too strong—like swallowing the very essence of Sevika herself: bold, unapologetic, overwhelming. You coughed lightly, fanning your throat with the back of your hand, as if that would do anything to soothe the blaze left behind.

Sevika was already laughing. Not loud or mocking, but low and rich, like she’d been waiting for exactly this outcome. She tipped her head to the side, eyes glinting with amusement as she watched you struggle. “Yeah,” she drawled, savoring every syllable, “that’s what I thought.”

Her smirk lingered, sharp and teasing, but not unkind. If anything, it carried the edge of satisfaction—like you’d just proven her point, exactly the way she knew you would. And yet there was something else in the way she leaned in, close enough that you could catch the faintest trace of smoke and leather on her clothes, as though the drink wasn’t the only thing designed to make your pulse race.

You shot her a look, heat rising in your cheeks despite yourself. “You’re impossible.”

She laughed, head tilting. “Okay, fine, princess.” She set the bottle down beside you. “There. Happy now?”

You muttered something under your breath as you reached for a mixer, the clink of glass against the countertop sharp in the air. Your pour was deliberate, precise—lighter, safer— the kind of drink you could control. Sevika’s eyes followed the movement like a cat watching prey.

When you lifted the cup to your lips, she smirked, leaning back with her arms folded. “What a baby,” she called after you, her voice warm with derision.

You rolled your eyes, refusing to give her the satisfaction of looking back. “Not everyone’s trying to drink jet fuel,” you muttered, taking a sip. The sweetness hit your tongue immediately, softer, smoother, a small comfort after the fire she’d forced on you.

You had just begun to savor that small victory—your own drink, your own pace—when chaos broke through the thin bubble between you. A body jostled past in the crowded kitchen, bumping into you hard enough to knock the rim of your cup against your lip.

Liquid sloshed violently, splattering across your chest, icy and sticky against bare skin. You hissed in surprise, jerking the cup upright as droplets slipped lower, trailing over the exposed line of your collarbone.

“Shit,” you muttered, swiping quickly at your chest. Your palm skimmed over the curve of your collarbone, fingers trailing down in a clumsy chase after the spill. The alcohol was cool against your bare skin, sticky where it clung, and you were both glad that the neckline was so low so the fabric wouldn't absorb it, but felt quite exposed. 

You tried to rub it away, dragging your fingertips across the curve of your chest, smearing rather than cleaning. The fruity-sweet scent of berry-flavored alcohol mixed with your perfume, sharp and distracting. A small, irritated sound left your throat when you realized your efforts only spread the dampness over more of your bare skin.

And Sevika noticed.

She watched you clean your mouth like it was the most interesting thing in the room. For a second, everything cut out, reduced to the tiny, ridiculous ritual of you wiping a drop of fruit-sweet vodka from your thumb. Then, as if in slow motion, you brought that thumb to your lips and licked it without even thinking, Sevika wasn’t smirking anymore.

She was staring.

For a heartbeat, you almost froze. You hadn’t expected it—the way her attention clung to you, heavy and unyielding, like she was physically holding you in place with nothing more than her stare. It made your pulse trip uneven, because Sevika didn’t stare—not like that.

And maybe you should’ve looked away, should’ve broken the moment with some half-joking comment. But instead, something reckless stirred in you, born from nerves and adrenaline and the sharp thrill of realizing that you had rattled her. You had done that. Accidentally, clumsily, maybe, but the effect was undeniable.

So you didn’t look away. A rush of boldness warmed your chest, stronger than the drink.

You lifted your thumb to your mouth again, but this time you slowed it down. Deliberately. You let the tip of your tongue drag over the sticky sweetness and held the motion, tasting the berry, savoring it, letting the gesture stretch out. You met her eyes as you did it, watching for the flicker, the crack in her mask.

She swallowed it—whatever reaction she’d been keeping coiled down—so carefully you almost missed it. Her pupils darkened, jaw flexing, that careful restraint turning the air between you taut. 

When you pulled it free, you tilted your head. Heat burned at the back of your neck, but you smirked anyway, soft and taunting, letting her see that you’d caught her watching.

“Staring’s rude, you know,” you murmured, your voice low enough that it barely carried over the music and ridiculously steady considering your heart was thudding so loud you could feel it in your throat.

Sevika’s jaw twitched, her smirk caught somewhere between amusement and something darker. For once, she didn’t fire back immediately. She just watched, sharp and unflinching, and in the pause between you, the tension buzzed louder than the bass rattling the floor. 

The way she was looking at you now, intense but unreadable, made your chest tighten in an unexpected, delicious way. Something unspoken passed between you, electric and dangerous, like the world had contracted to the space between the two of you, a quiet, teasing promise hovering in the air. 

Your feet shifted under you, and you brought the red cup to your lips once again, looking away as you drank, trying to cool your body from the inside. But you could feel her eyes on you still, her gaze burning into the side of your face. She tilted her head just slightly, like she was considering you, weighing you, daring you to react in some way. Your pulse spiked under her gaze, a warm, insistent rhythm that seemed to echo in your ears louder than the bass.

“Careful,” she murmured, voice low, teasing, almost conspiratorial. “Don’t get it everywhere.”

You felt your lips twitch in a half-smile. “I’m a pro when no one is pushing me,” you said, though your voice betrayed the smallest hint of amusement—and maybe something else, something you weren’t quite ready to name.

Sevika leaned closer, just a fraction, so that the scent of her— smoke, sweat, and the faint metallic tang that came from skate gear and hard work— brushed against your nose. You swallowed hard, suddenly aware of how close she was, how easy it would be for the space between you to vanish entirely.

“Mm,” she said, her eyes drilling into you, tilting her own cup and taking a sip in a way that made it impossible not to notice the curve of her neck, the subtle line of her jaw catching the light.

You were about to try to say something, just to hear her deep voice make a snarky response, when a pink-haired girl appeared and stole her away, something about a beer pong contest they needed to win.

Somewhere in the melee, friends pushed and pulled you in different directions, teasing you to join this circle, that game, or a makeshift dance floor near the wall. Glasses were thrust into your hands without ceremony; shots taken and refilled with little care for moderation. You could feel the warmth of strangers brushing past you, the careless press of bodies, the subtle brush of hands that lingered just long enough to make you aware of your own pulse.

And yet, through it all, Sevika was a constant magnetic point in the blur. You caught glimpses of her: chatting with friends, silver eyes flashing in the strobe lights; her hand lifting a cup with a lazy, deliberate grace; the tiniest curl of a smirk as your eyes met across the room. Every accidental glance sent a shiver through you, a current you had to fight to ignore as friends dragged you elsewhere.

You caught her out of the corner of your eye again, leaning against a doorway, silver eyes scanning the crowd like a predator—or maybe  like someone waiting just for you. You tilted your head, daring her to look away. 

She didn’t. She didn’t blink. And for a second, it felt as though the party had shrunk around you both, the thumping bass and shouting voices reduced to a distant hum while the air between you tightened with quiet electricity.

Her eyes raked over you like a slow, deliberate survey — not the casual glance of someone scanning a room, but the kind of look that catalogues the way a dress clings at the hip, the little hitch of skin where your top kisses your collarbone, the way your hips move when you shift your weight. The movement of your body lodged behind her eyes, replaying in the tiny dip of her brow. For a second, her pupils darkened, just enough to sharpen the silver of her irises into something feral and intent.

You felt it like a physical thing — a pressure at the back of your neck, a warmth pooling beneath your ribs. And between your legs. Instinctively, your teeth found your lower lip and you bit it, a quick, private anchor. Then you turned away, slow and casual, pretending not to notice the way she’d been watching you. It was a practiced little lie, the kind you told yourself when you weren’t ready to admit how much the attention thrilled you.

She let you keep pretending. Her smile was almost lazy, but the corner of it promised mischief; her whole body relaxed into that organized stillness of someone who knows they have the upper hand and are enjoying the delay. Her hand hovered at the rim of her cup, fingers tapping a single, deliberate rhythm — impatient, amused. She could keep playing mouse and cat a while longer — testing how close she could get without closing the distance. 

Around 4 a.m., your feet were starting to ache, a dull, persistent throb that even the steady flow of alcohol couldn’t quite dull. You sank onto the couch, the cushions releasing a soft, breathy “oof” as they compressed under your weight. Your legs stretched out, trying to claim some comfort in the worn fabric, and you let yourself take a slow, steadying breath.

Bodies moved around you in tangled clusters, hips pressed together in rhythm or sheer accident, laughter, and shouting mixing into the metallic tang of spilled beer and cheap liquor. The scent of sweat and perfume hung heavy in the air, clinging to everything, sticky and electric. Colored lights slashed across the dark, almost cave-like living room, illuminating the pressed-together dancers in brief, fractured flashes. The chaos of the party buzzed around you, but you were a little removed from it all, cocooned in your own quiet exhaustion.

Before you could gather your thoughts, she was moving—fluid, controlled—and in a single, effortless motion, she settled onto the couch beside you. It was so natural, so unhurried, that for a moment it almost felt like she had always been there, waiting. Her presence was immediate, magnetic. You turned, legs curling slightly on the cushions, grazing the side of her thigh. “You alright?” she asked, her voice low, gravelly, carrying that familiar undertone of curiosity and something sharper.

“Yeah,” you murmured slowly, eyes heavy-lidded, now entirely focused on her. “My feet hurt a bit.” Your elbow rested on the top edge of the couch, your head leaning against it, tilting to look up at her. She mirrored you almost instinctively, torso angled toward yours, the faint scent of smoke and sweat brushing your senses.

Impulsively, you reached out, letting your fingers brush against hers. The touch lingered, hesitant at first, until you tugged her hand closer with a soft, deliberate motion. The skin was roughened and calloused from endless hours on the ice, the kind of hands that had wielded sticks and fought for every goal, every play.  

Your fingers traced the contours of her hand slowly, rotating it gently, studying the lines of her palm as though it were a map meant only for you. All the while, you avoided looking at her face, focusing entirely on the delicate tension of her hand in yours.

But she didn’t look away. Her eyes drifted from your fingers to your face and back again, her jaw tightening subtly as she watched you play with her, teasing her with the softness of your touch. It was a quiet, unspoken dance—the kind that made the loud music, the crowded room, and the chaos of the party feel worlds away. 

“You have soft hands,” you mumbled, eyes still fixed on her palm. Your fingertip lingered over the rougher patches, then slid back to the smoother planes of skin, the contrast oddly intimate.

Her brow arched, a slow smirk tugging at her mouth. “Soft?” she echoed, voice low, amused.

“Yeah.” Your lips quirked, and maybe it was the alcohol or maybe it was her, but your tongue had no filter now. “Like a little princess… or a bottom.” The words came out in a lazy drawl, the kind that teetered on the edge, half-teasing, half-taunting, meant to poke at her pride.

The sound that rumbled out of her chest wasn’t just a laugh—it was a low, throaty chuckle, the kind that vibrated in the air between you and slid under your skin. She leaned back slightly, studying you with sharp eyes, the cocky curl of her lips both devastating and deliberate.

“You wanna test that?” Her voice dropped lower, velvet and gravel, carrying the weight of something unspoken. Her smirk widened into something darker, the kind of grin that warned you and tempted you in the same breath.

Your heart stuttered, a jolt that sobered you faster than any amount of water ever could. She thought she’d fluster you, that you’d laugh it off, retreat, or at least blink away from her gaze.

But you didn’t.

You finally lifted your head, your eyes locking onto hers, steady despite the alcohol buzzing in your blood. Your lips curved into the smallest of smiles, heat threading your voice as you answered, “Okay.”

No hesitation. No retreat. Just want—laid bare and undeniable.

Her smirk faltered for the briefest flicker of a second, her jaw tightening as if she hadn’t expected you to take her so literally, so hungrily. The tease she’d thrown so carelessly into the air had landed like a match on gasoline, and now the fire was licking at both of you.

The silence that followed was deafening, even over the music thumping through the walls. Her eyes searched your face, sharp and unreadable, but her hand was still in yours. She hadn’t pulled away.

A nervous laugh slipped out of you, the sound rough in your throat. “Scaredy-cat,” you said, letting her hand go, almost too quickly, an easy little cruelty meant to be disarming. You pushed back into the couch, turning your body toward the crowd like you hadn’t just been seconds away from saying something you couldn’t take back.

You meant it, but her lack of reaction made your chest tighten. For a beat too long, you weren’t sure if you’d crossed a line. 

So you kept talking, throwing out the first harmless thing that came to mind—finals, professors, holidays creeping closer. Words tumbled out in uneven bursts, lighter than you felt, while she stayed maddeningly quiet beside you.

She wasn’t ignoring you. Her jaw worked like she was trying to form an answer, but her mind was too quick, spinning too fast for her tongue to catch up. And that silence—thick, heavy, pressing—made the embarrassment creep hot under your skin.

Heat crawled up your neck, a blush you couldn’t blame on the alcohol. By the time your rambling petered out, you couldn’t take it anymore—the urge to escape it pulsed stronger than the want to stay. 

You stood, brushing your palms against your thighs like it might erase the moment. Bending down so only she could hear, you forced a crooked smile, “Bye, princess,” you teased, the words light, playful—more of an embarrassed jab than anything serious.

She growled, low in her throat, the sound barely audible under the thrum of music—but you heard it, felt it vibrate in your chest. “Little shit,” she muttered, and before you could even register the words, her hand was on the back of your neck, hot and firm. She yanked you down, closing the space in a single, searing pull.

Her mouth crashed against yours—nothing gentle, nothing sweet. Her teeth grazed your lip, sharp enough to make you gasp, and she took advantage, kissing you harder, deeper, like she was proving a point. It was possession, raw and unfiltered, each drag of her mouth against yours a clear warning of what you’d invited.

Your response was instant, instinctual—you grabbed at her face, fingers digging into her cheeks, pulling her closer like you couldn’t get enough. She didn’t let you hover for long. A firm hand on your waist guided you over her lap, until you were straddling her, knees pressing into the couch on either side.

Her grip was everywhere—at your hips, sliding rough over your sides, fingers curling in to bruise. Her mouth moved against yours with a hunger that stole your breath, tongue and teeth pulling sounds from you that melted into the bass thrumming through the walls. You tugged at her hair, desperate, and she answered with a low, satisfied growl, kissing you harder, until it felt less like a kiss and more like a claim.

The world around you blurred—fading into nothing but heat and the taste of her mouth. She kissed you like she was starving, like she’d been holding back all night and finally snapped.

When you tugged harder at her hair, Sevika’s hand slid lower, gripping your thigh, squeezing hard enough to make you gasp into her mouth. That sound made her grin against your lips, sharp and dangerous. “You feel too soft,” she murmured between kisses, voice low and rough. “I don’t think you’re ready for me.”

Her words hit you like a dare, igniting a spark of defiance deep in your chest. Your pulse spiked, a rush of heat building in your stomach as you leaned forward, lips brushing hers in a teasing, almost taunting kiss. 

You pressed closer, tilting your body so that your pelvis pressed into hers, grinding deliberately, slow and controlled, just enough to show her you could handle more, testing her, pushing boundaries. Her hands slid lower, and you met her gaze, grinding just a little harder, letting her know you weren’t backing down.

A low laugh escaped her throat, dark and throaty. In one smooth motion, she shifted, pressing herself fully beneath you, tilting your body against hers with deliberate precision. Every brush of skin, every subtle grind became hers to command.

Then she kissed harder, teeth and tongue marking and claiming, and you responded instantly—arching your back, tilting your head, your lips and hands answering her hunger. She leaned back slightly on the couch, spreading her legs, keeping you perched across her lap, her hands firm on your sides, guiding every movement you made.

You bit at her bottom lip, tugged at her hair, and she responded with a sharp, low moan that vibrated through your chest. The kiss became more insistent, her mouth claiming yours like she was marking territory.

Her left hand moved deliberately, sliding under the edge of your skirt, teasing along the thin fabric of your underwear. A sharp gasp escaped your lips, and she pressed closer, tilting her head to swallow it into her mouth, claiming it as if it belonged to her. 

For a brief second, reason fluttered at the edges of your mind—you were in a crowded party, where everybody could figure out what you were both doing if they looked hard enough—but the moment her fingers slipped inside, those thoughts vanished, drowned out by the heat and urgency pressing between you.

Your body arched against hers, letting out a muffled moan that merged with the thump of the music, hiding your sounds from the oblivious crowd. Her other hand traveled from your hips, fingers slipping into your hair, guiding your face to hers whenever you pulled away for breath. Every brush of skin, every stolen moan, was a game of control she was winning—deliberately, effortlessly.

Her fingers moved with practiced ease, curling just right, rubbing that spongy spot that made keeping quiet impossible. You responded in kind, grinding against her, letting her feel that you could match her intensity, that you weren’t just being led—you could play this game too.

Her smirk curved against your lips when she felt the way your hips pushed into her touch. “That’s it,” she murmured, low enough that only you could hear, her breath hot against your jaw. Her pace slowed deliberately, dragging out the motion, making every curl of her fingers a torment. She wanted to hear you break, wanted to taste the muffled sounds you tried so hard to bury in her shoulder. 

You whined when she slowed down, grinding hard against her hand with deliberate pressure, trying to take matters into your own hands. She answered with a growl. The hand tangled in your hair tugged just enough to tilt your head back, exposing your throat. She pressed her mouth there, biting, sucking, marking, leaving proof of her claim where anyone could see. The thought only sent another wave of heat rushing through you, your walls tightening around her fingers.

“Please” you begged without even knowing, the sound leaving your lips as a breathy mumble and falling right on her ear. Needing everything of her and offering it without much fight. 

That was all it took. Her fingers moved rougher, deeper, faster, punishing in rhythm, pulling every sound you tried to swallow free from your chest. You clung to her, one hand gripping her shoulder, the other buried in her hair, eyes fluttering shut.

She pressed her thumb against you, a cruel little circle that stole your breath. Her pace shifted—no more teasing, no more games—just hard, unrelenting strokes that had your back arching and your nails digging into her shoulders. The music, the voices, the whole party blurred into static, your world narrowing to the press of her body, the heat of her mouth, the merciless rhythm of her hand.

You clung to her, lips brushing hers, panting into her mouth as your moans bled into each kiss. “Sevika—” her name slipped out, half a plea, half a curse, and that was all it took for her to double down, fingers pumping and her thumb circling with brutal precision until your thighs trembled around her.

She swallowed every sound you gave her, owning it, claiming it, keeping you muffled and hidden while dragging you mercilessly toward the edge. The coil inside you wound tighter, impossibly tight, until the only thing you could do was break—your body shuddering in her lap, every muscle tensing as release ripped through you.

Your cry was buried in her mouth, lost in the press of lips and tongue, masked by the music but claimed entirely by her. She didn’t stop until your hips stilled, until the aftershocks left you boneless against her, breathless and trembling.

Your body melted against her, chest heaving, forehead dropping to the crook of her neck as the tension drained from you. The noise of the party slowly seeped back in, but her arm wrapped tighter around your waist, holding you like a shield against it all. 

 “Look at you,” she drawled, voice low enough to curl in your chest. “Falling apart in my lap like you were made for it.” You tried to glare, but it came out weaker than you meant, and she chuckled, the sound vibrating against your lips as her thumb brushed across your lower lip, smearing the ghost of your bite.

Sevika tilted your chin up with two fingers, forcing your dazed eyes to meet hers. That smug grin curved her mouth, sharp and merciless. “You’re mine now, princess,” she murmured, cocky and final, like it wasn’t up for debate.

But then her smirk softened—just barely. Her thumb lingered at your jaw, tracing slow circles, her other hand shifting from gripping your hip to stroking your side. She leaned in, pressing her lips not to your mouth this time but to the crown of your head, a kiss so soft it almost contradicted her words.

“Breathe,” she whispered against your hair, grounding you, holding you in place even as the party roared on. Sevika adjusted you with surprising gentleness, settling you so you weren’t straddling her lap quite so precariously. Her palm smoothed up and down your spine in slow, grounding strokes, like she was coaxing the air back into your lungs. 

“Easy,” she murmured, voice still that low rasp but lacking the taunt now. “I’ve got you.” You huffed out a weak laugh, trying to cover the vulnerability clawing up your throat. “Don’t sound so smug about it.”

She tilted her head, a smirk tugging at her lips, but instead of answering, she reached for the half-empty cup you’d abandoned earlier and pressed it into your hands. “Drink. Before you collapse for real.”

You took a sip just to humor her, the cool liquid grounding. Her hand stayed at the back of your neck the whole time, thumb brushing idly against your skin, a silent tether that told you she wasn’t about to let go.

When you finally dared to meet her eyes, there was still that cocky spark—but beneath it, something steadier, something that almost looked like pride. “See?” she drawled, softer this time, almost fond. “Told you you couldn’t handle me.”

You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t pull away. Not yet.

Her teasing lilt hung between you, daring you to argue, daring you to prove her wrong again. But this time, you didn’t bite. You couldn’t—not with your pulse still stuttering in your throat and your body still humming from her touch.

Instead, you leaned back just enough to put a sliver of air between you, though her hand at the nape of your neck refused to let you go too far. The crowd was still moving, music still thumping, laughter spilling from the kitchen—life continuing like nothing scandalous had just happened on that couch.

But her lips were swollen, her smirk edged with something darker, and your skin still burned everywhere her fingers had been.

You tried for nonchalance, brushing invisible lint from your skirt. “This doesn’t prove anything,” you muttered, though your voice came out weaker than you meant it to.

Sevika chuckled low in her chest, the sound curling through you like smoke. Her thumb dragged lazily along your hip, like she was memorizing it, like she was staking a claim without words. “Sure it doesn’t,” she said, eyes glinting, tone rich with promise. 

Her smirk widened. “Enjoy your little break,” she said with a lazy grin, her eyes dragging over you slowly. She leaned back, like she had all the time in the world, and finally let you slip from her lap, but her gaze never left you—like she’d already decided you weren’t escaping, no matter how far you tried to run.

Hii!! Thank you so much for reading Part 1 ♡ I had so much fun writing this. Sevika is and intimidating character but she is just too hot not to give it a try. I hope i made her justice!

part 1 | part 2 | part 3

A behind-the-scenes story about two co-stars, a slow-burn connection, and finally confronting the feelings they've tried to hide

Cw: slow burn, emotional, mutual pining, angst, anxious moments, confessions, romantic tension, mild language, rain, suggestive themes.

Word count: 7.8k

You didn’t really see each other much until the recording of season three began — just a handful of cast hangouts, a couple of birthday parties, and that one red carpet event where the cameras caught you standing side by side but worlds apart.

Months stretched between you, a growing distance marked not by silence alone, but by the effort it took to forget. You tried—hard—to erase her from your thoughts, to quiet the reckless pounding of your heart every time her name came up in conversation. You told yourself that time would dull the ache, that the space between you would be enough to let go.

She tried to bridge the gap. She reached out, sending texts inviting you to lunch, casual hangouts with mutual friends, little attempts to recapture what had once been effortless. But you always declined. And with each refusal, the weight in her chest grew heavier—each “no” a quiet unraveling of hope. She wanted to know, more than anything, if maybe, just maybe, you felt the same. But your absence was an answer in itself.

So she did the only thing she could—she tried to move on too. She let the current carry her forward, wearing the mask of the perfect actress, the devoted girlfriend. She smiled in photos, laughed at the right moments, but inside, the world she’d built without you felt fragile, cracked, on the verge of collapse. pretending her world wasn't crumbling without you close. 

Yet, fate has a way of undoing even the most carefully laid plans. 

But once again, you were seeing each other every day, for an ungodly amount of hours and days, filming until dawn, repeating stunts and choreographing fights, over and over again. It was easy for old habits to resurface. 

It started small. A cup of coffee waiting for you on the makeup table before call time. Her jacket draped over your chair after a late-night shoot. Little things that could be explained away, but felt deliberate.

At first, you told yourself not to read into it. This was Abby—warm, thoughtful, always like this with people she cared about. But it was different this time. You caught her watching you during table reads, her lines forgotten for a moment too long. You noticed the way her laughter lingered when you said something—like she was afraid to let the sound fade.

It unnerved you, the way your chest tightened around her presence again. Months of distance, of trying to unlearn her, unraveled in a matter of days. All your hard work vanished the moment you saw her on set, that familiar golden braid sending your heart fluttering away. 

You told yourself it was nothing—Abby was just being Abby. Always thoughtful, always kind. You refused to let your mind twist her gestures into something they weren’t. Not again.

You had worked so hard to get here. Months spent putting the pieces of yourself back together, months of carefully untangling her from your everyday thoughts. You weren’t about to let a few late-night smiles and quiet glances undo all of that.

So you put space where you could. You weren’t rude—never rude—but you let conversations fade before they could find their rhythm. You offered polite smiles instead of lingering ones, clipped laughs instead of easy ones. When she tried to start a real conversation between takes, you’d suddenly remember you had to rehearse lines with Ellie, or join Dina for lunch. You made yourself busy with anyone but her, letting other people fill the silence she used to.

It was safer this way. Safer to stay in the shallow end instead of drowning in her again.

Still, the space didn’t stop her eyes from finding you. In the middle of a crowded set, your attention would drift and—like clockwork—you’d catch her watching you. Sometimes she looked away quickly, other times she didn’t, and you hated how that made your heart trip over itself. You hated it even more when you had to be the one to break the moment, turning away first.

Every time you did, it felt like you were closing a door she didn’t even realize she’d opened. A door you had sworn to lock for good.

But doors like that… they never stayed shut for long.

Abby noticed.

She saw it in the little things— the way you didn’t quite meet her eyes anymore, how your smiles felt smaller, shorter-lived, the way you kept just enough distance so her shoulder wouldn’t brush yours when you passed. It wasn’t avoidance born from anger. It was careful. Controlled. Like you’d drawn invisible lines and were terrified of crossing them.

And it hurt. More than she expected.

Because Abby remembered the way you used to be with her—the lingering conversations, the way you laughed like it was a secret between you, the casual touches that had felt like second nature. She’d replay those moments in her head during the months apart, wondering if maybe she’d imagined their weight. Now, seeing you deliberately pull away made her wonder if she’d been wrong all along.

She tried to let it go, to focus on her scenes, on the endless hours of choreography and fight blocking. But her eyes kept finding you, even when she didn’t mean for them to. And every time you turned away first, it felt like losing something she’d never truly had but desperately wanted.

She thought she was good at hiding it. At playing it cool. But the truth was, every time you drifted further from her, she wanted to reach out, take your hand, and pull you back.

Abby wasn’t sure how much longer she could stop herself from doing exactly that.

 It happened after another grueling night shoot.

The crew was packing up under the dim glow of portable floodlights, shadows stretching long across the gravel. The fake blood and dirt clung stubbornly to your skin, itching beneath the layers of your costume, and the cold air bit at your cheeks with every gust. You were halfway through a conversation with Dina about grabbing something warm to eat—half listening, half watching your breath fog in the night—when movement in your peripheral vision made you glance over.

Abby.

 She was striding toward you with purpose, her jacket half-zipped, hair damp from the light rain earlier. Even in the chaos of crew members calling goodnight and equipment clattering into cases, her presence cut straight through the noise.

“Can we talk?” she asked. Her voice was steady, almost casual, but her eyes… her eyes told a different story.

You froze for a beat, the familiar instinct to make an excuse rushing in—tell her you had somewhere to be, someone waiting—but something in the way she was looking at you rooted you to the spot. You gave Dina a small nod, promising you’d catch up later, and followed Abby through the maze of cables and prop crates until you were behind one of the trailers, tucked away from prying eyes.

She didn’t waste time. “You’ve been ignoring me.”

It wasn’t a question.

You sighed, your breath puffing white into the air. You had hoped she wouldn’t notice—or at least wouldn’t call you out—but you should’ve known better. Abby was never the type to leave something unresolved, not when it came to you. “I haven’t,” you said, keeping your tone light. “I’m just… distracted with stuff. Busy, you know, with all the filming and—”

“I’ve been trying to play it cool,” she cut in, her words sharper now, “to act like I’m fine with you keeping your distance, but I’m not. I miss you.”

There it was—simple, unadorned, and impossible to sidestep.

You stared at her, the words hanging in the cold air between you. “Abby…” you started, unsure where you were going with it. Your voice felt small compared to the weight of hers.

She took a step closer, her hands flexing like she didn’t know what to do with them. “Did I do something? Say something? Because if I messed up, I’d rather you just tell me instead of… this.” She gestured vaguely toward the space you’d been keeping.

“You didn’t do anything,” you said quickly, because that was the truth. That was the problem.

“Then why?” Her brow furrowed, not in anger but in something closer to hurt. “One day you’re there, and the next it’s like you’re… pulling away before I can even catch up.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, resisting the urge to look anywhere but at her. “I just… needed some space. It’s nothing personal.”

Her jaw tightened. “It feels personal.”

Your throat worked around the silence that followed. She looked like she wanted to keep pushing, to force you into saying the real reason, but she held back—maybe out of restraint, maybe out of fear of the answer.

You shifted your weight, gaze dropping to the wet gravel. You exhaled slowly, the cold air biting at your cheeks as you avoided her gaze. “It’s... personal stuff,” you said quietly, voice almost breaking. “Family things. Some things I need to figure out outside of work. It’s been… hard to keep everything together.”

You felt a pang of guilt immediately after the words left your mouth. It wasn’t the full truth, but it was what you could say without unraveling everything inside. You hated lying—especially to Abby—but you convinced yourself it was for the best, for now.

Abby’s expression softened, but only slightly, her eyes searching yours with quiet patience. She took a gentle step closer, careful not to overwhelm you. “I’m sorry you’re going through that,” she said softly, her voice steady but restrained. “You don’t have to carry it all alone, you know. Whenever you want to talk—or even just not be by yourself—I’m here.”

Abby hesitated for a moment, then offered a quiet suggestion, her voice soft and careful. “Maybe... sometime, if you want, we could hang out. No pressure—just friends. Sometimes it helps to have someone around, even if it’s just to sit together without saying much.”

You felt a small, tentative smile form at the corner of your mouth. “Yeah. That sounds... nice. Thank you, Abby.”

She gave a barely perceptible nod, relief flickering in her eyes but held gently. “Whenever you feel ready. I’ll be here.”

The space between you didn’t suddenly feel lighter—more like it shifted just a little, subtle and fragile, as if something quiet had begun. Still, beneath that slight shift, you clung to your secret, hoping that with time, it might become easier to share.

You reunited with Dina, who was standing nearby. She wrapped her arm around your shoulders and gave you a gentle squeeze as you both walked away.

Maybe… maybe you could hang out again if Abby really wanted to. Keep things light. Pretend it didn’t mean anything. You’d just have to get over her quicker this time—only now, she’d be close enough to watch it happen.

In the days after that conversation, Abby didn’t push. She let the silence be, but quietly showed up in small ways—sending a simple message, checking in without overwhelming you, sharing a meme that reminded her of an inside joke between you two. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to remind you she was there.

One afternoon, she invited you to a low-key lunch with a few castmates. Nothing formal, just a casual spot with good food and no expectations. You hesitated, the knot of anxiety twisting in your stomach, but eventually said yes.

At the table, Abby sat beside you, her presence comforting rather than demanding. She listened more than she spoke, letting you set the pace of the conversation. When you faltered or grew quiet, she offered a smile or a gentle nudge, never pushing but always steady.

Over time, the walls you’d built began to crumble—not all at once, but in small moments: a shared laugh, a glance that held no awkwardness, a touch on the shoulder that said “I’m here.” The old easy rhythm started to seep back in, tempered now with a deeper understanding.

Yet beneath those moments of closeness, you couldn’t shake the weight of the small lie you’d told Abby—the guilt lingered quietly in the back of your mind, a reminder that you hadn’t been completely honest with her. But even so, having her near again, feeling the familiar comfort of her presence, was something you didn’t want to let go of. It was like finding a piece of home you’d lost and didn’t realize how much you missed until it was within reach again.

The tension between honesty and self-preservation twisted inside you, but for now, you allowed yourself to lean into the warmth of having Abby close—safe, familiar, quietly present—and hoped that one day, the truth could catch up without breaking what you’d just begun to rebuild.

The evening light filtered softly through the curtains, casting long shadows across the quiet apartment. Abby paced slowly near the doorway, her fingers nervously twisting the hem of her shirt. Isla sat on the couch, legs tucked beneath her, a mug cooling in her hands, watching Abby with calm, steady eyes. The air between them felt heavy, wrapped in a silence that spoke louder than words — the kind of hush that comes right before something important is said.

After a long pause, Abby finally broke it. “I have to tell you something.” Her voice was rougher than she expected, thick with tension. Isla didn’t flinch. Instead, she met Abby’s gaze with a quiet compassion, the kind of acceptance born from time and reflection. “Okay,” she said simply. “Say it.”

Abby took a deep breath, as if releasing months of held breath all at once. “I—this is going to hurt, and I am so sorry for that—but I need to be honest. I’ve been feeling something for someone else. I didn’t plan for it. I didn’t want this to happen to you.” Her hands trembled as she reached out to take Isla’s, fearing rejection or anger.

Instead, Isla squeezed her hand gently, letting out a soft, rueful laugh that felt like both sadness and relief. “I know,” she said, and it was not the sting Abby feared. Isla’s voice carried a strange, fortifying calm. “I don’t mean that like, ‘I forgive you’—because that’s not the point. I mean… I saw it. I’ve seen the way you look at her, the little ways you light up when you think no one’s watching.”

“Honestly? I thought it would happen a lot sooner than tonight,” she added after a beat. Abby’s mouth opened and closed, startled into silence by how lucid Isla was being, how unafraid of naming what she’d seen.

The truth hung between them, raw but somehow freeing. They talked for what felt like hours, weaving through memories and emotions — about timing, intentions, what had been good and what had grown numb. Abby’s apologies were sincere and tender.  “I never wanted to be cruel to you,” she said, voice breaking. “I should have been braver, or quieter, I don’t know. I just… I didn’t know how to hold both truths at once.” 

Isla listened, occasionally interrupting with a memory or a quiet joke about their shared life, the little disasters and triumphs that had once felt so important. Laughter came—quiet and shaky—and it broke something cleanly, like a hinge finally giving. They parted with the sort of gentleness that felt rare and, somehow, earned. Neither stormed nor begged; instead, they held space for each other’s disappointment and relief— it was an odd kind of relief: grief and kindness braided together into something that felt like a smooth transition rather than an abrupt end.

It’s a short break, the kind where everyone disperses in tiny orbits and the set breathes for a moment. 

You’re on a crate, script in hand, trying to hide the fact that your fingers are still shaking from the last take, when Abby appears with two coffees and a crooked grin that makes her eyes crinkle. She hands you one without ceremony, sets her own down, and leans in closer than strictly necessary to point at a line she thinks you should hit softer. Her shoulder brushes yours and the contact is feather-light, casual — the kind of touch you’d write off as practical on any other day. 

She jokes about your tendency to over-prepare, then mimics the exact sad face you make when you forget a cue; you both laugh, and it’s easy and warm and the sound settles in your chest. 

She lingers longer than she needs to, though: a thumb tucked against the spine of your script, her elbow nudging yours as she reads a line aloud. “You always come up with the most dramatic little pauses,” she teases, eyes bright. It’s playful, effortless. To anyone watching, it’s purely camaraderie — two actors riffing off one another. 

To you, it’s a map of memory. You tell yourself she’s being kind; she has always been kind. You catch yourself smiling too long, then flip the page and force a professional tone. “Thanks,” you say, voice neutral. “See you in wardrobe.” You stand up and walk away with Dina calling for you from the craft services table, and Abby stays behind, watching until you round a corner. 

She doesn’t follow. She only watches, and the look on her face is a small, private ache that she tucks away when the director calls for quiet.

The set hums quietly around you, but in that noise, there’s a small pocket of calm where Abby stands, her hair catching the light like thin strands of gold. You don’t intend to look, but your eyes keep drifting to her, pulled as if by some unseen force. You think about turning away, heading back to the trailer, focusing on your lines—but your feet move before your mind catches up.

Her familiar scent—pine mixed with something soft, maybe the sweater she wore the other night—fills the air between you, and the careful distance you’d planned collapses. She glances up as you stop just a little too close, offering a smile that feels like it belongs to someone who’s known you for years. “Hey,” she says softly, that single word landing heavier than expected.

You want to make a joke, to break the tension, but instead, a small, honest “Hi” slips out. Your voice sounds unfamiliar, thicker, more intimate—and you don’t try to pull it back. It hangs there, fragile and real. 

She steps a fraction nearer, closing the last inch with no ceremony. “You okay?” Her hand reaches out before you can fully decide whether you want it to. The contact is feather-light against your forearm, a check rather than an anchor, but it sends a current straight to the middle of you. 

You want to tell her everything—you want to tell her you ran away so you wouldn’t fall apart in front of her; you want to tell her you lied because you were scared of losing what was already there —but no words come. Instead, you breathe. 

Words form and slide away like fish. You find yourself saying things you didn’t plan: “I missed this,”. It feels smaller, safer than saying “I love you,” but carries the same weight beneath it. Abby’s eyes soften with a knowing warmth—and she doesn’t pressure you for clarity. She just smiles, easing the tightness in your chest.

For a moment, the rest of the world fades away—the noise, the people, the endless pressure—and it’s just the two of you, standing there in that quiet space. Falling feels less like losing control and more like being held, terrifying but somehow gentle all at once.

Filming was coming to an end, thankfully. You didn't know how many more weeks of running around in dirty and bloodied costumes, sleep deprivation, and cold coffees you could take— it had all started to feel like a slow erosion. The exhaustion clung to you like a shadow, dragging at every step. 

But Abby wasn’t relieved. Not really. The last time filming wrapped, you’d disappeared without a word, leaving her with that hollow ache of absence. She worried, deep down, that it might happen again. The memory sat between her ribs like a bruise she couldn’t ignore. She was afraid you might do the same again.

That night you wrapped closer to 2 a.m., the set finally emptying into clanking carts and the occasional shouted goodnight. Abby insisted you stay at her place — it was closer, she said, and you didn’t argue. The walk back smelled of wet asphalt and the cold breath of late spring; the city was slick and glossy under the streetlamps. Inside her apartment, it was warmer, familiar in a way that made you both relax and tense at once. 

You ate a frozen pizza, laughing at how pathetic it tasted and how perfect it felt. The grease left a film on your fingers; the TV cast a flat, blue light across the room as an old movie played half-heartedly.

You sat on the floor, backs against the couch, knees bumping occasionally when you shifted. Abby had made a nest of blankets; one was draped over both your legs and smelled faintly of detergent and pine, like her. The rain tapped the window in a steady, comforting rhythm that tried to smooth the edges of the night but did little to mask the frantic pounding of your own heart. You were certain Abby could hear it, somehow, even in the small space between you.

Abby’s hands were restless. You noticed them — the small, repetitive motions she didn’t realize she was making: twisting the blanket’s fringe, tapping the heel of her palm against her knee. She glanced at you, then down at her hands, as if making sure the courage was still there to be offered. 

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you,” she said finally, her voice low and nearly swallowed by the rain. It landed in the room softer than a shout but heavier than you expected.

You slowly turned away from the flickering screen, forcing yourself to meet her gaze, feeling the weight of what was coming. “I’ve been holding this in for a while,” she started, exhaling like she’d been carrying a stone for months and finally set it down. “I tried to sort it out in my head before I said anything, because I didn’t want to make things messy between us.” 

Her fingers found yours and squeezed like an anchor. “But I think about you… more than I should. I miss you even if I saw you just hours ago. And no matter how much I try to convince myself it’s just friendship… It’s not. Not for me.”

Her voice cracked on the last words, the shape of them fragile enough that taking them back would have been impossible. There was a pause — rain, the hum of the radiator, the movie’s dialogue trickling like background noise — in which the apartment felt both very large and very small.

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden weight of Abby’s confession. For a moment, your mind raced to catch up, to process the flood of emotions and the unexpected vulnerability laid bare before you. But then a flicker of doubt crept in, sharp and stubborn. 

You stared at Abby, disbelief hardening into something sharper—a defense you’d built after working so hard to get over her — to push down the feelings that always caught you off guard. And now, this confession felt like a direct attack, a cruel mockery of your efforts. It wasn’t just confusing; it stung.

“Are you serious?” you asked, voice edged with disbelief, an uneasy laugh bubbling up amidst the tension. “Did…did Dina—” you tried to reason it out, maybe she told her something by accident, and Abby wanted to get a laugh out of your misery. Of making you believe someone like her could love you. 

“There's no way,”  you continued, words tumbling out too fast, too raw. “The press, and the cast…A-and Isla,” you kept rambling, standing up from your spot on the floor. “No,” you said firmly, shaking your head. “This can’t be real. You’re messing with me. Dina told you something, and now you think it's funny to play tricks with me.” Your voice cracked, stubbornness thick in every syllable.

Abby’s hopeful expression faltered, pain flashing behind her eyes. But you didn’t wait for her to respond. The heaviness in your chest tightened, the air around you thick with something suffocating. You stormed toward the door, desperate for distance and fresh air, away from the weight of her gaze and the ache in your heart.

It took Abby a few seconds to realize what was happening, and she bolted out of her place, trying to go after you. “W-wait!” she shouted, but the elevator doors closed before she reached you.  She basically flew down the 7 flights of stairs in her apartment building, trying to catch up with you. 

The rain was pouring outside, cold and relentless, but you didn’t care. You opened the entry door and stepped out, the droplets soaking through your clothes in seconds. The night swallowed you whole, the wet chill matching the ache in your chest.

Your footsteps splashed across the puddled pavement until you felt a hand catch your arm—firm, urgent. Abby spun you around, her grip shifting to your shoulders, tightly holding you in place. Not hurting—never hurting—but refusing to let you go. 

You stand there, soaked through, the rain washing over you like a relentless tide. Your breath comes out in ragged clouds, heart pounding, chest tight—not just from the cold but from everything swirling between you.

You stood there in the downpour, drenched to the skin, the rain washing over you in an unending rhythm. Your breath came in ragged bursts, clouds of steam leaving your lips, your heart pounding against your ribs. The tightness in your chest was more than the cold—it was years of buried feelings clawing their way back up.

“Please,” she said, voice small but fierce, rain dripping from her lashes, her hair plastered to her face. “I’m not messing with you, I swear.” Her eyes searched yours desperately, hunting for any crack in the wall you’d built.

You wanted to shove her away. To turn on your heel and run until you were somewhere dry, somewhere safe from her words. But your feet wouldn’t move.

“Then tell me why,” you snapped, your voice sharper than you intended, trembling with all the months of hurt you’d swallowed. “Why now? I’ve… After everything—after I spent so long trying to get over you—now?” Your voice broke, splintered into a sob, tears mixing with the rain as they fell down your face. Two years of suffering in silence, of teaching yourself to stop hoping, all of it crashing down under the weight of this moment. 

Something flickered in her eyes then—shock, recognition, and something warmer beneath it. She clung to those words, get over you, like they were proof. You did feel the same. You always had. And for a heartbeat, it didn’t matter that you were soaked to the skin, or that the street was empty but for the two of you—because she had her answer.

“I ended it with Isla,” she said slowly, deliberately, as if each word had weight. “Two months ago.” Her voice faltered. “We-we talked—” she choked up a bit on the rain and the tremor of her breath,” there was no fight, no screaming. She knew. I couldn’t keep pretending for both of us. I left because I couldn’t keep holding myself back from being honest with you.”

You shook your head, disbelief clinging to you like the rain on your skin. “You didn’t say anything. You didn’t even delete the posts—”

“We still have a few sponsored posts to finish,” she said quickly, her voice almost tripping over itself. “So yes, online it looks the same. But it’s over. Completely over”

“You’re asking me to undo years of work,” you said, quieter now, the fight in your voice fraying at the edges. Your shoulders slumped, and despite yourself, there was a small flicker of something dangerous in your chest—hope.

Abby’s hands slid from your shoulders to your arms, slowly reaching for your hands and holding them in hers. Her voice trembled, her eyes locked on yours as though you might vanish if she looked away. “I couldn’t lose you again. Not without telling you the truth. Because every moment we spent apart, every text left unanswered, every laugh we didn’t share… I felt it. And it killed me. I can’t keep pretending anymore—pretending that I’m okay with just being friends, or that these feelings don’t exist.” Her voice cracked, the last words spilling out with raw honesty. “I want more. I want you.”

You wanted to be strong, to tell her that you were still angry at her, that you needed time, your chest was a battlefield of resentment and longing. The stubborn part of you wanted to keep fighting. But the rest of you—the part she’d always had—couldn’t wait another second. You both had spent too much time apart already. 

“You really mean it?” you asked, voice a bit shaken up and soft, almost lost in the rain. 

“I do. I don't know when it happened, when it changed, but it did. And it hasn’t stopped growing ever since. I loved you for what felt like years. And I hope to love for as long as you’ll let me.” She confessed, the rawness in her voice and the love and hope in her soft features letting you know what truly lied in her heart. 

You shook your head slightly, a slow smile curving your lips, as your hands lifted to cup the sides of her face, steady and sure. “You’re impossible,” you whispered, voice thick with everything you’d held back.

You reached up, closing the small gap between you, and kissed her first. The kiss was slow to start, almost teasing, your mouths moving gently at first as if reacquainting themselves after too long apart. Rainwater mixed between your lips, cool and real, mingling with the warmth of the moment.

Her fingers found the edge of your hoodie, curling around the fabric with tentative strength. At first, the grip was gentle, almost hesitant, but then her hands tightened, pulling you closer with a growing insistence. They slid down, tracing your sides, finding your hips, drawing you in until your bodies pressed firmly together, heat blossoming between the chill of the rain. The world around you blurred, the storm fading into a distant hum.

The kiss deepened almost instantly, shifting from tentative to urgent like a dam breaking after years of pressure. Your lips parted slightly, seeking and yielding, as if every second apart had been a slow burn building to this moment of release. Breath hitched in both your chests, shallow and uneven, caught somewhere between surprise and desperate need.

Your mouths moved in a rhythm both frantic and somehow familiar, tracing silent confessions with every touch. The world around you blurred—time slowed and stretched, folding inward until nothing existed beyond the heat of her breath mingling with yours, the quickening beat of your heart against her pulse.

The hunger between you rose like a tide, relentless and overwhelming, pulling you deeper, faster. Fingers twined through hair, palms pressed with desperate intent, as if trying to memorize every curve, every inch of skin beneath the rain’s cold kiss.

Every hesitation was swept away in that fierce tide of longing, replaced by a raw, all-consuming need that made the air electric and your senses sharp to every brush of lips, every soft gasp swallowed into the storm. The kiss was no longer just a meeting of mouths—it was a claim, a surrender, a promise whispered without words, urgent and infinite.

And still, even as the hunger surged, there was a tenderness beneath the fire—a softness that anchored the fierce desire, reminding you both that this was more than physical. This was the reclaiming of something precious, something that had waited too long to be touched.

She kissed you with the weight of everything she’d held inside — longing, hope, fear, and love — and you kissed her back with equal ferocity, letting the fierce need simmering beneath the surface finally break free.

When you finally pulled apart, your foreheads rested together, breaths heavy and mingling in the rain’s steady fall. For a long moment, you simply held each other, suspended in that fragile space between what was and what could be. 

“I told you,” she murmured, a faint, breathless smile playing on her lips. “Not messing with you.” You laughed softly, still catching your breath, the sound shaky but real. Her eyes glinted, and before you could say more, she kissed you again—slower this time, like she had all the time in the world.

She stepped back just enough to meet your eyes — those beautiful, beautiful eyes. “You’re perfect,” she said softly, voice thick with emotion. “No, perfect doesn’t even do you justice — even when you’re wrong or make mistakes, you’re like a gift from the gods.”

Her hands lingered on your face, warm against the cold rain, and you both stood there, the storm around you fading into something quieter — something only the two of you could feel.

She smiled softly, her voice tender against the steady rain. “Loving you feels like breathing — effortless, essential, and something I never want to stop.”

Her words wrapped around you like a warm blanket, grounding you in the moment, in her — in everything that had been waiting to be said.

By the time you made it back up to Abby’s apartment, your clothes were plastered to your skin, shoes squelching against the hardwood floor. You should’ve cared about the mess, but all you could focus on was the heat still thrumming in your veins from the kiss.

Abby disappeared into her bedroom for a moment and returned carrying a towel, an oversized hoodie, and soft pants that looked more like a cocoon than clothing. She held them out to you with a shy smile, her eyes softer now, almost vulnerable.

“Here,” she said gently, her voice barely louder than the rain tapping against the windows. You peeled off the heavy, drenched clothes you’d been wearing, dropping them in a tangled heap on the floor. The shower was hot and brief, but you lingered just long enough to feel the warmth seep into your skin, letting the hot water wash away the cold rain—and a little of the tension inside you. While waiting for the conditioner to set, your eyes caught the labels on the bottles, a small attempt to distract yourself from the whirlwind of what had just happened between you two.

When you finally stepped out, wrapped in the towel Abby had given you, the faint scent of pine and fresh laundry lingered in the air. Sliding into the hoodie and pants, it felt like wrapping yourself in Abby herself—her shampoo, the scent of her detergent, something warm and grounding that was uniquely hers.

You emerged from the bathroom, a soft steam trailing behind you like a whisper, your skin still tingling. Abby had changed, too—wearing something similar to what she’d given you, cozy and casual. The fireplace crackled gently, casting a golden glow that softened her features as she stood propped up in front of it, soaking in the heat.

She glanced toward you as you turned the corner, her eyes catching yours and holding them. You settled cross-legged on the couch, and she slid in beside you, her damp hair falling softly over the towel draped on her shoulders. The silence stretched comfortably between you, filled only by the quiet roar of the fire.

After a moment, she leaned forward, elbows on her knees, fingers clasped tightly as if gathering courage. Her voice was low, sincere, and steady. “I wasn’t kidding out there,” she said, her eyes searching yours with that same intensity you’d seen in the rain. “I want this… whatever this is. I want you to know I’m in it. Not halfway. Not hiding.”

You smiled softly, a quiet nod the only answer you gave. “Okay.” The single word felt full of trust—because it was Abby, and you knew she meant every ounce of it. Abby smiled and let her eyes linger on you for a beat longer.

The sight of you in her clothes, freshly showered and smelling of her soap, and in her house was really doing something to her. 

Her fingers moved slowly, tracing small, feather-light circles on your knee—part absent-minded, part focused entirely on you. Your gaze dropped to her hand, warm against your skin, before your eyes lifted again, meeting hers through your lashes. Your gaze kept traveling, pausing on her lips for a moment and then back at her eyes again. 

Slowly, she shifted closer, the space between your bodies melting away until her warmth brushed against your arm. The world narrowed until all you could hear was the subtle rhythm of your breaths syncing, the crackle of the fire filling the silence like a pulse.

Her eyes dropped to your lips, then back to your eyes, as if silently asking permission. You didn’t need to speak — your nod was barely a whisper, but it was enough.

Her lips met yours with a feather-light touch—soft, hesitant, almost shy. It was a question without words, an invitation wrapped in the gentlest kiss you’d ever felt, asking if you were ready to cross that line, to dive into whatever this was together.

You responded without thinking, your heart racing as you matched her softness, letting the kiss speak for the thousand emotions tangled beneath the surface.

The world around you blurred, the firelight flickering in time with the steady beat of your heart. Every nerve ending seemed alive, tuned to the subtle shift in her touch, the way her hands hovered, waiting for your permission to close the distance further.

And then, just as the kiss threatened to break apart, a spark ignited—a slow heat blossomed from that delicate beginning, growing more urgent, more insistent. Her lips deepened their hold, pressing firmly now, her fingers threading through your hair with a hunger that made your breath hitch. The gentle question became a promise, the soft invitation turned fierce confession.

You melted into her, matching the passion she offered, losing yourself in the delicious rush of finally, finally giving in.

The kiss deepened with every heartbeat, the softness giving way to an urgent fire that blazed between you. Her hands slid from your hair down to your neck, fingers curling with a possessive heat that sent shivers cascading through your spine. You responded instinctively, your own arms wrapping around her back, pulling her impossibly closer as if trying to erase every last millimeter between your bodies. 

Her lips moved with a fervor that was both desperate and reverent, as though each kiss was a vow made in silence. Your hands traced the curve of her back, memorizing the hardness of her muscles beneath your fingertips, the unsteady rise and fall of her breath that matched your own ragged rhythm. Every touch, every sigh, was a thread weaving you tighter together.

Slowly, Abby guided you backward until you were resting on the armrest of the couch, the worn fabric a bit rough against your skin. Without hesitation, you parted your legs instinctively, making space for her to settle between them. She moved quickly and mindlessly into place, your thighs wrapping around her, holding her firmly yet tenderly in place.

Her lips left yours, trailing a slow, tantalizing path down to your jaw, teasing the sensitive skin with gentle nibbles and soft kisses. Then, she found your neck, her mouth pressing against your skin, almost without noticing, leaving a small hickey—a mark of the moment, a silent claim. You arched your back just slightly, a soft gasp escaping your lips as the sensation sent ripples of warmth through you.

Her voice dropped to a husky whisper, thick with want and barely restrained passion. It was rougher now—deeper, layered with the kind of raw desire that sent a shiver straight through you. She pulled back just enough to let her lips brush against your ear, her breath warm and teasing against your skin. “Wanna keep going?” she murmured, each word deliberate and slow.

You responded with a low hum, nodding, surrendering completely as you lay back down against the armrest, your body open and vulnerable to her. She pulled away from your neck and looked down into your eyes, her gaze soft but intense, filled with something more than want—it was need. 

The tension between you built quickly, thickening with each breath and every slow, heated movement. Her lips found yours again, softer at first, teasing and slow, but that delicate touch was a prelude to the storm beneath—growing, urgent, and impossible to resist. The kiss deepened, tongues intertwining, the air electric with the kind of passion that’s been simmering beneath the surface for far too long.

You lost yourself in the sensation, every nerve alight, every thought narrowing down to the taste of her mouth, the press of her body, the heat radiating through your skin. Her whisper lingered in your ear, a constant, breathy invitation that pulled you both deeper into a moment you’d been waiting for but never dared to hope would come.

And so you answered—not just with a word, but with everything you were, letting yourself fall into her, into the desire, into the possibility of something wild and beautiful just beginning to ignite between you.

The sun was already rising when you both fell asleep, the first rays of soft pink light spilling through the curtains and casting warm patterns across the room. The quiet hum of the city waking up seeped through the slightly cracked window, but inside Abby’s apartment, time seemed to slow down to a gentle pulse.

After a couple of hours, you woke up tangled in the soft cream sheets of Abby’s bed, the whole room smelling of her, with a soft note of late-night passion. Your body felt warm and calm, the ache of yesterday’s tension now replaced by a bit of soreness and comforting softness.

Abby lay beside you, her breathing slow and even, her hair splayed out messily on the pillow. For a moment, you just watched her—tracing the curve of her cheek, the way the early afternoon light caught the delicate freckles near her nose. Something about the quiet intimacy made your chest tighten with a mix of awe and tenderness.

Careful not to wake her, you shifted closer, letting your head rest lightly on her bicep, your hand tracing patterns on her chest. The subtle rise and fall of her breath beneath your fingertips was a gentle reminder of everything that had shifted between you, the unspoken promise of what might come next.

Eventually, Abby stirred, eyes fluttering open to meet yours. There was a sleepy smile there, soft and real, and it made your heart skip. “Morning,” she murmured, voice thick with sleep but warm.

“Morning,” you answered, voice just as quiet, but full of everything you felt and couldn’t say.

The air between you was easy, charged but comfortable—like the space where new beginnings live. She reached for your hand, lacing her fingers through yours, grounding you in the here and now. For the first time in a long while, it felt like maybe, just maybe, you were exactly where you were meant to be.

“You are insane,” you said, your face contorting in a mix of disbelief and mild disgust as you reached for another can of tomato sauce from the grocery shelf. The bright red label felt almost mocking in your hand as you glanced over at Abby, who was busy selecting a box of pasta with a playful grin tugging at her lips.

She looked up and shrugged, as if daring you to challenge her. “Hey, you have your own weird combos too,” she said, trying to defend herself with that cheeky smile you couldn’t help but love.

You shook your head, the image making you shiver dramatically. “Yeah, but milk chocolate with ketchup? That’s just vile.” You crinkled your nose, feeling the strange mental image linger a little too long.

Abby laughed, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “I was five!” she said, waving her hands like a true expert, trying to justify a questionable childhood choice. You rolled your eyes and dropped the can into the cart with a soft thud, still shaking your head in mock disapproval. She chose your favorite pasta box and dropped by the can, pulling the cart onto the next aisle. 

“Are we out of tide pods?” Abby asked, holding up a fresh box of the new, supposedly improved laundry detergent pods, her tone half-joking but with a hint of genuine curiosity. She squinted at the colorful packaging like it was some kind of puzzle she needed to solve. You glanced over, dish soap in hand, an amused smirk spreading across your face. “Yeah, I think the last batch mysteriously disappeared sometime last week,” you said, letting the words hang between you like a playful accusation.

Abby raised an eyebrow, narrowing her eyes as if trying to interrogate you through sheer willpower. “Mysteriously, huh? You don’t mean to tell me you’ve been sneaking in extra pods  to our every load, do you?” There was that familiar teasing edge in her voice, the kind that only came from someone who knew you way too well.

You laughed, shaking your head. “Maybe. But come on, those pods smell sooo good. I’m just trying to keep our clothes smelling fresh.” The little defense was half-serious — you knew she appreciated the fact that her clothes smelled clean, and if having to buy an extra box, both of you were happy, then so be it. 

Between the shelves and the fluorescent hum, the conversation wove through tiny domestic rituals—it was ridiculous and tender all at once: the language of people who had kept each other through late-night shoots, weird childhood food confessions, and rain-soaked confessions. 

When you tossed the Tide Pods into the cart, you looped your arm through hers and nudged her toward the checkout. Living together had become this—small negotiations, shared secrets, and a steady stream of little compromises that, somehow, made the whole living-thing feel impossible to imagine without the other.

Hii!! Part 3 is here — the finale! ✨ I hope it wraps everything up in a way that feels just right. It turned out a bit 🤏🏻 longer than expected hehe I can’t even begin to thank you all enough for the love and support throughout this whole story. You’ve honestly made this journey so much more special than I ever dreamed. Thank you, thank you, thank youuu from the bottom of my heart!! ♡💖🌟

part 1 | part 2 | part 3

A behind-the-scenes story about two co-stars, a slow-burn connection, and the things left unsaid.

Cw: slow burn, emotional intimacy, mutual care, quiet yearning, ambiguous longing, actor!reader, co-star romance, internalized feelings, soft angst.

Word Count: 2.6k

Abby's POV

Filming was brutal in the way only great projects are. Sleep-deprived, bone-deep exhaustion. Call times at 4 AM and wrap at 2 AM the next day. Blood-stained costumes stiff with dried fake gore. She didn't like blood—funny considering the role she auditioned for. Countless hours of running through forests in the dark, falling into cold mud for the sixth take in a row, muscles sore and bodies bruised. 

When you’re that tired and that close for that long, boundaries start to blur. People get under your skin—in ways you don’t always realize until it’s too late.

You were just another castmate at first. A talented one. Quiet, in that watchful kind of way. It was your first big job, and she could see the way you carried yourself—all nerves and ambition, eyes flicking around the table read like you were trying to prove you belonged.

You did. 

And when you stumbled over a line—tongue tripping, face flushing—She felt something shift in her. It wasn’t pity. It was something quieter, sharper. Recognition, maybe. She knew that feeling too well: the burn of wanting to prove yourself, of needing to be perfect, when your hands won’t stop shaking.

She watched you tuck yourself into silence after that. Shoulders small, eyes down, lips pressed tight like you were trying to disappear into the script.

And she remembered thinking: God, I’ve been there. That exact moment, that exact panic. The way you looked around, like you were waiting for someone to roll their eyes.

No one did. Joel made a light joke, and someone else smiled at you. The room moved on.

But Abby didn’t.

She kept glancing at you when she should’ve been focused on the scene—catching how your fingers tapped the table, how you underlined notes like you were trying to anchor yourself.

So after they wrapped, she walked over as you were gathering your things—shoulders hunched like you were trying to disappear—and she said:

“Want to run lines later? Just us?”

You looked up, eyes wide and eyebrows scrunched upwards. Surprised. Relieved even. Like the ground had stopped shifting under your feet for the first time that day. 

That look stayed with her longer than it should have.

You both tended to be near each other. If someone was looking for Abby, it was easier to find you—and know she wouldn’t be far. Sharing a water bottle. Laughing at something only the two of you would understand.

Abby never thought much of it. At least not consciously.

But then came the night shoots—the endless sprints through overgrown forests and crumbling city sets, the air thick with fog and the groans of the infected echoing in her ears. And always, you. Sometimes collapsed beside her in the dirt, catching your breath. Sometimes, resting your head on her shoulder between takes, your warmth seeping through the layers of rain-soaked fabric.

Somewhere in the haze of exhaustion and adrenaline and forced intimacy, you stopped feeling like just a co-star.

You became the place her eyes landed first in every room. The laugh she listened for in between shots. The one person who could calm her down when the day had stretched too long and her skin felt too tight to breathe.

It was just… comfortable. Easy. Natural. And on a set like this—muddy, bloody, exhausting—you clung to whatever bits of comfort you could find.

She chalked it up to chemistry. To the roles. Your characters were enemies turned allies turned lovers. It made sense that something of that dynamic would bleed into real life. That’s how acting worked sometimes, right?

But the truth—though she didn’t dare say it, didn’t even fully register it yet—was that her guard was down with you in a way it hadn’t been in years.

She noticed your presence like a shift in gravity. Found herself waiting for your laugh in group conversations. Felt oddly restless when you weren’t on set. Caught herself looking for your reaction when the director gave her praise, like it wouldn’t matter unless you heard it too. 

She told herself it was nothing. Just a good working relationship. Trust. Familiarity.

But instincts don’t lie.

The way her hand brushed yours when you passed her a prop. The way she lingered in the makeup trailer after you walked in, even if she was done. The way she laughed too hard at your jokes, looked too long during close-ups, smiled too easily when you were around.

None of it made sense to her—not yet.

The apartment was quiet except for the low hum of the city through the windows and the soft clink of a spoon in a tea mug.

Isla was curled on the couch, legs tucked under a blanket, a candle flickering beside her and the scent of vanilla and chamomile filling the place. She looked beautiful—always did. Soft makeup, glossy hair, matching lounge set.

Like something from a magazine spread about cozy nights in.

Abby dropped her bag by the door, toeing off her boots. Her clothes still smelled faintly like smoke from the night shoot.

“Hey,” Isla said without looking up, phone in hand. “How was it?”

Abby shrugged, walking over to the kitchen. “Long. Wet. Cold.”

She pulled a water bottle from the fridge and leaned against the counter. Her phone buzzed in her pocket.

She knew what it was before checking—your name lighting up her screen in a tag. Someone had posted a candid shot from set. You, laughing, muddy, eyes scrunched from the sun, hand stretched out in an attempt to cover it. She was beside you in the photo, looking —not the camera— but at you.

The comments were already filling in. “Why does Abby look at her like that?? 😭” “They’re so married it’s insane.” 

She sighed, trying her best to ignore how her heart beat sped up for a second, and set her phone down.

“You could’ve texted,” Isla said without looking up, stirring honey into her chamomile like it was the most important task in the world. “It’s not that hard.”

Abby exhaled, slow. “We wrapped late. I forgot.”

“You always forget.”

It wasn’t shouted. Wasn’t said with venom. Just stated plainly, like she was pointing out the weather. That almost made it worse.

Abby rubbed at the back of her neck. “It’s been a rough week on set.”

“It’s always a rough week.” Isla finally looked at her, but her eyes weren’t angry. Just tired. Familiar. Like this exact exchange had been recycled a dozen times. Abby looked away, jaw tight. She knew this wasn’t really about the text.

She wanted to argue. To say that Isla was wrong. That things were fine. That this—they—still meant something.

But she couldn’t bring herself to say it.

Because it wasn’t about love anymore. Hadn’t been for a while.

It was routine. Comfort. A relationship held together by red carpet photos, matching press appearances, shared plants, and the kind of history that made breaking up feel more exhausting than staying.

“I should shower,” Abby said, voice quiet.

Isla didn’t stop her.

The hotel conference room is bathed in artificial light—warm, flattering, a little too perfect. You’re both seated side by side in matching chairs, mics clipped to your collars, the whole cast lined up next to you. There’s a quiet hum of crew movement behind the camera, but the world feels narrowed to the small stage all of you share.

The interviewer glances at their notepad, smiling, and then looks up at the group. “What did playing this role teach you about yourself?”

You shift slightly, eyes flicking toward Abby for the briefest second before you answer. She’s sitting with one ankle propped on her knee, hand on her thigh, relaxed in a way that you’ve always admired—like nothing ever touches her too deeply.

Your voice is softer than usual when you speak.

“Honestly… I didn’t expect to relate to her the way I did.” You pause, choosing your words carefully. “She wasn’t written to stand out. Not at first. But the more I played her, the more I realized there was so much underneath—so much pain and strength that no one else seemed to notice. And maybe that hit close to home.”

You glance down, fidgeting slightly. “I think I poured more of myself into her than I meant to. So when people started connecting with her… it felt like they were seeing a part of me I don’t usually show. That was scary. But it also made me feel… seen. In a way I didn’t know I needed.”

Abby turns to you before she even realizes it, her head tilting slightly. There’s something raw in your tone—vulnerable in a way cameras don’t usually catch.

And something in her shifts.

Her fingers twitch slightly where they rest. She thinks about the table reads. The way your pen always hovered, like you were afraid to write the wrong thing. She remembers the look on your face after your first major scene—when you’d nailed it, even though your hands wouldn’t stop shaking afterward.

She forgets about the next question entirely. Her eyes are still on you, and she’s not sure how long it’s been. Seconds, maybe. Long enough that when she finally forces herself to blink and look forward again, the interviewer is already asking someone else a new question. Abby smiles politely and nods, pretending to listen, but her heart is thudding in her chest like she just missed a turn she wasn’t supposed to take.

She doesn’t realize the clip will go viral until a fan account posts it later that night, zoomed in, captioned: “Tell me this isn’t the look of someone falling in love.”

And they’d be right.

The after-party is everything it’s supposed to be: glittering, loud, packed with famous people pretending to know everyone around them. The venue smells like expensive perfume and overpriced champagne. Abby’s standing near the bar, sipping a watered-down cocktail, Isla somewhere across the room.

She doesn’t see you enter—she feels it. Some instinct draws her gaze toward the door, and then you’re there.

Hair swept back, lips a deep red, wearing something that hugs you just right. You’ve worn beautiful things before—she’s seen you on red carpets, in full costume for Halloween, in clubbing outfits. But this is different.

You’re still you, still a little awkward, tugging at your sleeves as your eyes scan the room—but you shine like someone who finally knows their own worth.

It hits her in the gut.

You spot her and smile—wide, unfiltered—and head her way. Abby sets her glass down, clears her throat, straightens up slightly without realizing it.

“You look...” She doesn’t finish. Can’t.

“Thanks,” you say, barely phased, focused on how your feet were already starting to hurt from the stiletto heels you were wearing. You slipped your arm through hers with the same ease as always, looking around to find your friends but she barely looks. Because your skin is warm against her, and you’re still holding on, and for one dizzying second, she doesn’t want to be anywhere else. Abby caught a wiff of your perfume, same as Isla’s.

Isla. Right.

She shakes her head, turning her face slightly to locate her girlfriend as you lead her toward the rest of the cast, laughing about something she only half-hears. But her heart is still in her throat.

And this time, she doesn’t try to swallow it down.

She might be new to the show, but she wasn't new to the spotlight. She knew how this world worked and what the trials and tribulations were supposed to be. She’d survived scandals and rumors and bad scripts. 

But she didn't expect this. She didn't expect you—this constant bubble of joy, excitement, and a little bit of anxiety. You were new to this form of life, always having to perform, putting on the character of an apocalypse survivor or a perfect actress, perfectly media-press trained and picture-ready. 

That made the real you even more precious to her. Getting to see the core of your being, the one reserved for old friends and family. Getting to know your wishes and goals in life, and wanting to be by your side as you accomplish them. 

As a friend, of course. 

Abby looked at her girlfriend resting peacefully by her side, unaware of the turmoil happening deep within her. She turned off her phone, your latest ig post disappearing from her screen, and turned to face the girl sleeping in her bed. 

She remembered the look you gave her on that red carpet, of the way your smile hadn’t reached your eyes, said eyes slightly duller than normal. Those usually bright and cheery gorgeous eyes now devoided of their warmth. 

She could feel you slipping away, cutting conversations short, the distance growing wider each week. She didn't know why you were shutting yourself down, but she couldn't stand it. She grew so used to your constant texts, to your weekly hangouts, to seeing you every day on set.

There was a you-shaped hole in her heart, and after weeks apart, Abby finally understood what it was. It wasn't just about missing your presence—though she did, constantly. It was the quiet absence of you in places you used to fill so effortlessly. The way her phone felt heavier without your messages. The way a joke didn’t land the same when you weren’t there to hear it. It was in the stillness of her apartment at night, the silence that used to be filled with your voice on speakerphone, talking about nothing and everything. She hadn’t realized just how much space you took up in her life—until you were gone.

She didn’t even know when it started. When admiration became attention, and attention turned into something warmer, more intimate. She couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment friendship had begun to shift into something messier, more complicated, more real. Maybe it was when she first saw you cry on set—quietly, in a corner after a particularly hard scene—and she felt something in her chest twist. Maybe it was when your laugh started to feel like a reward. Or when she caught herself caring more about your reaction to her performance than the director’s. It didn’t happen all at once. It crept in slowly. A glance held too long. A hand brushed by accident. A smile saved just for you. And by the time she realized what it was, it was already too late to pretend it wasn’t happening.

That’s when it became a problem. When every moment she spent with Isla began to feel like a comparison she didn’t want to make but couldn’t stop herself from making. Isla, who was safe. Familiar. Beautiful and kind in all the right ways.

And yet, Abby found herself looking for pieces of you in her, and never finding them. She started to imagine what mornings would look like with you instead—how your hair would fall across your face, how your voice would sound groggy and soft. She pictured holidays filled with clumsy decorations and shared traditions you’d build from scratch. She imagined the way you'd sing under your breath without realizing, how you'd read aloud from a book just because she asked you to. And then sometimes—when she let herself—she imagined your voice breathless and close, imagined what it would feel like to be wanted by you, to have all of you, without guilt or hesitation. And every time she let those thoughts take hold, her chest tightened with equal parts longing and shame.

Because she had built something with Isla. She wasn’t the kind of person who broke things just because something shinier came along. But this didn’t feel like a crush. It didn’t feel fleeting. It felt like gravity. Like a pull she had no control over. And maybe she didn’t even want control anymore. Because the more she tried to push it down, the stronger it grew. The more distance you put between yourselves, the more she felt your absence like a bruise. And no matter how she tried to rationalize it, you weren’t just a co-star. You weren’t just a friend. You were you. The person who had carved their way in without even meaning to. Who made her laugh when everything else felt like too much. Who looked at her like she was more than the roles she played.

She didn’t know what she was going to do. She didn’t have a plan, or a speech, or even the courage to say the truth out loud. Not yet. But she knew she had to do something. Because whatever this was—it wasn’t going away. It was living in her, growing louder every day you weren’t there.

Because some people don’t just get under your skin. They carve themselves into your ribs and stay there, no matter how hard you try to keep breathing around them.

And Abby was starting to realize—she didn’t want to breathe without you anymore.

Hii!! Here’s Part 2—hope you love it!! ♡ I’m seriously so grateful for all of you. The support you’ve given me means more than I could’ve ever imagined. Thank you thank you thank youuu!! ✨💖

Taglist(?: @grotesquevi @lipglosskxsses @heartlexs @justanotherabbystan @lia-winther

part 1 | part 2 | part 3

A behind-the-scenes story about two co-stars, a slow-burn connection, and the things left unsaid.

Cw: slow burn, emotional intimacy, mutual care, quiet yearning, ambiguous longing, actor!reader, co-star romance, internalized feelings, soft angst.

Word count: 2.6k

The filming process is an intense and tiring one. People get closer than you would expect. There’s no real space for distance—not when you’re spending hours, days, and months together in the same blood-stained costumes, crawling through fake mud, and sprinting from choreographed hordes of the infected. The schedule is relentless. Call times at 4 AM or even 11 PM to get the perfect shots. From the first warm, buzzing hours of morning, to the hollow, delicate quiet of night, where voices soften and glances linger longer than they should.

So it’s no surprise to anyone that you and Abby, your co-star, grow close. A bond forming not with grand gestures, but in the in-between moments: in the makeup trailer where she hands you a granola bar without being asked, during downtime where you're both slumped over a couch flipping through lines, or wrapped in thick coats during late-night pickups in freezing woods. A friendship blooming gently between takes, stitched together with jokes, inside references, and quiet companionship.

During late-night rehearsals, huddled under scratchy set blankets, reciting lines like whispered secrets. Between takes, when she pulls a fake blood smear off your cheek with the sleeve of her hoodie and grins like it’s normal.

She’s always been kind to you, right from the first table read. You remember how that day had felt — fluorescent lights, coffee gone cold, nerves tangled tight in your chest. You remember the first table read—stale coffee, scribbled notes, nerves curled tight in your chest like wire. It was your first big job. The first time your name was printed on a call sheet next to actors you’d watched on screen, in a show people were actually anticipating. You wanted to be good. You needed to be good.

Everyone sat around the long table flipping pages, already slipping into character. You were halfway through your second scene when you stumbled—your tongue catching, a word mangled in your mouth. You laughed nervously, trying to recover, your cheeks burning.

But no one rolled their eyes. No one sighed or looked away. One of the older actors, Joel,  gave you a reassuring nod. Someone else made a light joke to ease the moment. The room softened. The cast—so much more seasoned than you—met your mistake with kindness, and you held on to that.

Still, later, as you gathered your script and tried to disappear into the background, Abby approached you with that soft confidence of hers.

“Want to run lines later, just us?”

You nodded, surprised—and relieved. Her smile lingered as she walked away, and you found yourself wondering what her real laugh sounded like. Not the polite one. The one she'd use when no one else was around.

You’d spent the whole day shooting a chaotic chase—running from stunt actors in torn makeup and prosthetics, tumbling down snowy hills, slipping and swearing and laughing through it. By the time the director called cut, you could barely feel your hands.

Someone tossed you both a blanket. Abby didn’t hesitate to pull it over your shoulders, scooting closer. She handed you her coffee. You sat there, shoulder to shoulder, steam curling between your faces, watching crew members adjust lighting.

Neither of you said anything. You didn’t need to.

You were choreographing a heated argument for Episode 5 — the big turning point for your characters. The fake meeting room was echoey and too bright, the stunt coordinator running through blocking while the director hovered nearby with script notes. Abby’s voice rang out, sharp and electric. You answered, stepping toward her with a force that surprised even you. Her eyes locked with yours—angry, wild, alive. You open your mouth to keep arguing, but no sound came out.

You’d forgotten the next line, vanished from your head.

The silence was deafening.

The stunt coordinator cleared their throat. You blinked. Abby blinked. You both laughed it off. But something had cracked open. A tension neither of you had admitted yet. A moment that shouldn’t have meant anything… but did.

And then, of course, there were the kisses.

Because your characters were one of the central couples. A slow-burn, enemies-to-lovers arc that had the internet foaming at the mouth, spinning wild theories, and counting glances ever since the trailer for season two dropped. It didn’t help that the writers loved to give you every cliché in the book: bandaging each other’s wounds, brushing fingertips over bruised cheeks, forbidden touches, whispered apologies. And then, the inevitable kisses.

They weren’t the fake, peck kind. Real, intense, close-up shots. They were slow, burning, intentional— the kind of scenes that ended with neither of you pulling away fast enough. Then the director would yell “Cut!” and you had to compose yourself for the next take, ignoring the fast pace of your heart and the butterflies in your stomach. 

Your characters weren't meant to be a couple from the beginning, it just kinda happened throughout the filming process. The crew saw the interactions both in screen and off and decided to add the storyline to the show. A fact that you absolutely did not lose sleep thinking about. 

They saw something. Something that maybe you didnt notice, or didn't want to notice.

A few weeks before the season finale wrapped, you did a round of interviews together. Press junkets meant long days in hotel rooms decorated with fake plants and branded posters behind you. One after another, the questions came: plot hints, favorite scenes, behind-the-scenes stories. You answered with practiced ease, laughing at the same jokes you’d already heard in three other interviews that morning.

But then a new interviewer leaned forward, smiling with real curiosity.

“So—what’s it like filming The Last of Us? The tone is so intense. How do you carry that around day to day?”

You started to answer, talking about the hours of emotional prep, the physical exhaustion of action scenes, the night shoots. But the interviewer cut in again, gently:

“And how is your dynamic in real life… What’s the hardest part about playing enemies when you're clearly besties off camera?”

Abby nearly choked on her water. You both laughed— hers easy, yours a little forced.

“That’s a very generous assumption,” you joked, looking at her through the side of your eye.

Abby leaned forward toward the mic, still smiling. “No, but seriously—it’s hard sometimes. I have to scream at this one,” she gestured to you, “and meanwhile, she’s giving me puppy eyes. It’s unfair.”

“Puppy eyes?” you echoed, mock offended. You laugh, shaking your head slightly, now looking at the interviewer, continuing to talk. “ We spent a lot of time together, on set and off. We had seen each other laugh, and we have seen each other cry. “

“Especially you” Abby interrupted.  “Yeah especially me” you said rolling your eyes. You looked at Abby, the beginning of a grin tugging at your mouth. “I think we just got lucky. We clicked early, and it made everything easier.“ Abby nodded. “Yeah. It helped that we took care of each other, I think. Especially on the hard days.” 

After a beat, she turned to you, eyes soft but playful. “It’s weird to pretend to hate you.”She said, tilting her head towards you, her voice a bit more serious all of a sudden, but subtle enough that to the average person wouldnt notice. 

The interviewer laughed, scribbling something on their notepad. But you could feel something in the room shift—just a little. A breath longer than usual between you. A glance that lingered. You smiled down at your lap, hoping the cameras didn’t pick up the heat rising in your cheeks.

Abby was still looking at you when the next question started.

You didn’t realize it at first. Not until a month into the press tour.

You were sitting cross-legged on the floor beside her, the both of you surrounded by wriggling puppies. A bright blue backdrop was rolled out behind you, stretching beneath your shoes and under the soft chaos of fur and tails. Behind the camera, the crew chuckled quietly while the interviewer asked the same recycled questions—your characters, the storyline, your “off-screen dynamic.”

It should have been like any other shoot. But it wasn’t.

Maybe it was the way the light hit her hair, turning it to liquid gold as it spilled over her shoulders. Maybe it was the way your knees kept bumping and neither of you moved away. Maybe it was just the chemical high of being surrounded by small creatures with tiny tongues and too-big ears.Or maybe it was what she said.

She was talking about the show—about the world-building, the weight of grief and survival, the emotional arc of your characters. And she spoke with so much clarity, so much love for the work itself, that it stunned you. Her eyes lit up when she got excited, and she gestured with her hands in these sharp, specific ways, like she was building something real in the air between you.

And as you listened, something inside you shifted.

Because it wasn’t just the beauty of her smile, or the sparks from your every shared glance.

It was admiration. Deep-rooted, overwhelming admiration. You were in awe of her—of the way she thought, the way she cared, the way she saw the world.

And somewhere in the middle of her laugh—her real laugh, the one she only used off-script—you felt it settle into your chest.

A truth you hadn’t let yourself name until now. You were in love with her. With the one person who knew you in ways no one else ever had.

The next few weeks blurred by in a haze of cameras, airports, interviews, hotel rooms, and restraint. You tried not to think about it, tried to bury it.

You told yourself all the reasons you shouldn’t feel this way. You worked together. You spent nearly every waking hour in each other’s space. Every glance, every joke, every shift in body language was being recorded, replayed, dissected online. You had seen the compilations fans made of your every interaction, zooming in the eyes and hands during press tours and behind the scenes leaks. Everything you shared was already under a spotlight.

You couldn’t risk it—not the show, not your friendship, not the fragile, sacred thing that had grown between you. Because if you said something, and she didn’t feel the same— or worse, if she did and it all went wrong— you’d lose her.

That’s what your brain told you—stern, logical, insistent.

But your heart? Your heart didn’t care.

It painted pictures behind your eyes when you weren’t looking. A life with her. Days spent traveling. Nights curled together on a too-small couch. Lazy mornings. Grocery runs. Her head on your shoulder while folding laundry. Mundane things that, with her, felt like magic.

You smiled. You laughed. You answered the same press questions with the same lighthearted rhythm. And all the while, you loved her in silence.

Carefully. Hopelessly. Constantly.

Because she was the closest thing to home you’d ever found— and you couldn’t bear to risk losing her just to find out if she felt it too.

You were completely, hopelessly screwed.

After that day, something in you began to shift. Not all at once. Nothing dramatic. Just small things—subtle acts of self-preservation.

You started keeping a little more distance. Leaning a little less when you sat beside her. Laughing without looking too long. Letting the space between your bodies stretch further than before.

You told yourself it was for the best. Because now, everything felt heightened. Every moment alone with her was laced with tension. Every smile from her made your chest ache in ways you couldn’t explain. You began to dread the softness in her voice when she said your name, because your body heard it as something it wasn’t allowed to be.

So you pulled away. Carefully. Quietly. Hoping she wouldn’t notice.

But Abby noticed.

At first, it was confusion in her expression—tilting her head at you when you ended conversations too soon, when you excused yourself from dinners with the cast, when you sat one chair farther than usual in interviews. You caught her watching you more often, brow furrowed like she was trying to solve a puzzle she hadn’t meant to find.

One night, after a long day of press, she knocked on your hotel door holding two cups of coffee and a movie queued up on her phone. Like old times.You hesitated before opening the door. And when she handed you the cup, you didn’t let your fingers brush hers like you used to.

She noticed that too.

She didn't say anything—not then. Just curled up on the opposite side of the bed, eyes flickering between the screen and your profile in the glow of the hotel lamp. But the silence between you had changed. It wasn’t the comfortable kind anymore. It was full of things unsaid.

You wanted to tell her the truth. That you were pulling away not because you cared less—but because you cared too much. That being around her was starting to hurt. That every small thing she did—every laugh, every spark of passion when she talked about your work—was undoing you.

But you didn’t say it. You stayed quiet. Because loving her from a distance felt safer than losing her altogether.

And so, night after night, you played your part. You showed up to interviews, smiled for photos, answered fan questions. You nodded when someone mentioned your "great chemistry" and kept your eyes on the floor when she talked about your friendship. But still—every time she looked at you like she was trying to read a language you no longer spoke, your heart cracked a little deeper.

The blinding flashes of the cameras, everyone screaming your name to get your attention and capture the perfect picture that would get them their pay/check for that month. It's all too much, but you don't notice it this time, as your focus is set just a few feet in front of you. 

Abby, with her hair styled in a messy shag and a criminal olive green suit, was grabbing the waist of her girlfriend of two years. They look perfect together—picture-perfect. Their bodies angled just right, their smiles wide but effortless. Abby leans in to say something and her girlfriend laughs, head thrown back, fingers tightening around Abby’s.

Suddenly, your outfit feels too tight, the flashes brighter, the shouting louder, and the distance even bigger. 

But then you pulled away. You had to. You told yourself it was kindness. That distance would protect you, both of you. That silence was better than guilt, or confusion, or regret.

But standing here now, a few steps too far from where you wish you were, all you feel is the hollow echo of what you didn’t say.

You feel your heart shatter into a million pieces. You knew she had someone. They hadn't been out together in a while and their last post was over a month ago. You had kinda forgotten about her. Your mind erased her to allow your wishes and fantasies to run wild—stupid, reckless fantasies. 

You take in a deep breath and try to compose yourself, facing the cameras once more and putting on another Oscar-worthy performance, smiling and posing as if you didn't feel a knot forming in your throat, how your eyes burned, and your fingers twitched, trying to stop the little life you imagined with her from slipping away. 

Because she wasn't yours, and she never will.

Hiii! This is my first time ever writing like seriously and in English so please be kind. If you have any constructive criticism or I messed up in something, please let me know! Hope you liked it!