#danny ramirez fluff

“Tell your stomach I’m not apologizing.”

Joaquin leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, a slight pout forming just to annoy her. It didn’t work. It never did. She rolled her eyes and giggled, the teasing facade dropping instantly like it always did. He always had that effect on her.

They’d known each other since the day they were born. Literally. Same hospital. Same hallway. Their parents had been in the delivery rooms next to each other, yelling across the corridor like lunatics and placing bets on who’d be born first. Joaquin won by four minutes. He never let her forget it.

They grew up in each other’s pockets—matching scars, matching detentions, shared baby teeth in the same glass jar at Joaquin’s mom’s house back in Arizona. When one got chickenpox, the other did. When he broke his arm falling out of a tree, she cut her palm trying to climb it to help him.

She’d always been sharp-eyed and quiet, a tongue like a whip when she chose to speak. Joaquin was louder, bolder—filling up the silences she left behind like it was his calling. Where she was an edge, he was a cushion. Somehow, it worked.

And now? Now they were working for Captain freakin’ America.

“She’s been in there all day,” Sam had said earlier that evening, passing Joaquin a plate of brisket at the team dinner. “Tell her the world can wait five minutes.”

Joaquin had just nodded at Sam. He was used to it—watching her dive headfirst into a codebase like it was a battlefield. It kind of was in its own way, just ... digital.

He stepped further into the room now, leaning down beside her desk. “You’re burning out your retinas again.”

“That’s not how eyes work.”

“It is when you don’t blink for two hours.”

A corner of her mouth twitched—barely—but for him, it might as well have been a full smile. Joaquin  leaned closer, tapping the edge of the screen where a rapidly shifting schematic flickered. Glancing at her, he asked, “Is that a heat map of the facility in Latvia?”

She nodded, adjusting in her seat. She gestured towards the other rolling chair next to her and Joaquin sat next to her.

“Someone’s running dummy data across their security feeds,” she said. “It’s messy but smart. Government-level protocol, buried in low-budget noise. They’re hiding something.”

He whistled low. “You’re gonna crack it before breakfast, huh?”

“Already did, babe. Just working on how to prove it without triggering their failsafes.”

Joaquin looked at her for a long beat. Not the screens. Not the scrolling data. Just her. Hair in a messy knot, eyes rimmed with the faintest exhaustion, posture too stiff for how long she’d clearly been sitting.

“You remember that summer your dad caught us sneaking beers from the cooler at your cousin’s wedding?” he asked suddenly.

That made her blink.

“Of course,” she smiled, eyes glazing over like she was reminiscing. “You pretended to pass out so he wouldn’t yell at us.”

“Worked, didn’t it?” he grinned. “He just made me mow the lawn hungover the next morning.”

“You were so dramatic, Quino,” she exhaled, the ghost of a laugh flickering across her face. 

“You liked it.”

“I still like it… I love it.”

They stood like that for a while. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It never had been. They’d learned to speak without speaking, to communicate in glances and shifts of breath. It had confused people for years. Roommates. Coworkers. Even their instructors in basic training. Everyone always asked—Are you two together? Joaquin used to answer, “Not really.” She used to say nothing at all. 

It wasn’t until after they’d made it through basic, pinned with the same wings, dusted off and stitched up from their first real deployment, that something shifted. No big confession. No fireworks. Just one night in the barracks with the lights off, his hand finding hers under the sheet. No fanfare. Just a soft realization and quiet like it had always been there.

She stood now, stretching, her back popping. He grabbed the protein bar off her desk and tore it open, handing it to her.

“You’re gonna take a break,” he said. “Because if you code yourself into a coma, I’ll have to carry your smug, underfed ass all over Europe.”

“You always carry me,” she quipped, taking the bar with a smile.

Joaquin looked at her sharply. She didn’t say things like that out loud, not often anyway.

“Yeah,” he said, voice softer now. “And you always carry me.”

She broke the bar in half and gave him the bigger piece. Another wordless habit. Joaquin took it, chewing slowly, watching her reboot the screen so it projected onto the far wall. Schematics exploded into 3D above them, brilliant and overwhelming—but not her. She stood right in the middle of it like she was built for this.

And maybe she was. His partner. His storm. His silence. His beginning.

She caught him watching and with a mouth full she asked, “What? Why are you looking at me like that, Quino”

“Nothing,” he replied with a wide smile. “Just glad you were born.”

“You say that every year.”

“I mean it every year.”

This time, she didn’t look away. Just reached out and tugged at the hem of his shirt, fingers brushing his torso.

“I’m glad you were born too, Torres,” she muttered.

He stilled under her touch. Not because it surprised him—it didn’t. They didn’t need declarations, but when they came, they always landed like thunder: quiet from a distance, earth-shaking up close. A beat passed. Then two.

Joaquin moved first, stepping into her space like he always had—easy, unhesitant. His forehead came to rest gently against hers, and for a moment, the world outside the glass and the code and the weight of their jobs disappeared. There was only the low thrum of the city, the soft blue glow of the schematics, and the familiar rhythm of her breathing.

“Do you ever think about how weird it is?” he murmured. “That after everything—school, deployments, all the chaos—we’re still here. Still us.”

She let her eyes close, just for a second. “It’s not weird. It’s inevitable.”

He smiled again. Smaller this time. Softer.

“Inevitable,” he echoed, like he wanted to keep the word for later.

And maybe that was it. Maybe that was the whole point. They were forged in tandem: childhood, basic training, combat, code. They spoke the same language in different ways—him through warmth, her through precision. It had never been about finding their way to each other. They’d always been there.

She pulled back enough to glance at the screen behind him—still flickering, still demanding attention—but for once, she didn’t turn toward it. Instead, she turned toward him.

“Come on,” she breathed, her voice barely above a whisper. “Walk with me.”

“Where to?”

“Nowhere important.”

He nodded, already reaching for the jacket she’d forgotten was draped over the chair behind her. Held it out like he always did. They left the room side by side, the way they always had. No ceremony. No announcement. Just two people born on the same day, raised in the same dust, who had somehow, against all odds, made it through war and wires and loss—and still walked in step.

I hummed as I snuggled up to Joaquin. His warmth surrounded me in my bed, soft light illuminated us from the tv opposite the bed.

His hand brushed through my hair, I could hear his heart beat under me as I laid on his chest.

"Will you stay here tonight? Please?" I looked up at him. His curls were falling into his face as he thought.

His hands moved to hold my cheeks, his thumbs stroked my skin. "What if someone comes in?"

I leaned into his touch. "They have mission right in the morning. No one will come here, babe."

Joaquin has been my bodyguard for a while now and no one knows about us yet, so we've been sneaking around. It's not that hard since we have rooms on the same floor with the others living on different one or somewhere else.

"I don't know. What if?" He raised his eyebrows and brushed a strand of my hair behind my ears.

I shrugged my shoulders and licked my lips. His eyes automatically fell on them. "And?" I bit my bottom lip and leaned up on my arms, hovering over him.

He shook his head and grinned up at me. "You're gonna be the death of me, you know?" He pulled me closer, our noses touching.

"And why is that?"

He nudged me with his nose, his hand moved to the back of my neck before he finally kissed me.

I looked around the room while waiting for my drink at the bar. My dad threw yet another party. The bartender placed a drink in front of me. I thanked him and took a sip of it before looking to my right at Joquin who was already staring at me.

He was wearing dark dress pants and silk creamy shirt, the first few buttons were undone showing his upper chest. His curls were perfectly defined, some were falling down his face. My hands itched with desire to touch him, fell him.

My cheeks turned slightly red as he watched me. "What?" I tilted my head, trying to be intimidating.

He shrugged his shoulders and licked his lips. "You're pretty tonight." He mumbled, his cheeks mirrored mine.

I raised my eyebrows and shook my head. "What if somebody heard you?" I moved closer to him. "What would they say about my bodyguard complimenting me? Hmm?" I licked my lips and took another sip.

He chuckled and shook his head. "That we are very good friends?" He leaned against the bar.

I bit my bottom lip before answering. "Oh yeah, yesterday we did a lot of friendly activities."

I smirked when I saw his cheeks turn even deeper colour. He tensed a little bit and opened his mouth to say something but the words got stuck in his throat.

I turned on my heel and walked away. I could hear him following me so I sped up my pace. I walked out of the large room into some hallway and just when I turned around a corner he pressed against some door.

His hands mover to my face, one holding my cheek and the other moved some hair out of my face. "Hi, beautiful."

"Hello Mr. Bodyguard." I beamed up at him. My hand found the handle of the door and pulled at it, causing us to fall in some small room.

I stumbled over my heel and let out a squeak. Luckily, Joaquin caught me before I hit the floor, taking me into his arms and closed the door with his back. He cradled my form in his arms and pulled me closer. "You're gorgeous, sweetheart."

"Thank you." I mumbled and laid my head down his shoulder into the crook of it before inhaling his scent. "You smell good."

He chuckled and buried his face into my hair, giving me soft kiss. "I missed you." I could hear a smile in his voice.

"We've been together all day." I chuckled and tightened my grip on him. Ha hands sneaked under the shirt causing him to yelp and tens up. "What's wrong?" I raised my head and looked up at him, playing innocent.

"Your hands are cold." He narrowed his eyes at me, sizing me up with his gaze.

I opened my mouth to defend myself but then an idea popped in my mind.

My hands sneaked around to his stomach, goosebumps forming under my touch. His eyes widened as he tried to get away from me. I moved lower only for him to catch my wrists. He said my name strictly, I giggled.

"What?" I tilted my head to the right and looked at him with my best puppy eyes. He sighed and closed his eyes. "Sweetheart." He opened them again.

"Hmm?"

He shook his head, releasing my hands but trapping me in his arms. "You're impossible." He mumbled before leaning down and kissing me.

The sunlight hit my face as I turned in my bed making me groan. I raised my head and looked at the clock that was on one of the bedside tables. Before I even found the clock I saw large bouquet of tulips and a note next to it. My face lit up as I shuffled closer.

I reached out and took the note, it said: "Good morning, sweetheart. I had to go to train with Sam, but I home you like the flowers. I love you, Joaquin."

My cheeks got redder and the smile on my lips got bigger. I bit my lip and hopped out of the bed. I ran to the bathroom and got ready before going to the training room.

As I walked in I saw the two men practice on a mat. "Hi guys."

They stoped and greeted me back. Joaquin's eyes lingered a little more on me, we made an eye contact before he winked at me. I smiled at him and went to the back.

I got on a treadmill I as watched them fight again, Joaquin was shirtless, sweat dripping down his chest, his curls were disheveled and falling in his face. My heart started racing as I watched him.

Suddenly I tripped over my own feet, flying right to the ground. I groaned and sat up. "Are you okay?" I looked up to my left to see Joaquin kneeling on the floor next to me. His hands already on me checking for any injuries.

I signed and nodded. "Yeah, don't worry." I smiled at him before getting up. "I just fell."

"Yeah, maybe you should stop staring at your bodyguard." Said the man who I forgot was there.

My head whipped out in his direction, my eyes widened and cheeks turned red, again. "I... I wasn't staring." I was but he doesn't need to know that. He just nodded with disbelief painted all over his face while gathering his stuff before leaving.

Joaquin turned back to me, furrowed eyebrows in worry and a frown on his lips. He took my face into his hands, moving my whole head around to check me again. I giggled and his face wrinkled even more. "What's so funny?"

I beamed at him while planing his cheek. He leaned into my hand unconsciously while still holding me. "Nothing, you're just so cute while worrying about nothing."

He scoffed and shook his head. "It's not nothing. You fell, what if you broke something?"

"Then you would have to carry me around. I wouldn't mind." I shrugged my shoulders and started to get up. But before I could fully straighten up he swept me off my feet, carrying me in bridal style. I let out a yelp, my arms flew up around his neck to steady myself. He chuckled at my reaction, his eyes were crinkled from his smile. "What are you doing?!"

He hold me closer and tighter. “Carrying you, sweetheart.” He started walking towards the entrance.

Once we were in his room he laid my body down on his bed and sat next to me. He cupped my face, his thumb stored my cheek. “I like to have you in my bed.”

I raised my eyebrows and smirked. “Oh?”

He shook his head and licked his lips before answering. “I didn’t mean it sexually.” He game me one of his soft smiles. One of the smiles filled with warmth and affection, one that reaches his eyes, little wrinkles around them. “I love having you in my room, with me. I love you.”

A blush crept over my cheeks and a soft smile spread across my lips. I reached up for him and pulled him closer. “I love you too.” I pressed my lips against his. The kiss was soft enough to make me melt into his palm and let out muffled sigh.

My heart races and I jerk my head back to the coffee shop, but the person I thought I saw is gone. A ghost from my past, haunting me after all these years. 

The memory of the boy I left in a sad empty apartment haunts me again, even though I thought I moved on from that years ago. Back then, I would sit in my dressing room, wondering if I made the right decision to let him go, to break his heart before he had the chance to break mine. But I know it was the right choice—not just for us, but for me. 

I watch his smile falter, the hand cupping my cheek slipping away and leaving me cold, already feeling miles apart. 

“I’m not going to Los Angeles. I took the Broadway show here in New York,” I whisper. There’s no going back no. No undoing. 

His lips part and his eyes roam my eyes for an answer, hoping there was a chance that my words are a lie. A joke. 

“We’re supposed to leave tonight. Tomorrow we have a meeting with the apartment manager to tour the place together.” He shakes his head in disbelief. “Nothing makes sense. You told me you weren’t going to do long distance.”

“I’m not,” I say, sharp and straightforward. “I can’t do the long distance thing, but I can’t let this huge opportunity pass either. You have a job offer, a stable show for maybe a couple of years, but what am I going to do? Be stuck in an apartment, filming endless self tapes, going to auditions that end up going to nepo babies anyway?”

“You’ll be with me. Isn’t that enough?” His eyes water, but he doesn’t look at me. He bites the insides of his cheek, chewing away the anger, the pain. 

“You know Christine is my dream role, Danny. Since the moment we’ve met I’ve raved about wanting to be in Phantom of the Opera. You even pushed me for the audition.” I try to bargain, but the damage is done. “Did you think I wasn’t good enough to get cast?”

“You know I don't think that,” His eyes snap to mine. “When did you get the call?” 

“A few days ago…” 

“And you waited until the last minute to tell me? Let me believe I was moving to California with the love of my life? For fuck’s sake, we packed the whole apartment and your stuff!” He raises his voice, standing up from the beaten up couch—the last thing left to throw out. 

I remain seated, hands bundled up, staring at the floor. Yes, I’m ashamed. But no matter how I broke the news, the results would have been the same. 

Two broken hearts and ruined plans for the future. 

“I’m sorry, I really am.” I swallow the lump in my throat, tears streaming down my cheeks. 

“You don’t even want to make it work—the distance.” He huffs, wiping away his tears with his palms.

I shake my head like a coward. Because I know if I speak, if I let this conversation hover, one of us will give up a dream, and neither of us should do it. So I deliver the final blow, even if it breaks my heart too. 

“It’s not worth fighting for something that’s going to crash and burn.” It’s cruel, but I force myself to stand on my words—on my career and dreams. Even if he is the person I always dreamed of standing beside me, cheering me on after the final bows. I won’t give up my role, and I won’t let him give up his either. 

He looks at me—not with hatred. His eyes search mine like he can’t recognize the person sat in front of him anymore. 

I grab the last of my luggage, my boxes already moved into a smaller apartment closer to the theater. I don’t bother reaching for him, because If I step into his arms, I’ll go back into his orbit and forever circle around him. I’ll watch him fulfill his dreams while I regret not reaching for my own. 

“Was any of it real?” he asks, eyes now full of anger and resentment. 

But I don’t answer, because that’s one lie I can’t force myself to say. I slip out of the door, luggage in hand, his broken face imprinted in my head for years—not the beautiful memories we shared before I shattered it all.

But I push through the ache. I swallow my pain, looking at my reflection in the theater’s dressing room, dressed in costume. Now I orbit around my career. Sold out shows, friends and family gushing about the performances and how well I was doing. The reviews are amazing, the crowds bigger every night. 

I worked for this. But at what cost? 

The obnoxious honk of the car behind me jolts me from my daydreaming. I steal a glimpse of my reflection on the rearview mirror, face pale and wandering eyes. I start driving, trembling hands gripping the wheel tightly. 

The studio is small and cold, surrounded by white walls that bounced a faint echo from the lack of furniture. Only a long wooden table sits at the far end with a couple chairs around it. Scripts, pens, notebooks and headshots scatter across the surface. A camera on a tripod records each chemistry read session I’ve had with two different guys the past few hours.

The casting director, the lead writer, and the director sit behind the table, muttering as we wait for the last guy on the schedule. Hopefully, the last guy is my potential leading man for the Maid in Manhattan remake. 

The casting assistant steps in, holding the door open for someone. “This is Danny Ramirez, reading for the role of Christopher Velez with—”

From the moment he steps in, my heart drums against my heavy chest and my breathing staggers. The casting assistant’s voice muffled by the ringing in my ear.

It’s just him and me. And suddenly I’m back in that cramped New York apartment. I feel my hands tremble, shaking the script in my grip. The room feels even more colder, and my body stiffens.

The grip of my script slips, my eyes never leaving his. His rich brown eyes are the same. His shoulders are broader now, his arms stronger. This is LA Danny—star and successful Danny. 

I kneel to grab my script at the same time he does. Our hands reach for the pages on the concrete floors, and our eyes meet again. This time it’s closer. 

“Hi.” He whispers, a small smile on his lips. 

“H-hi,” I mutter, grabbing the papers from his hands. “Thank you.”

“It’s nice to know that Broadway didn’t take away the clumsiness." He jokes, and my heart wants to leap out of my chest at the sight of him. 

It’s been five years since I last saw him. I spent a good chunk of those years imagining endless ways we could run into each other, but I never expected it to be in a room with a director and a casting director. 

“Everything okay? Do you guys know each other?” Evelyn, the casting director, asks. 

“Yeah, we went to the same school back in New York.” I blurt out, intentionally leaving out the part that we dated for three years and planned our lives together.

Danny looks at me, his smile gone. 

“Ready when you are,” Samantha, the director, says with an encouraging smile. “Or do you need a moment?”

“No,” Danny and I say at the same time.

“Perfect. Start with the It was real scene, where Christopher confronts Marisa as she walks and the paparazzi follow behind.”

I’ve done this same exact scene for the past two hours, but right now? This scene feels a little too real with him being my scene partner. Too close to our past. 

Danny clears his throat—the familiar sound he always made when I helped him learn lines years ago. I take it as my cue to turn my back to him, making it look like I’m walking away, like the script says.

“Marisa.” Danny’s voice is stern, commanding. He slips into character so easily while I struggle. I close my eyes, trying to ignore the loud rhythm of my heart. 

“I just want the truth.” He adds.

I turn to face him, keeping my eyes soft but shoulders tense. I let silence linger before I part my lips to deliver my line. 

“All right, you want the truth?” I step closer to him, eyes locked on his, ignoring the quiet table behind us. “There was a part of me that wanted to see what it felt like to have someone like you look at me the way you did, just once. And I’m sorry. Truly. If I could rewind the past week, I would.”

“Was any of it real?” His voice cracks, his eyes never leaving mine. The parallel to our last conversation cuts through me, circling back to this moment. 

And I use it. I channel it for this scene, because there’s no hiding it. 

“Yeah, it was real.” I say, nodding my head. The tears burn, my gaze softening as I look into his eyes—the place that once felt like home. “It was so real it made me wonder how I was ever gonna give you up. But I had to give you up. That was the plan.” 

I choke out the lines, not even bothering to look at the script in my hands. “And then… last night,” I pause, a tear slipping down my cheek, “I couldn’t.”

We hold each other’s stare for a few seconds. The pain in our eyes is so vivid. But the urge to reach for one another lingers heavily. The words hover, feeling like the last moments we shared back in New York when we were just kids. 

The sound of clapping makes me jump, breaking the trance.

I look at Samantha, Evelyn and the rest of the crew who are sporting wide smiles on their faces. I wipe my tears away, turning away from Danny.

“That was—” Evelyn starts.

“I believe we have our Marisa and Christopher!” Samantha rages, coming around the table, “It was gorgeous, raw, simply beautiful.” 

“Thanks, Sam.” I force a smile, but from the corner of my eye, I can still see Danny looking at me.  

A few weeks later, pre-production transitions from final contract signings into fittings and final script changes. And filming is only a couple of weeks away for the whole crew to finally step in the studio lot and work our magic. 

After the final fitting for my character, I walk towards the car under the blazing Californian sun. I cram the AC on high when the first text pings on my phone. 

Hey, It’s Danny Can we talk? Sent at 4:56PM Hi Yeah, coffee? Sent at 5:25PM Is tomorrow okay? 2PM? Sent at 6:44PM Perfect Sent at 8:19PM

Now, I stare at the puddle of condensation forming under my iced coffee while I look out the coffee shop’s window—nervously looking at traffic. 

The bell above the door rings and Danny walks in—baseball cap covering his grown out curls, black jeans loose on his body and a light denim jacket over a black shirt. 

His eyes dart around the semi busy shop until they find mine in the back.

“Hey,” he forces a small smile, taking the seat across from me. 

Before I can speak, the waitress appears by the table and takes Danny’s coffee order.

“How are you doing?” He asks, his hands dropping onto his lap, unsure of what to do with them. 

“Not going to lie, a little exhausted—and we haven’t even started filming full time yet.” I admit, relaxing a little. “You?”

“Today was light, so I don’t feel as run-down compared to other days.” 

The waitress returns with his coffee. He mutters a thank you before she leaves us alone again.

“So, you wanted to talk,” I say, breaking the ice. “We can skip the formalities, Danny. Rip the bandage.”

Danny chuckles, shaking his head. “Always so impatient.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not everyday you and your ex—the one you haven’t seen in five years—get cast together in a romcom.”

“Six.” He corrects. 

“What?”

“Six years since you broke up with me.” He lifts the cup to his lip.

“Oh.” I feel my cheeks burn, embarrassed. 

“I went to one of your shows during your run as Christine,” He confesses and it catches me off guard. 

“That’s when I realized that even if it hurt what you did, I understood it was something that needed to happen.”

“You saw the show?” I stare at him, shocked that he sat in the crowd one night without me knowing.

“It was after I wrapped filming season one of that Netflix show. I flew back because I wanted to see you, I wanted to fight for us. But when I saw you on that stage—watching you devour that role, watching the audience enamored with your voice—I knew I couldn’t do it. Not when you were somewhere you truly belonged.” He pauses, leaning in closer now over the table. 

“I was happy for you, even when it shattered a piece of me to watch you perform sold out shows, living on that high, and I wasn’t there beside you to cheer you on..”

“For me, it felt like torture not being able to call you before and after every show. Because even though that show was the best thing to ever happen to me, the worst part was that I had to sacrifice us—you.” I anxiously pick at my cuticles, waiting for his response. 

“I spent months replaying those last few days. I couldn’t wrap my head around the idea that you were gone, out of reach, completely blocking me out.” He sighs, jaw tight. “You should’ve told me from the moment you got that call. You should’ve communicated it instead of dropping a bomb the night of our flight to California and leaving me stranded with it while you left.” 

"Every night I sat in front of that dressing room mirror, I replayed it. I wished for a moment I could go back to fix things, do it differently. But no matter how I did it Danny, the results were the same.” I hug myself, shielding myself from the overwhelming emotions bubbling up.  

“Two heartbroken kids with two different dreams,” he finishes for me. “It was fucking hell feeling like I was the bad guy holding you back.”

“Danny, you weren’t,” Without thinking, I reach for his wrist, anchoring him from spiraling back to his guilt. “If anything, I was the bad guy. And I’m genuinely sorry for everything. You didn’t deserve that. You didn’t deserve me leading you on those last days together.” 

His other hand rests over mine, still on his wrist. His warmth is still comforting after all these years. 

“You looked amazing on that Broadway stage,” he says, softly, “but I always preferred how you looked on film.” His brown eyes seem lighter in this lighting, gentler.

I laugh and push his hands away playfully. “Always the charmer, Ramirez. Good to know that hasn’t changed.”

“Nah, it's you that brings out this side of me.” 

His pretty fucking perfect smile makes my stomach flip. The same power it had over me long ago. 

“Truce?” I extend my hand, smirking. He takes it, his hand warm and comforting in mine. 

Danny had a way of making other people feel like the moment belonged to them. Not by stepping out of it, but by knowing how to stand just off-center — close enough to steady the frame, far enough not to take it over. He didn’t need credit. He didn’t need to be seen. He just needed you to know you mattered.

To him, it wasn’t a performance. It was just how he moved through the world — like someone who’d learned early that the most generous kind of presence is the kind that supports their loved ones. He was the kind of person who held space without making it about himself. The kind who made you feel like you were the only one in the room.

When Pedro got cast in that role — the one that finally let him be center-stage — Danny was the first to text.

Two weeks later, he flew out for the premiere. No red carpet. No backstage pass. Just a blurry selfie from the back row and another — Pedro mid-laugh, Danny’s hand on his shoulder.

When the film dropped, he posted again. A still from a scene where Pedro’s character sat alone in a motel room, eyes hollow. Caption: “There’s a moment in this film where silence says more than dialogue ever could. Pedro found it. Sat in it. Let it breathe. That’s the kind of work that stays with you.” Pedro replied with a single heart emoji.

When Lewis landed that slow-burn role in a film no one was sure would find its audience, Danny showed up to the first table read with coffee and a dog-eared copy of the script. He posted a photo of the cover, worn and creased. Caption: “Lewis Pullman is the kind of actor who doesn’t rush the truth. This film lets him take his time. Watch closely.”

He did this for everyone.

When you got promoted, he just came home with your favorite Vietnamese takeout and a six-pack. Sat with you on the floor because the couch felt too formal. Let you spiral about whether you deserved it. He didn’t say “of course you do.” He just said, “You’ve worked your ass off,” and handed you a spring roll.

That was Danny. Always clapping for others. Always showing up. Because he knew what it felt like to doubt your own.

You started noticing it more. The way his work got mentioned in passing, if at all. Just habit. Danny made it easy to overlook him. He never lingered. Never asked. Never even brought it up, he was always so excited about his costars.

So when he landed the lead in a small, reverberating film — quiet, honest, the kind of story that felt like it had his fingerprints all over it — you decided not to let it pass like all the others.

His name showed up on a festival slate. You saw the story go up: black background, white text. “Grateful to be part of something honest.” And that was it.

It disappeared in 24 hours.

You posted about it. A still from the trailer, a photo of the ticket stub, and a caption that read: “Some people make magic look effortless. Danny’s one of them. This film creeps up on you, but it’s the kind of quiet that stays with you. Go see it.

You’ll understand.”

And that was that.

Then you planned a simple congratulatory celebration. Not a party — just his favorite mezcal on the counter. Dinner on the stove. A candle burning low. And a note taped to the fridge that said: You did that shit. Proud of you.

When he walked in, he paused like he’d stepped into someone else’s apartment. His eyes moved slowly — note, food, you. You could see the gears turning. He just stood there, one hand scratching at the back of his neck, like he was trying to do the math. Like he’d walked into a scene he wasn’t sure he was allowed to be in.

“What’s all this?” he asked, voice low.

“It’s for you,” you said. “You always show up for everyone else. I wanted to do the same for you.”

He blinked, then laughed — soft, surprised, like the sound had snuck up on him. “I — why?”

“Just felt like it,” you said, shrugging. “And I also wanted to celebrate you bagging that new lead role”

He walked over to the fridge, touched the note like it might vanish. His fingers hovered, then landed gently, like he was afraid it would crumble under his hand. Then he turned to you, eyes wide, a grin blooming slow and bright across his face. It wasn’t the kind of smile you saw often. It was the kind that made you realize how rarely he let himself feel joy without apology.

He sat down, slow, like his legs weren’t sure what to do with the weight of being celebrated.

“I don’t know what to say,” he said. “This is… kind of amazing. I don’t think anyone’s ever done this for me.”

You sat beside him. “That’s the problem.”

He shook his head, still smiling.

“You’ve been the one holding everyone else up,” you said. “It’s time someone held you.”

He looked at you, and for once, didn’t deflect. Didn’t downplay. Just let the joy settle in his chest like something earned.

“This feels… good,” he said finally. “Like I’m allowed to be proud.”

“You are,” you said, voice dropping to a near whisper. “You always have been.”

He poured two glasses of mezcal, handed you one, and raised his in a quiet toast.

“To showing up,” he said.

“And to being seen,” you replied.

You clinked glasses. The candle flickered low.

After the plates were cleared, he lingered at the table. Fingers tracing the rim of his glass. You could tell he was trying to find words that didn’t sound like deflection.

“I always thought… if I did good work, that would be enough,” he said finally.

You reached for his hand. “You shouldn’t have to hope for it. You deserve it.”

He nodded, eyes shining. “I think I forgot what it feels like. To be seen like this.”

You opened your arms without saying anything. Just a warm invitation. He didn’t hesitate. He leaned in, slow and deliberate, resting his head against your shoulder. You wrapped your arms around him — just enough to let him know he was loved.

“I’m so so proud of you,” you said.

You walked through the door of your apartment after a long week away, the familiar scent of home filling your senses. Everything was just as you remembered it—until you got to the corner by the window, where your beloved fake plant sat. The plant that you were *very* certain didn’t need any water at all.

Your eyes narrowed as you took in the scene. There it was, sitting upright as always, perfectly placed in its pot. But next to it, you noticed something unusual: a small watering can, now half-filled with water, resting on the windowsill. You couldn't help but laugh.

You shook your head, already imagining what happened. "Joaquin," you called, loud enough for him to hear from the living room.

Joaquin looked up from his seat on the couch, his face splitting into a nervous smile. "Hey, you’re back!"

You walked over to the plant, poking at the leaves gently. "So, you *did* water it. The fake plant. Why?"

Joaquin stood up, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. "Well, I didn't want to disappoint you," he said with a crooked grin. "I thought maybe you’d be sad if you came home to a dry plant, you know? Figured I'd take care of it the best I could."

You stared at him, trying to suppress a smile. "It’s fake, Joaquin. It doesn’t need water. Ever."

He raised both hands in mock surrender, his grin growing wider. "Look, I wasn’t sure, alright? I mean, what if it was secretly a *real* plant and I missed my chance to keep it alive? That would’ve been awkward."

You laughed outright now, shaking your head. "Joaquin, you water *real* plants. Not the ones that are basically plastic and fabric."

He stepped closer, shrugging exaggeratedly. "Well, I just didn’t want it to feel neglected! It was in the corner all by itself, so I figured a little splash of water wouldn’t hurt." His voice dropped slightly, teasingly. "Better safe than sorry, right?"

You couldn’t hold back your grin anymore. "You really went all in on this one, huh? I can’t believe you thought a *fake* plant needed watering." You walked over to the kitchen and grabbed the small watering can from the windowsill, lifting it for emphasis. "What, were you planning to drown it or something?"

Joaquin’s face flushed a little, but he couldn’t help the light chuckle that slipped out. "I mean, I guess I was prepared for any situation," he said, leaning against the counter. "Better to overdo it than underdo it, right?"

You leaned against the counter, eyes still glinting with amusement. "You’re lucky you're adorable, Joaquin."

His grin softened, and he stepped toward you, pulling you into a hug. "I tried, okay? I just wanted to make sure you didn’t come home to a mess. And, you know... I kinda missed you."

You smiled up at him, wrapping your arms around his neck. "Next time, I’ll take care of the plants. You can handle the other stuff—like, I don’t know, maybe the actual *house-sitting* duties?"

He chuckled softly, kissing your forehead. "Deal. No more watering fake plants, I promise."