#pedro pascal fluff

Pedro sighs, “Y/N!” he calls out. He could not help but smile at the sound of the small footsteps running down the hall. y/n’s curly hair bouncing as she ran up to him, he quickly picks y/n up, “Papi has to go to a very important audition today,” He began to say. 

Y/N pouts, “But you promised we could go to the park today!” 

Pedro sighs as he rubs her back gently, “I know, Mi sol, I know. But maybe if you ask Tio Oscar nicely he could take you?” 

She grins from ear to ear as she looks over at Oscar, She reaches her arms over for him. Oscar took her into his arms, “Puedemos ir?” Y/N asks with a pout. 

“Hmmm, let’s see,” Oscar says as he walks over to the kitchen counter, placing y/n on the counter. He boxed y/n in as he put one hand on either side of her on the countertop, “I don’t know, doesn’t seem like you really want to go.” he smirks as he watches her furrow her eyebrows.  

She pouts harder, giving him her best puppy dog eyes, “Please?” 

“Good luck saying no to those eyes,” Pedro comments as he picks up his keys. “Ya me voy!” He places a kiss on y/n's cheek.

“What about me?” Oscar points towards his cheek, earning a glare from Pedro. Oscar was surprised when Pedro actually placed a kiss on his cheek earning a giggle from the little girl on the counter. 

“Remember Oscar, not a scratch!” Pedro calls out as he makes his way out of the apartment. 

“How do you do it with him?” Oscar questions as soon as he hears the door close. She gives him a shrug, “Come on, let’s finish breakfast!”

Breakfast was quick and easy, eggs with some bacon and a side of toast. Oscar was not usually the one to cook the meals around the apartment, for the most part it was Pedro. Well an attempt from Pedro, if they were being honest, both men had no idea how to cook, a lot of it had to do with luck and stuff that did not require the stove. Of course, Oscar would help out from time to time with what he could, but creating meals was not Oscar's strong suit. Nonetheless, Oscar tried his best to help Pedro out. 

Whether it was dropping y/n off at school, picking up groceries, going to events, or even helping out with bills. Oscar was there. He was there after y/n’s mother had left too. He had helped Pedro pick up the pieces and mend his spirit. 

When Pedro told Oscar he wanted him to be y/ns godparent, Oscar was blown away. He felt like it was a big responsibility, if Pedro were ever to pass away that meant y/n would go with Oscar. It was a big if, but a possibility. Oscar accepted it with no hesitation, Pedro had grown to become his best friend. A true friend, not just in the industry but in general. 

Oscar sat on the couch across from y/n, “just one more,” he promised. 

y/n sighs, “this is ridiculous,” she mutters. 

Oscar chuckled at y/n's small voice, she has a lot of attitude for a five year old. “Let’s start from the first line.” Oscar clears his throat, y/n rolls her eyes before looking at the piles of papers in front of her. “Jessica, you promised!” 

“Promised?” Y/n hesitates with the words that come next. 

“It’s okay,” Oscar reassured. 

“Fuck your promise!” Y/n grins as she says the bad word. A word she had heard her dad say multiple times and he had always told her not to repeat. 

Oscar groans, “I just don’t know if this is the right tone! It doesn’t feel right, you know?” 

Y/n shook her head, “I don’t know, I’m only five.” She held out her hand to show Oscar her age, Oscar nodded, “Can we go to the park now?” She asks.

“Just one more time, please?” He pleaded. 

She sighs, “fine, then the park.” 

He kisses her cheek, “I’ll take you to all the parks after this.” 

It was hours later when Oscar had taken her to the park. He held the script in his hand as he sat on the park bench while she played with some kids on the playground. Oscar muttered the lines to himself as he wrote notes on his script with a pencil occasionally looking up to see where y/n was. 

He was reviewing a line when he felt a presence, he glanced to his left to see one of the moms sitting beside him. She gave him a small smile and he smirked as he put his script down, “oscar,” he introduces himself as he held out his hand for her to shake. 

“Melanie,” She says as she shakes his hand. 

“Melanie,” He says in an almost sing-song voice as he leans back on the bench, putting an arm on the back of the bench. “Has a nice ring to it, it’d sound nicer with my last name,” Oscar says with a smooth voice. 

Melanie chuckled, her cheeks turning slightly red before looking away, “Do you say that to all the moms at the park?” 

“Only the ones brave enough to sit next to me,” He smirks. 

She rolls her eyes as she looks towards the playground, waving to a small boy that was waving excitedly at her from the sandbox. Oscar notices and looks towards the sandbox, giving the boy a small smile. 

“Your son?” He asks, turning back to look at her. 

“Yeah,” she says softly. “Which one is yours?” She asks, looking at him with a smile.

Oscar turns to look back at the playground, “oh it’s the cute–” he paused when he could not spot y/n, “she’s the cute little girl with the horribly done pig tails,” he mutters with a nervous chuckle, “she’s actually my goddaughter and she knows how to hide pretty well,” he excuses as his eyes darted around the playground. Oscar straightened up when he still could not spot y/n from the bench.

“Everything okay?” 

He cleared his throat, “could you give me a second?” He asked as he stood up. 

“What is it?” Melanie asks. 

“Y/N?” Oscar called out loudly as he walked towards the playground. Every single kid seemed to have multiplied by the second for Oscar. “Y/N,” he called out again as he stepped onto the sand and began making his way through the crowd of children. He grabbed a little girl with pig tails, scaring her a little, “Y/N!” He said almost relieved until he realized it was not her. 

“Sorry,” he whispers as he lets go of the little girl before she runs off to her mom. Oscar realized he was causing a scene as he looked around. He spotted another little girl with pig tails at the swings.

“Y/N!?” He yells running to the swings, his heart fell to the pit of his stomach when he saw it was not her.

One of the moms slowly walks over to him, “Sir–” 

“My-My goddaughter, she has pig tails, have you seen her?” He asks frantically to the woman. 

The woman looks around, “What was she wearing?” 

Oscar felt his heart racing, his words failed him as he stammered, “pink– uh– overalls–” he looks around frantically, “they are her favorite,” he mutters, “her sneakers light up.” 

“Okay, okay,” the woman says softly as she grabs her son before looking around, “we got a missing kid,” she announces to another parent. 

“I’ll go look over at the parking lot!” one parent yells before rushing over to the parking lot area. 

Oscar couldn’t hear the other parents asking him questions, his eyes were darting around as he tried to find a hiding spot he might have overlooked but the longer he looked the more he realized that y/n were nowhere to be found. 

“Fuck,” he whispers to himself as the sinking realization began to reel in. He had lost y/n. 

Parents began looking around while holding onto their kids, y/ns name was being called from every direction.

“Have you checked the bathrooms?” A parent asks, catching Oscars attention. 

“n-No, I haven’t,” he says as he runs to the restrooms, he runs into the men's restroom looking through the stalls, “Y/N?” He calls out. He rushes out and runs into the ladies room, scaring a woman that was inside. 

“Sorry! Sorry! I’m looking for my goddaughter!” He says as he looks through the stalls, “y/N?!” he calls out before turning to the woman at the sink, “have you seen a little girl with overalls, pig tails? Pink shirt?” 

“N-No,” the woman says, a little confused as she shakes her head. 

“Sneakers that light up,” Oscar kept describing but the woman shook her head still. “Fuck!” He exclaimed before running out of the bathroom. 

He looked around one of the picnic areas, “Y/N, come on out baby, this isn’t funny anymore,” he says as he looks around the park. 

“Pedro is going to kill me,” he mutters, noticing the other parents looking too. 

“Sir, I can call 911–” 

“No, no, she’s around here somewhere,” Oscar says as he looks around, “She has to be around here,” He says as he turns around looking at every inch of the park. He wanted to be right, he did not want to have to call the cops because calling the cops meant that this was real. That he was unable to find y/n and that he had lost the main love of Pedro's life. The person for Pedro's joy and reason to keep going, especially after his mothers death years prior. 

Oscar turned to one of the parents, he knew he could no longer wait it out, the cops needed to be involved. “Call–” 

“Over here!” A man yelled from the other end of the park. 

Oscar took off running to the man as did some of the other parents. When Oscar got closer he spotted the man holding hands with a little girl as they walked closer. “Oh my god, Y/N!” Oscar exclaimed in relief as he runs faster, kneeling in front of Y/N when he reached her. “Oh honey!” He exclaimed as he cupped her face before examining her. 

“Found her down the block by the old creek, she says she followed one of the ducks,” the man explained. 

Oscar was in tears as he kept touching Y/N’s face, “Oh honey, don’t wander off like that again!” 

“I just wanted to see the ducks,” she whispered softly.

“I know, I know, but you tell me okay? You don’t leave like that,” Oscar says as he pulls her in, a hand behind her head as he holds her tightly. 

Her lip trembled, “I’m sorry,” she whispers, a small cry beginning to form. 

“Hey, no, no, no, it’s okay,” Oscar says softly as he loosened his grip, he knew he had scared her. “You’re okay, mamas,” he whispers as he leans back to look at her, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. 

“But you’re crying,” she sniffles as she wipes her nose with her arm. 

“Because I couldn’t find you, carino and I got very scared,” Oscar explains softly, his thumb brushing a tear away from her cheek. 

“But the ducks,” she whispers as if to explain everything. 

“I know, I know,” he says as she places her head on his shoulder and he gently places his hand on the back of her head. He let out a relieved sigh before realizing that now he had to go back home and tell Pedro what had happened. 

Oscar had taken Y/N home right after, he did not spend a second longer at the park. He just wanted to keep her home where he knew she would be safe. Y/N went straight to the coffee table where her play tea set was and some of her stuffed animals were all over the table. She focuses on setting up her stuffed animals for tea time like nothing had even happened. Like she never gave Oscar the heart attack of his life just a mere twenty minutes ago. 

Oscar sighs as he runs a hand through his hair, “alright,” he mutters as he begins to pace. 

Y/N glances at him before focusing back on her toys, Oscar walks over and kneels in front of the coffee table, “Y/N, baby, we got to talk about what happened, okay?” 

“About the ducks?” She asks softly as she sets up the tea cups by her stuffed animals. 

“Yes and how you walked over there by yourself when you weren’t supposed to–” 

“They were hungry,” she whispers. 

“I am sure they were,” Oscar says, resisting the urge to laugh like a maniac. “But you can’t walk away from a trusted adult, okay? You can’t do that because it’s not safe.” 

Y/N hands Oscar a toy cup, “drink.” 

Oscar takes it without hesitation, pretending to sip from the cup before setting it back down on the coffee table earning a satisfied smile from Y/N. He leans in slightly, “And maybe when papi comes home we don’t tell him what happened okay?” Oscar says gently. 

Y/N looks up at him confused, tilting her head slightly, “Why?” 

Because I lost you. 

Because I was distracted flirting with a woman and not paying attention. 

Because I messed up badly and Pedro would be upset. 

Oscar's mind races, he swallows before letting out a small sigh. “Because then we won’t be able to hang out and go to the park when daddy is at work,” Oscar explains. 

Y/N did not say anything for a moment, her eyes glancing at the table like she was thinking very hard about what Oscar had just said before looking back up at him, “Why?” 

Oscar groans as he lets his head hang, how the hell was he supposed to tell a five year old that if she told her father that her godfather lost her at the park, that he pretty much would be banned from taking care of her again. He looks back up at Y/N, “Y/N, baby, it doesn’t matter why, I just need you to keep this a secret between me and you okay?” 

“But papi–” 

“Papi can’t know.” 

“But Papi–” 

“Y/N, Papi can’t know.” 

“Papi can’t know what?” Pedro asks Oscar, startling him. 

“h-Hey, man!” Oscar says slightly high pitched as he stood up, “h-how long have you been home?” Oscar asks nervously as Pedro crosses his arms. 

“Long enough. Now what is this I hear about keeping secrets?” Pedro asks. 

“Um what?” Oscar chuckles nervously, “no secrets here, right, Y/N?” 

Y/N looks up between Pedro and then Oscar, Pedro walks over to Y/N, kneeling beside her as he gently touches her back, “Y/N, carino, do you have anything to tell papi?” 

Y/N glanced over at Oscar for a second before slowly looking back over at Pedro, “I saw ducks,” she whispers. 

“Oh yeah?” 

Oscar chuckles, “psh, yeah, that’s all we did, right, Y/N?” 

Pedro gave him a small glare before focusing back on Y/N, “is that true, carino?” Y/N gives him a small nod. 

Oscar let out a relieved sigh, Pedro opened his mouth to say something to Oscar when Y/N began to speak again, “then uncle Oscar started crying.” 

“Oh?” Pedro asks as he looks over at Oscar. 

“Uhh because the ducks had ducklings and it was ummm touching,” Oscar says nervously. 

Y/n hands Pedro a small cup of fake tea, “Drink.” 

Pedro smiled as he pretended to sip, “Why did uncle Oscar cry?” he asks softly. 

Y/N shrugged, “he didn’t like me going to see the ducks by myself.” 

Pedro nods before standing up, “Oscar.” 

“I lost your kid for ten minutes, she went to the pond by herself while I was flirting with one of the moms. I am so sorry it will never happen again I swear. I swear it by my whole fucking life–” Oscar blurted, the words leaving his mouth before he could even stop them.

“Oscar.” 

“I am so sorry, Pedro.” 

Pedro pinches the bridge of his nose before he glances over at Y/N playing with her tea set at the coffee table. “You lost my kid.” 

“I know.” 

“My baby girl.” 

“I know.” 

“You lost her.” 

“We’ve established that.” 

Pedro let out a laugh that was not supposed to be humorous as he paced a few steps, “She’s okay, she’s fine!” Oscar exclaimed. 

“She’s fine? Yeah, great, Oscar– That’s fucking great. Doesn’t change the fact that you lost my kid–” 

“I found her,” Oscar cut in, “She was only gone for like ten minutes, I panicked and looked everywhere–” 

“You panicked?” Pedro repeated, “you weren’t even supposed to lose her in the first place!” 

Oscar ran a hand through his hair, “I know! I know! I am sorry, I messed up.” 

“Oh this is more than messing up, Oscar! You fucked up!” Pedro exclaimed. Pedro stared at his best friend, his breathing uneven as he clenched his jaw, “i don’t think you even understand how big of a fuck up this could have been, how worse this could have played out.” 

“No, I understand,” Oscar says quietly. “Trust me, I completely understand. The second I knew she wasn’t near me, I thought the worst.” 

Pedro sighs, letting out a frustrated groan as he sat on the couch and rubbed his face. His anger falters slightly as he looks back up at Oscar and the guilt written all over his face. He glanced over to Y/N, she had a tight grip on one of her stuffed animals she held close to her chest, her eyes slightly widened as she looked between both men. 

Pedro softened immediately, “hey, hey, baby, no,” he says softly as he quickly scootched himself off the couch to kneel beside Y/N, “You’re okay baby,” he whispers as he pulls her in. She nods as she leans her head against his shoulder and he gently kisses her temple before leaning his head against hers. Pedro closes his eyes for a second, letting himself relax as he takes a deep breath. 

“I should have been watching over her closer, Pedro. I am so sorry,” Oscar says softly. 

Pedro looks up at Oscar, “this can never happen again,” he says firmly. 

“It won’t,” Oscar says quickly.

Pedro looks at Y/N in his arms before looking ba=ck over at Oscar and giving him a nod, “I can’t afford to hire a babysitter for the both of you,” he mutters. Oscar lets out a small chuckle, “also, you’re doing laundry for the next month to make up for it.” 

“Oh come on man!” Oscar exclaims. Pedro gives him a small glare and Oscar rolls his eyes as he nods, “deal.” 

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He glanced at you then, eyebrows lifting slightly in a silent check-in. You nodded - small, but genuine.

“Thank you for volunteering,” he said softly. “What’s your name?”

You told him.

He repeated it, testing the sound of it like he wanted to get it right. You tried very hard to ignore the spark it lit in your belly, your name on his tongue. “All right,” he said. “Here’s what we’re going to do.”

He turned back to the class. “No touching. Nothing performative. I want you to see how much can happen without either of those things.”

You were already in trouble.

“Stand facing me,” he said.

You did.

He was closer now. Not invading your space, not looming - just present. You could see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes when he smiled, the focus in his gaze as it settled on you fully, like the rest of the room had fallen away.

“First rule,” he said. “Breathe.”

You realized you hadn’t been.

You inhaled with a soft laugh. So did he. The timing wasn’t intentional, but it landed anyway - easy, grounding.

“Second rule,” he continued, voice warm, “don’t try to be interesting.”

A few people laughed. You did too, quietly.

“Just listen,” he said. “And let what happens happen.” He nodded once. “Ready?” You nodded back. “Okay,” he said. “Look at me.”

You already were.

Not in a dramatic way. Just… there. His eyes were kind. Curious. Attentive in a way that felt rare, like he wasn’t waiting for his turn to speak or perform.

A beat passed.

Then another.

You became aware of the room again only distantly - chairs shifting, someone clearing their throat - but Pedro didn’t break eye contact. He smiled, small and unguarded, like he was letting himself be seen along with you.

“Good,” he murmured. “Now notice what you’re feeling.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it again. “I -” You laughed. “I’m very aware of how quiet it is.”

He chuckled. “Yeah. That happens.”

“But also…” You hesitated, then shrugged. “I feel like I’m supposed to say something. And I don’t know what.”

His smile softened. “Perfect.”

You frowned. “Perfect?”

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s the moment. That’s where the audience leans in.”

He shifted his weight, just slightly, and the movement pulled your attention without effort. He noticed - of course he did - and something like satisfaction flickered across his face.

“You’re doing great,” he said, quietly enough that it felt like it was just for you.

Your pulse kicked.

He stepped back then, giving you space, and turned to the group. “See? Nothing rehearsed. Nothing forced. Just two people paying attention.”

The room exhaled.

When the workshop broke for a short while, you retreated to the back of the room, cheeks warm, heart still doing something unhelpful. You told yourself it was adrenaline. Performance nerves. But you painfully ignored the other feeling that had emerged when he had looked at you like that.

To make matters worse Pedro joined you a moment later, holding two paper cups of coffee.

“I hope you drink coffee,” he said. “If not, this is a terrible peace offering for steamrolling you.”

You huffed. “I do. Thank you.”

You took the cup, your fingers brushing his. Again - nothing dramatic. Still effective enough to make your heart jump.

“You okay?” he asked, genuine.

“Yeah,” you said. “Just… wasn’t expecting that.”

He smiled. “No one ever is.”

You sipped your coffee, then glanced at him. “You do this a lot?”

“Teach?” He shook his head. “No. Workshops, sometimes. I like them. They remind me why I started.”

“Which was?”

He considered you for a moment, then said, “Connection.”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah. That tracks.”

The second half of the workshop moved faster, looser. People relaxed. Laughed. When Pedro asked for another volunteer, someone else jumped in immediately, and you sank into your chair, relieved and oddly disappointed.

You caught him looking at you once while someone else stumbled through an exercise, his expression fond and amused, like he was sharing a private joke with himself.

When it was over, people lingered - thank-yous, questions, selfies. Pedro handled it all with easy grace, but you noticed the way he checked the time, the way his shoulders dropped when the room finally began to empty.

You were gathering your things when he approached you again.

“Hey,” he said. “I wanted to say thank you. For earlier.”

“You already did,” you replied.

“I know,” he said, smiling. “But I meant it.”

You tilted your head. “You’re good at this. Teaching, I mean.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “I was terrified.”

You blinked. “Really?”

“Absolutely,” he said. “I just… hide it well.”

You smiled. “Could’ve fooled me. Seems like you're an actor for a reason.”

That made him chuckle, gaze a moment too long on you to make it unintentional. He hesitated, then gestured toward the door. “Can I walk you out?”

“Yeah,” you said. “I’d like that.”

The hallway was quieter now, late afternoon light slanting through the windows. You walked side by side, close but not touching.

“You were very convincing,” he said after a moment.

You huffed out a soft breath. “Felt a little… cheated, though.”

His eyebrow lifted, slow and curious. “Cheated?”

You hesitated, then shrugged, words tumbling out before you could overthink them. “Acting out chemistry when there already is -”

“- connection?” he finished, a smirk tugging at his mouth.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

He chuckled, low and warm. “Makes it easier,” he admitted. “That’s for sure.”

By the time you stepped outside, the air was cooler, fresher. No eyes on you anymore. No chairs scraping, no audience holding its breath. Just the two of you lingering near the steps, neither quite ready to leave.

You shifted your weight. He did too. A beat stretched.

His eyes fell on you, and his smile softened, almost thoughtful. “Remember the first rule,” he murmured.

You laughed, took a sharp inhale. “Sorry. It’s just… you’re breaking rule number two for me, you know.”

His brow lifted, amused. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” you said, tilting your head. “Stop trying to be interesting.”

That caught him off guard and he broke into genuine, warm laughter. “Looks like I’m a bad teacher after all.”

You bumped your shoulder lightly into his, emboldened by the moment, smirking up at him. “I’m always open to help you prepare future lectures. So they don’t turn into disasters like this one.”

His eyes lit up as he looked back at you. “Then I could teach you rule number three.”

“And what’s that?” you asked.

His voice dropped, soft and certain. “Knowing when to stop acting,” he said, “and just be in the moment.”

Your body woke you up at 4:53 AM with a combination punch: scratchy throat, pounding head, and a dry cough with the timbre of an unserviced lawnmower. If you lay perfectly still, maybe you could brute force sleep your way back to competence. You checked your phone. Too early for normal people, but the last text from production had you on call for 7 A.M. Crew call wasn’t for another hour and change, but you’d already missed the “wake up gently” window. You lay there for fifteen entire minutes, negotiating with yourself about calling in or going. You weighed them like they were two entirely different existential philosophies, but dignity won out. Still, every decision has its price. Yours came due when you attempted to sit up, immediately regretted it, and spent a solid minute hunched on the mattress, gripping the sheets, waiting for the dizziness to subside.

Today’s morning routine ran on autopilot: shuffle to bathroom, look in the mirror, then the customary three rounds of “is it better if I just go back to bed?” It wasn’t. You brushed your teeth, stumbled through a lukewarm shower, and threw on the first not-wrinkled t-shirt and faded jeans you could reach. Your car keys felt heavier than usual in your pocket as you trudged out to the curb and squinted into the smeary sunrise.

The drive to set was less than pleasant to say the least. You arrived on the dot, parked crookedly, and managed to avoid direct eye contact with anyone for a solid four minutes as you shuffled toward the ever-present craft services tent. The lot smelled like burnt coffee and wet grass. 

“Hey, superstar,” came a shout from behind you, and you turned to see the 1st AD waving you toward basecamp. They had a clipboard and a highlighter and the unmistakable air of a person who’d already handled seventeen emergencies before sunrise. You gave them a half-hearted smile and followed the blue tape on the asphalt to your first stop: you had to get tested. COVID check in given your current state, still a routine on sets even in the “post-pandemic” age. 

When you were done, you headed towards the director “office”, if you could call it that. He was flipping through the call sheet and nibbling on a pen cap, hair sticking up like a rooster’s, and you liked him instantly for being even less put together than you. You made your entrance, giving him an awkward hello, then immediately sneezed into your elbow. “Sorry,” you said, “I know I sound like death and look worse, but I didn’t want to halt production.” 

He winced in sympathy and slid you a sealed water bottle. “You really didn’t have to come in. Take the next couple days off, please,” he said, not unkindly. “Go home. Drink tea. If you feel up to it, we can film your solo bits, maybe. But only if you want. You have a fever?”

You shrugged. “I think I’m running a little hot, but it’s mostly sinus stuff. They tested me for everything at the clinic already. Just a garden variety death spiral.”

He tapped the pen on the desk. “If you die, I have to recast you. Don’t make me do that.” He said it deadpan, and you couldn’t help but laugh, the sound coming out as a croak.

“Thanks for the concern,” you said, only a tiny bit sarcastic.

He smiled, and handed you a revised call sheet, then launched into a casual monologue about how the first AD would rearrange scenes and how, really, nobody was ever that essential. You felt both weirdly comforted and a little existentially erased, but that was probably the fever talking.

The walk to your trailer was a fever dream of cold air and harsh light. The hair and makeup team was already there, huddled over their kits, and you were instantly awash in a mix of styling products. The head stylist got to work on your hair with ease and slathered a cooling face mask onto your skin. It tingled in a way that was probably therapeutic. You scrolled your phone, brain moving at the speed of cold molasses, until you got lost in a four minute video about something stupid. You were on your third rewatch when a soft knock came at the trailer door, followed by a voice you recognized instantly:

“Hey, you.”

Pedro pushed the door open, eyes wide behind his clear wire-rimmed glasses, his own hair a floppy, sleep-rumpled mess probably. He was wearing jeans, a vintage tee, and the dark grey cardigan you’d seen him use as a pillow once during a break. He gave the hair team a shy, polite smile, like he’d just interrupted something important. 

“I heard someone’s sick,” he said, aiming the words at your reflection in the vanity mirror.

You peeled off the mask in one motion, then tried to look alive. “News travels fast here. Is my reputation as an invincible germ fortress already ruined?”

He stepped closer, the grin becoming a smile that looked far too warm for this hour of the morning. “Your legend has fallen. Tragic, really. I came prepared to mourn, but also to steal your snacks.”

“That’s rude,” you said. “I invite you in, bare my vulnerable, diseased soul, and you rob me blind, Pedrito.”

“I can multitask veeeryyy well.” He leaned his hip against the counter, casual, but the concern in his eyes betrayed him. “I’ll also bring you tea if you want. Or whatever else you need.”

Behind him, one of the stylists made a face that suggested you needed two IV bags and a medically induced coma. “You should be in bed, not here,” she muttered.

You waved a dismissive hand.“I was told I’m indispensable.”

Pedro scoffed, crossing his arms. “You’re such a liar.”

“Okay, fine, I was told nobody’s ever that essential.” You lifted your shoulders in a little shrug and instantly regretted it as your sinuses throbbed. “But I like to think I’m irreplaceable in a very low-key, humble way.”

“Yeah, right,” he said, shaking his head. He moved closer, close enough that his morning cologne found you; something warm and clean, faint cedar beneath coffee and whatever sunshine he somehow carried in with him. His hair was a little wild, curls pushed back carelessly as if he’d run his hands through it ten different times already. “You look like your soul is trying to escape your body, amor,” he added softly.

“Thank you. That’s exactly what I was going for.”

Pedro reached into his jeans pocket and produced a ginger candy. “I brought reinforcements.” He held it out on his open palm. “Take it.”

“You keep candy in your pocket now?”

“Only on special occasions. And apparently, when my favorite coworker sounds like a Victorian child with consumption.”

You took the candy, suddenly feeling like someone had tucked a blanket around your shoulders. You unwrapped it and popped it into your mouth, the burn coating your throat like ancient medicine. “Thank you,” you said, quieter. “I owe you my vocal cords.”

He smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling in that way that always made something warm uncoil inside you. “Just rest. Go home. You don’t need to push yourself.”

“I’m going home soon, it’s okay,” you said. “I’ll just shoot the stuff I’m scheduled for and then I’ll be on my merry way.”

He didn’t laugh. Not right away. He just looked at you with a softness that made your stomach dip. “I worry about you, you know.”

The truth of it sat between you, warm and unspoken. You swallowed, the candy burning pleasantly down your throat. “I know. I’ll be okay.”

When Pedro finally pushed himself off the counter and left your trailer, the warmth he’d carried in with him seemed to trail after him, lingering in the quiet air he’d abandoned. You watched him step out, watched the way he rolled his shoulders back as if preparing to fold himself into someone else’s skin for the next several hours. You could almost see the moment he put his actor face on, the soft concern he’d shown you slipping into something steadier, more freely, the weight of the role settling over him. You did your scenes too, sniffling between takes, forcing focus through the fog in your head. You held yourself together because you always did, even when your hands trembled a little or your voice wavered once or twice before the cameras rolled. 

A couple hours later, when you finally stepped outside with your bag slung over your shoulder, there he was in the narrow stretch between trailers, still in costume, hair rumpled from whatever scene he’d just shot. Handsome as ever. He caught sight of you instantly, crossed the space in a few quick strides, and told you he wished he could drive you home, that he was sorry he wasn’t wrapped yet, sorry he couldn’t take care of you the way he clearly wanted to. You told him you’d survive. You reminded him you’d driven yourself. He insisted you text if you needed anything, anything at all, and you had to laugh because he looked so earnest. But you told him again that you’d be fine. He didn’t need to worry. He didn’t need to spend any more energy when he was already running low. Two months into the shoot and it showed on him in little ways, the quiet sighs he thought no one heard, the weight in his shoulders at the end of the day. You didn’t want to add to the exhaustion, didn’t want to be another thing he had to carry. He was giving it everything he had, and you didn’t dare imagine inconveniencing him over something as small as a cold. So you gave him a tired smile, promised you’d rest, and headed to your car. You planned to go home, drag yourself into your softest pajamas, order soup from somewhere decent, and disappear into bed until you felt better. 

Your place was colder than usual when you got home. You changed into some stripped pajama pants, a mismatched baggy tee and fuzzy socks, wrapped yourself in a blanket and plopped onto the couch because you didn't have the energy to even make it to the bedroom, phone in hand, the silence settling around you, another layer of fabric. You ordered soup from the first place that didn’t ask you to think too hard, then let yourself sink sideways into the cushions. The ache in your body won over your intention to watch something, and before you knew it the room softened, blurred, then dissolved entirely as sleep tugged you under.

You weren’t sure how long you were out. The soup never arrived, or maybe it had and you’d slept through the notification. All you knew was that your doorbell cut sharply through the haze of dreams, dragging you awake with a pounding heart and a dry throat. You blinked at the ceiling, disoriented. You pushed the blanket off, wincing as the cold air hit your arms, and shuffled to the door.

When you opened it, Pedro stood on your doorstep with his arms were full of things: a canvas grocery bag nearly tearing at the seams, a pharmacy bag, a box of tissues wedged under his elbow, and a to-go container balanced precariously on top.

You blinked at him. “What are you doing here?”

He raised the tissue box like a peace offering. “Delivering important things.”

“You didn’t have to—”

“I know,” he said gently. “But I wanted to.”

You stepped aside before your brain caught up with the choice, and he came in, kicking the door shut behind him. He set everything on the counter with the kind of determined focus reserved for people trying not to drop anything valuable. One by one, he pulled things out, narrating under his breath.

“Soup. Three different kinds because I didn’t know what you’d feel like eating. Electrolyte drinks. Those fancy throat lozenges you like even though they taste like nothing. Soft tissues. Cold medicine. Tea. The good honey. Not the cheap one you always buy.”

“I buy the cheap one because it tastes the same.”

“That’s a lie and I refuse to let you live like that.”

He kept unpacking. A small heating pad. A pack of those gel eye masks. A paperback he thought you’d like.

“Okay,” you said, breathless and laughed, “you raided an entire store, P.”

“Yes,” he admitted. “But it was necessary.”

You leaned against the counter, watching him with a strange mix of warmth and disbelief rising in your chest. He moved around your kitchen like he knew where everything lived, because he did. He peeked into your cabinets until he found a mug, filled it with water, and put it in the microwave.

“Pedro,” you said quietly, “you should go home. I really don’t want to get you sick.”

He straightened, turned to face you, and crossed his arms like you’d told him something outrageous.

“I’m not leaving.”

“You need sleep. You’ve been working all day. I know you’re tired.”

“I swear that’s charming,” he said, pointing at you, “and also irrelevant.”

“It’s not irrelevant. I don’t want to give you what I have.”

“You think I’m scared of your cold?” He raised an eyebrow. “You think I haven’t survived worse? Because I have.”

A laugh escaped you, hoarse but real. “Stop being difficult, P.”

“How about you stop being difficult? I’m staying.”

“Pedro, come on.”

He stepped closer, his voice softening. “I came because I wanted to make sure you weren’t alone. And I’m not going anywhere unless you actually throw me out, which you won’t because you’re dizzy and I could outrun you.”

You stared at him, caught between exasperation and gratitude that tightened your throat. “I don’t want to inconvenience you,” you murmured.

His expression softened even more, impossibly gentle. “You’re never an inconvenience to me.”

You felt something inside you fold in on itself, warm and fragile. Before you could respond, the microwave beeped. He grabbed the mug and set it in front of you, his fingers brushing yours for a brief moment that sent a faint spark through your sleepy, fever-warmed haze.

“Drink,” he said. “Then couch. We can watch something.”

You sank onto the couch, pulling the blanket around you like a defensive shield, and watched as he went back into the kitchen to heat up the soup. He returned a couple of minutes later, and handed you the ceramic bowl. You cupped it between your palms, relishing the heat.

“Thanks, doc.”

He grinned, then reached up to feel your forehead, back-of-hand, like in the movies. “You’re warm,” he said, concerned.

“Yeah, that’s called having a fever,” you replied, but softer. He gave you some Tylenol, and placed the glass of water on the table as he sit back on the the couch next to you. You ate your soup, and had your medicine. “You know, you don’t have to stay for so long. I’m just going to be gross and sleep for the next ten hours.”

He watched you for a second, then said, “I don’t mind. You make good company, even when you’re gross.”

You blushed, but blamed it on the fever.

He sat with you through an entire episode of Planet Earth, occasionally offering you sips of tea or water, then drifted into a debate about which animals were secretly jerks (your votes: seagulls, goats, and at least one species of otter). You were surprised at how easy it was to talk, even with your head full of fog. Maybe because Pedro had this gift for making the world feel a little less heavy, a little more manageable. Or maybe because you’d secretly wanted him here all along, and were just now admitting it to yourself.

You surrendered to the soothing embrace of the couch, your eyelids fluttering shut as the gentle sound of the TV and the flicker of the screen wrapped around you. Time drifted by; the world outside faded into a blur. When you finally stirred, Pedro was beside you, engrossed in his iPad, fingers dancing across the screen.

Propping yourself up on your elbow, you smirked at him. "So, is this what you've been doing while I’ve been napping? Trying to break the high score on Tilt to Live?"

Pedro looked up, surprise flickering in his eyes before a smile broke across his face. "I thought I’d let you sleep while I played for a bit,” he replied, grinning. “Want to know my score?”

You nodded, a small smile playing on your lips. 

“72 million.”

Your eyebrows shot up, disbelief and admiration showing all over your face. "Seventy-two million? You know that’s fucking insane, right?” 

He feigned offense, “There’s an art to this, you know. It takes time and strategic planning. It’s not just button mashing."

You laughed and shook your head, amusement slipping through your fatigue. “Strategic planning? Right.” He gave you that crooked, knowing grin and tipped his head toward his lap in invitation. It wasn’t even a question. You shifted closer, letting yourself sink against him, your cheek resting on his thigh. His warmth seeped into you instantly, even through the fabric.

He leaned in closer, a teasing glint in his eye. "Don’t underestimate me, baby.” 

You chuckled, feeling the carefree banter ease the remnants of your illness. "Well, I’m glad you’ve found your calling,

Pedro laughed, but his gaze softened as he looked down at you. "You know, you look a little better than earlier. How are you feeling?"

"Yeah, better, I think," you admitted, "The nap and the meds helped, but I still feel like shit."

He brushed his fingers gently through your hair, caressing your scalp with a tenderness that made you hum softly. “Does that feel good?”

“Yes, don’t stop, please,” you murmured.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied, a playful smirk in his voice as he continued to stroke your hair.

After a while, he nudged you gently. “Come on, let’s get you to bed.” He helped you to your feet and guided you to your room. You drifted through the hall in a sleepy haze, Pedro followed a few steps behind, turning off lights, carrying the things he thought you might need: a fresh box of tissues, and the mug he insisted you finish even though you’d only managed a few sips. When you finally reached your bed, he placed everything on your nightstand with a kind of quiet care that made your chest ache. He arranged it all neatly, like he wanted your whole night to feel gentler than your day had been. 

He murmured, “Okay. You’re all set,” and straightened with a soft sigh, brushing his curls back as if he were resetting himself. “I’ll be in the guest room if you need anything. And I’m gonna grab some clothes from my car real quick, so if you hear the door it’s just me.”

He sounded final, like he was preparing to step out of this moment you didn’t want to let go of. You reached out before you could think better of it. Your fingers curled around his wrist, warm and solid under your hand. He paused immediately, looking down at you with that quiet concern that had followed you both all evening.

“Stay,” you said. It came out small. Barely more than breath.

His brows lifted slightly. He didn’t pull away. “I am staying, baby,” he said softly. “Just down the hall.” 

Baby. It was a word he liked to call you sometimes, a term of endearment that felt both comfortable and intimate, and always there, blurring the lines of your friendship.

“No.” You swallowed, nerves, warmth, and fever tangling in your chest. “I meant… stay here. With me.”

A beat.

Then he blinked, surprised. “Oh.”

It felt like a stone dropped into water, and the ripples happened instantly. Oh. You shouldn’t have said it. Oh. It was too much. Oh. Too forward. Too revealing. Your stomach tightened as every fear rushed in at once. Maybe you’d misread these last few hours. Maybe all of this had been regular friend concern, not the warm bloom you’d convinced yourself you felt. Maybe you were delirious and humiliating yourself.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, letting go of his wrist. “I didn’t mean—I know we’re just—you’re being nice and I’m sick and I shouldn’t have asked. Just forget I—”

“Hey,” he said gently. You looked up. He was watching you with something soft, something careful, something unguarded.

“Yes,” he said quietly, “I would like that.”

Something loosened deep inside you, something you didn’t realize you’d been holding tight for months.

It wasn’t the first time you’d slept next to him. The memory warmed you from the inside out, even now through the fog of fever. That day on set weeks ago, when the shoot had run you ragged and you’d ended up in his trailer between takes, too exhausted to even pretend you were fine. You’d sat down on the couch for a second, he’d draped a blanket over you, and then the next thing you knew, you’d woken up with your cheek against his chest. His arm had been around you like it belonged there. His voice had been a low murmur in your hair, telling you to sleep a little longer, that he’d keep an eye on the time.

You remembered how deeply safe you’d felt. You wondered how long he’d stayed still just so you wouldn’t wake. You wondered if it had meant something to him too.

Pedro disappeared from your bedroom now, just for a few minutes, and your heartbeat stumbled through each one. When he returned, he was dressed in one of his soft, well-worn T-shirts and grey sweats. He looked so cozy. He paused at the doorway, almost shy, like he was checking one last time that you truly wanted this.

You lifted the blanket in invitation.

That was all it took. He crossed the room quietly, climbed into your bed with slow, careful movements, settling beside you like he didn’t want to disturb the air you breathed. His warmth reached you before he touched you. When his arm slid around your waist, gentle and protective, you felt yourself exhale fully for the first time all day.

It was nice to have him. Nice didn’t even begin to touch it. And God, it ached. How much you needed the steadiness of him, the quiet companionship he offered without asking for anything in return.

You knew you were being selfish, keeping him here when you were sick, when he could catch it, when the right thing would have been to push him out the door. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. Not when his presence softened every sharp edge in you. Not when he’d spent the entire evening taking care of you with a tenderness no one else ever bothered to offer.

You tucked yourself closer, your forehead brushing the slope of his shoulder, your breath catching at the scent of him. Your fingers found the fabric of his shirt, curling into it without thought, and he went still, just for a second, as if that tiny touch hit somewhere deep.

He whispered into your hair, “Get some sleep, baby. I’ve got you.”

You read his message again. And again. And again.

You know every word by now - every self-conscious pause, every little plea in those P.S. lines. Maybe you even typed out a few replies - half drafts, ghost sentences - before deleting them, because what even is the right thing to say? What’s his intention here? A social check-in? A nostalgic ping to make sure you’re still alive? Maybe he has some new project and thought, hey, she’d be perfect for it?

But that’d be a weird way to start the conversation, wouldn’t it?

Then again, he was a little weirdo. That’s what made him, well… him.

You two had bonded over exactly that - being oddballs orbiting a world that didn’t quite know what to do with people who felt too much, joked too fast, cared too hard. That strange comfort of recognizing your brand of weird in someone else.

But ignoring this? That’s not an option. Not answering would be the death of you. The what if would chew at your brain until dawn.

So you have to. You just… have to.

Your thumbs hover above the keyboard, frozen like you’re about to trigger a bomb.

Then, finally, you type:

Sorry, have already forwarded that number to anyone I know and their grandmas. Text me the weirdest messages you get!

P.S.: I have not started my business for excellent massages yet.

P.P.S.: not creepy. Just mildly unhinged.

You hit send before you can think twice.

A squeal escapes you - an actual, audible, feral noise - and you slap a hand over your mouth in pure mortification. Oh god. You’d pay money to unhear yourself. You flop backward, phone still in hand, eyes squeezed shut like that could undo it.

You don’t even get to decide whether your text hit the right balance of lighthearted and intrigued - because your screen lights up again. Another message.

Then another.

Help, have already received 53 feet pics, three marriage proposals and one ask if I have the number of Oscar Isaac.

You laugh. It bursts out of you, wet and hoarse but real. Before the sound fades, another notification hits.

Sorry for the nightly disturbance. Just wanted to reach out. How are you doing? How was Spain? You’re back in L.A. now, right?

And that - that one does you in.

Because he knows. Still. Three months later. Remembers where you went, what you said you’d do, the timeline you’d casually mentioned. And something in your chest twists hard enough to sting. New tears threaten again and you actually groan at yourself.

“Emotional little bitch,” you mutter.

You type back, fast enough to outrun the ache:

I am great. Just collapsed on my bed and plan not to move for the next 48 hours. Spain was… beautiful, hectic, stressful, fantastic. How’s your life going? Full schedule, I guess?

You stare at the screen, sniffling a little laugh. It’s ridiculous. Absurd, even. You’re texting with him. As if nothing ever happened. As if it’s the most normal thing in the world.

The typing bubble appears. Disappears. Appears again. Your heart does cartwheels.

Spain just is that girl, right? Schedule’s full as usual, but I’ll manage. And… you sure about those 48 hours? Because I found a fantastic matcha place I think you’re going to love.

You blink. Reread. Reread again.

That cannot mean what you think it means. Right? He’ll just send you the address. That’s what people do. Normal people. He’s being polite, sharing a tip, right?

You try to focus, to stop the trembling in your hands. Okay. Think. Careful but not cold. Curious but not desperate.

You type:

You had my curiosity, but now you have my attention! Great matcha? Here in L.A.? I think you have to spill the secret.

You send it, immediately doubt every word, then reread it again to reassure yourself it’s fine. It’s fine. It’s totally fine.

It’s playful, open, neutral. No implication. No pressure.

The minutes drag. The silence stretches, taut like a wire.

What’s he doing now? Typing a whole essay? Choosing his words carefully? Maybe he’s asleep already. Maybe the message was a fluke, a late-night impulse he’ll regret by morning.

You roll onto your side, staring at the phone like it might whisper the truth if you look hard enough. Your pulse is ridiculous, the kind that belongs in a chase scene, not your quiet bedroom.

Then the ping. Sharp, immediate. You nearly drop the phone, fumbling as you sit up straighter, spine tense like posture equals readiness.

How about I show you instead?

Your breath catches halfway out.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You cannot believe it. You CANNOT believe it.

You are actually sitting in an actual café - two iced matcha lattes sweating gently on the wooden table in front of you - waiting for him.

Your knee bounces under the table, and you try to steady it by crossing your legs, but that only makes the motion shift upward, jittering through your chest instead. You tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, eyes flicking around the café like you’re trying to memorize it - or distract yourself.

It’s a small place, tucked just off a quieter street in Silver Lake. The kind of spot that smells faintly of roasted beans and eucalyptus candles, where every table has a little glass jar of sugar and a single stem in a vase - daisies, mostly, with the occasional dried sprig of lavender. Sunlight filters through wide windows, catching the steam off mugs and the soft hum of a playlist that probably has an entire fanbase on Spotify. Conversations buzz low around you, gentle and warm.

After you had pinched yourself approximately one thousand times to confirm that yes, he really did write that message, you had replied - as cool as humanly possible. You’d typed something breezy and casual like, “Sure, sounds fun, I can manage that.” He had followed up with a handful of details: the café name, the time, and one particular request - sit inside, at a table toward the back. Less visible from the street.

You had immediately understood. Of course. The paparazzi.

It wasn’t like A-listers couldn’t grab coffee in L.A. without chaos, but still - the chance was always there, lurking in the periphery. And if you’d learned anything from the months you’d worked near him, it was that he didn’t crave the circus. He liked quiet, safe corners of the world. So, you take the adjustment gladly, trading the golden California sunlight for the café’s cozy amber lighting and a little privacy.

Still, your gaze darts to the door every time it opens.

He’d said he would show up a little later. Standard procedure - not walking in together, minimizing attention. You know that. You understand that.

And yet… a small, traitorous voice in your head keeps whispering that maybe he won’t come. That maybe it was polite impulse texting. That maybe you misread everything.

You silence it.

Even if this is just a friendly catch-up - even if it’s nothing - it’s still him. The fact that Pedro Pascal asked to meet you, to grab matcha, to see you again after months, is enough to make your pulse sprint.

You keep telling yourself not to call it a date. It’s not a date. No one said the word date. No asking out happened, no “ride into the sunset” declarations. This could very well be a social check-in, a how have you been, a good to see you again.

Nothing more.

And yet  - 

Your heart rate explodes the second the door opens and you see him.

It takes a double take, sure, because he’s dressed like every effort went into not looking like himself. Black baseball cap. Plain navy hoodie. Jeans that are definitely too soft and too worn to be designer. Sunglasses - of course. Still, it’s him. Even without the grin, you’d recognize the way he moves - unhurried, loose, as if he’s learned how to take up space without ever demanding it.

You almost raise a hand to wave him over - but stop mid-motion, halfway up. What if he doesn’t want the attention? What if someone does notice him? So instead, you wait.

And then he spots you.

The moment feels suspended, like film slowing down. He tilts his head slightly, lifts his glasses just enough to show his eyes, and that grin - that stupid, heart-crushing, butterfly-summoning grin - spreads across his face.

Oh, you’re done for.

You stand awkwardly, halfway between composure and complete meltdown, and before you can say anything, he’s already crossing the café. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t second-guess - just wraps you into a hug that feels like a warm drink after a freezing walk home. His arm settles firm around your back, and your brain blanks out for a full two seconds.

“Hey,” he says, his voice low and familiar, all warmth and gravel. It ripples through you like static. Then he leans back, glancing at the table. “Oh no, you already ordered? I would’ve.”

You laugh a little, trying to look casual even though your entire nervous system is in meltdown mode. You let go - reluctantly - and gesture for him to sit.

“I have to get out of my coffee debt with you, remember?” you say, smiling.

He laughs, that quiet kind of laugh that lights up his eyes. “How could I not? Biggest scam of the century.”

You both sit, and somehow the small table feels even smaller now. His arm brushes yours as he settles in, and you swear your pulse hits an entirely new BPM record. But he doesn’t seem to notice - or maybe he does, and chooses kindness by pretending not to.

He nods at your cup. “So? What’s the verdict?”

You take a deliberate sip, savoring the earthy sweetness. “Not traditional ceremonial,” you tease, “but, you know… closest we can come.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Still the expert, huh?”

You shrug, playful. “Someone has to keep the standards high.”

The air between you shifts, warm and steady. Slowly, your heart rate eases - not completely, never completely, but enough that you can breathe without counting your exhales. Conversation slides easily into place, soft and natural, like slipping back into an old rhythm neither of you lost.

He asks about Spain, about the trip, and you tell him the funny bits - the chaotic moments, the beauty, the exhaustion. He listens. Really listens. His gaze flicks to your hands when you gesture, to your face when you laugh. He shares little stories too - set anecdotes, random things about travel, the way he accidentally ordered eight espressi in Italy once because he forgot the plural.

It’s easy. Disarmingly easy.

And while you try to play it cool - sipping your drink, tucking hair behind your ear again, pretending you’re not melting from proximity - there’s one persistent thought you can’t shake.

How on earth are you ever going to recover from this crush now?

Because this - this quiet laughter, his sleeve brushing yours, the way his knee nearly touches yours under the table - this feels dangerously like something you’ll never stop replaying once it’s over.

And when he looks at you again, smiling like he knows exactly what you’re thinking but will never call you out on it - yeah. You’re doomed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You are certain by now: your plane back from Spain must have crashed. There’s simply no other explanation. You must have died and gone to some cinematic, too-good-to-be-true afterlife, because -

WHAT. THE. HELL.

After your cozy café reunion and the easy flow of conversation, Pedro had suggested a walk. A little park nearby, he’d said, as if it was the most casual thing in the world. And of course, you said yes. What were you going to do, say no to that face?

It started off perfectly ordinary - a stroll along a tree-lined path, the late afternoon light soft and golden, the kind that makes everything look like a film still. You talked and laughed, bumping shoulders every so often, each small touch an electric jolt you pretended not to feel.

And then, because apparently the universe loves poetic timing, the first drop of rain hit.

Then another.

Then - an entire sky’s worth.

Now you’re both half-sprinting, half-laughing through sheets of rain, your shoes slipping on wet pavement, until you find shelter under the overhang of a tiny garden café that’s long closed for the evening. It’s barely enough space for two people, which means your bodies are pressed close - almost too close. The air between you hums, thick and damp, and every breath feels shared.

You’re both soaked. Water drips down your arms, clings to your lashes, traces down your neck. His curls - god, his curls - are plastered to his forehead, rain still dripping from them. He’s laughing, chest rising and falling fast, his grin utterly unguarded.

“If only we had an umbrella now, right?” you say between breathless laughs, voice light and teasing.

He looks at you, eyes glinting. “I might have thought about bringing back yours.” His tone is playful, but there’s something low under it - something that curls around your spine.

“Oh really?” you challenge, still catching your breath. “But then you decided on becoming a criminal and steal my stuff instead?”

Pedro tilts his head, eyes narrowing like he’s turning the thought over in his mind. Rain drums a rhythm against the awning above you, the air filled with its soft roar. “No,” he says finally, voice quiet. “I wanted to have a second reason to write to you.”

The words hit harder than they should. Like a well-aimed punch of warmth to your lungs, knocking the air right out.

You open your mouth - something witty, something to defuse the spark - but nothing comes. Because no matter how you twist it, that was a flirt. A genuine, deliberate, no-escape flirt.

And he’s looking at you like he meant it.

The moment stretches.

You can hear your pulse now, a thrum that matches the rain. You swallow, acutely aware of how close he is - close enough that you can see the droplets sliding down his temple, the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw.

“Sorry,” he murmurs after a heartbeat, voice softer now, almost uncertain. “Was that… creepy again?”

His question snaps you out of your stunned silence, and you shake your head quickly - too quickly - sending tiny arcs of rainwater flying. “No! No, it’s not creepy, I just -" You blink up at him, words tripping over themselves. “You haven’t… touched your matcha today.”

Oh god. Wow, that has to be the worst kind of comeback you could have come up with.

A laugh escapes him - low, quiet, completely disarming. “I hate matcha,” he then admits, voice rumbling, the corners of his mouth twitching up.

And before you can find a single coherent thought, he leans in.

It’s tentative at first, a soft brush of lips - a question rather than a statement. Warmth beneath the chill of the rain, gentle and unbearably careful. You freeze, breath catching in your throat. And then instinct takes over.

Your hands - already trembling from cold and adrenaline - find their way to the back of his neck, sliding through the damp curls there, pulling him closer. That’s all the permission he needs.

It’s not practiced or staged, not the perfect kind you see on screen. It’s messy, breathless, the kind that tilts your whole world on its axis. His hand moves to your waist, firm and grounding, while yours tangle deeper in his hair, feeling the soft resistance of the curls between your fingers.

He makes a sound then - low and rough, more growl than sigh - and the sound alone lights something inside you.

“Promise me,” he breathes, still close enough that his words brush your lips, “to do that as often as possible.”

Every suppressed thought, every maybe, every almost that had been simmering between you since that first text bubbles up now, breaking free in a rush of rain and heat. You tilt your head, and his lips part against yours, deepening the kiss again until you’re both chasing breath and losing it in the same motion.

The world narrows to the taste of him - faint coffee and something darker, something like electricity - and the way he murmurs against your mouth when you pull back just slightly.

You grin, heart pounding so loud it might echo. “It’s gonna cost you.”

His fingers slide down your arm until they find your hand, his thumb tracing a slow line across your skin. “Not until your coffee debts are paid,” he shoots back.

You laugh - soft, dizzy, happy - and when he kisses you again, the sound disappears between you, swallowed by the storm.

For the first time in months, you don’t care what happens next. Not the headlines. Not the what-ifs. Just this - the rain, the warmth, the quiet miracle that somehow, unbelievably, he came.

@wanniiieeee

Hope, you enjoyed this little fluff :) happy to read from you! Or entertain you with more:

My Masterlist

You were starting to suspect Pedro might actually be turning into a cellist.

What had begun as an endearing bit of method preparation; a gorgeous, oversized instrument following him around like a misplaced prop, had turned into something closer to a lifestyle. The cello was no longer just an accessory for the role—it was a living, breathing presence in your life.

It came along everywhere now: to the gym, to his morning meetings, to the quiet little Italian place where you liked to have dinner on Thursdays. You’d learned, with some resignation and a lot of affection, to make room for it: in the backseat, at the table, sometimes between you on the couch. The way one learns to accommodate a beloved pet, or an eccentric but well-meaning friend. And maybe it was ridiculous. Maybe it was absolutely insane. But it was also—undeniably—adorable.

•••

The cello rested awkwardly beside the table, its curved body gleaming softly under the restaurant’s golden light. You had to hand it to Pedro, most people brought flowers to dinner; he brought a full-sized string instrument.

He was halfway through telling you about the day’s training, something about bow control and posture, when the waiter stopped by to refill your glasses. Pedro paused mid-sentence, thanked him with that disarming warmth that made people linger a second too long, and then looked back at you.

You swirl your wine, grinning. “You do realize you’ve taken that thing everywhere this week, right?”

He glanced at the cello, pretending to think. “It was per the director’s request,” he said, with mock seriousness. “I’m just following orders.”

“Wow,” you said, leaning in, your tone teasing. “You’ve gone method. Who would’ve thought?”

He lifted his brows, lips curving into a sly smirk. “What can I say? I’m a man of depth and dedication. Next week, I’ll probably start speaking in musical notation. You’ll ask how my day was and I’ll answer in D minor.”

You burst out laughing, your laugh bouncing off the wine glasses and soft jazz floating through the restaurant. “That’s… honestly terrifying.”

“Romantic,” he countered, grinning.

“I think it’s cute,” you said simply, watching his reaction over the rim of your glass as you took a slow sip. His face flushed, just faintly, that soft pink you adored, that was creeping up his neck to the tips of his ears. You loved when that happened, when the confident, charming man the world saw gave way to this version of him: bashful, human, and entirely yours.

He shifted in his seat, pretending to adjust the napkin in his lap. “You’re dangerous when you say things like that.”

“I know,” you said, your smile lazy and satisfied. “It’s my superpower.”

The two of you lingered like that, caught in the comfortable rhythm of each other’s company, your knees brushing under the table, the cello case quietly beside you like the uninvited but tolerated third wheel.

About a month later, it was late morning when you heard his voice drift through the house: deep, unhurried, unmistakably his.

“Babe?”

You were in the bathroom, toothbrush in your mouth, foam and mint swirling as you leaned over the sink. “Bathroom!” you called back, mouth full, voice slightly muffled. His footsteps approached, that soft thud of his sneakers on the wooden floor, until he appeared in the doorway.

His curls were damp, clinging to his temples; the dark fabric of his t-shirt underneath darkened from sweat. The sight of him like that—flushed from exertion, skin glistening, eyes still heavy with morning warmth.

“Hey, gorgeous,” he said, voice still husky from his workout.

You spat out your toothpaste, rinsing quickly, the mint sharp on your tongue. “Hi, handsome,” you replied, catching his reflection in the mirror as you wiped your mouth with a towel.

“Got any plans tonight?” he asked, still leaning against the doorframe, one eyebrow raised.

You turned to face him fully, towel pressed to your lips. “Not really. Where are you taking me?”

“The orchestra,” he said, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You said softly, “Again?”

“Again?” he repeated, feigning shock, hand over his chest like you’d wounded him.

You laughed, shaking your head. “I don’t mean it like that, baby. It’s just—we’ve been to so many lately, it’s like some kind of record.”

He smiled and pushed himself off the frame, taking a step closer. “If it’s a record, I’d better make it count. You’ll thank me when you can recognize Shostakóvich blindfolded.”

You laughed into your towel. “I’m running out of fancy things to wear.”

“Not an issue,” he said easily, now standing close enough for you to smell the faint trace of his cologne under the salt of his skin. “I can buy you whatever you want. Matter of fact—” He reached for you, pulling you effortlessly against him. Your arms looped around his neck out of instinct, the towel falling to the floor. “Let’s have breakfast,” he murmured, brushing his thumb along your jaw, “and then head out shopping.”

“Right. Sometimes I forget I have a handsome, disgustingly rich boyfriend,” you teased, your lips curving.

He chuckled, his voice low. “And all yours.”

He kissed you then, soft and unhurried, the kind of kiss that left your skin humming long after it ended.

“I’ll take a quick shower,” he said as he pulled away, tugging his T-shirt off and tossing it onto the counter. His skin gleamed under the light, muscles relaxing now that he’d cooled down. “See you downstairs?”

“Want me to put on some coffee?” you asked, turning toward the door.

“Yes, please,” he said, running a hand through his curls.

“You got it, handsome.”

•••

Hours later, you sat beside him in the concert hall. It was a cathedral of sound and light. The chandeliers glimmered above, their golden reflections rippling across the sea of black tuxedos and glittering gowns. The faint scent of perfume mingled with polished wood and champagne.

Pedro looked devastating in his suit. His hand rested lightly on your thigh, fingers tracing idle circles through the fabric of your dress as the orchestra tuned, strings sighing in unison. When the first notes filled the air, his entire body seemed to change. His posture straightened, eyes narrowing in concentration. The joking man from breakfast was gone; this was someone else—quiet, reverent, as if the music had unlocked a secret chamber inside him.

You turned slightly, watching the way his face softened, the gentle movements of his head following the tempo. His Roman profile was cut against the stage light, the silver threads in his hair catching like frost.

You loved him like this. Focused, alive, his heart open in ways words could never reach.

Midway through, you glanced again. He was completely absorbed, lips parted slightly, eyes shining. You leaned back in your seat, content just to watch him be moved.

Later, in the car ride home, the city lights flickered across his face. Your head rested on his shoulder, your hands still intertwined, and he wouldn't shut up.

“Did you hear that variation on the theme in the second movement?” he said, eyes still bright with excitement.

You hummed a sleepy yes, even though you had no idea what he just said, your cheek pressed to the fabric of his jacket. His voice filling the space, filling your heart.

“Oh my god, it was beautiful—the way they modulated from G major into E minor,” he said, his voice hushed, almost reverent. “It felt like… like the sound of a confession. Just so intimate, so fragile. It’s wild how something can ache and heal you at the same time.”

You smiled, eyes half-lidded. “I liked when they played The Swan,” you said softly.

He turned to look at you, laughing quietly. “Of course you did. You always like the touching, pretty ones.”

“Because they remind me of you,” you murmured.

That shut him up. For a moment, he didn’t know whether to laugh or kiss you. So he did the only thing he could: squeezed your hand tighter and whispered your name like it was a melody only he could hear.

It was one of those Sundays that almost felt like a dream. The sunlight spilling through gauzy curtains, warmth settling into the bones of the house, the faint hum of the city just beyond the quiet. The air smelled like coffee and something citrusy from the candle you’d lit the night before. Somewhere in the background, Yo-Yo Ma’s cello moved through the room, soft and patient, filling every corner with that recognizable ache of beauty.

Most mornings now began with Yo-Yo Ma. You heard his cello more than you heard your own thoughts.

Pedro’s head rested on your lap, curls loose and soft, his stubble brushing lightly against the fabric of your pajama pants. He looked half-awake, half-dreaming, one hand tucked under his chin, the other loosely holding the edge of a book he’d given up on reading an hour ago. You were scrolling through your Kindle, not really taking in the words, absently running your fingers through his hair.

“You gotta stop doing that, mi amor,” he mumbled, voice heavy with sleep. “Or I’ll fall asleep.”

“Sorry,” you said, smiling, but didn’t move right away. You liked the weight of him there—solid and warm and entirely too human for how unreal your life sometimes felt. He sighed, eyes still closed, then lazily reached for his bookmark, the leather one you’d bought for him in that tiny shop in Notting Hill months ago, the one with the faint gold embossing, and slid it into his novel. Then he looked up at you, eyes soft, a little glassy in the sunlight.

“I’ve got a meeting with Ludwig this afternoon,” he said, voice rough from sleep.

You gasped dramatically. “Oh my god.”

His brow furrowed. “What?”

“Pedro,” you said, wide-eyed. “You’re going too far with this. I can’t believe you’ve resurrected Beethoven.”

He threw his head back into your lap, laughing. It was that deep, throaty, warm laugh that you loved. Your favorite of all of its variations.

“You’re funny,” he said, still smiling, his voice half-muffled against your stomach.

“I try,” you said, feigning modesty.

“It’s Ludwig Göransson,” he clarified, sitting up now and rubbing at his eyes. “I’ve been trying to shadow him for months. He finally said yes.”

You blinked. “Is there any chance I can come?”

He gave you that look—eyebrows raised, playful suspicion.

“I loved his Oppenheimer score,” you said quickly, leaning forward. “And The Mandalorian. Probably my favorite thing about the show.”

He gasped, mock-offended. “I thought I was your favorite thing about the show.”

“Debatable,” you said, unable to hide your grin.

He pressed a hand to his heart. “You’re mean.”

“And funny,” you countered, leaning towards him until your faces were close enough for him to steal a kiss—but you beat him to it.

The cello swelled softly behind you, those familiar notes folding around the moment like a soundtrack written just for the two of you. He rested his forehead against your shoulder, and you felt him smile against your skin.

“Let's stay like this for a bit,” he murmured. So you did. You stayed—sunlight moving across the floor, the house breathing around you, Yo-Yo Ma tracing invisible patterns through the air. It felt ordinary and extraordinary at once.

He’d become obsessed with the cello.

You would hear him play from the other side of the house, the notes sneaking through the walls like a secret you weren’t supposed to know. Pedro was adamant about learning as much as he could before filming started, even though he’s going to have a double for the playing scenes. He’d gone from screeching, unbearable sound to actually coaxing music from that damn cello. The same damn cello that now seems to consume most of his time, and you can’t help feeling a little jealous of it.

It was admirable how dedicated he was to the whole thing, but he would never let you see him play. At least, not for now; it's what he had said.

He had claimed one of the empty rooms in the house, turning it into his private sanctuary. One day you walk in, sunlight spills across a wooden table crowded with music sheets, dust motes floating lazily in the air. In the center of the room stands the cello on its stand, majestic and almost intimidating. A large, wooden chair sits beside it.

You approach, fingers brushing along the smooth neck, marveling at the craftsmanship. “Hey there,” he says, appearing in the doorway like a shadow stepping into sunlight. “What are you doing here?” he asks, his voice amused, dressed in all black, impossibly dashing, and dangerous.

You turn, caught, like a child sneaking candy. “I was just curious… I wanted to see who you replaced me for.”

He chuckles, soft and knowing. “Are you jealous of her?” His smirk was mischievous, almost wicked.

You scoff, a half-smile playing on your lips. “Unbelievable. Her?”

He just nods, as if the idea were perfectly normal. “I actually named her after you,” he says casually.

Your eyes meet, and your stomach flips. “You’re such a romantic, dude.”

“Well… yeah,” he shrugs. “And I figured, since she goes between my legs, it was… fitting.”

You grin, stomach tingling. Cheeky, charming, infuriating man. Your eyes drift to the cello again.

“Do you want to play her?” he asks, stepping closer.

You freeze. “Me? No—God, no.”

“C’mon, baby,” he coaxed, undeterred, moving toward the chair.

“I’d be terrible at it. No way,” you laugh nervously.

“I’ll guide you. Don’t be scared.”

“Um… alright,” you murmur, uncertainty clinging to you like a second skin.

He gestures for you to sit. Your knees wobble as you perch on the very edge of the chair. When he hands you the bow, your fingers brush, and sparks run straight through you.

“Okay, baby, here’s how it goes,” he murmurs, taking the cello in his hands. “It needs to rest at a comfortable 45-degree angle between your knees, against your chest. Pegs behind your neck, bout tips near your kneecaps.” He demonstrates, delicate but commanding.

His hands guide yours, parting your knees with a careful, intimate touch. “Don’t squeeze. Just steady it,” his voice low, deep, vibrating against your ear.

Your bare feet pressed against the cold floor. He moves behind you, sliding between your back and the chair, thighs bracketing yours. His hands rest on your arms, soothing and patient. You are stiff, unsure what you’re more afraid of: your lack of skill or how much your body responds to him.

He trailed a hand along your back, lifting you, straightening your spine. “You gotta sit properly. Make the cello hug you.” His breath brushes your neck, and you curse yourself silently for the shiver it draws from you.

You feel his chest press against your back. You exhale, adjusting as he guides you. “Perfect,” he whispers, voice low and intimate.

You bite the inside of your cheek, realizing he definitely knows what he’s doing.

“Now, we have four positions,” he murmurs, hands resting lightly on your waist, explaining each with precision. You remember in that instant one of the reasons you love him. Always gentle, soft-spoken, and patient. Even when your own anxiety threatens to pull you under, he is steady, unflinching.

“You don’t have to be so tense, baby,” he says, fingers kneading a knot in your back. Your skin prickles with goosebumps. “Relax.”

You let go a little, and he murmurs, “Good girl.” Your throat constricts, heat pooling in your chest and cheeks.

“Okay. Place your fingers here,” he guides, showing you exactly where. “Other hand, bow goes here.”

You follow his instructions, trembling slightly.

“First position: D, A, E, B. Drag the bow,” he instructs.

You do, and the sound is scratchy and jarring—but you had expected nothing less.

“That was terrible,” you groan.

“Hey, hey, none of that. We’re just starting.” He adjusts you, patient as ever, correcting your posture, hand on hand.

Again, you drag the bow. Again, you falter. And again. But slowly, clumsily, you find a rhythm, enough to make the notes recognizable.

“I knew you could do it, mi amor,” he breathes, and you blush, heat pooling in your chest and cheeks.

“How about,” he murmurs, “we do it together now? I’ll guide you.”

“Okay,” you whisper.

His hands cover yours, calloused and firm, brushing bruises of practice against the soft pads of your fingers.

“We’re playing Salut d’amour,” he says, voice deep, reverberating through you. “Originally written for violin and piano by Edward Elgar. He wrote it for his wife as an engagement gift. One of my favorites.”

You want to turn and kiss him, but he’s already moving your hands over the strings, the notes filling the room. Your eyes follow his left hand, the bullseye tattoo between his thumb and index, and your body hums with awareness.

“Yes,” he breathes against your ear. “Good.”

You melt into him. If possible, he moves closer, nudging your body forward, then back, rolling together.

“Keep going, baby. Just like that,” he whispers.

Your body surrenders: to him, to the music, to the intimacy. His mouth finds your neck, placing feather-light kisses, and you moan, hips pressing involuntarily against him. You feel him hard against your back, and heat pools lower, your body responding without permission. Your cunt is wet and squeezing around nothing.

“See? You just have to feel it,” he murmurs, every word dripping with sensuality. The piece slows, the final notes lingering. His hands release yours, landing on your shoulders, head dipping toward your neck. Your body is flushed, slightly trembling.

“How was that?” he asks.

“So good,” you admit, breathless.

“I told you,” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin, sloppy, hot kisses. “Should we continue practicing… somewhere more comfortable?”

“Yes, please,” you whisper, warmth pooling through you, utterly undone and at his mercy.

•••

You straddle him on the bed, perched between his thighs like the cello had been in your hands, but this time it’s you in his arms, weight grounding and electrifying all at once. Every subtle press of his hips into yours sends shivers through your body.

“God, look at you,” he murmurs, hands firm on your hips, thumbs brushing your sides. “So perfect.”

You bite your lip, eyes fluttering shut as he slides deep inside you, filling you, stretching you in a way that makes your back arch. A moan slips out, and he chuckles low, nose grazing your neck.

“You like that, baby? All of me?”

“Yes… yes,” you gasp, tugging him closer, hands in his hair.

His hand circles your clit with maddening precision, slow, teasing, and you cry out, hips moving instinctively. “Feel that?”

You grind down, rocking against him, and he guides you, holding you steady, every thrust, every tilt deliberate. “God, you feel incredible… so tight, so wet… mine,” he growls, teeth grazing your shoulder. You press your lips to his, moaning against him, rocking perfectly in sync with his thrusts.

“Harder… yes, just like that,” you gasp, nails digging into his back.

His other hand traces your clit in perfect rhythm, driving heat through you. “You like that, huh? You like me making you feel this good?”

“Yes… oh, fuck, yes,” you cry, chest flushing, dizzy with pleasure.

He groans darkly, adjusting your hips, lifting slightly, thrusting deeper. “Keep going… that’s it, baby. So good, so perfect.”

Moans, gasps, and slick friction fill the room, every word, every brush of his lips, and every tilt of his hips pushing you higher.

“Pedro… I… I’m so close."

“Let go, baby,” he growls, circling your clit harder, thrusting deep.

You shatter, waves of heat and pleasure crashing through you, muscles trembling, utterly undone in his arms. He holds you close, chest pressed to yours, moving in slow, lingering thrusts as you ride the aftershocks together, bodies slick and trembling. A thrill surges through him. Every shudder, every gasp, every little moan that escapes your lips—it's beautiful, like music, like an orchestra composed just for him. Every sound, every little tremor of your body, is a note, a melody he wants to memorize, replay, and drown in forever.