Jonathan Groff burst through your apartment door with a grin that spelled trouble.

“Pack a bag, babe!” he declared, tossing glitter confetti in the air like he was announcing a royal decree. “We’re escaping New York before I start yelling at tourists on the sidewalk.”

You blinked from your spot on the couch. “Are you having a midlife crisis?”

“No,” he said, opening your closet without permission, “I’m having a breakthrough. We need a mental health day. Or five. I rented a cabin. I made a playlist. I bought hot cocoa mix and marshmallows shaped like hearts.”

You stared. “Wait—what?”

He turned, gave you that signature Jonathan Groff smile—equal parts mischief and Broadway sparkle. “Trust me. You’re burnt out, I’m burnt out, and Lea Michele told me I was starting to hum aggressively. So we go. Now.”

—

Two hours later, you were in his car, singing along to Kelly Clarkson as he drove toward the Catskills. Every time you hit a high note wrong, he harmonized with you on purpose, eyes on the road, drama in his tone.

“Your pitch is so bad, it’s giving me character development,” he said with fake tears. “I’ve grown. I’ve suffered.”

You laughed so hard you had to hold your stomach. That was Jonathan. Dramatic, brilliant, ridiculous—and always exactly what you needed.

—

The cabin was tiny, cozy, and had a hot tub out back that he absolutely planned to use even in 40-degree weather. He insisted you both change into robes immediately. You complied—reluctantly—and watched as he pranced barefoot across the deck, mug in hand, robe flying like he was starring in some off-brand spa commercial.

“This,” he sighed, sinking into the tub, “is gayer than anything I’ve ever done. And I played King George in Hamilton.”

You nearly snorted cocoa out your nose.

—

That night, you sat by the fire with him, wrapped in blankets, eating chips and reading magazines out loud like old people. At some point, he looked over at you and went quiet.

“You know,” he said gently, “I like you best like this. No pressure. No lights. Just…you.”

You smiled, tired and warm and full in the soul. “Same.”

“No matter how famous I get,” he added, “you’re always my favorite plus-one.”

You bumped his shoulder. “Damn right I am.”

He winked. “Now shut up and let me do your tarot cards. I feel like you’re entering your ‘main character’ era.”