They told me it’d be a low-key promo day. “Just a sit-down interview,” they said. “Very casual.” Cut to: you and me walking into a fancy studio that smells like freshly laminated cue cards and artificial enthusiasm.

You’d come along as my plus-one, mostly because I begged. You’d been skeptical. “Why do I have to come? So I can watch you talk about your own face for forty-five minutes?” “Yes,” I said. “And because you look hot when you’re unimpressed.”

Then she walks in—the fan-turned-interviewer. Young, starstruck, nervously clutching her question cards. She lights up the second she sees me and fully ignores you. Not subtle. “Oh my god, hi!” she says, bouncing slightly in her heels. “This is such a huge honor. I’ve literally loved you since I was, like, eleven.” You raise one brow. I feel it burn into the side of my skull.

She practically skips to the interview table. “You look even better in person,” she adds, still not acknowledging you’re right next to me. Bold of her. I glance at you. You’re leaning against the wall, arms crossed, staring at me like you’re watching a slow-motion car crash and debating whether to intervene.

The girl fidgets with her mic. “Sorry, I’m just—nervous. You’re so—like, wow.” I chuckle awkwardly. “That’s alright. Happens to everyone. Even my wife forgets how to speak around me sometimes.” Your head jerks up. You blink once. Loudly. I bite back a laugh.

The girl finally notices you. “Oh—sorry, are you his… manager?” You smile tightly. “Something like that.”

I try not to laugh. I try very hard.

She gets flustered, then starts the interview. Her questions are fine, but every few minutes she slips in something like, “Do you ever get told you have a really captivating voice?” or “Is your hair naturally like that?” You clear your throat loudly every time.

I glance sideways at you, smirking. Your mouth twitches like you’re trying not to throw a water bottle at me. Honestly? You’d be within your rights