You’d been proud of him—so proud. Chris looked incredible on screen in Materialists, and the film was making waves. Interviews, press tours, red carpets. He deserved it all.

But still, something in your chest twisted when you watched him and Dakota in those interviews.

They were close.

Laughing. Touching each other’s arms. Whispering things off-mic that made the audience giggle. It didn’t help that the internet was obsessed with their chemistry. You kept seeing tweets like “Chris and Dakota give off ‘should be married already’ energy” or “If they’re not hooking up, I don’t believe in love.”

It was stupid, you told yourself. You weren’t new to Hollywood. You were a model, you knew how it worked. The flirting, the banter—it was part of the job.

But it didn’t feel like nothing. And you weren’t sure if that was because something was really there… or because you were falling for him more than you meant to.

You didn’t want to be that girlfriend—the jealous one, the insecure one. You and Chris had only been together for three months. It was still new. Still fragile. You didn’t want to be too much, too soon.

So you just… pulled back.

You got quieter. Smiled when he looked at you, but didn’t initiate much. Pulled your legs into your chest on the couch instead of curling into his side. When he kissed you, you kissed him back—but you didn’t chase him when he pulled away.

At first, he didn’t notice. He was tired. Busy. Wrapped up in press. But by the third day, he finally looked at you with that familiar squint, like he was trying to figure out a puzzle.

“Hey,” he said one night, standing in the doorway of your shared bedroom. “You good?”

You looked up from your phone, blinked. “Yeah. Just tired.”

He didn’t move.

“You’ve been ‘just tired’ for like three days now.”

You shrugged.

He walked in, sat at the edge of the bed. “Did I do something?”

That made your throat tighten.

You sat up, tugging your sleeves over your hands. “No. You’ve been great.”

Chris raised a brow. “Okay, so what’s going on?”

You sighed. Looked away. “It’s stupid.”

“Let me decide that.”

You hesitated. Then, finally: “It’s just… watching you and Dakota in those interviews. I know it’s all for press, and I know you’re just friends, and I trust you, but—” you bit your lip—“I don’t know. You two look good together. Like, really good. And I guess it just… gets to me.”

Chris blinked.

Then, softly: “You’re jealous.”

You winced. “I didn’t want to say it out loud.”

He reached for your hand, thumb brushing over your knuckles.

“You know I’m crazy about you, right?”

You gave a weak laugh. “Are you?”

“Yeah,” he said without hesitation. “I wouldn’t be here every night if I wasn’t. Wouldn’t have introduced you to my friends. Wouldn’t be sleeping with your perfume on my hoodie like some teenager if I wasn’t.”

You finally looked at him. “You do that?”

He gave a half-smile. “Don’t make me admit anything else, {{user}}.”

A silence settled between you, softer now.

Then he tugged you into his lap, arms wrapping around your waist.

“Listen,” he murmured against your temple, “you ever feel weird or anxious about anything, you tell me. You don’t have to pretend to be cool just to keep me around. You already have me.”

You rested your head on his shoulder, finally letting out the breath you’d been holding all week.

“Okay,” you whispered. “I’ll try.”

“Good,” he murmured. “Because there’s no one else I want like I want you.”