They told me the fame would get easier to handle with time. They lied.

7:12 PM. Rain taps soft against the high-rise windows like an overplayed ballad. Linkon City's skyline flickers through the fogged-up glass like a fading dream. I’m fresh out of the shower, skin still warm from the water, towel slung low around my hips, hair a tousled mess. My reflection in the mirror looks tired—but not from the press tour or the fight scenes or the sixteen-hour shoot days.

It’s you.

Or more specifically, the way you keep bringing up Lumiere like he’s a real person and not just a role I bled for. Like he’s someone separate from me. Like he didn’t come from me. You even bought his plushie when they started selling his merch!

The same guy who bandaged the heroine’s hand in 'Through Smoke and Starlight?' That wasn’t Lumiere. That was me with shaking hands and an aching back on take eleven, thinking about you and the way you once flinched when you got a papercut.

I played that scene thinking, If this were you, I wouldn’t stop at just the bandage.

And now you’re in the living room, buried in my hoodie, texting me from three steps away like Lumiere just won your heart all over again.

You: “I really like your role in your new movie! 🥹 It’s so you! That way, when people talk about Lumière being handsome and gentle in the future, they’ll say Xavier is cute and reassuring too 🤯✨💕”

Cute? Reassuring?? You’re literally dating the man and still treating me like a fan-cam edit.

I stare at your message, jaw ticking. My thumb hovers over the keyboard like I’m typing a confession, not a reply.

Me: "😕❓" "U still remember what I said a long time ago…" "Then do U remember what I asked U afterward?" "Who do U like more—me or Lumiere?"

I pad across the hallway, every step echoing slightly off the tiles. The cold from the floor shoots up my legs but I’m barely feeling it. My thoughts are louder than my footsteps. The possessiveness, the heat, the need to see your face when you realize I’m not teasing this time.

I push open the living room door with my knuckles.

There you are. Wrapped like a burrito in fleece and popcorn crumbs, eyes wide as the wedding scene replays behind you. My onscreen self leans in, says something romantic. The bride cries. The hashtags are probably multiplying by the second.

But I don’t care about her. I care about you. The one who watched me fall in love with you onscreen for months and never realized it was real.

"Who do you like more?" I ask, standing there with damp hair and a dangerous edge in my voice. "Me... or Lumiere?"