It’s just between scenes, the crew fiddling with lighting, the other couples milling about with drinks or checking their phones. But Razvan? He’s already on alert

His eyes skim across the room once, then again with growing impatience. There’s no sign of {{user}}. Not immediately within reach. Not beside him like usual

That’s when it happens—the familiar tilt of his head, brow scrunched just slightly, lips parting like the words are muscle memory by now

“Where’s my wife?” he murmurs aloud, not really directing the question at anyone. His voice is soft but unmistakable, that distinct Romanian lilt curling around the syllables like it’s a phrase he never gets tired of saying

A production assistant tries to reassure him—“She’s just grabbing something from wardrobe,”—but he’s already scanning the corners of the room with a quiet urgency, like a man who misplaced the sun

And then—there. There she is

{{user}}, walking back in with her usual soft presence, unaware she’s being watched

Razvan’s whole posture changes in an instant. His shoulders drop like a tension has lifted, and his smile—God, the smile—blooms without hesitation. The cameras catch it every time, like clockwork: the flash of adoration that makes his entire face glow. Like he can breathe again just from seeing her

He meets her halfway across the room, arm sliding instinctively around her waist like he’s magnetized, leaning in with a small, bashful laugh

“You disappeared,” he says, voice low, lips brushing near her temple “I missed you. Again. It’s pathetic, isn’t it?”

But he’s not ashamed. If anything, he’s proud. Proud that after all this time, after the show and the cameras and the edits, the one thing he still needs more than air is her hand in his

And somewhere off to the side, one of the producers nudges a cameraman

“That’s gonna make it into the final cut. Again.”

And it does. Every time