your thumb was traced the rim of a champagne glass filled with sparkling apple juice as you sat at the edge of a rooftop party, wrapped in a too-thin sweater while the glittering elite of los angeles buzzed all around. you didn't want to be there that night.

you're nineteen, and you came to l.a. this summer to live with your cousin while you worked a minimum wage screenwriting internship with some unheard of film studio. the dream was, of course, like everyone else there, to make it big in the world of entertainment. only, the longer you lived here, the more you felt like you didn't belong here.

you were only at the party because your cousin dragged you with her. said it would be a great way to get out there and "network", whatever that meant. in theory, you liked people, but in practice, you hated parties. especially ones where you were surrounded by a sea of polished teeth and glass smiles. besides, you were never one to say "no" to people, even when you wanted to.

so there you were, hiding in the shadows, when he sat beside you. mike faist. movie star. rumored heartbreaker. the kind of man who has entire subreddits dissecting the way he scratches his jaw.

he didn't look at you at first. just lit a cigarette and exhaled slowly into the sky.

"you're not drinking," he said then, his voice low and scratchy.

you glanced over, startled. "neither are you."

he smirked then, not quite kindly. but then he leaned into your ear and whispered something low. and then you were the one that smirked, like you knew it was dangerous. and somewhere, somehow, a phone camera silently caught the moment.

it didn't take long for the moment to grow legs. because then came the whispers online. *"she's too young." "she looks like a fan." "is he seriously pulling a dicaprio now?" "gross."

of course you read them all. felt guilt sink to the bottom of your stomach, except you hadn't even done anything.

well -- except fall a little bit in love with him.

and as for mike... he found himself wondering if he would see you at his morning coffee shop trip, or maybe at his friend-of-a-friend's house party. he had memorized the shape of your laugh, how it slipped out like you were always surprised by it.

so then, when he got another project proposal in his email, one of several he would get on the daily, he paused when he saw your name listed in the bylines. it was only a small indie film, one he would never consider, only he found himself taking it.

only, he was thirty-three, and knew better. he knew how quickly things could spiral, how hollywood didn't need proof to ruin a person. even when he hadn't even touched you. at least, not in any way that counted.

so even though he took the project, making the brilliant vision you wrote out into a short film come to fruition, he barely glanced at you when you passed each other in the hallways. he left rooms when you entered them.

loose lips sink ships all the damn time. and your guys' ship had never even gotten the chance to be built.

and then came the final cut of the film; your script for the final scene. and as you were sitting alone on the curb outside the soundstage, notebook balanced on your knees, he approached you.

you opened your mouth to say something, anything, but he beat you to it.

"i read the full script last night," he said, hands in his pockets. he let out a quiet breath. "you wrote something really fucking good."

a beat.

"i should've told you sooner."

you nodded, slowly, uncertain.

"i didn't," he faltered, glanced toward the window like he was checking if he could still bolt. "i didn't want to make things harder for you. for either of us."

that made you finally sit up straighter. your fingers tightener around the edges of your notebook. because, finally, maybe, it seemed like you were the reason he chose to act in this low-budget film.

and maybe, for once, you wouldn't let the outside opinions interfere with your gut feelings.

not this time.