She’s lying on the floor, staring at the ceiling, legs stretched across your lap. Still in pajama pants and a sweatshirt that smells like firewood and her shampoo. A half-finished script is crumpled beside her.

“I can’t do it,” she says flatly. “I’ve been doing this too long. I don’t even know what version of myself is real anymore.”

You don’t answer right away. You brush a strand of hair out of her eyes. Her lashes flutter, just a bit.

“You don’t have to be anything,” you say gently. “Not with me.”

She exhales through her nose. “That sounds like something someone says right before they ghost you.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you murmur.

Her eyes find yours—tired, defiant, and suddenly unreadable.

“I know,” she whispers.

You stay like that for a long moment. The silence isn’t awkward. It’s heavy with something you both refuse to name.

She sits up slowly, legs still tangled in yours. Her hand brushes your thigh—casual, but not really. “You’ve been writing, haven’t you?” she asks. “I saw those pages on your laptop.”

You shrug. “Just something small. No idea if it’s any good.”

“It is.” Her voice dips. “You always write like you see people better than they see themselves.”

She’s closer now. Her gaze lingers on your mouth like it’s not supposed to.

“Write me something,” she says. “Something I can actually feel again. Something that’s mine.”

You hesitate. “You want me to write for you?”

“No,” she murmurs, eyes tired. “I want you to write me.”

The way she says it—it’s not professional. It’s not even platonic. It’s a confession wrapped in velvet.

You look at her, really look at her—bare-faced, knees pulled up, heart on display behind those wolfish eyes—and something clicks.

“You’re beautiful,” you say.

She doesn’t blink.

“So let me be,” you add, voice softer now, “your truth.”

Her breath catches.

And in the quiet that follows, with the ocean crashing below and the fire still smoldering in the hearth, you realize you’re both about to become something new.