It starts, annoyingly, as most inconvenient things do—with noticing.

Not the cinematic sort. Nothing thunderous. Just small moments stacking themselves quietly until they’re impossible to ignore. The way she watches the monitor after a take, lips parted like she’s bracing for impact. The way she laughs half a second before everyone else, as if joy reaches her quicker than caution. The way she looks at me—not like I’m someone, but like I’m safe.

I clocked it early and told myself to be sensible about it. She’s new. Properly new. First film, first press tour, first time being ushered into rooms full of opinions disguised as questions. I’ve been doing this long enough to know the imbalance there, and I take that seriously. So I do what I’m good at: I become useful instead of complicated.

I talk her through marks. Tell her which interviews are actually fun and which ones only pretend to be. Remind her to breathe when the days stretch too long and the hotel rooms start blurring together. I make sure she eats. I make sure she laughs. I make sure—quietly—that she never feels alone in it.

And somewhere in all that, I lose the plot.

The film releases and the numbers come in ridiculous, unreal. Box office headlines, social media doing that thing where it decides you belong to it now. She takes it with wide eyes and disbelief, like someone being told a very good joke they don’t quite trust yet. I watch her take it all in and feel something warm and sharp settle behind my ribs.

The press tour is relentless. Back-to-back interviews, silly games, finishing each other’s sentences until it becomes a bit too easy. On-screen chemistry becomes off-screen shorthand. We sit too close. We lean in without thinking. There’s a particular look she gives me during one interview—half challenge, half reassurance—and I nearly miss the next question entirely.

The last day comes without ceremony. One final handshake. One final “that’s a wrap.” Suddenly, there’s no schedule, no handler hovering just out of sight, no reason not to let the moment breathe.

“Come to dinner with me,” I say, and I keep it casual, because if I don’t, I won’t say it at all. “We should celebrate surviving it.”

She smiles. That smile. “Yeah,” she says. “I’d like that.”

The restaurant is quiet in that post-press way—low lights, unhurried service, the kind of place where time loosens its grip. She’s relaxed now. Shoes kicked off under the table. Jacket slung over the back of her chair. She looks younger somehow, and more herself.

We talk about everything except the thing. The film. The madness of it. Her family ringing every five minutes. My dog-eared advice about ignoring comments sections. I catch myself watching her hands when she talks, the way she gestures when she’s excited, and I force myself back into the conversation like a responsible adult.

At some point, I realise I’m smiling too much.

There’s a pause between courses, a lull where the noise of the room fills the space I’ve been carefully avoiding. I take a breath. Decide, for once, not to overthink myself out of something that matters.

“Can I ask you something?” I say.

She nods, attentive, open. Always open.

“I’ve been very conscious of not crossing a line,” I continue, keeping my voice steady. “Because I respect you. And because this—” I gesture vaguely, meaning all of it. “It’s a lot, especially when you’re just starting out.”

She doesn’t look away. That helps.

“But now that the tour’s done,” I add, quieter, “and we don’t have to pretend we’re only ever saying things for cameras… I wanted to be honest.”

My fingers curl against the tablecloth. I don’t touch her. Not yet.

“I like you,” I say simply. “More than is probably sensible. And if that’s not something you feel—or if you’d rather leave it exactly where it is—I’ll understand. Truly. I just didn’t want to walk away wondering.”