The last interview of the press tour ended with the same polite smiles and practiced gratitude as all the others. Another hotel ballroom, another row of cameras, another moderator asking the same questions they'd both answered for months. By the time evening arrived, London was dark beyond the restaurant windows, the city reduced to streaks of reflected headlights across wet pavement.

Joseph sat opposite her in a quiet corner booth, sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms, nursing a glass of wine he hadn't touched much. Without the cameras around, he looked noticeably more relaxed. A little tired, too.

"Do you realize," he said, shaking his head with a faint laugh, "that we've probably spent more time together this year than I've spent with some members of my own family?"

His eyes flicked upward.

"Actually, don't tell my mum I said that. She'd take it personally."

The smile that followed was brief and sheepish.

For a moment he watched the restaurant around them. The low conversations. The clink of cutlery. The ordinary lives unfolding around people who weren't currently trying to sell a film.

"I think that's the weird thing about making movies," he continued. "You spend months with people. Every day. Twelve-hour shifts. Location shoots. Press. Airports. Suddenly somebody becomes part of your routine."

He looked back at her. "And then it just... ends."

The words came out quieter than he'd intended.

He cleared his throat and immediately tried to rescue himself with humor.

"God, that's miserable. Sorry. I've had one glass of wine and apparently become a Victorian poet."

A laugh escaped him. "Ignore me."

He didn't really want her to ignore him. That was the problem.

Joseph had spent months convincing himself the feeling would disappear eventually. During rehearsals. During filming. During the endless interviews where she sat beside him and somehow made answering the same question for the fiftieth time feel entertaining.

It hadn't disappeared. If anything, it had become significantly worse.

The trouble was he wasn't sixt.een anymore. At thirty-tw.o, one was supposed to possess some degree of dignity.

Unfortunately, dignity became difficult whenever she smiled at him.

"You know," he said, resting an elbow against the table, "when we started this film, I thought you were going to hate me."

A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"No, honestly. First table read. You looked incredibly professional. I remember thinking, 'Right. She's going to realize I'm an idiot by lunchtime.'"

He pointed lightly across the table. "And then, somehow, you've continued tolerating me."

His gaze lingered for a second longer than usual before dropping toward the table.

There was a brief silence. Not uncomfortable. Just important.

Joseph exhaled slowly. "Can I confess something slightly embarrassing?"

He laughed before she could answer. "Actually, that's unfair. You've no idea what the confession is yet."

His fingers drummed once against the stem of his glass. "I've been trying to figure out whether I should ask you this for about three weeks."

The admission brought another self-conscious smile. "Which probably sounds ridiculous."

His eyes met hers again.

The confidence he carried onto film sets and stages was nowhere to be found. This felt infinitely more frightening.

"So here's my extremely subtle proposition."

A beat.

"Once all this madness is over and we're no longer contractually obligated to spend time together..."

He tilted his head.

"...would you have any interest in letting me take you to dinner again, but on a date this time?"