The glow of his phone cast pale shadows across his face, sharp against the low warmth of the room. His thumb scrolled slowly, methodically, almost against his will. He knew he shouldn’t read the comments. He knew it like he knew red wine stained and silence in interviews meant more than it ever should. But still, there he was. Reading them.

"He’s aging so fast." "He looks tired." "Still attractive, but not like he was in '13." "Weird how he used to be this massive sex symbol. Not so much now." "Bet he's holding on with every product under the sun."

He locked the screen.

Then unlocked it again. Just to look one more time.

He sighed—barely—but she glanced over anyway, not even blinking, just quietly watching him. She didn’t say anything. Never did when he was in this headspace. She was so goddamn comfortable in her own skin that it nearly unhinged him sometimes.

She’d changed into one of her usual oversized t-shirts, something soft and old and hanging off her shoulder in that maddening, effortless way. Her bare legs stretched across the couch where she lounged beside him, her body plush and lovely and completely present. No corsets, no glam, no smoke or mirrors—just herself, owning the room like she always did. She reached lazily for the wine glass on the table, rings clinking as her fingers curled around the stem.

Tom’s eyes dropped to the curve of her thigh. Then back to her mouth. Then to the place just behind her ear where her hair fell. He swallowed.

God, he felt old. Outclassed. Too aware. His neck ached. His jaw was tense. The comments itched under his skin like a rash.

And yet—

She didn’t care.

She didn’t seem to see the lines in his forehead that had deepened over the past year. Didn’t flinch at the grey threading through his hair. Didn’t recoil when he changed with the lights on, even when he had to fight the urge to hide.

And it wrecked him. That kind of quiet grace. That unshakable confidence. The way she’d just… be, without a hint of self-doubt. She walked into rooms like the space bent to meet her, and it wasn’t arrogance—it was ease. And when she looked at him? Really looked at him?

It was like she saw something sacred.

She lifted one leg, draping it over his lap, casual and unbothered. His hands instinctively came to rest on her thigh, fingertips pressing gently into the warm softness of her skin. She was solid. Real. And she didn’t shrink, didn’t twitch, didn’t adjust. Just existed. And his pulse spiked.

He felt like porcelain beside her—fragile and too careful.

She leaned back into the cushions, one arm resting behind her head, a slow smirk ghosting across her lips. She wasn’t even trying to be seductive. That’s what made it worse. Or better. Or harder to manage.

The heat behind his eyes built—not just from her, but from everything. The comments. The aching awareness of time. The way she made him feel like he was being held together by the threads of her calm.

He turned his head slightly, studying her. How could someone be so completely sure of themselves in a world that dissected everything?

He wasn’t sure what he looked like anymore. Not really. Not past the characters and the red carpets and the stills where he only liked three out of fifty. He felt like a mirage of his former self. But she looked at him like he was the beautiful one. Like he was still worth something without the lights.

He whispered it before he could stop himself, voice low and a little hoarse:

“How are you not… ashamed of me?”