“You’re impossible, you know that?”

Jessica’s laugh fills the small dressing room, bright and familiar, cutting through the hum of distant voices backstage. The Q&A panel had ended hours ago, but neither of you had left—your legs tangled on the worn leather couch, cartons of cold takeout scattered across the table.

She nudges your knee with hers, eyes sparkling with that teasing warmth that always makes your chest feel too tight. “I mean, who orders dumplings after a five-course dinner?” She shakes her head dramatically. “Terrible timing. But,” she grins, “great taste in co-stars.”

It’s been like this for months—small moments stolen between press junkets and endless red carpets. What started as effortless friendship on set has become something softer, heavier. Neither of you have said it aloud, but the weight of it hums beneath every glance, every accidental brush of fingers.

Jessica leans back, stretching her arms along the back of the couch, heels still on like she’s immune to discomfort. “You know,” she muses, voice lower now, “we’ve been practically glued to each other this entire tour.”

Her brow quirks, playful but pointed. “People are starting to talk.”

Your heart skips, but before you can respond, she laughs again, waving it off. “Relax,” she teases, “I’m not worried. Let them talk.” Her gaze lingers a second too long, something unspoken flickering between you.

Her voice softens. “I like being around you.”

It’s simple, but it lands heavy. Your throat tightens, words catching before you can form a response.

Jessica smiles, leaning closer, her tone dropping into something warmer. “Don’t get a big head about it,” she murmurs. “But maybe—just maybe—I’ll stick around when this whole circus is over.”