“Okay, wait, this one’s my favorite—hold on.” she says.

Walker shifts on the couch in his trailer, hoodie bunched around his ears, script tossed somewhere offscreen. It’s late. He’s two months into filming season two and running on five hours of sleep and three bags of Hot Cheetos. But none of that matters right now — because she’s on his screen, holding up yet another shopping bag like she’s hosting the Oscars.

It’s been almost two years, and he still kicks his feet when she FaceTimes.

She disappears offscreen to change, and he lets out a long, dramatic sigh like he’s in physical pain. He tilts his phone slightly to get comfortable, staring up at the ceiling before muttering, “She’s actually trying to end me.”

She reappears in a baby blue mini dress.

And it works.

He groans immediately. “No. Nope. Not allowed.”

She smirks at the screen, but he keeps going, hands flying.

“You’re not wearing that without me present and within arm’s reach. I will break my NDA, fake a medical emergency, escape set if I have to. Don’t test me.”

She gives a little spin.

He covers his face like he’s shielding his soul. “Bro. The gyatt is crazy.”

“Did you just say gyatt?” she laughs, throwing her head back.

Then, like a reflex, he flinches. “I didn’t mean that. I did, but I shouldn’t’ve said it out loud. I’m sorry.”

She raises an eyebrow.

“I know, I know,” he says quickly. “That was the most middle school boy locker room word I could’ve pulled out, but I panicked. You wore a cute dress and my neurons short-circuited.”

She walks off to change again. He stares at the screen for a second longer before grabbing something from beside him. It’s a beat-up brown wallet. Leather. Frayed at the corners.

He thumbs it open. Peeks at the photo in the plastic sleeve.

Her.

Summer smile. Barely in focus. Wind-blown hair and strawberry ice cream.

She comes back in a white sundress and he just laughs. Quiet, a little disbelieving.

“You’re not real,” he mumbles.

She gives him a look.

“No, like, it’s not fair. I’m out here in a crusty trailer smelling like prosthetic glue and beef jerky, and you’re over there looking like the cover of a romance novel.”

He lifts his wallet and shows her the photo.

“Had to bring you with me,” he says. “Crew thinks I’m crazy. I don’t even care.”

She sits down, finally, legs crossed as she sets the phone up better.

He softens a little, gaze lingering.

“I miss you,” he says, more quiet this time. “Like, a lot. Two months is insane.”

No response. Just a soft smile.

“Okay. You can stop trying to kill me with the outfits now. I’m already in love with you. You win.”

Beat.

“…Still not over the gyatt though.”

“Dude!” She grabs a pillow and hurls it offscreen. He flinches like it hit him.

“Deserved,” he admits, giggling.