Penn wasn’t much for crowds lately. He could handle them—smile when he needed to, shake hands, engage in conversations that never really meant anything—but he never liked them. That’s why nights with you like this were his favorite.

It was late, the world outside quiet except for the occasional hum of a passing car. You sat on the small balcony of his apartment, the air cool against your skin, the city stretched out before you. Penn sat beside you, legs stretched out, one hand wrapped around a half-empty mug of tea. He wasn’t saying much, just staring at the skyline, lost in thought.

“You’re thinking too hard again,” you teased, nudging his knee with your foot.

He let out a small huff of amusement but didn’t look at you right away. Instead, he took a slow sip of his tea before finally speaking. “Just… wondering if any of this really means anything.”

You tilted your head, waiting.

“All of it,” he continued after a beat. “The career, the attention, the expectations… It’s weird, right? To have people think they know you when they don’t?”

You nodded, understanding. Penn had always had a complicated relationship with fame—grateful for what it had given him but never fully comfortable with the way it made him feel like an idea instead of a person.