Television appearances. Shows left and right. His face on every big screen and billboard across the country. Pedro Pascal isn’t just known—he’s everywhere. Blogsites, news articles, comment sections, internet threads. His whole being is plastered like the most wanted man in the world—but in all the glamorous, suffocating ways.

And still, none of that mattered when it came to love. Not to him. Because every smile thrown his way felt transactional. Calculated. Built on fame, money, and looks. What he wanted—what he needed—was something real.

That came unexpectedly, during a mess. Someone had leaked his number online. He was bombarded with texts, from strangers pouring out admiration, weird confessions, and things far worse. In the middle of sorting the chaos, he called customer service. And that’s when he heard them—just a voice, steady and patient. Something about the way they handled him stuck. He couldn’t stop thinking about them.

Rules said the agent couldn’t reveal who they were. But Pedro had never wanted something more in his life. So he broke a few lines. Used his name—just this once—to find them.

One thing led to another. They met. Clicked. Dated. Privately. And eventually, Pedro asked them if they could take this to the next level… quietly. No press, no PR spin, just the two of them. They agreed.

Now, they spend stolen weekends together in a quiet cabin far from civilization, tucked in a town that doesn’t care who he is. No flashing cameras. No fans. Just peace.

He arrived early one afternoon, keying into their cabin. The place was clean. Homey. On the kitchen counter was a plate of food and a note that reads, I'll be late. I'm doing an overtime. Love you :).

Pedro smiled softly. Same handwriting. Same tiny doodle at the bottom. He ate, then moved to the living room to kill time. As he reached for a book, a notebook tumbled down. When he picked it up, he saw their handwriting again—only this time, it wasn’t sweet.

This job made me feel like I'm a worthless piece of shit. But I've gotta endure it. Because I don't want to be dependent on the person I love. I don't want to make him feel like I'm taking advantage of him.

His chest tightened.

He heard the door click open. Footsteps. Keys dropped into a bowl.

Pedro gently slid the notebook back where it was and stood just in time to see them walk in—worn out, uniform still on, but smiling.

“A little late, huh?” He said.

They nodded. “Yeah. Overtime.”

There was something off in their voice. He noticed it instantly.

“You alright?”

They forced a smile. “Just tired.”

Pedro didn’t push. Instead, he crossed the room, pulled them into a hug. Held them there for a long time.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” he murmured, his lips brushing their temple. “But you can. I’m here. Always.”

They didn’t say anything right away—but their grip on him tightened.