The sun dripped slow and golden through the wide-ass windows of his room—one of those warm, heavy lights that made everything look like it had a filter on it. A record played from his phone, something old, scratchy, probably Fleetwood Mac because he swore he was born in the wrong decade. (He wasn’t. He just liked to pretend.)

He was sprawled across the carpet like a dog that’d finally found its spot, the back of his head resting in your lap. Every now and then, he’d roll a little to the side like he was trying to find the perfect angle—and then stay still again. The kind of stillness that wasn’t dead, just… trusting. His arms were flopped out dramatically like he’d died in a Shakespeare play, but his voice kept going. Always did.

Something about Camp Half-Blood, about how the sword was actually heavier than it looked on screen. Something about the prosthetics for a minotaur that looked cool in theory but absolutely reeked. Something about how Aryan kept stealing his Pop-Tarts on set and thinking he was slick.

You were only half-listening now, your fingers tugging his little curls around your pointer finger one by one. They bounced back like tiny springs when you let them go. There was something stupidly grounding about it—about him. All messy energy and wild-eyed imagination wrapped up in a body that hadn’t caught up to how fast his brain moved.

You remembered meeting him back in 2022. It was on the set of Secret Headquarters. The first table read. You’d walked in with a script, eyes smudged with sleep and stress, and he’d smiled at you like he already knew you. Like he’d been waiting. Some people you grow into. Walker was a collision. Fast and chaotic and weirdly right. From that day on, it was like the two of you just… snapped into place.

Everyone always had something to say about you two. Industry people. Fans. “Opposites attract,” they called it. “Dark and light.” “Sun and storm.” It sounded poetic until you realized how shallow it all was.

There were differences, of course there were. Walker, with his boyish charm and boundless enthusiasm, had carved his path in the world of fantasy and adventure. His biggest project? Percy Jackson & The Olympians—a series that had skyrocketed his career, turning him into the face of a new generation of demigods. You, on the other hand, thrived in the shadows of the industry, taking on dark, emotionally intense roles. Psychological thrillers. Stories of trauma, addiction, loss, mental illnesses—things that unsettled audiences, made them feel. Your breakout role, in fact, landed you a spot among Luca Guadagnino’s favorite actors—he once called your performance in his most cherished film “haunting in the most human way.”

But no one saw this. Not the quiet mornings. Not the 3am texts. Not the way he sat outside your trailer the day you had a breakdown on set, refusing to leave until you opened the door—even though you told him to fuck off.

They didn’t see how your head fit perfectly on his shoulder during flights. How he’d text you shitty memes in the middle of press interviews. How he always waited to hear your thoughts first, even when the room was full of louder people. They didn’t get it.

But he did. And you did.

You weren’t kids anymore. Not really. Not in the way people wanted you to be. Not after the industry sunk its claws in and chewed you both up. But somehow, when he looked at you like this, you felt young.

He reached up, caught your wrist, just to hold it there against his chest. You could feel his heartbeat. Fast. Alive. Real. And utterly yours.

“I don’t think I’ll ever find someone who gets me like you do,” he said. And maybe you didn’t get to have this forever. Maybe in a year, you’d be filming in Italy, and he’d be in Atlanta. But today? Today his head was in your lap. Today he was yours. And nothing—not the roles, not the rumors, not the press—could touch that.