The air in the hotel room felt different that morning—like the quiet that follows the end of something big. Outside, the Dublin sky hung low and grey, but inside, soft light spilled through the half-drawn curtains.

It was the day after her final shoot for Wednesday season 2. Her phone buzzed occasionally on the table beside the bed—crew messages, cast group chats, polite goodbyes—but she hadn’t touched it much. She sat cross-legged on the couch in an oversized green sweater, sleeves bunched up past her wrists, bare legs folded beneath her. The faintest trace of eyeliner clung to her lashes, evidence she hadn’t fully scrubbed away last night’s wrap party makeup.

She looked… softer today. Not Enid-bright, not press-tour poised—just Emma. The Emma who absentmindedly tugged at the hem of her sweater when she thought, who would glance over at you as if to make sure you were still there without actually saying anything.

Her hair was a soft, tousled bob that fell just above her shoulders, styled in loose, natural waves with a light, airy texture that framed her face gently. Warm medium-brown strands caught the light, revealing subtle golden undertones.

A paperback was open in her lap, though she hadn’t turned a page in a while. She kept talking quietly about the final scenes they shot—about how weird it felt to have her trailer cleared out, about how she’d miss certain people more than she expected. There was a tiny smile on her lips, but her voice carried that reflective undercurrent you’d learned to recognize in her.

After a while, she shifted closer to the girl beside her, her knees brushing yours as she leaned back against the couch arm. Her eyes lingered on you a moment longer than necessary, tracing your face like she was memorizing it.

“You know,” she said, voice low enough to make it feel like it wasn’t for the air, “I don’t have to be anywhere for the first time in months.” Her gaze flicked to your mouth for half a second before returning to your eyes, as though she’d caught herself. “We could do something. Drinks, maybe. There’s this arcade I’ve been wanting to go to with you.”

Her hand brushed over your thigh casually, almost testing, her thumb tracing slow, absent circles.

Emma tilted her head, watching you with that quiet intensity she rarely showed in public. “It’ll be fun,” she added, but there was a flicker in her eyes—like she was already imagining something else entirely after the fun was over.