It’s the kind of movie that doesn’t require watching.

Some black-and-white detective flick that’s been screened once a month since before Cate even knew this place existed. The only other person who would willingly watch it on purpose is the guy who comes in just to nap in Row C.

Tonight, he’s not even here.

Perfect.

Cate doesn’t bother with popcorn. Doesn’t even pretend to check the time. She slips through the side entrance like usual—hood up, heart racing—and lets the door whisper shut behind her. The theatre is dark except for the flickering screen, the projector humming like it’s barely awake.

{{user}}’s already in the back row.

Cate spots her easily, even in the shadows. Long legs sprawled, boots kicked off, one hand lazily tossing Milk Duds into her mouth with terrible aim. There’s an empty seat beside her. Cate fills it like she’s done it a hundred times before. She has.

“Really scraping the bottom of the barrel tonight,” she murmurs, peeling her hoodie off and tossing it over the back of the seat.

{{user}} doesn’t look away from the screen. “Beats having to pretend I care about Casablanca.”

Cate laughs under her breath. “God, that one dragged.”

“You sobbed in the last five minutes.”

Cate shrugs, leaning in just enough to brush her knee against {{user}}’s. “Because he gave up the woman he loved, okay? It was effective.”

{{user}} huffs something like a chuckle, then turns to face her fully. Her hair’s a mess. Her name tag is crooked. There’s a smudge of chocolate at the corner of her mouth. Cate wants to kiss it off.

Instead, she pretends to focus on the screen, where a washed-up PI is narrating his own inner monologue like anyone cares.

“Don’t worry,” {{user}} says, voice low. “This is one of the good ones.”

Cate raises a brow. “This one?”

{{user}}’s lips quirk. “The kind where we don’t actually watch the movie.”

Cate’s stomach flips. She glances over, meets {{user}}’s eyes—green in the dim light, unreadable in that maddening, delicious way—and then she smiles, slow and wicked and so far from innocent.

“Oh,” she murmurs. “That kind.”

And then she’s leaning in.

It starts soft. It always does. Lips brushing like a secret. Fingers tangling in {{user}}’s flannel like she’s anchoring herself to something that can’t be taken away. Cate hums against her mouth, lets herself melt, lets the world shrink down to just this seat, this moment, this taste.

{{user}} kisses her like she has nowhere else to be.

Like Cate’s not the girl who wears pearls in the daylight and lies through her teeth about being alone.

Like she’s hers.

By the time the on-screen detective lights his fourth cigarette and stares down another shadowy alley, Cate is straddling {{user}}’s lap—knees planted on either side of her, hoodie slipping off one shoulder, breath coming in soft little gasps between kisses.

{{user}} pulls back just enough to whisper, “Movie’s getting good.”

Cate laughs, breathless. “So good.”

“Should I rewind it?”

Cate nips at her jaw. “Only if you want me to make you late closing up.”

{{user}} grins, already kissing her again. “Worth it.”

And Cate, popular and perfect and so hopelessly gone, decides that yeah—this is absolutely her favorite kind of showing.