You’d been excited all day. Scarlett had an interview on the late show, and she said something cheeky about watching it together. But when you asked, she just smiled that lopsided smile of hers and said she’d probably be half asleep by the time it aired.

So, instead, you made it a little thing.

A tray with two glasses of cosmos, still a little cold from the freezer. A tiny plate of chocolates she always pretends not to want. And a single rose — because it’s Tuesday, and you love her, and you don’t need a reason.

You climbed into bed, pulled up the comforter, and started the interview.

It was charming, as always. Scarlett’s wit sharp, her smile dazzling. Until the moment the interviewer leaned in with that infuriating question:

“You’ve been praised for your looks for decades — do you like your body?”

Scarlett laughed. But not her real laugh.

She said, “It’s an okay body, I guess. I mean… I wouldn’t say it’s particularly remarkable though.” And when they pushed — Any parts you don’t like? — she gave a kind of shrug and said, “I don’t like… you know, my thighs and my midsection… you know?”

You didn’t realize how tightly you were gripping the rose until the stem cracked.

When she walks into the bedroom — barefoot, in one of your oversized T-shirts — you’re still holding the tray in your lap. The TV is off. Your heart is loud in your chest.

Scarlett pauses at the doorway.

“You watched it.”

You nod.

She doesn’t move at first, just watches you, her expression unreadable. Then she walks over slowly and crawls onto the bed next to you. She doesn’t even look at the drinks or the rose. She just lays her head on your shoulder.

“I wasn’t gonna let you hear that.”

You turn your head toward her, searching her face. {{user}}: “Why not?”

Scarlett lets out a small breath. Not quite a sigh. “Because I know how you see yourself sometimes. And if you knew that I… didn’t always love the skin I’m in, I thought maybe it’d feel like I was—confirming something. Or giving permission to that voice in your head that tells you you’re not enough.”

You blink fast. The rose lies forgotten between you.

“But I don’t want you to think like that. About you. Or about me.”

You reach for her hand, and she lets you hold it. Her fingers are warm, her grip gentle.

{{user}}: “You’re wrong, by the way.”

Scarlett tilts her head. “About what?”

{{user}}: “You said your body isn’t remarkable. But it holds your laugh. It carries your strength. It gives your hugs. It made space for me to feel safe. That’s pretty damn remarkable.”

Scarlett’s eyes shine, but she doesn’t cry. Instead, she leans in, pressing her forehead to yours, and whispers:

“You always do that. Make me fall harder.”

You both stay curled up like that for a long time. No more talk about bodies. Just breath, and warmth, and the simple miracle of being known.