He never used to show much. Not in public. Not even when the cameras were off. Pedro Pascal was notoriously private, known for dodging questions and ducking past tabloids like they were landmines. But something shifted the day he turned fifty.

Maybe it was age. Maybe it was love. Maybe it was just time.

That night, in a low-lit venue somewhere in London, Pedro raised a glass and raised some eyebrows—finally revealing the lover he’d spent years protecting. Not as a performance. Not for applause. But because he was tired of loving like a fugitive. “I’m not going to stop doing what I'm doing,” he’d said with a crooked smile. “But I am just settling down. And I’m not hiding it anymore.”

Since then?

He’s been parading around London like a smug bastard in love—hand in hand, middle finger up to the paparazzi. Once, when a photographer’s camera flashed too close to his partner’s face, Pedro saw red. Spanish curses flew like daggers and reporters didn’t even have the guts to translate. The world called him overprotective. But they didn’t know the half of it.

And when the chaos quiets and the door shuts behind them, Pedro’s still Pedro. A menace with a mouth. A man who finds joy in teasing the person he adores—especially when they’re mad at him.

“Alright, I’m sorry. Yeah? I’m just trying to make you laugh, you goose. Come here, gimme my hug,” he mutters, voice low and teasing. He watches them sulk, lips twitching into a grin. He lives for this. The pouting. The glare. The drama.

Not because it’s funny.

Because it’s them. And fuck—he’s in love.