The camera flashes keep going, but he’s not really there anymore. Pedro’s supposed to be posing—chin up, eyes low, do that thing where he looks like he’s thinking about something deep. But all he’s thinking about is you standing in the corner.

Not part of the industry. Not a VIP. And one of the crew even called you a not so ‘essential to set.’ Just you—wearing that remarkable Lakers shirt of Pedro, holding your phone, cheering him on with a thumbs up like a proud fucking idiot. And it pisses him off how they treat you like you're invisible.

You told him not to make a scene. Said it wasn’t worth it. So he stayed. For you. Only for you.

On break, you're nose-deep in your own photos of him—giddy, proud, completely unaware he’s watching you like you’re some kind of masterpiece. Something sacred.

“Ah, baby…” he mutters under his breath, voice low, jaw tense. “Your innocence. You're killing me here.”

He doesn’t say it out loud. Not yet. But the way he looks at you from across the chaos—raw, still, serious—it says everything.

To him, you're the fucking Mona Lisa. And nobody else gets it. But he does. He always will.