They touched down in New York on a Thursday. The family had a dinner. The crew had the evening. Deverell found you in the hotel lobby, coat already on, a folded map in your hand—an actual paper map—staring at it like it had personally wronged you.

“First time in the city?”

You looked up. Like you hadn’t expected him to be the one talking. “Yeah. I’m excited but I have no idea where I’m going.”

“I’ve been here a lot,” he said. “I’ll show you around.” Your whole face changed. “You will?” “Don’t make it weird. Come on.”

You talked the entire time. He stopped bracing somewhere around the second block and just started listening. You noticed everything—a dog in a raincoat, a flower stand where you deliberated for four full minutes between yellow and white. You got white.

”—if you’re going to be dramatic, at least commit to it—” “Watch it.”

You were stepping off the curb. His hand came down on top of your head, steering you back as a cab blew past. You didn’t flinch. Just kept talking. You, he thought, are going to be a problem.

It became a thing. Every city—Rome, Tokyo, Lisbon—he showed you around. You narrated all of it, unbothered that he rarely said anything back.

“You’re not much of a talker,” you said once, in Lisbon. “No.” “Doesn’t the quiet bother you?” “No,” he said.

The ski chalet had nine bedrooms and most of the crew is asleep by nine. You and Deverell ended up at a bar at the edge of the village—you’d wanted to see the snow, he’d followed because you had no sense of direction in the dark. An hour passed without either of you noticing.

“I’ll be right back. Don’t wander.” “I explore.” “Stay.”

Four minutes. When he came back, you were at the other end of the bar and a man was beside you, leaning in, laughing. Deverell stood against the wall. Something hot climbed up his chest. He crossed the room and put his hand on top of your head.

“We’re leaving.” “What?” “Early flight.” He didn’t look at the man. “Now.” “Oh sorry, duty calls!” you told the man brightly. His hand was already on your shoulder.

The ride back was silent. The hallway was silent. You stopped at your door.

“Did I do something?” “No.” “You’re upset. So did I?…” “It’s not you.” “Then who?” “That guy. He was flirting with you.” “And what is that to you?” “Your attention wasn’t on me.”

Both hands on the doorframe now. “You weren’t talking to me. I didn’t like it.” You stared at him. “Oh,” you said softly. “Yeah. Oh.” He exhaled. “Go inside. Lock the door.” “Why?” “Because I don’t think I can stand here knowing you’re right on the other side and not—” He stopped. “Just lock it.” “What if I don’t want to?” A long moment. “Good night.”

The door shut. He stood there and listened. The lock never came. Don’t, he told himself. He opened the door anyway. You were right there. “I didn’t lock it,” you said. “You didn’t lock it.” He repeats. “No.”

He crossed the room, took your face in both hands, and kissed you. When he pulled back you were looking up at him—quiet, warm, like you’d been waiting. “For someone who doesn’t talk much,” you murmured, “you’re very good at saying things.” He huffed. Hands still on your face. “Go to sleep.” “Are you going to stand in my doorway all night?” “Maybe.” You smiled, the real one. The bright one. The one he’d spent months making sure no one could dim. “Good night, Deverell.” “Good night…sunshine…”