Tour life is louder than anyone warns you about.
Early rehearsals. Late-night call times. Costume changes. Soundchecks. Interviews. Fans screaming outside venues before sunrise.
Malachi Barton became your favorite part.
Which is… mildly unfortunate.
Because as the daughter of Jafar in Descendants: The Rise of Red, your on-stage image is all sharp edges: expensive rings, dramatic eyeliner, confidence, attitude.
Villain energy.
But off-stage?
You’re just… you.
And apparently, Malachi likes that version best.
Maybe too much.
It starts during rehearsals.
Inside jokes.
Playful arguments.
Too much teasing.
Not enough personal space.
He’s annoying. Cocky. Constantly stealing your drinks.
He’s also somehow the person you look for first when entering a room.
Weeks into the Worlds Collide Tour, social media has absolutely noticed.
Edits.
Comments.
“MALACHI LOOKS AT HER DIFFERENT” “THEY HAVE TOO MUCH CHEMISTRY???” “Disney better confirm this rn”
You both ignore it.
Mostly.
Freya definitely does not.
Neither does MK.
Or literally anyone else in your cast.
Because yes, you and Malachi are… closer.
Tonight, though?
It’s 2:07 a.m. in New York.
And sleep is impossible.
Your hotel room feels too warm. Too quiet. Your brain won’t shut off.
So naturally—
you call Freya.
She answers on the third ring, sounding deeply unimpressed.
“…If this isn’t life-threatening, I hate you.”
“I can’t sleep.”
“That is not my problem.”
“Come walk with me.”
Silence.
Then—
“…What?”
You grin into the phone.
“Night walk. New York. Two a.m. It’ll be fun.”
Freya groans dramatically.
“You sound insane.”
“But fun insane.”
Another pause.
Then—
“…Fine.”
“Yes!”
“But only because I’m bored.”
You’re halfway into shoes when Freya suddenly adds:
“…We should invite Malachi.”
You freeze.
“…What?”
Freya’s voice instantly changes.
Too innocent.
Too knowing. Realizing.
“Oh my god.”
“Freya.”
“Nope. Absolutely not.”
“You literally suggested it!”
“Yeah, and now I’m un-suggesting it.”
“Why?”
“Because I am NOT third-wheeling whatever weird flirty nonsense you two have going on.”
“We do not have weird flirty nonsense.”
Freya laughs so hard she nearly hangs up.
“Sure.”
“Freya—”
“Nope. Goodnight.”
Click.
The call ends.
You stare at your phone.
Rude.
…But also?
Now you’re thinking about it.
Freya had a point.
You call him.
One ring.
Two.
Then…
“Can’t sleep either?”
Your brows furrow immediately.
“…How did you know it was me?”
Malachi sounds way too smug for someone answering a phone at two in the morning.
“You only call when you’re either bored or causing problems.”
“Rude.”
“Am I wrong?”
“…No.”
His laugh is soft. Tired.
Comfortable.
You hesitate for half a second.
Then:
“Freya bailed.”
“Tragic.”
“I know.”
“So?”
You lean against your hotel door.
“…Wanna go for a walk?”
Silence.
A beat.
“I’ll be outside your room in one minute.”
And before you can even respond he hangs up.
You blink at your phone.
Exactly fifty seconds later there’s a knock. And there he is.
Grey hoodie. Messy hair. Sweatpants. Half-awake but still somehow unfairly attractive.
Hands in his pockets. That same cocky smile.
“Took you long enough,” he says.
You stare.
“It’s been less than a minute.”
“Still.”
You roll your eyes, stepping into the hallway.
“Shut up.”
He grins.
“You called me.”
“Don’t make it weird.”
“Too late.”
The hotel is quiet as you both slip outside, city lights glowing against the dark New York streets.
No cameras.
No cast.
No rehearsals.
No pressure.
Just you.
And him.
Walking side by side through the sleeping city while the world finally feels quiet.
Eventually, after wandering aimlessly and laughing over absolutely nothing you find a small park.
Empty swings.
Streetlights.
Cold night air.
Malachi glances around, then at you.
“Okay,” he says.
“This is either the beginning of a heartfelt coming-of-age movie…”
He smirks slightly.
“…or where I get murdered.”
You laugh despite yourself.