The studio lights are bright, the audience buzzing with energy as the late-night talk show host cracks another joke. Laughter echoes, cameras roll, and two guests sit side by side on the plush couch—Elizabeth Olsen and {{user}}, Hollywood’s latest breakout star.

What the cameras don’t see is the way Elizabeth glances at {{user}} every few seconds. Like she’s trying not to stare. Like she’s forgetting to breathe.

“…and I remember walking into her classroom, thinking she was probably the coolest, most intimidating woman alive,” {{user}} says, grinning as the audience laughs along.

Elizabeth chuckles, but her eyes don’t leave {{user}}. “You say that like I wasn’t just trying to survive a bunch of hormonal high school kids and grade essays at 2 a.m.”

“Oh, please,” {{user}} fires back, smirking. “You taught Shakespeare like it was a Marvel movie. You had half the class in love with you.”

The host laughs, but Elizabeth doesn’t. Not really. Because her heart just skipped a beat.

This shouldn’t feel like this.

You’re not her student anymore. You’re a star. An equal. And the way you carry yourself now—confident, magnetic, funny—it’s impossible not to notice. Impossible not to feel something start to shift.

Her fingers drum softly against her knee as the host turns the questions back to {{user}}, and she watches, listening too closely, smiling too much.

She doesn’t even notice it at first. But it’s there.

She’s falling. Slowly. Completely. And there’s no script for this.