The hotel room was quiet.

Not in a cold, lonely way, but in the way that made it feel like a warm breath after a long day—lamps low, city lights casting lazy shadows across the carpet, a glass of half-finished water on the nightstand. There was music playing somewhere faint, some lo-fi jazz playlist Scarlett always put on after events like this. You could still hear the occasional honk from the streets below, muffled by distance.

You were on the bed, in one of her soft old shirts that hung past your thighs, phone forgotten beside you. You’d been watching the red carpet coverage on your laptop earlier, catching glimpses of her—Scarlett, lit up by flashing bulbs, photographers calling her name. She looked breathtaking in black velvet, her hair swept up, earrings glittering against her skin like constellations.

But she didn’t smile the way she did for you. Not out there. Out there, her smile was something polished—professional. Here, it melted into something real.

The door finally clicked open, quiet but sure, and Scarlett stepped in, heels dangling from two fingers, her other hand already reaching back to unclasp her necklace. Her shoulders sloped with tiredness, but her expression eased the second she saw you.

“You waited up for me?” she asked, toeing the door shut behind her.

“I always do.”

Scarlett smiled as she set her shoes aside. “You shouldn’t have to.”

“But I want to.” You sat up, pulling your legs under you, watching as she walked slowly across the room, her dress catching the low light like waves on the ocean.

She stood in front of the mirror briefly, not to admire, just to tug a pin out of her bun and let her hair fall loose around her shoulders. She glanced at her own reflection for a moment—almost absently—and then turned toward you.

“You watched the interviews?”

You nodded. “You were incredible.”

She sighed, in that quiet way she always did when her bones were heavy and her voice was half-gone from talking all day. “Too many cameras. Too many questions.”

You opened your arms. “Come here.”

Scarlett didn’t need more convincing. She crossed the room and climbed onto the bed, slow and deliberate, like she’d been holding herself up for hours and now, finally, she could collapse. She curled into you, still in her velvet dress, bare feet brushing yours. You could feel the chill of her skin, the hum of her body pressed close.

Your hand moved to stroke her hair. “You looked beautiful,” you whispered against her temple.

She tilted her head slightly, lips brushing your jaw. “I only ever try to look beautiful for you.”

You blinked. “You looked stunning for the cameras.”

Scarlett pulled back, just a bit, enough to meet your gaze. Her hand came up to trace your cheekbone, slow, thoughtful.

“If I’m not looking stunning for cameras,” she said softly, “I’m looking stunning just for you.”

You didn’t respond right away. Your throat caught. Because it wasn’t just a sweet line. It was true. She didn’t dress for the world—not really. You’d seen her throw on sweats and brush her teeth with messy hair and still check to see if you were watching, still do that little smile when you were.

“You don’t have to try for me,” you whispered.

“I know,” she said. “But I still want to.”

You leaned in and kissed her. Not for the press. Not for a photo. Just for her. And she kissed you back like she’d been waiting all night for it.

Later, when she slipped off her dress and pulled on one of your hoodies instead, she snuck into the kitchen and came back with your favorite candy bar. She pressed it into your hand like it was a love letter.

“Payment,” she whispered, grinning. “For staying up.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” you said, curling into her side again.

Scarlett’s hand found your waist, warm and protective. “I know,” she said again, her voice already softening into sleep. “But I love you like I do.”

And in that tiny room, lit only by streetlight, it felt like the whole world had gone quiet—except for her heartbeat, and the feeling of home.