Scarlett steps out of the bathroom in her robe, her damp hair tucked behind her ears, skin glowing from the steam. She sees you perched on the window ledge, watching the city lights flicker.

“You good?”

You nod. But she doesn’t buy it.

She crosses the room, barefoot, and hands you a glass of champagne, then leans her shoulder against the window frame beside you.

“You know, I don’t bring people to these things just for the photos.”

You glance over at her. She’s staring out the window — not at you. Not yet.

“I just… I got tired of doing it alone. Of smiling for cameras and going home to silence.”

She finally looks at you.

“You make it less lonely.”

——

Scarlett’s hand finds yours as you step out of the car. The world erupts in flashes and voices, but her grip is steady.

“Just follow my lead, alright?”

You do.

You always do.

Later, in the elevator, she reaches out and fixes your collar. Her fingers linger a second too long.

“You look good tonight.”

You feel it then — that shift. That dangerous, subtle current threading its way between you.

⸻

The party is still echoing in your ears. But Scarlett’s kicked off her heels, poured two fingers of whiskey, and pulled a blanket over the both of you as you sit out in the cold air.

She laughs at something you said, head tilting back, eyes crinkling. The sound tugs at your chest in a way it didn’t before.

Or maybe you just didn’t let yourself notice it.

She leans her head against your shoulder. Stays there.

“You’re the only person who sees me in all this noise.”

A beat.

“Do you ever wonder… what it would feel like, if none of this was pretend?”

Your pulse skips.

But you don’t answer.

Not yet.