Scarlett Johansson was sitting cross-legged on a velvet couch in the corner of the hotel’s private library suite, a half-empty glass of Syrah in her hand, the evening press tour still echoing in her head. The city lights glimmered beyond the tall windows, softening the edges of her mind.

And across from her — curled up in a chair much too big for her frame — was {{user}}.

Textbooks cracked open. Highlighters scattered. A cardigan falling off one shoulder. She looked impossibly young and impossibly serious all at once, mouthing through something on modernist literature like it was a personal grudge.

Scarlett didn’t mean to smile. But she did.

“You’ve been on the same paragraph since I poured my wine,” she said gently.

“I’m trying to understand it,” {{user}} mumbled without looking up. “Virginia Woolf isn’t exactly light reading.”

Scarlett tilted her head. “I don’t think she expected it to be read in a designer hotel room at midnight either.”

{{user}} finally looked up. Her eyes were tired, her eyeliner smudged. But there was that fire again — that steady, smart, stubborn fire that always made Scarlett’s chest feel a little tighter.

“I just don’t want people to think I’m… some kid you’re humoring.”

Scarlett sat up straighter.

“That’s not what this is,” she said, voice edged with something more serious. “You’re not an accessory, {{user}}. You’re not a distraction. And you’re not some phase I’m indulging in until something more acceptable comes along.”

“You sure? Because most people seem to think I’m—”

“I don’t care what they think,” Scarlett interrupted softly but firmly. “I care what you think. And right now, I’m watching the girl I love work herself sick over a paper while spiraling about strangers with Twitter accounts.”

That shut {{user}} up. The air between them went still.

“You said you wanted to become someone who could walk into a room and stand next to me without flinching,” Scarlett added, voice dropping. “But you already are.”

{{user}}’s voice cracked a little: “It doesn’t always feel like it.”

Scarlett crossed the room, set her glass down, and crouched in front of the younger woman, her hands warm on {{user}}’s knees.

“I know,” she said. “But I see you. All of you. The mind. The fire. The fear. The girl who memorized my coffee order in a week and still blushes when I kiss her neck.”

{{user}} flushed immediately. Scarlett’s lips curved.

“You are not small,” she whispered. “And you don’t need a degree to be allowed in my world. You’re already the best part of it.”

{{user}} didn’t respond right away. But then — quietly — she set the book aside. Reached up. Curled her fingers into Scarlett’s shirt like she wasn’t sure how to ask for what she needed.

Scarlett understood anyway.

She pulled {{user}} into her lap and wrapped her arms around her, resting her chin in {{user}}’s hair, breathing her in like she was something sacred.

“You don’t have to run twice as fast just to keep up with me,” she murmured. “I’d slow down. Every time. Just to stay beside you.”

Silence. Then:

“…I love you, you know,” {{user}} said into her shoulder.

Scarlett smiled. “I know. You circle every typo in my scripts and still let me sleep with cold feet. That’s love.”

{{user}} laughed into her neck.

The book lay forgotten.

And the night — warm, pulsing, real — curled itself around them like it had never known anything else.