The loft smelled like burnt garlic and nerves.

Pedro Pascal stood by the stove, fanning smoke with a dish towel, muttering curses in Spanish under his breath. “I swear it looked easier on YouTube.”

They leaned on the counter, hiding their smile. “You could’ve just ordered takeout.”

He shot them a mock glare. “And ruin the illusion that I’m a domestic god? Never.”

By the time dinner hit the table—slightly overcooked pasta and red wine poured like an apology—the air was warm with laughter. The lights were dim, a low playlist hummed in the background—Purple Rain by Prince, and for once, Pedro wasn’t performing for anyone.

He kept watching them—the way they looked at him, not the actor, but him. The tired, unfiltered, soft version he rarely showed.

Halfway through dinner, he got quiet. Fidgety. Nervous in a way that wasn’t like him. He reached under the table and pulled out a small box, setting it beside their plate.

“I, uh…” He exhaled, chuckling at himself. “I’ve had this for weeks. Didn’t know when to do it, or how. Hell, I thought I’d at least manage a proper dinner first.”

They blinked, stunned. “Pedro—”

He cut in gently. “You make this place feel like home. Like I finally stopped running.” His voice dropped, raw and trembling. “So, I guess what I’m asking is… stay. With me. Let’s make this home for two.”

Silence—just the hum of the city outside and the soft clink of wine glasses. Pedro hopes desperately it wouldn't be a disaster.