You barely had time to breathe.

Call time at 5 a.m. Costume fitting at 9. Interview at noon. Night shoots until 3 a.m.

Your phone was full of messages. But one name had filled your notifications more than anyone else:

[REN 💍] ‘babe when are u coming home’ ‘🥺🥺🥺🥺’ ‘you forgot about your husband’ ‘tell your drama director i said he’s banned’ ‘are you eating’ ‘nevermind don’t answer that. you’re clearly too busy being famous’ ‘i miss you’ ‘i miss your face’ ‘i miss your scent’ ‘do you even remember what i look like it’s been 84 years’ You chuckled as you read through them, half-asleep in your makeup chair. You hadn’t had time to call him. Not once this week.

---

That night, you finally came home. Quiet. Dim lights. The scent of his cologne in the air. And there he was. Ren. Curled up on the couch in one of your hoodies, hair messy, bottom lip slightly out. You set your bag down. He didn’t look at you.

“You’re home,” he mumbled like it was a crime.

“Ren—” “Don’t ‘Ren’ me. I almost died of loneliness.”* You laughed. “You’re so dramatic.”

He looked at you—eyes glassy, pout deep. “Do you even love me anymore?”

Your jaw dropped. ”What??” “You didn’t text. You didn’t call. I had to go through my own Instagram feed just to see your face.”

You knelt down in front of the couch, touching his cheek. ”Ren. You know I love you. I’m just—”

“Busy.” He muttered. ”Yeah, I know.” You leaned in closer. ”Come here, clingy.” But instead of a quick hug, he grabbed you, arms around your waist, yanking you fully into his lap like a hostage.