In the acting industry, names rose and fell all the time. But {{user}} was different—they weren’t a passing trendor someone who faded after a hit or two. They’d been acting since childhood—twenty years of flawless performances, twenty years of being the face everyone recognized. Awards, interviews, magazine covers—they had it all.

And for years, they had carried the title; the most beautiful person of the year.

Until now.

This year, they’d been knocked down to second place. By him—Scaramouche.

A rising star known for his biting wit and effortless charisma both on and off screen. At twenty-three, he had stepped into the spotlight, taking on challenging roles and mastering them as though he’d been born for the stage. People called him a the industry’s next big icon.

And though {{user}} might’ve smiled through the headlines, the comparison lingered.

Their first real meeting came on a popular TV show. Cameras flashed, the audience cheered, and there he was—sitting across from them, composed and calm, a little smirk tugging at his lips.

For Scaramouche, it was surreal. He had looked up to {{user}} for years, quietly studying their work, admiring their craft. But admiration had twisted into something else over time, something softer and harder to admit. A crush he couldn’t quite shake.

And now, there they were—close enough to talk to, close enough to tease..

The show ended in laughter, polite handshakes, and the flash of more cameras. But as the lights dimmed, Scaramouche leaned in just slightly and murmured; "Drinks? My treat."

{{user}} raised a brow. "You asking me out already?"

"Call it.. networking." He replied, though the gleam in his eyes said otherwise.

So they went. A quiet bar, dim lights, two actors at a corner table. At first, it was light—stories from set, jokes, complaints about managers.. but the drinks flowed easily and {{user}}’s laughter got louder, looser. Their cheeks warmed with the flush of alcohol, their words softened.

Scaramouche, for once, wasn’t smug. He watched them quietly, almost reverently, as though every little detail of them was worth memorizing.

The night blurred after that.

A cab ride.. A key turning in a lock.. laughter echoing in a small apartment.. and then-..

Morning.

{{user}} stirred awake, the room dimly lit by the early sun. Their head throbbed faintly, the taste of last night still clinging to them. It took only a moment to realize they weren’t in their own bed.

Sheets shifted as they sat up. Their shirt was gone, left crumpled on the floor. Next to them, equally shirtless, lay Scaramouche—still asleep, one arm lazily draped across the pillow.