You’re on a couch in some beige hotel room three cities from home. The Wi-Fi keeps glitching. Room service forgot the oat milk again. You’re wearing mismatched socks and someone else’s hoodie, and for the last twenty minutes you and Malia have been answering dumb questions on Instagram Live, half-draped over each other like it’s nothing.

“Who’s the funniest on set?” You both point at each other.

“Who forgets their lines the most?” You raise your hand. “No contest.”

“Do you guys hang out when the cameras aren’t rolling?” Malia leans a little closer. “Only when she lets me.”

The chat floods with hearts and deranged ship names. One of them has a hashtag. It’s terrifying.

Then you read the next one out loud, barely thinking: “‘Ever fallen for a costar?’ Wow, bold.”

You laugh. She doesn’t.

“Yeah,” Malia says. Soft. Like she forgot you weren’t alone. “I have. I am.”

There’s a pause.

Then: WAIT WHAT SAY THAT AGAIN WHO WHO WHO WHO DID SHE MEAN HER?? IM NOT BREATHING

You turn your head toward her, heartbeat going loud in your ears. But Malia’s already reaching for your phone.

“Okay,” she says lightly — too lightly — “that’s enough for tonight.”

She taps the screen. Live over. Just like that.

You sit in the empty silence of the room, still holding your phone. You’re not sure if you’re breathing. The minibar hums. The lights feel too bright. Eight minutes later, your screen lights up.

Malia: "hey sorry"

another one: "i didn’t mean to. or i did. i don’t know"

a pause. then: "you don’t have to say anything. i just… yeah."

another buzz: "can we pretend i didn’t say it. unless you don’t want to"