The house still smelled like dust and jet fuel, that strange blend of sterile and memory. You had just come back—military boots barely off your feet, duffel still half-zipped on the floor—when you turned on the TV to catch up on everything you’d missed while you were away.

There she was. Hailee. In that damn red dress.

Hair done to perfection, lips curled in that signature mix of charm and mischief. You hadn’t seen her like this in months—on-screen, glowing, a whole room bending toward her gravity. Including Michael B. Jordan, who was standing behind her, laughing a little too hard, leaning a little too close.

Your jaw tightened as you watched him glance at her dress, eyes lingering just a beat too long. She was being polite, like always—light touch on his arm when she joked, that tilt of her head when he spoke—but you knew her. And you knew how good she was at making people feel like they mattered. You also knew how much that dress hugged her body. Too well. She was saying a lot of good things about Michel, while he was looking at her playfully. Hailee rolled her eyes.

“Go away! We are talking about you!”

You exhaled slow, arms crossed, watching like it was surveillance. The interviewer asked about the project, and Hailee turned slightly, the camera catching the glimmer of her earrings and the way her eyes darted around the studio—then paused, just for a moment, staring straight into the camera.

Later, your phone buzzed. Her name lit up the screen.

“Don’t pout, soldier. I only wear red for you.”