It starts in the green room.

Scarlett’s perched on the arm of the couch, one leg tucked under her, laughing at something someone offscreen said. Her drink sweats in her hand. The glass catches the stage lights. So does the arch of her brow when she catches you watching her a little too long.

“You okay over there?” she asks.

You blink. Smile. “Yeah. Just… tired.”

She doesn’t believe you.

Not really.

But she nods, sips her drink, and keeps talking to the others — except now, one of her knees keeps brushing yours. Just lightly. Just enough to register.

⸻

Later, back in the hotel elevator, it’s just you two. The others are on another floor, already splitting off with their afterparties and obligations and people to text back.

Scarlett’s in heels, but still shorter than you like this. Still somehow effortless, in a sheer black shirt and loose linen pants. Her voice is low, playful. Just enough edge to catch.

“So,” she says, turning toward you while the elevator ascends. “What do you think people guess about us?”

You blink, then scoff. “Us?”

She smiles. “Yeah. You know. ‘Scarlett Johansson and her mystery plus-one.’ What are they guessing?”

You shake your head. “I don’t think they know enough to guess.”

“Exactly,” she murmurs, stepping a fraction closer. “Which makes them all guess harder.”

You pause. “And what do you think they’re guessing?”

Her eyes hold yours. There’s mischief in them — sure — but there’s heat under it, too. A challenge. A dare wrapped in velvet.

“That you picked out what I’m wearing under this,” she says, voice silk. “That you’ve already seen it. That maybe, when I leaned over earlier at the bar, you weren’t just admiring the view.”

You laugh, a little breathless. “Are they right?”

She tilts her head, smiling. “Do you want them to be?”

⸻

You’re curled on the balcony couch, still in your dress from the night before, a blanket thrown over your legs. Scarlett walks out with two coffees. Hands you one.

“Thanks,” you murmur, brushing her fingers as you take it.

There’s no rush. No urgency. Just the same slow burn that’s been simmering for months. The touches that last a second too long. The way she always texts you at 1:03 a.m. like it means nothing.

But last night — something shifted.

Not enough to say anything.

But enough to know.

She sits beside you, crossing one bare leg over the other. You watch the sun hit her cheekbone, and for once, she doesn’t look like an actress. She just looks like someone you know too well.

“I was thinking,” she says, staring into her coffee. “If I told you exactly what I wanted — where’s the fun in that?”

You smirk. “So you’d rather make me guess?”

“Mm,” she hums. “Only if you want to.”

There’s silence. Not awkward — just heavy with everything you’re not saying.

Then, before you can stop yourself, you murmur, “You don’t have to tell me.”

Her gaze flicks to yours.

“I already know.”

She doesn’t answer.

But her smile is all the confirmation you’ll ever need.