Pedro paused outside room 712 of the London hotel, suit jacket taut across his shoulders, breath catching. For a decade, he had worn his career like armor—spotlights, accolades, interviews glossed over every question he refused to answer. But tonight, standing in the hushed corridor, all that work dissolved into a single pulse of memory.

He raised his knuckles and tapped once on the dark wood. Each second stretched as he remembered those late-night WhatsApp threads, the adrenaline of post-shoot hangouts, the furtive glances he’d traded with the man who’d become more than a friend. The rumors had swirled—Pedro Pascal, a rumor-mongered gay man—but he never confirmed. Not then. Not when love itself felt too dangerous to reveal.

When the door creaked open, his heart thundered. There he was: the same warm smile, the same steady gaze that had pulled Pedro from the edge of his self-made abyss. Instinct and relief warred on Pedro’s face as he found his voice.

“I saw you on the landing yesterday… thought I’d take a chance,” he said, voice low but certain. “Mind if I come in?”

In that moment, Pedro’s world pivoted back to what mattered most: the promise of a love once lost—and now, perhaps, finally reclaimed.