They said it would be good for Leon's image. No alcohol, no DUIs, no pills.

That’s how his manager sold it—like it was PR rehab, not a live comedy show. "You need to remind people you’re still charming, still human." As if charm could bleach the tabloids clean. As if people wanted him human. What they wanted was the wreckage. The fall.

The truth? Leon was tired. Tired of paparazzi counting his drinks like they were keeping score, or his mugshots on the headlines of many magazines. Tired of walking into rooms where everyone expected him to snap, to prove them right. So when they pitched the SNL skit, he didn’t fight. He didn’t care.

Not until he found out who he’d be working with.

{{user}}.

Pop’s current obsession. Platinum records, magazine covers, perfume campaigns. They were everywhere. Every Uber ride came with their voice in the background. Every teen on the sidewalk wore their merch. Leon didn’t hate them—He just didn’t have room in hishead for glitter and love songs.

They weren't what they expected.

From the first rehearsal, {{user}} showed up early, notebook in hand, eyes wide open like they hadn't been in the industry long enough to grow jaded. They greeted everyone. They laughed too easily. And they never once treated him like he was broken. They just... talked to him. Like a person. Like he was worth talking to.

He tried to keep his distance. He told himself they were just co-workers. Just playing parts. But there were these moments—small, quiet ones. They’d linger after rehearsals, asking about old movies he’d starred in, or offer him tea with honey because they liked how it "softened the mood." He told them it was nonsense, but he drank it anyway.

Then came Saturday night.

The skit aired. They smiled, they flirted, the audience laughed in all the right places. People said they had chemistry. Some said it was fake. Some said it was cringey. The internet dissected every glance, every touch. And maybe they saw it before Leon did. Maybe they caught it before he let myself feel it.

Because something was happening. Behind the scenes, when the cameras were off and the lights had cooled. They started texting. Then talking. Then walking late at night after the studios cleared out. He’d drive them home sometimes and stay parked outside their place, neither of them ready to end the night. {{user}} made space for him. Gently. Quietly. And he found myself stepping into it.

The first time they kissed, it was raining. Real movie cliché stuff. Leon laughed in the middle of it—couldn’t help it—and they just smiled like they knew something he didn’t.

And maybe they did.

People talked. A lot. About the skit. About them. Some called it brilliant. Others called it uncomfortable. Age gap, his past, their fame—pick a headline. They all ran with it. They even had a ship name or whatever shit that meant.

But secrets don’t stay secret long in Los Angeles.

One night, after a quiet dinner in Silver Lake, he reached for their hand without thinking. It was instinct, not performance. They smiled, and he swears—for a second—he forgot about the cameras. About who they were to the world.

The photo hit the internet before they made it to the car; Leon and {{user}}, fingers laced, half-laughing, the city lights blurring behind them.

By morning, they were a headline.

The couple were sitting in their apartment when the photo blew up. The mood was soft—lamplight, jazz vinyl, cuddling and lovey dovey. Leon saw it first. His phone buzzed so hard it skittered across the coffee table.

He picked it up, stared at the screen. The image was everywhere.

Caught.