jacaerysyearner - Tumblr blog

jacaerysyearner · 2 months ago

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#holyshit

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟA Dream With a YouTuber, written by yaskore

summary. You’ve just moved to get away from your old life and live with your long-distance best friend. While adjusting to this fresh start, you find yourself quietly falling for Hamzah, her boyfriend’s best friend. You’ve barely spoken to him in the month since you arrived, but something’s shifting. You start to wonder: is it just you feeling this—or is he, too?

warnings. slow burn, tender yearning, second person, unspoken feelings, quiet tension, emotional intimacy, lowkey angst

wc. 3.3k

entirely based off of 'A Dream With a BaseBall Player', Faye Webster

.・゜✭

You wake to the crisp shiver of morning, unsure for a second where you are. Not because the bedroom is unfamiliar—though it is—but because the dream still clings to you like dew.

It felt more like an experience.

Too vivid. Too close. Your heart still aches from it, like it carried over into waking life. But now there’s a hollowness beneath it. Longing.

As if he didn't already consume your days, now he's infected your nights.

A shaky breath forces its way out of you—from the intensity of a heart-drop. As much as you should be annoyed, you weren't. As far as you know, it was real.

Yep, you'll believe it. Just for a little longer.

You close your eyes, trying to fall back in. Trying to taste him again—his lips, his laughter—trying to memorize something that never really happened.

Until his real laughter echoes from outside your door. Your eyes snap open, your heart dropping and lifting just as quickly.

It’s another morning with him here.

Ever since moving to Toronto and crashing with Mandy and Martin, you’ve gotten used to waking to the sound of their YouTube antics echoing through the walls. But whenever Hamzah's around for it, it's different. Every laugh feels like a gift. Every visit, a small miracle.

You started putting curlers in every night. Setting alarms earlier than necessary. Learning how to look effortless, even if it takes effort. Just in case he sees you. Just in case he looks twice.

You get shy just thinking about the way you dabbed on a little makeup before stepping out of your room. God, you hope no one says anything.

Knowing Mandy, she wouldn't question you. She'd just look at you with a smile and let you know you're beautiful.

Ensuring you woke up glowing made you feel like a new woman. Everything about this chapter of your life did. It was... nice. Even if it meant committing to the whole routine every morning, even when Hamzah didn’t show up, just to keep suspicions at bay.

.・゜✭

From her spot on the couch, Mandy glances up from her book. “Oh, thank god you’re up.”

You give her a sleepy smile, resisting the urge to immediately look over at Hamzah. You fail, of course.

"Ooh, look who it is—" Martin drags, "we were just doing our intro but I guess we can stop it to tell you goodmorning," His voice has that slightly performative lilt—he’s recording. The way he smiles at you but then rolls his eyes as he looks back at the webcam proves it.

Hamzah looked your way as martin spoke, though it seemed like maybe he noticed you first.

"Yes of course—good morning," Hamzah adds to Martins words, the softest smile on his face, very faint. Just out of respect.

But after a moment too long you notice Martin giving Hamzah a playful shove, just in the moment it seemed like Hamzah was hesitating to say something. “Come on, man, banana summer is awaiting us.” He quips, dragging his words just to annoy him.

“Right,” Hamzah turns, clapping his hands, slipping fully into YouTuber mode. His voice rises with purpose.

You take a seat next to Mandy, watching.

You see Hamzah laughing with Martin, being larger than life for the camera. But you focus on the in-between moments too—how quieter he gets when the camera shuts off, the way he looks tired around the eyes as soon as it's time for him to leave.

Mandy leans toward you, her voice slipping you out of your thoughts. “Okay, now that you're up, we’re getting coffee. Well, we are everyday. Especially early on days like this.” She adds, playfully annoyed about the obnoxious behavior from the two.

You stifle a smile, pretending to agree—like you wouldn’t rather stay here all day and listen to him.

“Let’s go,” you sigh dramatically. “Please.”

Mandy grabs her keys a little too quickly. “Yeah, this could take a while,” she scoffs. But as the two of you head for the door, your steps feel heavier than they should. Somehow, his voice had become the thing anchoring you on the days he was around. And now, all you want is to stay close—just to be near him, even if it were in silence.

“Bye!” the boys shout, mid recording. “Be safe!” Hamzah calls right after, like it’s habit. Like it’s instinct. And then the door closes behind you.

For some reason your heart aches, savoring the last words heard from him for as long as you can. Replaying the way he looked at you in your head. God, you hope Mandy only wants to pick up a drink and then come right back home.

.・゜✭

He lingers in your mind like a song you can’t stop humming.

Even in line at the café, eyes skimming the menu over people’s shoulders, you’re not really reading—you’re wondering what drink Hamzah would get. Would he go for something simple? A cold brew? Something sweet? You imagine ordering the same, just to see if he’d notice. Just to hear him say, “Good choice.” Maybe with that half-smile of his that always makes your stomach turn to air.

“Do you and the boys ever get drinks together in the mornings?” you ask casually, eyes still trained on the chalkboard menu, but your tone is too careful—like it’s not just curiosity but longing stitched between the words.

Mandy shrugs, finalizing her own order. “If they’re not filming, yeah. Otherwise, it’s usually just me and Martin.”

You nod slowly, biting your tongue before the next question slips out—What about Hamzah? What’s his usual? You don’t ask. You can’t.

Instead, you scan the menu like the answer’s written somewhere in caramel drizzle or chai foam. You pick what feels like him. Whatever that means. You don’t know him enough to know—but still, it’s what you choose.

You’re next in line.

Before you can even reach for your card, Mandy taps hers and says, “Got it,” like it’s nothing. You meet her gaze and smile. "You know I'm gonna pay you back for that." She scoffs, knowing you know that she wont accept it.

.・゜✭

By the time you’re back from what started as coffee but turned into brunch and a long stroll through the outdoor mall, the boys are still at the computer.

You wonder what they’re playing, but you force yourself not to linger on them.

They don’t glance your way either—too focused, locked into something that doesn’t seem interactive but has them taking turns reading. A story, maybe. Still, the second you're near him again, your heart doesn't stop its quiet flutter.

Mandy drops her bags at the edge of the couch, slides in beside them, and opens her iPad with purpose. You assume she’s got something to work on, so you quietly take the spot beside her, resting your head on her shoulder.

You zone out, but everything around you buzzes louder. You’re listening—maybe too hard. Not to their words exactly, but to their voices. Especially his.

Eventually, Martin heads to the kitchen, rummaging for a drink. You don’t turn your head, but somehow, even with Mandy beside you and Martin crashing through cabinets, it feels like only you and Hamzah are here. Like he feels it too. But that’s ridiculous—right?

Martin returns, drink in hand. “Dude, you’re still recording.”

Hamzah silently nods after a pause.

“I know.” his voice is soft, sure. It settles over you like a familiar hum.

By now, you’ve lifted your head, eyes fixed on the back of a book left by you. His voice, still drifting through the room, plays like background static. Comforting.

Eventually, the recording ends. The boys lean back with a shared sigh, swiveling to face the two of you. Martin looks at Mandy. Hamzah looks at you.

Mandy looks up, the room pausing for a breath.

There’s so much you could say—too much—and before you can choose just one, Martin breaks the silence. “So… are we all hungry, or is it just us?” He clasps his hands together with a dramatic cringe.

Hamzah shifts his gaze to Mandy.

You try to look at Martin.

Try.

But your focus steadies only when Hamzah glances back at you again—that scares you enough into Martin taking up your full view.

You misremember Hamzah asking if you were hungry—how you were feeling. You misremember answering with something playful, something that made him laugh in that way that makes your stomach flutter. You misremember the way he looked at you, eyes lingering just a second too long to be casual. A glance that said more than words ever could.

Except none of it happened. Not out loud, at least.

It only lived in your head, somewhere between imagination and wishful memory. You fill in the spaces between his words with everything you wish he’d say. Everything you wish you'd say.

And sometimes, in the quiet, it feels like he’s answering back.

A moment slips by before you even realize everyone’s agreed to eat. Before it hits you that you never actually said the words you thought you did. That the way he looked at you—just now, in your head—might’ve only existed there.

And now that the moment’s gone, lost in the shuffle of food ideas to get delivered, you're left sitting with the weight of everything unsaid.

.・゜✭

Mandy and Martin are arguing playfully in the living room over whose turn it is to pick the movie to have on in the background while eveyrone ate. You linger in the kitchen, pretending to look for something in the fridge that you’re not actually going to eat. Which was stupid because, you had food on the way.

Hamzah’s sitting at the counter, tapping something into his phone, a half-empty drink beside him.

You feel his eyes on you before you hear his voice. His gaze flashes back to his phone.

“Have you eaten at all today?” he asks casually, not looking up right away.

Your heart stutters.

Remembering brunch you and Mandy went to, you didn't order a thing. Glancing over your shoulder, a smile pulls at your lips like muscle memory. “Nope. I've lived off of caffeine and Mandys presence all day.”

He lets out a soft laugh—low, warm, the kind that makes you want to bottle it. “Dangerous combo.”

You stifle a giggle, shrugging as you close the fridge door, holding a drink. “You’d be surprised. Might be the secret to my happiness.”

When you glance at him, he’s already looking at you. Not the casual glance you’re used to. This one lingers, studies—like he just learned something new about you when he's been searching for so long.

You can’t help but hold your breath. It’s the kind of silence that’s heavy with something unspoken. Even then, you don't break eye contact.

But then Martin shouts his name from the other room, snapping the moment in half.

Hamzah blinks, nods at you once, and stands. “Let me know if you want me to get you something different. You didn't get much word in what food we ordered.”

He’s already gone before you can respond. You stare at his back as he moves toward Mandy and Martin, probably to help them pick a movie.

Maybe he didn’t mean it. Maybe it was nothing. But you’ll tuck it away, anyway—right beside the dream you had last night, and all the other maybes you’ve been living off of lately.

Your heart beats hard, as it frequently has been. You let out a shakey exhale. Somehow every interaction with him—no matter how subtle—was intense.

Your mind is focused on the dream you had, seeing his face so upclose to you was hard to keep your eyes off his lips, remembering what they were like in your dream.

The memory has lingered in your chest all morning, as you watched him sit just in front of you on his phone, casually.

That's still the closest you and I have been. That's kind of sad, don't you think? I think so.

How did I fall in love with someone I don't know?

.・゜✭

After dinner, everyone’s soft with fatigue—like the air’s thick with comfort and food. Plates are stacked. Someone’s laughing about something that no one will remember tomorrow. The conversation slows into fragments—until Mandy, legs curled beneath her on the couch beside you, asks, “So how’d filming go today?”

Martin, already halfway to the kitchen, shrugs with a grin. “Good. Smooth. A chill but fun sesh," He turns to hamzah and scrunches his nose with a smile before hitting him, "right bro?” At this hour, he’s still messing around, letting out a forced laugh just to catch Hamzah’s confused expression.

Hamzah mirrors his movement, following him with the half-empty serving bowl in hand. Martin turns to you, speaking up. “You should watch it unedited,” he says, nodding toward the laptop he usually edits on. “I know you’ve been wanting to try editing one of our videos for fun, so… go for it. Most definitely watch the failed shots.” He suggests in amusement. But before Hamzah's fully in the kitchen, he pauses—eyes flicking toward you.

“Or don’t,” he quickly adds—almost interrupting. He scratches the back of his neck. “I mean, you’d probably want to edit something more interactive of ours, anyway. This one’s kinda slow.” He excuses.

You raise an eyebrow, but before you can press him, Martin calls over his shoulder, “What? Bro, it’s the perfect video for her to practice on.” He bends his knees, emphasizing 'perfect' with a fake distraught expression.

Hamzah shrugs, eyes already turned away. He doesn't say another word, though he seems like he wants to argue back.

Their voices blend with the clinking of dishes and running water, muffled just behind the living room wall.

Mandy watches him go, brows furrowed. “Okay, weird." She shuts her eyes and shakes her head before continuing. "But yeah, ignore him. You can mess around with it whenever. Probably tonight—before Martin randomly decides he wants to touch it.”

You nod, though your curiosity is tugging. What was that lol?

.・゜✭

Later that night, the house falls into that soft, muffled quiet that only happens when everyone’s finally asleep. The kind of quiet where even the walls seem to exhale.

You lie stiff on your back, staring at the ceiling of the room that was never really yours. It used to be his—Hamzah’s.

The room was barely decorated—just a space he used for late-night recording sessions when he didn’t feel like going home. But his charger’s still in the wall. There's even a cologne bottle, nearly empty, tucked on the shelf. You'd noticed all of it earlier when Mandy insisted you keep the room for the night, since Hamzah had been invited to stay over last minute and “wouldn’t mind the couch.” He didn’t fight it. Not in front of anyone, anyway.

But you do. You feel it. This isn’t your bed. This isn’t your room. This isn’t your city.

And suddenly that sense of loss hits you. It's not from death, It's something harder to explain.

It’s the version of you that once belonged somewhere. The one that had a room back home that smelled like lavender and warm dust, the one who didn’t have to constantly re-earn her right to exist in a space. The one who hadn’t been pushed out, hadn’t had to rebuild herself in the shell of someone elses home.

You blink fast, swallowing down the lump in your throat. Then you quietly slide out from under the covers, slipping into the hallway. The floorboards creak beneath your feet like they’re tattling on you, but no one stirs. You sit down right beside your bedroom door, knees pulled to your chest, breath shallow. The air is cool and smells faintly of detergent and the spice of someone’s cologne.

The tile is cold against your bare thighs. You were only wearing a tank top with some pajama shorts, but you enjoyed the breeze.

You rest your forehead against your knees.

You don’t mean to cry. But it’s late, and you’re tired, and your heart is swollen with the ache of everything you left behind. Even happiness can be heavy when it’s earned through loss.

The sound of footsteps pulls you from your thoughts, slow and hesitant, like someone unsure if they’re allowed to interrupt.

Hamzah.

He freezes when he sees you. There’s a flicker in his face—concern, confusion, maybe even guilt. You quickly wipe your cheek with your hand, but you don’t move. And he doesn’t ask.

He exhales softly. Then, without a word, he sits down beside you.

Close, but not too close.

For a moment, he doesn’t even look at you. Just folds his arms on top of his knees, mirroring your posture. His presence feels warm and steady, like something anchoring you to the moment. He doesn’t say it, but you can tell—he doesn’t need to know the whole story to understand that you’re carrying something.

The silence between you stretches wide, but it doesn’t feel empty. It feels... known. Like he’s having a conversation with you in your head, and maybe he’s answering back without speaking.

What you didn’t realize was that he’d been having the same silent conversations with you in his head all along—just like you had with him. That, you never noticed.

And for the first time all night, it feels like this version of you—this uncertain, grieving, rebuilding version—has finally been seen. Not fully, not openly. But just enough to make the loneliness loosen its grip. Just enough to stay seated.

.・゜✭

Once you finally slip into your room, you force yourself to shake off that charged exchange and settle at the bed. You open their laptop.

The apartment is hushed. You pause, wondering. Has Hamzah already drifted off to sleep? Is he thinking of that moment too?

You curl up in the bed, covers on, screen light glowing against your face. You click through Martin’s unlisted playlists.

There it is.

Unlisted – “Unedited / failed shots lol”

You click, expecting bloopers. Maybe some half-formed skits, jokes that didn’t land.

The video loads.

At first, it’s just them—Hamzah and Martin laughing, trying to record the intro. Martin fumbles a line and Hamzah bursts out laughing.

You reach the part where you enter the room—it’s like reliving it all over again. The memory floods back, but now you’re seeing it from a new angle. Hamzah’s eyes follow you, and suddenly you’re not so sure you imagined it. You watch the moment on repeat, trying to catch the exact flicker in his expression, searching for proof that he really was about to say something. Even on video, it looks like he was.

But then…

Near the very end of the video—you see yourself.

You’re in the background. Sitting on the couch. Legs crossed. Book open. Your head’s resting on Mandy’s shoulder, her arm partially in frame. You're half-zoned out, hearing but not listening. Just existing. Just there.

The camera should’ve cut. But it doesn’t. Instead, the angle shifts.

Hamzah adjusts the camera. Zooms in.

Not on himself.

On you.

Your breath catches. You tell yourself he’s just catching a moment. You and Mandy laying together. That's reasonable.

But then you shift—pull away gently from her shoulder, reaching for the book that lay by you. And she’s no longer in frame.

Just you.

The camera even moves with you. This was no mistake.

It zooms in slightly more. Framing your face but enough to see the rest of you. Like someone capturing something they don’t want to forget.

Off-screen, you hear Martin’s voice. “Dude, you’re still recording.”

A pause. Then Hamzah’s voice, quiet and casual, but so sure in a way that makes your heart stutter.

“I know.”

The camera doesn’t move. It stays on you.

Ten seconds.

Fifteen.

Then—

Cut to black.

Your cursor hovers over the time stamp from which this started.

But you don’t click.

You just sit there, pulse thudding softly in your throat. That moment replays anyway, not on the screen—but in your head. Again. And again. And again.

Because it meant something. Because he saw you.

Because even though he never said it—never had to say it—he’d captured it.

The proof was right there in the silence.

He sees you.

And now… you know. Right?

a/n. hi i really loved this idea in my head, i'm not sure how well i executed it though.. I tihnk i wrote too much per usual BUT yeah idk i'm not in love with this but i really want something to post anyway so ! I want to make a pt 2.

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jacaerysyearner · 4 months ago

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contagious.

Ewan Mitchell x actress!reader

• 4K •MDNI •

warnings: jealousy, making out, friends to lovers

summary: When your best friend asks you to accompany him to an event with his co-stars, you immediately say yes. So what if it’s Valentine’s Day? So what if you want more than just friendship with him?

a/n: so what if it’s past Valentine’s Day? This story wasn’t easy to write, but I was too infatuated with the idea to let it go. Hope you enjoy ❤️

You love taking rides with Ewan, especially in the summer. Your arm stretches out of the open window, the mixed playlist you’ve been curating for years humming through the speakers, his sunglasses perched on his nose—the same ones you always end up stealing.

But tonight is different—February has been hella cold, and your dress-to-impress idea might wreak havoc on you.

Ewan is already leaning against his dark grey, matte car when you step outside. His breath is visible in the cold air, and your cheeks warm under his gaze as it sweeps over you. You walk toward him intentionally slowly, swaying your hips just a little. A cheap trick, but you can’t help it—not when his eyes flick over your mini white dress, lingering a second too long on the smooth line of your legs before dragging back up slowly, reluctantly.

“That wasn’t necessary,” he comments in a slightly rasped voice.

You regret not wearing boots the moment the cold bites at your skin, but instead of complaining, you put on a smile, walking toward as if you were on a catwalk with paparazzi ready to capture you at any moment.

“Hi, love! You look gorgeous tonight,” you mimic his voice, though it lands more comically than accurately. “Can’t believe I’m gonna show up with you tonight.”

He shakes his head, but a half-smile cracks his lips. “Come on, I don’t sound like that.”

You continue dramatically, reveling in the chance to tease him. “How lucky I am to have you as my best friend. The most beautiful, smart, and talented actress will be by my side tonight. Maybe I won’t even die of boredom.”

You stop in front of him. Even in heels, he towers over you. Normally, height differences make you feel small, almost helpless. But with him, it’s different. With him, it feels safe.

“Lucky indeed,” he murmurs before pulling you into a hug.

It’s not the kind of brief, platonic hug friends exchange. Your hugs are thorough and long, for they happen more rarely these days. His fingers tighten at your waist, and something deep within you is ready to purr. In fact, you wouldn’t mind if you stayed wrapped in his arms like that forever.

The familiar scent of menthol and cigarettes engulfs you. You did promise Mrs. Mitchell you’d nag him about quitting. Though, much to your shame, there’s something ridiculously sexy about the lingering smoke on him.

Just before you pull away, you aim for a quick kiss on his cheek, but as he turns his head, it lands closer to the corner of his mouth. For a moment, neither of you moves, as if frozen in time and space. Then, as the moment fades, you pull back, perhaps way quicker than you should. Ewan simply clears his throat, pretending not to notice the awkwardness.

“Get in.” He opens the door like the gentleman he is. “Before those gorgeous legs freeze into icicles,” he adds with a cheesy smile.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” You wink before slipping inside.

The blast of warmth is instant, and you exhale in relief. Of course, Ewan had the heat running. He knows about your so-called dumb superpower—always cold, no matter how many layers you wear. And tonight, well, you’re barely wearing any.

As he gets in beside you, his fingers twitch toward the heat controls, adjusting it just a little higher.

A random radio station hums to life as he starts the engine.

“You wanna pick the first song?”

“Let’s keep it on shuffle.” You fasten your seatbelt as he switches to your Spotify playlist. The first song kicks in, but before he shifts into drive, he tilts his head toward you.

“Should I be worried?”

You arch a brow, tucking your hands into your sleeves. “About?”

He drums his fingers against the wheel, his eyes narrowing at you. “You’re not planning to seduce one of my co-stars?”

The question almost makes you chuckle. He’s so oblivious to it.

“We’ll see,” you murmur, just to mess with him.

Much to your surprise, he doesn’t take the bait.

Interesting.

The city blurs past in streaks of neon and gold.

“No, really, thank you for coming with me,” he says at a red light.

He’s used to cameras, interviews, the public eye by now. But these events still make him feel like an imposter. You, on the other hand, have been in this world longer. It doesn’t shake you the same way.

So when you got back from your six-month shoot and he told you about a party he was reluctant to attend the following day—because he’d rather spend the time with you—it melted your heart. Though deep down, you knew he’d love to go if someone reliable was by his side.

The first thing you promised yourself was to use at least a week, or better yet, a month before going out beyond the premises of your flat. And then the idea of him walking in alone, when you could be by his side? Unthinkable. The choice was made in an instant.

“You owe me,” you say, your back pressing against the seat, your head tilting toward him.

“Anything you want, love.”

The way he says it sends something warm trickling down your spine. Stupid. So stupid, you think, biting the inside of your cheek. He’s always called you that. Nothing to flatter yourself over. But as his gaze stays fixed on the road, you steal a moment to admire him—the strong lines of his profile, the sharp jaw you’d kill for the chance to trace with your fingers. His hair is finally back to its natural color. The slightly pouty lips make them look even more kissable.

Over the past half-year, FaceTime has been your lifeline. You were supposed to be distracted—co-stars, learning lines, long production days, interviews—but nothing ever fully pulled your mind from him.

Six months away, and yet, somehow, you still ended up here.

Only to spend hours choosing the right outfit just to make him give you that look.

When he casts a glance your way, you use it as an opportunity to tease him. “What about a Harry Potter marathon?”

Ewan groans, turning the wheel right as you go around the corner. “Again?”

“What do you mean again?” You pout. “We haven’t watched it in six months!”

“How about watching what you’ve been promising for the last seven years?” he counters.

Your turn to groan dramatically. “No, please. Just not Star Wars.”

Indeed, you’d promised—once your shoot was over, you’d finally finish watching it, and yet…

“Not once have you ever watched it till the end,” he points out—a very subtle way of saying you always end up falling asleep on his shoulder after an hour.

What surprises you most is that he has never woken you. You always wake up to the credits rolling—or, more often than not, to the quiet, soothing rhythm of his breathing beside you. Neither of you has ever dared to cross the line. Much to your dismay.

You shake your head, as if to chase the memory away. “There’s no magic, no wizards, and to top it all off”—you lift a finger in the air—“today is Valentine’s Day, and I’m doing you a favor.”

“Okay, okay, I got it,” he exhales in defeat. “Harry Potter it is.”

You hum in victory, but something about his easy surrender unsettles you.

A few years ago, he would’ve fought harder—teased you, bargained. But instead, he just… gave in.

It almost feels like these six months have changed something for him too.

And you struggle to tell if it’s for better or worse.

When you arrive, the party is in full swing. You’ve only met a few of his cast members in real life, but thanks to your passion for the series—or, to be fair, your support for a certain someone—you’ve watched every episode. The faces are familiar.

The acting industry is known for its competitiveness, yet it’s a relief to see that Ewan doesn’t go rigid around these people. It means one thing: they’re supportive, kind. Perhaps, almost his second family.

Olivia Cooke greets Ewan with a tight hug, while Matt, lounging nearby with his usual charisma, drawls at you, “Look who it is.” You met around a year ago. Since then, you can’t shake off the feeling he oddly reminds you of a trickster.

“I don’t believe it,” Matt says, shaking his glass in the air, the drink dangerously close to spilling out.

Meanwhile, Ewan approaches with champagne, which you accept with a grateful nod. Your best friend, ever the responsible one, sips on water—he promised to drive you home.

“You? Team Green?” Matt repeats, as if you’ve just revealed one of the darkest secrets. “I can’t believe it.” He puffs, taking a sip. A part of you believes he’s just trying to mess with Ewan. Their on-screen battle simmers through their life, which, during the promo campaign, will make fans fight over them even more.

“Afraid so,” you shrug, taking a slow sip. The bubbles dance on your tongue.

“How’s that possible?”

“Yeah, how’s that possible?” Ewan joins in, settling beside you on the sofa. His arm stretches over the backrest behind you, fingers grazing the fabric near your shoulder, almost there. It makes you wonder how easy it’d be to shift just a little, so your shoulder brushes against his chest. And if you allowed yourself to lean back, just a few inches, you’d soon find yourself in his embrace.

“Sorry, honey,” you chuckle, casting him—or rather his lips—a glance. “But I don’t think Tom and Phia would be too pleased.”

Ewan hums lowly as if mulling over your point. And you scold yourself for your knees going weak when he does it. His voice, always low, calm, drives you insane.

Harry, who’s just passing by, balancing a tray of drinks, joins the conversation upon hearing Blacks vs. Greens.

“Did you read the book?” he asks you. “Join the winning side.” He says it proudly, with a charming smile. That could work, were it not for Ewan.

“At least my favorite characters live longer,” you shoot back, raising a glass at him as if delivering a toast, before victoriously sipping champagne.

“I’ll remember that!” he calls over his shoulder, though his eyes reveal nothing but amusement.

Matt leans in, voice dipping in a way that suggests he’s about to spill something deliciously scandalous.

“I think I know what might change your mind.”

You tilt your head, curiosity piqued. “I’m all ears.”

“How about I pull some strings and get you on set? Wanna ride a dragon?”

The question shouldn’t make you pause—it’s just a joke, a playful invitation. But you’ve seen what this phrase does online, the hidden implication people love to attach to it. Matt smirks, clearly pleased that you caught on.

You bite your lip slightly, suppressing the warmth rising to your cheeks.

“If that were possible, I bet Ewan would’ve already brought me over. Wouldn’t you?”

By the look on Ewan, you quickly realize that either your question or the way the conversation flows has caught him off guard. His fingers, still resting near your shoulder, stay still for just a second too long, as he’s looking for the right words.

Before he can say anything, Matt cuts in smoothly. “You know me—if I make a promise, I keep it.”

You’d be lying if you said you wouldn’t love to join the set just to sneak a peek at Ewan fully immersed in his Aemond persona. Even if it meant getting on that ridiculous mechanical contraption.

“Well, I’ll consider it,” you tease, playing along, crossing your ankles. The movement causes the hem of your dress to inch up slightly—just slightly—but it’s enough. Enough for Matt’s gaze to flicker downward for a second longer than necessary. And enough for Ewan to notice.

His jaw tightens. His fingers flex around his glass, grip shifting like he wants to say something but holds himself back. Finally, as he speaks his voice is way too calm.

“Riding a buck is only fun if you know what you’re doing,” he muses, tapping his fingers against the glass. “Otherwise, you might end up getting hurt.”

You’re about to remind him how excited he was after shooting his first big dragon-riding scene, how he’d practically buzzed over FaceTime about it— But then Matt calls out, “Someone get the gentleman a drink—he sounds like he needs it.”

A few heads turn in your direction. The tension in Ewan’s posture sharpens—just for a second—before he pushes it away, rolling his shoulders like it’s nothing.

Wanting to defuse the moment, you nudge him lightly with your knee. “Hey, you still owe me a ride home.”

This time, though, Ewan doesn’t meet your eyes. He just nods.

Matt lifts his hands, mocking surrender. “Alright, alright. Team Green it is.” Then, with a glint of mischief, he extends a hand toward you. “At least grant me the honor of a dance.”

You don’t know quite why, but your gaze instantly flicks back to Ewan. Not that you need his approval. The truth is, you’d rather dance with him.

For a second—just a second—something shifts in his eyes as if he was reading your thoughts, as if your wishes matched. Your breath hitches at the thought. He’s gonna stop me. You know this familiar look in his eyes. He’s never been good at hiding dissatisfaction.

But then, he just shrugs. “I’m gonna go catch up with Tom and Phia.” He sounds casual, too indifferent, and that feels like an Ouch to you.

So, you place your hand in Matt’s. The dance is lighthearted, effortless—but your mind is elsewhere.

And when you finally turn back to the table, expecting to see Ewan with the others—

He’s gone.

“I think he went to smoke,” Phia tells you, nodding toward the far end of the room, where a balcony supposedly is.

You don’t bother taking your coat. The February chill rips away the lingering warmth of the hall from your skin. The cold is biting, but not enough to make you stop.

Your heels sink between the uneven grains of the ground. The vast territory of the balcony unfurls before you, lined with closed umbrellas, pressed against the wall. A quiet reminder that, in warmer months, this space is alive—scattered with cushioned chairs, laughter, clinking glasses, shaded from the scorching sun. But now, it belongs to the cold. And to him.

With his broad back turned toward you, he rests one arm against the railing, the other lifting a cigarette to his mouth. The tip flickers briefly, then he exhales, and the smoke drifts away into the night.

“Hey,” you say, approaching closer. “Sneaking out and leaving me alone? I might take offense.”

A few strands of his hair are out of place, tousled by the wind. Your hand lifts to fix them, but as he speaks, it freezes mid-air.

“You seem to be fitting in just fine.” He doesn’t turn, just flicks ash over the edge.

Studying his profile, you search for a hint of what this is all about. Suddenly, the entire situation feels like watching a lighthearted movie—predictable, every scene unfolding exactly as expected. Until this moment. Until you wonder, Did I miss something?

The railing is cold beneath your fingertips as your hands settle upon it, seeking steady comfort. Now, both your gazes are directed toward the city lights.

“Do you think you could bring me over to the set?” you ask genuinely, though a smaller part of you wishes for the conversation to return to its normal trajectory.

“Didn’t know you two had met before.”

You blink. He means Matt. Why is he bringing this up?

“I must’ve mentioned it.”

“You didn’t.”

This time, he looks at you. The firmness in his voice, the blue of his eyes, winter-bitten, studying you, and the confident “I did” dies in your throat.

Did you tell him? You think back, trying to pinpoint a memory. But does it even matter—whether you did or not? And if not, why does it matter now?

You search his face, trying to see where he’s headed with this. But you should know better—it’s never easy with actors.

You wet your lips, nervousness creeping into your voice. “Is it a big deal?”

He rolls the cigarette between his fingers before bringing it to his lips. He inhales, holds, exhales. The smoke disperses between you, and now you’re inhaling the very air that was in his lungs mere seconds ago. Secondhand smoke—how strangely intimate.

He hums lowly. “I suppose if I see you on set one day, I just… shouldn’t be surprised.”

Your stomach twists at the implication.

“What exactly are you saying?” The color fades off your voice, and it feels like the embrace of anxiety tightens around your ribcage.

He exhales again, shaking his head. “Forget it.” He stubs the cigarette out beneath his shoe—too forcefully, like it’s personal.

But you can’t. You’ve known him for years, mapped the lines of his moods like constellations. And right now, whatever he’s holding back—it’s dragging him under.

“Ewan…”

His chuckle is quiet, humorless. “I think I’m just… unwell.”

The way he says it makes your breath still.

“What?”

“In fact,” he pauses. His jaw tightens as he forces the words out. “I think it’s a pretty severe disease.”

“Disease?” you echo, looking at him unblinking, expecting his expression to break, to tell you it’s a joke.

But he only nods curtly, like he’s already accepted whatever this is. “I feel it all over my body.”

“Let me see.” You reach up, pressing the back of your hand against his forehead—just like your mother used to when you were a child. For the first time this eve, you’re glad for your dump superpower. Your hand is ice-cold; at least you can tell if he has a fever.

“It doesn’t feel like you have a fever,” you say. His skin is cool beneath your touch, yet you stay still, just to make sure. “Where does it hurt?”

“Everywhere,” he says without hesitation.

You search his eyes, trying to find what he isn’t saying.

Then, as your hand slides down—whether involuntarily or intentionally—it brushes against his cheek, his jaw. And you feel the shift.

The way his breath catches, mirroring your own.

The way he stays perfectly still, as it could prolong this moment between you.

Like a man who attends every Sunday service, waiting for the day Ewan finally finds the courage to confess what’s been buried for too long.

“I’ve had it for a while.”

Your stomach knots. “You can’t be serios!” You gasp, already thinking ahead. “Why did we even come here? We need to—”

A hospital. A doctor. Anything. You curse yourself for drinking champagne because now you can’t drive, and Ewan—Ewan needs—

Your frantic thoughts halt when his hand finds yours.

His grip is warm. Grounding.

“It’s been years, and it still hasn’t killed me.” A wry smile ghosts on his lips. “And I doubt anything can be done.”

Years? You stare at him, stunned.

“No,” you say, shaking your head as your mind tries to find a logical explanation. “You’re too young for this kind of shit. Did you even get a diagnosis?”

His lips press into a thin line, and for a long second, he doesn’t answer. He just looks at you. Through you.

And then, finally, the confession slips out. “All I know is that watching you with him... made it hurt more.”

You’ve never been hit—until this moment.

His words land like a punch to the solar plexus.

One hit, and you’re out of breath.

Because there’s a chance—a chance—he’s talking about what you think he is. Or maybe this is just another dream—one that will disperse in the daylight upon opening your eyes, lingering on your tongue, feeling bitter.

But then his hand squeezes yours, tightly, tethering you to the present. No dream. No illusion.

“Like my heart is on fire,” he murmurs, guiding your palm to his chest. His hand—much larger than yours—covers it completely.

And just like that, it clicks. No room for doubt.

You’ve spent so long trying to make him notice you—not as his best friend, not as someone safe, but as someone he could lose. Someone he could crave. And the whole time, he’s been all yours.

The hesitation in his eyes, the unreadable expression he’s worn all night, suddenly finds a name.

I fear losing you.

“Why didn’t you say anything before?”

In that moment, you could swear you felt his heart skip a beat beneath your palm.

“What if it scared you? What if you left?” His voice is barely a whisper.

His grip falters on your hand.

And now, it’s your turn to hold him. “You know I wouldn’t.”

You exhale deeply, and it’s suddenly so freeing—because you no longer have to hide your own feelings.

“Maybe,” you murmur, stepping closer, so close your chest grazes his, “it’s contagious, and now I’m sick too.”

His fingers twitch around yours. His breathing shifts, deepens.

“What then?” you ask softly, looking up into his eyes, hoping he’ll see it—all of it. Everything you feel, everything you can’t say.

His gaze flickers downward, landing on your lips. Then back to your eyes. A hesitation. An invisible tug-of-war.

And then—

“There’s a way to find out.”

Your heart hammers in your ears. The rush of the wind runs through you, and you wonder if you’re both going to wake up with colds tomorrow.

But that’s tomorrow’s problem.

“Let’s find out,” you say firmly.

A fraction of a second. A heartbeat.

And then—

His lips crash against yours.

And just like he said—You’re on fire.

Ewan—your best friend, the one who had been there since the auditions, the one you could always call at any hour, the one who had always been so careful, so considerate—kisses you like he’s been starving for you. Like he’s been waiting centuries for this moment.

The only thought that flashes through your mind before you fully give yourself over to him is that, smoke or not, he tastes sweeter than any other boyfriend or actor you’ve ever kissed.

His strong, veined hands, which have mesmerized you for years—grip your waist, pulling you against him, molding your body to his like you were always meant to fit this way. Like he’s telling you, “Don’t slip away.”

And you’d reply, “I won’t,” when your fingers thread into his hair, the softness of it nearly making you moan into his mouth. As you tug at the nape of his neck, a low groan escapes him. The sound sends heat coiling low in your stomach, and before you can second-guess yourself, you roll your hips against him.

His hands drop lower. A rough squeeze. A possessive pull.

Mine.

A sharp gasp leaves your lips, and he swallows it greedily.

When he pulls back just enough for a breath, he exhales a quiet, “Fuck.”

His forehead rests against yours—a gesture both simple and sensual.

His eyes betray everything he hasn’t said—the longing, the need, the absolute certainty that this was inevitable.

How could you have ever doubted him?

The way he looks at you now—it’s the look of a man who would worship you on his knees, just before devouring you like the sweetest fruit on the hottest day.

His fingertips trace up your spine, uncovered by the fabric of your dress, and, if you’re being honest, you can’t wait to get rid of it. His touch sets you ablaze, making you bend under it.

“Wanna stay here any longer?” he murmurs against your lips.

You don’t even try to hide your eager shake of the head.

Suddenly, a thought takes hold. You pull back just enough to watch his face, letting him feel the gravity of the situation, a mischievous payback.

“But I must confess something too,” you whisper.

His brows furrow, concern flickering behind the heat in his gaze, and you barely manage to keep a serious face. “What is it?”

You hesitate, biting your lip, dragging the moment out—until finally, you let the words slip, not fighting the grin this time.

“I do wanna ride a dragon.”

For a beat, silence.

Then—

His lips brush against your jaw, before finally taking their place against your ear. His whisper is a warm puff against your skin, sending a pleasant chill through you.

“I’ll make it happen.”

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