The dive bar is thick with the scent of stale hops and the low, buzzing neon of a Cerveza sign that flickers just above Jace’s head. He’s slumped in the corner booth, his broad shoulders taking up most of the vinyl seat, one hand loosely wrapped around a glass of neat whiskey while the other rests on the table near yours. He looks every bit the "Modern James Dean" tonight—black tank top, heavy stubble, and those amber-brown eyes softened by the dim lighting.

He’s mid-sentence, telling you a story about a disastrous shoot in the Mojave, when a group of three people stop at the edge of the table. Their phones are already out, thumbing through camera apps.

"Wait—are you Jace Miller? From Neon Ghost?" one of them chirps, leaning in too close.

Jace’s expression doesn't break into a Hollywood grin. Instead, he goes still, a quiet, grounded intensity taking over. He shifts slightly, his arm moving just enough to subtly shield your space, his jaw tightening as he looks up.

"Yeah," he says, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that’s surprisingly gentle despite the edge. "Look, I appreciate the support, truly. I’m glad you liked the film. But I’m actually just out with a friend tonight, trying to have a quiet moment off the clock. You know how it is."

He gives them a small, polite nod—nothing flashy, just a humble acknowledgment that carries enough weight to make them hesitate. "I'd really appreciate it if we could just keep it between us. Gracias, guys."

As they reluctantly shuffle away, Jace exhales, a long, tired sound. He turns back to you, the tension in his sharp jaw bleeding out as he catches your eye. A dry, self-deprecating smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

"Sorry about that," he mumbles, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass. "People see the face, they forget there’s a person attached to it. Anyway... where was I? Right. The desert. You were sayin' something about the sunset before we were so 'humbly' interrupted?"

The cool night air hits differently as you both step out of the dive bar's heavy door, the transition from the dim, quiet interior to the sidewalk feeling like a physical shock. Jace is just reaching for his leather biker jacket, his shoulder brushing yours, when the first strobe-like flash of a camera explodes in the dark.

"Jace! Jace, over here! Who's the new face?"

The sudden, aggressive shouting of names and the rapid-fire clack-clack-clack of shutters instantly kills the peace of the night. Jace doesn't even blink; his body just reacts with the muscle memory of a man who’s been a target since he was thirteen. In one fluid motion, he steps in front of you, his large frame becoming a human wall between you and the blinding white lights. He pulls his jacket open slightly to create a makeshift shield, tucking your head toward his chest so your face is obscured by his shadow.

He doesn't shout back. He just stares into the flurry of flashes with those intense, amber-brown eyes, his jaw set in a hard, disappointment-filled line. He looks less like a movie star and more like a man protecting something sacred from something ugly.

"Give it a rest, man," he mutters, his gravelly voice cutting through the noise with a cold, sharp edge. "We’re just walking. Have some respect for once."

He guides you quickly toward his vintage motorcycle parked at the curb, his hand firm and grounding on the small of your back. As he helps you steady yourself, he leans down, his face inches from yours. The anger he had for the cameras is gone, replaced by a look of genuine, pained regret.

"Mira... I’m so sorry," he whispers, his voice dropping into that low, apologetic rumble. "I thought we shook 'em three blocks back. I didn't want your night to end with a bunch of vultures in your face. Perdóname, seriously. You okay?"

The blue light from Jace’s laptop finally flickers out, casting the minimalist Silver Lake loft back into a warm, amber-toned dimness. For two hours, his gravelly voice had been sharp and professional, navigating the ego-heavy demands of producers and agents for his latest A24 booking. Now, the silence of the apartment feels heavy, broken only by the quiet hum of the city outside.

He stands, his broad shoulders rolling to release the tension of the "Modern James Dean" posture he’s forced to maintain even over Zoom. He doesn't go for a drink or his guitar; he heads straight for the bed, his Raven black hair messy and his jawline dark with a day’s worth of stubble.

He drops onto the mattress beside you with a heavy, ungraceful thud, the frame groaning under his weight. Without a word, he slides over, his muscular arms wrapping around your waist with a firm, grounding strength. He buries his face deep into the soft fabric of your shirt, right against your stomach, letting out a long, ragged sigh that vibrates against your skin. The scent of sandalwood and leather—the smell of his "work" persona—slowly fades as he just breathes you in.

"Dios mío..." he mumbles, his voice muffled against you, sounding raw and stripped of all its cinematic polish. "I think my brain is actually melting. If I have to talk about 'character arcs' or 'marketability' one more time today, I’m gonna lose it."

After a moment, he shifts, tilting his head back just enough to look up at you. His amber-brown eyes are hooded with exhaustion, but they soften instantly when they meet yours. A tired, genuine smile tugs at the corner of his mouth—the kind of smile he never gives to a camera.

"Hey," he whispers, his thumb tracing a slow, lazy circle on your hip. "Tell me something real. Tell me about your day. I need to hear a voice that isn't trying to sell me something."