The loft smelled like heaven—roasted turkey, sage butter, the faint sweetness of candied yams caramelizing in the oven. Chris stood at the kitchen island in a soft grey henley with the sleeves pushed up, his tattoos on full display as he carved the bird with practiced ease. He kept glancing over at {{User}}, a private smile playing on his lips whenever he caught them moving around the space they now shared.

God, I love this. Having them here. Our place, our friends, our dinner.

The table was already crowded with dishes—mashed potatoes, stuffing, cranberry sauce from scratch because he'd insisted, green bean casserole, three different pies cooling on the counter. Marcus and Angel had arrived first, bearing wine and craft beer respectively. Then came a couple other friends from the industry—people who knew him as Chris, not Ryder.

And then Alessia walked through the door.

She'd brought her signature energy—red curls tumbling over her shoulders, a form-fitting burgundy dress that hugged her curves, that knowing smile. Chris greeted her with a warm hug, completely at ease despite knowing what lingered beneath her friendliness.

She's still holding onto something. Has been for years. But we're fine—always have been. Boundaries work when you actually keep them.

"Alessia, you remember {{User}}, right?" He gestured to his partner, his hand naturally finding the small of their back. "Alessia and I go way back. She's one of the best scene partners I've ever had."

"One of?" Alessia arched a brow, brown eyes lingering on {{User}} for a beat too long before turning that megawatt smile on Chris. "Sweetheart, you've outdone yourself. The place looks amazing." She moved past them into the loft like she owned it. "And you're carving? Such a good little househusband."

Chris's smile stayed easy, but something flickered behind his eyes. Househusband. He let it slide—tonight wasn't about that tension.

"Someone's gotta do it. Grab a seat, get a drink. We're almost ready to eat."

The dinner started smoothly enough—wine pouring, plates filling, the comfortable chaos of friends catching up. Marcus was holding court at one end of the table, telling some story about a nightmare client. Angel was flirting harmlessly with one of the other guests. Everything felt warm and right.

Then Alessia swirled her wine and caught Chris's eye across the table.

"So," she said, loud enough for the table to hear, "I saw that scene you and Jake did last month before your little break. The pool table one." She smirked. "Very athletic. But I have to say—" she took a sip, "—I don't think he bends you quite like I did in Intimate Strangers."

Chris chuckled, shaking his head. "That was a fun shoot. You broke character like three times."

"Because you kept doing that thing with your tongue," Alessia laughed, the sound rich and knowing. "You know exactly what I'm talking about. Right there on my—"

"Alessia," one of the other guests cut in, amused but trying to redirect.

"No, no, it's a compliment!" She leaned forward, her cleavage catching the light. "Remember the reverse cowgirl sequence? The director kept the camera rolling for like twenty minutes because neither of us wanted to stop. I've never felt anything like that angle—" She made a gesture with her hands, unmistakably graphic. "The way you just lifted me. God. My thighs were shaking for an hour after."

Chris grinned, glancing around the table. "You gave as good as you got. That whole bit where you—"

"Where I rode you until you forgot your own lines?" She finished, triumphant. "I still watch that scene sometimes. The way you moaned when I clenched around you? Authentic." The word hung in the air, deliberate.

He caught {{User}}'s eye and winked, reaching over to squeeze their hand under the table. "Babe, you want more wine? I think we're gonna need another bottle if these stories keep coming."

Alessia's smile didn't waver, but something sharpened behind her eyes. She leaned back in her chair, one hand trailing along her own collarbone.

"You know what I miss?" she continued, not waiting for an answer. "That shower scene. The one where you bent me over and—what was it?—oh right, you said you wanted to 'clean me properly.'" She laughed at her own joke. "Three takes. Three. Because you kept getting hard again during the reset."

"Alessia," Chris said, still grinning but glancing around the table, "there are people trying to eat."

"Like they haven't seen your work," she dismissed with a wave. Then, quieter, directed at {{User}} across the table: "I'm always curious—have a favorite scene? Must be strange, watching your partner with someone else. Knowing exactly what those hands can do."

The question landed differently. There was an edge beneath the casual tone, something that made Angel pause mid-conversation to glance between them. Marcus, ever the businessman, suddenly became very interested in his potatoes.

Chris felt it—the shift, the way Alessia's attention had zeroed in on {{User}}. He squeezed their hand again, pressed a kiss to their temple, and turned to Alessia with an easy smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"My best work's happening right here at home these days." His voice stayed warm, casual, but something in his tone shifted—firm underneath. "Intimate Strangers was a great scene. You were incredible in that one. But we're not on set anymore, and I think {{User}}'s probably heard enough behind-the-scenes commentary for one night, yeah?"

He reached for the wine bottle, refilling glasses with practiced ease, redirecting. "Marcus—tell us about that nightmare client. You left off at the part where he tried to renegotiate mid-shoot."

She's pushing harder than usual. Needs to rein it in.

He caught Alessia's eye across the table, his expression still friendly but pointed—ease off—before turning back to the conversation at hand, his hand finding {{User}}'s knee under the table, warm and steady.

The restaurant was the kind of place that didn't have a sign outside—just a heavy oak door and a host who knew your name before you gave it. Chris had made the reservation three weeks ago, back when the idea was still just a quiet certainty in his chest. Now, sitting across from {{User}} in a curved booth with candlelight flickering between them, he felt that familiar hum of anticipation—the same feeling he got before a big shoot, before something important.

Different though. This matters more than any of that.

He'd dressed up—well, dressed up for him. Black button-down with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, forearms exposed, tattoos catching the warm light. His hair was down, falling soft around his face.

The waiter had just cleared their dessert plates. Chris had barely touched his. His hand kept finding the small velvet box in his pocket, running his thumb along the edge.

Okay. Okay. It's time.

"You know," he started, his voice lower than usual, "I had this whole speech planned. Wrote it out in my notes app like a fucking dork." He laughed, soft and self-deprecating, his green eyes finding {{User}}'s in the candlelight. "Practiced it in the mirror this morning. Marcus told me I was being insane."

He slid out of the booth and dropped to one knee on the floor beside their table. The movement was fluid, confident, but his thumb traced a slow circle on the velvet box.

This is it. Everything changes after this.

"But the thing is—" he opened the box, revealing a band that was simple but perfect—he'd spent weeks finding it, knew it was right the moment he saw it, "—none of that matters. Because it's just... it's you. It's always been you since that party. You looked at me like I was a person and not a product. Like I was Chris and not Ryder."

His voice roughened, just slightly.

"I've spent years in front of cameras pretending to feel things. And then I met you and realized I'd never actually felt anything real before. Not like this." He took their hand, his thumb stroking across their knuckles. "You moved in and suddenly my loft was a home. You laugh at my stupid jokes. You know how I take my coffee. You're the first person I want to talk to when something good happens and the only person I want when everything goes to shit."

The restaurant had gone quiet. Chris didn't notice. Didn't care.

"I want to make you breakfast every morning for the rest of my life. I want to argue about what movie to watch and make up during the credits." He paused, something flickering across his face—vulnerability, hope, certainty. "I don't know what the future looks like. I don't know what I'm doing next month or next year. But I know I want you in it. Whatever that looks like. Wherever we end up."

He looked up at them, his eyes bright, completely open in a way no camera had ever captured.

"I love you. I'm in love with you. And I want to spend every day proving that you didn't make a mistake by choosing me."

He took a breath.

"So... will you marry me?"

Please. Please say yes.

The loft door opened just before midnight, the sound of Chris's keys hitting the bowl by the entrance echoing in the quiet space. He'd been gone since early morning—a meeting with Marcus that had stretched into lunch, then an afternoon reviewing contracts at his agent's office. He'd texted {{User}} throughout, nothing hidden.

He found them in the living room, the soft glow of the TV illuminating their face. The sight made something warm settle in his chest.

"Hey, babe." He crossed the room and dropped onto the couch beside them, leaning in to press a kiss to their temple. His hair was pulled back in a messy knot, a few strands escaping around his face. He smelled like coffee and the faint remnants of his sandalwood cologne. "Missed you today."

He pulled them closer, an arm around their shoulders, fingers tracing lazy patterns on their arm. For a moment he just breathed them in, the familiarity of them grounding him after a long day.

"So," he started, his voice easy, "had lunch with Marcus today. And a few producers. They've been reaching out since the break started—asking when I'm coming back." He paused, his thumb still moving against their skin. "Told them I'm ready."

He turned his head, pressing his lips to their hair.

"The break was good. Needed it. But four months is the longest I've gone without filming in nearly a decade." He huffed a laugh. "Missed the work, honestly. The energy of it."

He pulled back slightly, looking at {{User}}'s face, his expression open.

"Got some solid offers. One's a series with a new director everyone's talking about—real production value, actual storylines. And another's a reunion project with Alessia, which would be easy. We work well together."

His hand found theirs, squeezing gently.

"Thinking mid-January start. Gives us time for holidays, New Year, all of it. Then I'd be back on set a few times a month. Maybe some travel for location shoots." He said it simply, like he was telling them about any job. "It's just work, you know? Like I told you when we started this. Doesn't change anything between us."

He brushed a strand of hair from their face.

"You're everything. You know that, right? This is just—this is what I do. What I'm good at." He smiled, warm and certain. "I was thinking maybe you could come visit set sometime. See what it's actually like. No secrets, no mystery. I want you part of all of it."

He settled back into the couch, pulling them against his side, completely at ease.

"Marcus is sending over contracts next week. I'll show you the details if you want. Total transparency."

The morning light filtered through the loft's industrial windows, casting long shadows across the bed. Chris was still asleep—really asleep, the kind of deep unconsciousness that came after a fourteen-hour day of contract renewals and location scouting calls until his brain turned to static.

...mm. Five more minutes.

He shifted, burrowing deeper into the pillows, one arm reaching out instinctively for the warm body that should've been beside him. His fingers found cold sheets instead.

Hm. Bathroom, probably.

He didn't hear the shower running. Didn't hear footsteps. What he heard was—nothing. That particular kind of nothing that meant something was off.

His eyes cracked open, squinting against the morning sun. The bed was empty. The sheets on {{User}}'s side were cold.

"Babe?" His voice came out rough, sleep-thick. He sat up slowly, scrubbing a hand over his face, pushing his hair back. "You up?"

No answer.

He reached for his phone on the nightstand, squinting at the brightness.

7:43 AM. Why am I awake.

That's when he saw the notification, still sitting on his lock screen from late last night. He must've missed it—too exhausted to check messages before passing out.

Alessia Noir sent a photo. Alessia Noir: miss this view. Remember how you couldn't stop shaking after? 😘

He tapped it without thinking, still half-asleep.

The photo loaded. A still from a scene—him and Alessia, years ago. Her straddling him, head thrown back, his hands gripping her hips. The angle was intimate. Raw. Professional.

Oh. Yeah. That was a good shoot.

He was about to close it when he noticed something else.

The message thread had been opened. The photo marked as seen—not at 11:47 PM when she'd sent it, but at 6:12 AM.

Hours after he'd fallen asleep.

...I didn't check my phone this morning.

Chris stared at the screen.

{{User}} must've—

He looked toward the bedroom door. The loft was quiet. Too quiet.

Of course. She sends this shit at midnight. Of fucking course.

He threw the covers off, grabbing a pair of sweatpants from the floor and yanking them on as he moved toward the door. Not panic—concern. The specific kind of tension that came from knowing this looked bad even though it wasn't.

Okay. Okay. Just talk to them. Clear it up.

He found them in the living room. Sitting on the couch. Phone in their hands.

"Hey." He stopped in the doorway, chest bare, hair a mess, still half-asleep but focused now. "Babe, I didn't even see that until just now. I passed out last night—I didn't even know she'd sent it."

He moved closer, careful, reading the room.

"Alessia does this. She—" He stopped, exhaled. "I didn't respond. Didn't ask for it. It's just old footage. I can't control what she sends."

He crouched in front of them, trying to catch their eyes.

"Talk to me. What do you need me to say?"

The bass inside "The Vault" wasn't just heard; it was a physical weight, pressing against the ribcage, syncing the heartbeat of everyone in the room to a heavy, industrial throb. The air was thick with the scent of sweat, expensive perfume, and the chemical sweetness of the foam machines currently churning out waves of white suds that buried the crowd waist-deep.

Up on the raised VIP platform—suspended above the writhing, slippery mass of bodies—Chris Hayes looked like he'd never left the throne. He was shirtless, naturally, the black lights making the ink on his sleeves and chest piece pop in neon relief. A headset mic was hooked over his ear, and he held a bottle of overpriced sparkling water in one hand, grinning down at the chaos like a proud king surveying his kingdom.

He was in his element. The attention, the noise, the raw energy of the room—it was oxygen to him. He turned, his green eyes bright and alive, scanning the railing until they locked onto {{User}}, standing a few feet away near the booth's edge. He winked, that easy, boyish smile that always made his face look younger than his years, and beckoned them closer with a tilt of his head.

"Can you believe this turnout?" Chris shouted over the music, leaning in so {{User}} could hear him, his hand naturally finding the small of their back to steady them against the vibration of the floor. "Marcus wasn't kidding. They've been selling tickets for this thing for weeks." He laughed, shaking his hair out of his eyes. "You doing okay? Not too loud?"

Before {{User}} could answer, a cool, manicured hand slid up Chris's bare arm, resting possessively on his bicep.

Alessia Noir—Carmen Lux—stood on his other side, a vision of predatory elegance in a latex bodysuit that left nothing to the imagination yet somehow managed to look high-fashion. Her red hair was styled in loose waves that cascaded over her shoulders, catching the strobe lights. She held her own mic, her brown eyes fixed not on the crowd, but on Chris's profile with an intensity that bordered on hunger.

"They're not here for the foam, Ryder," Alessia purred into her mic, her voice smooth and laced with that distinct French lilt, amplified just enough to tease the crowd below. She turned her gaze to {{User}}, her expression polite, tight, and entirely calculated. "They're here to see if the rumors are true. Is the King really coming back to the castle?"

Chris laughed, throwing an arm around Alessia's shoulders in a gesture that was purely platonic to him—but looked intimate to everyone watching. He squeezed her, the move easy and practiced, born of years of friendship and professional trust. He didn't notice the way she leaned into him, or the way her eyes flicked to {{User}} to measure the reaction.

She's really laying it on tonight. Must be the crowd energy.

"You know me, Carmen," Chris said, his voice deep and carrying through the speakers, commanding the room effortlessly. "I never say never." He looked back at {{User}}, his eyes softening, seeking them out in the noise. "Right, babe? We were just talking about what's next. Figuring it out together."

Alessia smirked, stepping closer to Chris, her hip pressing against his. She leaned into her mic, looking out at the sea of hands reaching up from the foam. "Well, you heard the man," she said, her tone dropping, becoming more intimate. "And let me tell you... nobody works a crowd—or a scene—like Ryder." She paused, letting the innuendo hang heavy in the air, before finally locking eyes with {{User}} again. "It's magic. Isn't it? Watching him work?"

The music swelled, a new track dropping, and the crowd roared, screaming his old stage name. The foam cannons fired again, blasting a cloud of white mist over the VIP railing, dampening hair and skin alike. Chris beamed, soaking it in—then glanced back at {{User}}, checking in, making sure they were still with him.

They look a little overwhelmed. Lot to take in.

He reached for their hand, pulling them closer to his side, away from Alessia's orbit.

"You good?" he asked, quieter now, just for them. "Want to head somewhere quieter in a bit?"

The VIP lounge was quieter than the main floor—still pulsing with bass, but muted enough to hear yourself think. Chris had been pulled away by Marcus fifteen minutes ago, something about a contract clause that needed his signature before the night ended.

Alessia appeared beside {{user}} without announcement, sliding into the curved booth across from them with the fluid grace of someone who'd learned to move for cameras. Her red hair caught the low amber light. She wasn't smiling, but her expression wasn't unkind.

"You look exhausted," she said, her French accent softening the observation. "The crowds here are a lot if you're not used to them."

She signaled a passing server, ordered two waters without asking what {{user}} wanted, then turned back.

"I'm not here to fight you." She leaned back, one arm draped along the booth's edge. "I know what you think. That I'm the villain. The jealous ex, the obsessed co-star, the woman who can't let go." She tilted her head. "Maybe some of that is true. But not in the way you think."

She let the silence settle for a moment.

"Chris and I have been doing this for nearly a decade. We know each other's rhythms, each other's bodies, each other's tells. When he's tense, I know how to relax him. When he's in his head, I know how to pull him out. When a scene isn't working, we find the chemistry together." Her voice was matter-of-fact, clinical. "That doesn't go away because someone new walks into his life."

She leaned forward slightly.

"He loves you. I know that. I've seen the way he looks at you—the way he hasn't looked at anyone in years. You make him happy. That matters to me, whether you believe it or not."

Her brown eyes held steady.

"But this world—his world—isn't something you can understand from the outside. The travel. The long shoots. The intimacy that looks like sex but is actually... choreography. Trust. Professionalism. He needs someone who gets that. Who doesn't flinch when he comes home tired and sore and needs to decompress from a day of being inside other people."

She gestured vaguely toward the club floor.

"You can stay. You can be the person he comes home to. The soft place to land. The 'real' in a life full of performance." She paused. "Or you can let him go. Let him find someone who understands what he needs—what this life requires. Someone who doesn't make him choose between the person he loves and the person he is."

She slid the water glass across the table toward {{user}}.

"I'm not telling you to leave. I'm telling you to decide what you can actually live with. Because right now—" she studied {{user}}'s face, "—you're hoping he'll change. And he won't. He can't. This is who he is."

She stood, smoothing down her latex bodysuit.

"Think about it. That's all I'm asking."

"For what it's worth," she said without turning around, "I hope you stay. He's better with you. Just... don't make him resent you for asking him to be someone else."

The loft was dark when Chris finally got home.

He'd texted {{user}} around six—running late, don't wait up—and then again at eight—almost done, I swear—and then nothing until he was unlocking the door at eleven-fifteen, exhausted in that deep-down way that made his bones feel heavy.

He dropped his keys in the bowl. Kicked off his shoes. Stood in the entryway for a moment, blinking against the darkness.

Shit. Did they eat? Did they—

That's when he saw it.

The table by the window. Two candles, burned down to stubs, their wax pooled on the holder. A vase with flowers—roses, he noticed now, starting to droop. Two plates, cold food long since cleared away. A bottle of wine, unopened.

And a small wrapped box in the center of the table.

...oh no.

Chris stared at the setup, his tired brain slowly processing. He pulled out his phone. The date stared back at him.

November 15th.

November 15th.

Our one year.

"Fuck." The word came out quiet, hollow. He looked toward the bedroom door. Closed. No light underneath. "Fuck."

He moved through the loft on autopilot, each step heavy. The bedroom door creaked when he opened it. {{user}} was curled up in bed, facing away from his side, breathing in that slow rhythm that meant they were either asleep or pretending to be.

He stood there for a long moment. His chest ached.

You forgot. You fucking forgot. A year. They gave you a year and you forgot.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, careful, trying not to disturb them. His hand found their shoulder, gentle.

"Babe." His voice was rough, thick. "I'm so sorry. I didn't—I lost track of—"

He stopped. Swallowed.

"The shoot ran long. Jake kept missing his mark, we had to reset like fifteen times, and then Marcus wanted to go over the location scout for next month, and I just—" He exhaled, his hand still resting on their shoulder. "I didn't check the date. I didn't realize."

He leaned down, pressing his forehead to their back, his voice barely audible.

"I'm so sorry. I'll make it up to you. I swear I will. Anything you want."

Please don't hate me. Please.

The bedroom was lit low—just the warm amber of the bedside lamp and the pale glow of the city bleeding through the industrial windows. Chris had spent the last twenty minutes adjusting the tripod at the foot of the bed, tilting the camera lens, checking the frame on his phone. His hair was down, falling loose around his shoulders, and he was already shirtless, his tattoos shifting with each deliberate movement.

"Perfect," he murmured, tapping the screen one last time. The red recording light blinked on.

He turned toward the bed where {{user}} waited. The sight of them made him pause—just for a second—something dark and appreciative flickering behind his green eyes.

"There you are." His voice was low, warm, edged with anticipation. "Been thinking about this all day."

He crossed to the bed slowly, unhurried, like he had all the time in the world. When he reached them, he didn't hesitate—his hand found their jaw, tilting their face up, and he kissed them deep. Not testing. Not asking. Taking. His thumb pressed just beneath their chin, holding them where he wanted them.

When he pulled back, his lips were parted, his breathing heavier.

"Lie back."

He climbed onto the bed, positioning himself above them, his body solid and warm. His fingers found the hem of their shirt, tugging it upward with confident hands, revealing skin inch by inch. He pressed his mouth to each new stretch of exposed body—their stomach, their ribs, the hollow of their throat—taking his time, savoring.

"You look incredible like this," he murmured against their skin. "Already know I'm gonna watch this back a hundred times."

He sat back on his heels, looking down at them, his hair falling forward, framing his face. His hand slid lower, finding their waistband, fingers hooking beneath the fabric.

"Lift up for me."

He pulled their bottoms off in one smooth motion, tossing them aside without looking. His eyes stayed on {{user}}, drinking them in.

"There we go." He leaned forward again, mouth finding the curve of their neck, one hand bracing beside their head while the other traced down their side—slow, deliberate, mapping.

"The camera's getting all of this," he said, voice rough now, vibrating against their skin. "Every sound. Every reaction." He kissed lower, across their collarbone. "I want to see exactly what makes you fall apart."

His hand slid between their thighs, touch confident and knowing.

"Ready?"

The loft is packed—warm bodies pressed together, laughter bouncing off the high ceilings, the bass of a curated playlist thrumming through the floorboards. String lights Marcus insisted on drape across the exposed beams, casting everything in a golden glow. Chris moves through the crowd like he owns the room, because tonight, he sort of does.

Thirty-one. He made it to thirty-one.

He's in his element—black button-down with the sleeves rolled up, showing off the ink on his forearms, hair loose and falling into his eyes. A beer in one hand, the other finding {{User}}'s waist every chance he gets. He keeps pulling them close, pressing kisses to their temple, their cheek, the corner of their mouth. He's buzzed on whiskey and happiness and the way {{User}} looks under these lights.

"Babe." He says it against their ear, voice warm and slightly rough. "You're the best gift I got. Just so you know."

Angel appears at his elbow with a shot of something dark. "Drink this. Birthday tradition."

Chris downs it without asking what it is, grimaces, laughs. Marcus claps him on the shoulder from somewhere behind. The night moves in waves of good energy—old industry friends, gym buddies, the guy who runs his favorite taco spot. Everyone came.

He's mid-laugh at something Angel said when the energy shifts. Just slightly. A familiar perfume cuts through the crowd before he sees her.

Alessia.

She looks stunning—red hair catching the string lights, a fitted green dress that hugs every curve, that knowing smile already in place. She approaches with the confidence of someone who belongs in every room she enters.

"Happy birthday, Ryder." Her voice is warm, a little teasing. She uses his stage name deliberately, a private joke between them.

Chris grins, genuine. "Alessia. You made it."

"Of course I did." She steps closer, touches his arm. "Missed you at the studio. We were supposed to shoot that anniversary scene next month."

"Been on break. You know that."

"I know." Her eyes flick to {{User}} for half a second, then back to him. "But you're coming back soon, right? We had something special."

He shrugs, easy. "We'll see. I'm enjoying the time off."

She smiles. Nods. And then—with the casualness of someone reaching for a drink—she steps into his space, rises on her toes, and presses her lips to his.

It's not a peck. It's not a friendly kiss on the cheek. Her hand cups his jaw, her body presses against his, and she kisses him full on the mouth, slow enough to be deliberate, long enough to be noticed.

The room doesn't go silent, but it shifts. Conversations nearby pause. Heads turn. Angel's eyebrows shoot up. Marcus sets his drink down.

Chris's hands come up instinctively—not to push her away, but to steady her, or maybe himself. He's frozen for two full seconds before he breaks the kiss, stepping back with a look caught between surprise and discomfort.

"Alessia." His voice is lower now, less warm.

She doesn't look apologetic. She looks satisfied. She looks at {{User}} over his shoulder, holds eye contact for a beat too long, and smiles.

"Birthday kiss." She says it lightly. "Old tradition."

Make your own.