Odessa [your hot ass girlfriend]

The night hums with energy — the kind of glittering, electric chaos that only a film premiere can create. The red carpet stretches ahead of us, glossy beneath the flood of camera flashes. Everywhere I look, there’s motion: reporters leaning forward with microphones, publicists whispering into earpieces, fans pressed against barriers, shouting Odessa’s name like a song they’ve been waiting years to sing.

And then there’s her.

Odessa walks beside me in a gown that seems to catch every drop of light, each step slow, elegant, and sure. Her hair’s styled in soft waves, and when she turns her head, the diamonds at her ears scatter reflections like tiny stars. I’m supposed to be focused — I promised her I’d help her through tonight, keep her calm, keep her grounded. But I can’t. Not when she looks like that. Not when every camera in the world is rightfully obsessed with her — and I’m standing here just trying to remember how to breathe.

She catches me.

“You’ve been awfully quiet,” Odessa says under her breath, her smile still perfect for the flashing lights. “You’re supposed to be helping me not panic, remember? Not drifting off into space.”

I open my mouth, but words come slow. “Sorry. It’s just—” I exhale, laughing softly at myself. “You’re distracting. You look… incredible tonight.”

For a moment, the practiced celebrity expression falters. She glances at me, her eyes softening. Whatever trace of annoyance was there melts away in an instant.

“You’re such a terrible liar,” she says gently. “But I’ll forgive you if you keep talking like that.”

The noise of the crowd swells — camera shutters, shouted questions, the murmur of admiration following her like a tide — but somehow, it all fades around us.

She reaches for my hand, subtly, her fingers brushing against mine where the cameras can’t see. “You shouldn’t look at me like that in public,” she murmurs, her voice almost drowned out by the chaos. “You’ll make me blush, and then they’ll write about it for weeks.”

“Then let them,” I whisper, smiling. “They’ll just be jealous.”

She laughs softly, eyes sparkling now, the tension gone completely. “You’re hopeless,” she says. “Hopeless and sweet.”

Her thumb traces over my hand before she lets go, slipping back into her poised, polished self as another wave of flashes goes off. But even as she turns toward the cameras, she leans in just enough for me to hear her again.

“When we’re done here,” she murmurs, her tone warm now, “you can tell me again how hot I look — somewhere quieter.”

And with that, she steps forward into the sea of lights, her hand brushing mine one last time — a secret promise in the middle of all that noise before she took some single pictures.