Press Junket-Part 1

I was halfway through microwaving old Chinese food when my phone rang. The name on the screen made me pause,Eli, my agent. I considered letting it go to voicemail, but I hadn't talked to him in a few days, and a slow week in our world usually meant something was quietly falling apart.

"Hey," I said, balancing the phone on my shoulder while poking at the greasy carton on the counter.

"Finally," Eli answered, already halfway into his next thought. "You sitting down?"

"Not really."

"Then sit. You and Natasha are booked for a two day press hit in San Diego. Interview, fan Q&A, red carpet photos. Whole package."

I blinked. "What?"

"It's for Channel Eleven's new spotlight series. They're running behind the scenes interviews for shows getting a second season pickup. You're in it now, baby."

My stomach dropped, and not from the lo mein. "That's... fine. When?"

"You leave Friday. They'll put you both up at the Wyndham downtown. Interview's Saturday morning, panel after that. Public appearance Sunday afternoon. Should be cute. Big deal for your press reel."

He said it like it was a gift. To me, it felt like a joke with a bad punchline.

"Is Natasha,?"

"Already confirmed, yeah. Her rep was ahead of it."

I rubbed at the back of my neck. "Right. Of course."

"Hey," Eli said, his voice shifting into that soft push he used when he knew I was spiraling, "this is good. Press loves a new duo. The fans love it more. Be charming, wear something flattering, don't overshare. You'll be fine."

I barely heard him. My brain was stuck somewhere between the hallway outside the soundstage and Natasha's mouth on mine. It hadn't even been twenty four hours. I could still feel the echo of her hand sliding up my jaw, the way we'd pulled apart like the building had caught fire.

The microwave dinged. I didn't move.

"Text me when you're packed," Eli said. "And try to sound excited when they mic you."

"Yeah," I murmured. "Sure."

He hung up.

I stood there for a full minute before texting Natasha.

You know about this San Diego thing?

The message sent. No dots. No reply.

I dropped the phone on the counter, pushed the food away, and walked to the sink just to have something to do with my hands. Outside, the sky was already dark. I could see the faint outline of my reflection in the kitchen window,shoulders hunched, mouth set in a line. I looked like someone who hadn't figured out what they wanted and had just lost the chance to say it out loud.

I should've said something before we left the studio. I should've turned around and,

My phone buzzed.

But it wasn't her.

It was a calendar notification.

FRI 10:30AM , Car Pickup to SAN DIEGO

I stared at it until the screen went black.

I hadn't slept well, and by the time the car rolled up outside, I was running on caffeine and nerves. My bag was packed the night before, but I still checked it twice,outfits, charger, toiletries, the usual press junk survival kit. My phone was quiet the whole morning. Natasha still hadn't texted back.

I slid into the backseat of the town car just before 10:30. The driver gave me a polite nod, already tapping the GPS for the route to the airport. I didn't ask if Natasha had been picked up first. I didn't want to know.

But five minutes into the drive, the door opened again. She climbed in, sunglasses already on, a paper coffee cup in one hand. She looked fresh in the way that only people with actual press experience can manage,jeans, a black coat, hair still a little damp from a shower. She nodded at me, casual, like nothing had happened.

"Hey."

"Hey."

And that was it.

The car pulled away from the curb, merging into late morning traffic. Neither of us said anything for a while. She sipped her coffee. I stared out the window and pretended I wasn't aware of the space between us,or how small the backseat felt now that we were sharing it again.

"So," Natasha finally said, adjusting her coat. "Big press weekend."

I glanced over. "Yeah."

She took another sip, then rested the cup in the holder between us. "You get your rundown?"

"More or less. Interview, panel, appearance. All the fun stuff."I made a quiet sound in my throat. Could've been a laugh. Could've been something else.

Her head turned slightly toward me. "You good?"

I didn't answer right away. I didn't know what she meant. Good about what? The weekend? The interview? The kiss?

"Fine," I said.

Natasha didn't push. She just hummed and leaned back, letting the silence settle again. But it wasn't calm. Not like it used to be. The kind of quiet between us now had shape and pressure. Like a hand on the small of your back, even if no one's touching you.

At the airport, we didn't talk much either. We moved like coworkers,boarding passes, security, terminal seating. I watched her make someone laugh at the gate while I scrolled through emails I wasn't reading. When our group was called, she glanced back at me once, like checking to see if I was still behind her, then kept walking.

The flight was short, but the distance stayed long. Every glance felt loaded, every brush of air when she shifted in her seat tugged at my attention. I wasn't even looking at her, but I knew exactly how far her arm was from mine the whole time.

By the time we landed in San Diego, the sun had pushed high above the city, warm and too bright. We were met by a second car, this one already idling at the curb. A production assistant with a headset and clipboard gave us both branded tote bags filled with press packets, gift water bottles, and a typed schedule.

"Room keys are inside," she chirped, leading us to the car. "Hotel's just ten minutes from here. You've got the rest of the day to rest up. Interview's at nine sharp tomorrow."

We nodded in sync. Followed her without a word.

When we got to the Wyndham, the lobby was full of noise,families, suitcases, lobby music. Natasha moved smoothly, like this wasn't her first rodeo. She signed for her room key, thanked the concierge, and turned toward the elevators like she could've done it all blindfolded.

Mine was in the same packet.

10th floor.

Next to hers.

The ride up was quiet. She stood on the other side of the elevator, facing front, sunglasses back on even though we were indoors. I stole a glance at her reflection in the mirror on the wall. She looked calm. I didn't.

When we reached our floor, we walked in silence to the rooms. Hers was 1021. Mine was 1023.

We stopped in the hall, our doors only a few feet apart. I fished out my key card and gave a polite nod, like we were neighbors on a flight delay.

But then she spoke.

"You didn't text again."

I paused. "You didn't answer."

"I know."

A beat passed.

"I didn't know what to say," I added.

Natasha scratched lightly at her temple, then let her hand fall. "Yeah. Me neither."

We stood there for a moment, neither of us moving. The door between us and our rooms stayed closed.

"Do you wanna run lines later?" she asked.

"Tonight?"

"If we're both still upright."

I gave a small nod. "Sure."

She looked like she wanted to say something else, but instead, she slid the key into her door and stepped inside.

Mine clicked open a second later. I walked into the room, let the door swing shut behind me, and dropped my bag by the desk. The bed was too big. The AC buzzed faintly. The windows framed a partial view of the city, blurred a little by glass that didn't quite shut out the noise from the street below.

I didn't bother unpacking. I just sat on the edge of the mattress and let everything catch up with me.

This weekend had already started, and I hadn't even figured out how to look her in the eye again. The hotel room was fine. Big enough to feel expensive, bland enough to be forgettable. Generic beige carpeting, a king bed dressed in too many pillows, a long desk that looked like no one had ever used it. I threw my bag on the chair, kicked off my sneakers, and sat on the edge of the bed for a minute, trying to decide if I felt nervous or just tired. She'd responded to my one text,just a thumbs up, hours after I asked if she knew about the press junket,but nothing since. We hadn't seen each other on set in the days leading up to this, and I hadn't pushed it. I figured maybe she was doing the same.

Now we were a few rooms away from each other on the same hotel floor.

I stood, walked to the window, and looked out. It was already dark. City lights blinked in soft yellow clusters down below, traffic moving like a slow pulse under the freeway. I wasn't hungry, but I ordered room service anyway,grilled cheese and tomato soup, something simple.I was halfway through the sandwich when my phone buzzed. It was a calendar update.

FRIDAY7:00PM , Private Fundraiser Event (Wyndham Ballroom)SATURDAY8:00AM , Call Time: Channel Eleven Interview1:00PM , Fan Panel + Q&A

I reread the first line a few times.

The fundraiser wasn't tomorrow. It was tonight.

Another buzz.

Eli:Last minute addition to your schedule. Some charity event the network sponsors every year. Don't overthink it. Just smile and let wardrobe do its thing.

I dropped my phone on the bed and stared at the ceiling.

A charity mixer. On my first night in a hotel with Natasha Lyonne. After not talking for days. After a kiss I hadn't stopped thinking about.

I didn't text her.

Not because I didn't want to,but because I didn't know what to say that wouldn't feel stupid. Or obvious. Or both.

I stood, unzipped the garment bag, and pulled out the only thing I had that could pass as "cocktail attire." Not flashy, but simple enough to look intentional. I hadn't worn it since a wedding last year. I put it on, tied my hair back, touched up my face, and tried not to let my own reflection rattle me.

The ballroom was on the third floor. When the elevator doors opened, I could already hear the low hum of a crowd,glasses clinking, music playing softly somewhere in the background, that specific tone people use when they know cameras might be nearby.

I stepped inside and scanned the room.

Corporate types, mostly. A few familiar faces from other shows. Production people. Publicists. Everyone standing around little white tables with drinks in hand, looking more relaxed than I felt.

And then there was Natasha.

She was across the room near the bar, talking to some guy in a suit.

She looked incredible.

Hair down, dark suit, no tie. She was smiling at whatever he said, head tilted slightly, one hand tucked into her pocket.

I didn't move. I didn't walk toward her. I just stood there, caught in the middle of the crowd, like some idiot with a drink ticket and a knot in my chest. Something about watching her laugh with him made my stomach twist. Not in a dramatic way. Not even in a way I understood right away. Just a slow, creeping discomfort I couldn't name.

I went to the bar and ordered something clear with ice.

Then I found a quiet spot near one of the tall tables and tried to look like I belonged.

Ten minutes passed. Then twenty.

Natasha never glanced my way.

She was still talking to the guy. Still smiling. Still standing too close. Or maybe I was just seeing it that way.

I felt hot. Not like a fever, but like something was closing in around me.

I finished half my drink and couldn't tell if it helped or made it worse.

Then I left.

I didn't say anything. I didn't wait for her to see me. I just walked back to the elevator, pressed the button too hard, and stood there breathing through my nose like that would help.

When I got back to my room, I locked the door behind me and sat down on the floor next to the bed.

I didn't know what I was feeling.

Just that I didn't like it.