Slow dancing in a burning room

I guess I feel... better. That's the word I keep using, anyway. It's not happiness exactly, not peace either, but something is settling. Like dust after a storm. That kiss with Clea it was unexpected to say the least but for the first time in weeks, I felt something that wasn't just aching. I didn't expect that. I didn't think it would help. But it did, somehow.

Still. There's a space inside me that stays untouched. A hollow stretch behind the ribs. Natasha lives there.

I haven't seen her since the photo op, since that dig she whispered in my ear and the cameras caught me trying not to flinch. It's funny how someone can be so loud without raising their voice. I told myself I'd move on. I told myself I was moving on.

Then came Clea's number.

It's ridiculous, right? After all this time working together rehearsals, table reads, long shoot days and I never had her number until now. Not officially. I always went through her assistant, or the AD, or whatever line of communication kept things just shy of personal.

Now she texts me. First it was about shoot times. Then it was about lunch breaks. Then it was that photo I didn't know she took of me curled up on a makeup trailer couch with a book in my lap and my sunglasses halfway down my nose. "You're basically method," she wrote under it. I laughed.

It's been soft, this... whatever it is.

Casual compliments slid into texts. Little emoji-laced teases. Short jokes during blocking. She started sitting next to me when we watched playback. She started asking if I wanted to grab something after. Once, we did. We sat in the back of some quiet Korean place and shared dishes and she paid, and I pretended I didn't feel her foot brush against mine under the table.

She's careful. But not shy.

I should've seen it earlier.

the way her shoulder would tilt slightly toward mine when we stood off to the side of set, the way she looked at me when she thought I wasn't looking back. But I was too busy watching for someone else. Too busy waiting for a voice I knew by heart to reach for me again.

And still I wait.

Even now, even after everything, a part of me wants to look at my phone and see her name instead. Natasha.

But what I have is Clea. Present. Funny. Charming.

And I don't know what's happening. I don't know what I'm doing.

At first, I kept thinking it was just a comfort thing. Some weird, beautiful result of finding safety in someone when you're still half drowning. But whatever it was, it started to grow legs.

We kissed again. And again. In her car after wrap. In the hallway outside my apartment, before she left. In the green room, once, when we were both drunk off late night takeout and long hours. There was always laughter always. But the pauses in between the laughter were what stayed with me.

And then, eventually, it wasn't just kisses.

I never meant to blur the lines, but I also didn't try to stop them from blurring either. There were nights she came over just to hang out, but her shoes stayed by the door until morning. There were times she brushed the hair out of my face, and I didn't think about Natasha until later, when I was alone, and the guilt crawled up my spine like heat from the floorboards.

Then one afternoon, Natasha showed up.

She texted me a few hours before something like, "Heard there's a good hang happening, I'm in the area. Mind if I crash it?" I didn't even think to say no. I just gave her the address.

She brought iced coffees and some weird limited edition chips she said were "so bad they're good," and greeted Clea like they'd seen each other yesterday. No tightness in her shoulders. And I honestly thought, for a second, that maybe we'd turned some invisible corner.

We talked like normal. About the shoot schedule, some new costume piece she hated, a bizarre fan theory that claimed Charlie Cale was actually a time traveler. I laughed too hard at that one. So did Clea.

But I noticed it the way Clea's hand would twitch toward mine when Natasha laughed too hard at something I said. The way Natasha kept glancing at Clea from the side.

When the hang was over and we were all starting to part ways, Clea leaned in, brushed a hand behind my ear in that way she does, and pressed a soft kiss to my cheek.

It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't possessive.

But it landed like a stone in a still lake.

I felt Natasha's eyes on me before I even turned to look at her.

Mouth a little parted, like she wanted to say something.

She didn't say anything, though. She just nodded once and said, "Alright, catch you later," like it meant nothing at all.

But her shoulders were a little tighter when she walked away.

And that damn ache in my chest opened back up.

Later that night, I couldn't stop pacing.

Clea had texted when she got home, just a simple "Tonight was good. Sleep tight, sunshine." And I stared at it for way too long, thumb hovering over the keyboard. I liked her. I really did. But "like" didn't sink into my bones the way Natasha did. It didn't echo. It didn't haunt.

I didn't reply.

Instead, I grabbed a hoodie and walked to the corner bodega, the cold air biting at my skin like it wanted answers too. I wasn't even hungry. I just needed to move. I needed to stop seeing Natasha's face in the way Clea smiled. Stop hearing her voice echo in between my thoughts.

I turned it all over again and again in my head: the way Natasha watched me after the kiss, the edge in her smile, how she shoved her hands in her pockets like she was holding something in.

The next morning, I woke up to a message from Natasha.

"You free?"

I replied "No, cleaning." I was surprised at how harsh and straight forward I was, but I needed to distance myself more than anything.

Clea texted.

Clea: "You free tonight? Thought maybe you could finally see the house."

I read it twice before setting my fork down.

We'd been in each other's space plenty, but her place? She'd never brought it up before.

Me: "Yeah. I'm free."

Clea: "Cool. 7-ish?"

Me: "Text me the address."

She sent it immediately, along with a thumbs up emoji. I stared at the text for a second, then made my way to get ready.

Getting ready felt stupid. It wasn't a date. She hadn't said it was a date. But still, I pulled on jeans that hugged right, swapped my hoodie for something softer not dressy, just... touchable. I left my hair how it fell. Like I hadn't thought about it too much even though I definitely had.

The address landed me in the Hollywood Hills. It tracked. Clea was a director, after all. She had that film royalty money.

Her place sat halfway up a curved street shaded by eucalyptus.

Modern lines, but softened with warm wood trim, hanging vines, and floor to ceiling windows that glowed amber behind sheer curtains.

I stood there for a second before ringing the bell, just looking at it.

The door opened almost immediately.

"You look—" Clea paused, smile crooked. "Comfortable."

I huffed a laugh. "You make it sound like an insult."

"It's not." She stepped aside to let me in. "You just always look comfortable. Either way, didn't want you to be uncomfortable."

The house smelled like sage and something citrusy, and the inside matched the outside modern but soft, dotted with books and framed photos and little weird trinkets I half recognized from set. A stack of vintage scripts was piled on a side table. A record player sat beside a couch big enough to sleep on.

I slipped off my shoes at the door. "So, this is where the magic happens?"

Clea grinned. "Some of it. The rest happens in freezing studios and bad hotel rooms, as you know."

We slowly but surely made our way into the kitchen, where a bottle of wine was already uncorked and two glasses waited. She poured without asking. I noticed she'd put on something different than her usual oversized tee a button up, sleeves rolled. Still casual, but showy. Like me.

She handed me a glass and leaned on the counter. "Thanks for coming."

"You invited me."

"Yeah, but you didn't have to say yes."

I took a sip. "You're being weird."

"I'm being honest," she said, eyes flicking over me in a way that felt... warm. Like I was something she'd been waiting on. "Come on, let me show you the rest."

The house was too quiet, like it had been cleaned just for me. Not in a showroom way. Not lifeless. Just... intentional.

Clea guided me through the place like she was unsure whether to play host or just let it happen. I followed with my wine glass in one hand and my eyes half on her, half on everything else. Every room was a little surprise little snapshots of a life I'd never seen outside of work.

The hallway had framed Polaroids in mismatched sizes. Crew parties. Set bloopers. A blurry one of Natasha in a fake mustache and a suit jacket two sizes too big. I paused for a second when I saw it, but Clea kept walking, and I didn't let myself linger. Not tonight.

Her living room had records stacked near a vintage stereo cabinet.

The couch looked deep enough to swallow someone whole. Throw blankets that actually got used. A candle burning low on the coffee table, smell faintly sweet like fig or something close to it.

I let myself drop into the couch with a sigh that felt heavier than it should've. Clea watched me from where she leaned against the doorframe.

"Do that again," she said.

"What?"

"That sound. You sounded like you actually relaxed for once."

I looked over the rim of my wineglass. "You sure you don't just like the sound of your own interior design choices being validated?"

She smirked. "That too."

She kicked off her shoes and joined me, her knee brushing against mine as she curled one leg under herself. Her fingers tapped against her glass, but she didn't say anything right away.

"This is weird, right?" I said finally, eyes flicking to hers.

"What is?"

"This. You and me. In your house. Without a call sheet or a clock ticking."

Clea shrugged. "I don't think it's weird. I think it's overdue."

"I guess I just never thought we'd end up here," I said, and that was the closest I'd come to admitting how off track I'd felt lately — how nothing I'd done in the last few months had ever really been part of a plan.

Clea tilted her head. "Why not?"

"I don't know. Because everything always felt so... work focused. Like I was always trying to prove something. To you, to the crew, to myself. I didn't leave a lot of space for anything else."

Her gaze stayed steady. "Well, I noticed. The proving thing."

I blinked. "You did?"

"Of course. But I also noticed how hard you tried. How much heart you put into Quinn. And how much you gave people."

I didn't know what to say to that, so I took another sip of wine and stared at the flicker of the candle instead.

She leaned in a little. "And now?"

"Now what?"

"Now that you're not trying to prove anything. What are you trying to do?"

I smiled, soft. "Maybe just... exist."

She nodded like she understood that more than I knew.

"Let's go outside," she said, standing up and holding out a hand. "I've got a fire pit just for us."

The backyard was smaller than I expected for someone who directed entire TV shows, but it was cozy. Private. String lights were already glowing along the fence, and a soft breeze kicked through the trees. Clea lit the fire pit with a long lighter, and the blue flame rolled into orange and red as we both sat down on wide deck chairs with mismatched cushions.

She disappeared inside for a minute and came back with a blanket and a small bowl of snacks chocolate covered almonds, dried mango, chocolate covered pretzels. My kind of snack person. I didn't even comment on it. Just smiled and let the warmth of the fire press into my cheeks.

We didn't talk much. That was the strange thing I'd always been someone who talked to fill the quiet. But not tonight. Not with Clea. Her presence was enough. Her silence didn't demand anything. It didn't reach inside and drag my thoughts out of me like someone else's had.

Eventually, though, after the fire settled and the air cooled just a little more, she broke it.

"Can I ask something?"

"Sure."

"When you said you didn't expect to be here... does that mean you don't want to be?"

I turned to look at her. Her eyes weren't guarded. Not defensive. Just curious.

I swallowed. "No. That's not what I meant."

She nodded, waiting.

"I like being here. With you. I just didn't know how to make room for it before."

A pause.

Then she leaned toward me, slow and I met her halfway.

The kiss was softer than any of the others. No rushed moment outside a dressing room. No tipsy hallway hands pulling at zippers. Just this. Just her mouth on mine under the string lights, firelight curling around us, the blanket forgotten across both of our laps.

It was long. It was quiet. It was unhurried.

And when it ended, we didn't say anything right away. We just sat there, shoulder to shoulder, fingers brushing.

"Do you want to stay?" she asked eventually, voice barely above a whisper.

I didn't need to think about it.

"Yeah. I do."

She nodded, got up, and held out her hand again.

This time, I didn't hesitate.

Inside, her bedroom was simple. More books. More warmth. A low bed and cotton sheets. We didn't rush anything. No clothes came off, not yet. It wasn't about that. She just curled around me like we'd done it a thousand times. Her breath behind my ear. Her arm draped over my waist.

And for the first time in a long time, I didn't feel haunted.

Not entirely.

That hollow place inside me? It was still there. But for one night, it didn't ache so loud.

And when she kissed my shoulder before falling asleep just a breath of touch, barely there I let myself believe, for just a second, that maybe I could let go of the ghost of someone else. Maybe, if I stayed here long enough, the ghost would fade.

Or maybe not.

But for tonight, I didn't need to know.

I woke to light, not sound.

I was warm before I even opened my eyes. Not just from the weight of the blanket or the softness of the sheets, but from Clea, still pressed behind me, her arm slung comfortably around my waist, palm flat against my stomach.

I could feel her breath against the back of my neck, still asleep.

I didn't move for a while. Just stayed there, eyes closed, letting the quiet settle over me. Letting myself believe this was real. That I was here. That nothing outside of this room mattered right now. The past, the job, the noise in my head none of it reached me here.

Eventually, I moved a little, slow and careful, just to turn and face her. She stirred but didn't wake. Her face looked different in sleep less guarded. Softer around the eyes. Her hair was a mess, sticking up on one side, and her cheek was a little creased from the pillow. But it made me smile. Something about the realness of it the total lack of performative cool made it feel like I'd unlocked something rare.

I stayed like that, just watching her, probably longer than I should've. It didn't feel invasive. Just curious.

Then her eyes cracked open just barely. She blinked once, slow, and then smiled.

"Morning," she mumbled, voice raspy with sleep.

"Hey," I whispered, smiling back. "Sorry I woke you."

She shook her head faintly. "You didn't."

We lay there in that lazy little bit of silence , eyes open now, breaths syncing up.

After a minute, she pulled me a little closer, and her hand slid up my back in one long, lazy line, stopping between my shoulder blades. Her touch wasn't trying to lead anywhere. It just hovered.

"Sleep okay?" she asked, voice still low.

"Yeah," I said softly. "Better than I have in a long time."

She nodded against the pillow, her eyes on mine.

After a while, she kissed my forehead, and pulled away just enough to slide out of bed.

"Stay," she murmured. "I'll make coffee."

Her kitchen was just as peaceful in daylight. Bigger than I remembered last night, full of little details I hadn't clocked. Ceramic mugs on open shelves. A calendar stuck with handwritten notes in black pen not work stuff, just groceries, reminders, movie nights.

She stood at the counter barefoot, wearing only a soft grey shirt that fell halfway down her thighs. Her hair was pulled up in a loose knot, and she moved quietly.

I leaned against the doorway, blanket wrapped around my shoulders.

"Do you make coffee like a director or like a regular person?" I asked.

She smirked without turning around. "Meaning?"

"Meaning, is there a French press involved, or do you just hit a button?"

She turned then, holding up a pour over like it was a trophy. "Precision, babe."

I snorted. "Of course."

She brought me a mug first,and handed it over with both hands. I took it, and our fingers brushed against each other ever so slightly.

We sat outside this time, the morning still cool enough to wear the blanket like a shawl. The fire pit was cold now, but the memory of last night still hovered in the air between us.

Birds chirped. Somewhere far below, the faint hum of traffic reminded me the world was still turning, even if ours had slowed down.

"I like this version of you," Clea said after a while, sipping her coffee.

I raised an eyebrow. "Which version?"

"The quiet one. The one who doesn't have to be on."

"I don't always feel like I have a choice."

"You do with me," she said. No drama in her voice, just sure certainty.

I stared into my mug, then looked back at her.

"I want that to be true."

"It is."

And maybe, for once, I believed it.

We ended up on the couch later on, since my allergies couldn't handle her clean and fresh cut grass.

The TV was on, but neither of us was really watching. Some low volume nature documentary. Something with slow shots of Arctic foxes looking tragic in the snow.

"You ever think about narrating one of these?" I asked. "I feel like you'd nail it."

"Oh, for sure. But I'd make it pretty inaccurate. Like, 'Here we see the noble snow fox committing crimes. Last week, he stole my wallet."

I laughed, nearly spilling my coffee.

"Be honest," she added. "Do you regret staying over? Because I'm about to make you help me fold laundry."

"Depends. How much laundry ?"

"A stupid amount. Like, you'll judge me and never come back."

"It's the least I can do."

The laundry room was stupidly nice. Everything was white and shiny and smelled like lavender.

Clea dumped a massive basket of clothes on the counter and looked at it.

"I swear I wear the same five things over and over. I don't know how this happens."

I picked up a pair of sweatpants. "Do you fold your socks individually? Just need to make sure I get this right."

She looked at me like I'd asked if she believed in the moon. "I bind them in pairs. Anything else is no go."

We ended up folded over the counter, laughing too hard about Clea's film experiences.

and when I accidentally dropped one of her bras trying to look cool, she deadpanned, "Classic you," and I nearly fell onto the floor.

⸻

Later, she offered to make breakfast.

"You trust me with a stove?" she asked, pulling open a drawer and immediately closing it like she didn't remember what she was looking for.

"I trust you to at least try not to poison me."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

She made scrambled eggs and something that looked like toast but had more stuff piled on it than I'd ever seen. Goat cheese, honey, sliced strawberries, and cracked pepper.

"What is this?" I asked, poking it.

"Magic."

"It's otherworldly."

"Shut up and eat it."

I did. It was delicious. I hated how good it was.

We sat at the kitchen island, knees bumping gently. Just a rhythm. A comfort.

"You know," I said between bites, "this morning has been weirdly domestic. Like, next you're going to tell me we have plans to go to Home Depot and adopt a cat."

"I already filled out the forms. We're naming her Linda."

"Oh, perfect."

Eventually, we found ourselves back in the living room. Clea had put on some weird playlist something acoustic and moody but the mood didn't stick because she kept skipping tracks saying, "No, too dramatic,"

I stretched out on the couch while she sat on the floor sorting through some old film books she'd promised to donate but clearly hadn't opened since college.

"God, listen to this," she said, reading from one. "'Cinema is the mirror through which we gaze into our own mortality.' Jesus."

We both lost it.

At some point, I moved and she leaned her head back onto the couch beside me. Her hair brushed my arm. I didn't pull away.

"Can I tell you something?" she asked, voice quieter now. Not heavy. Just honest.

"Of course."

"This morning? You being here? It's just... nice. That's all. I've had a lot of fun with people, but not always like this."

I glanced down at her, and she was already looking up at me, eyes soft.

"I feel the same," I said, and meant it.

Not everything had to be a turning point. Not everything had to crack open and expose a heart. Sometimes, it was enough to be still, to laugh over mismatched socks and let the air between two people warm slowly.

I hadn't even noticed the ache for her all morning.

Not once.

Clea's phone buzzed where it was wedged between two of the couch cushions. She squinted at the screen, groaned quietly, and stood up with a sigh.

"Gimme one sec," she said, brushing her palm over my shoulder as she passed. "Work thing. I'll just be outside."

I hummed in acknowledgment, already half-distracted by the way her flannel had slipped off one arm. I watched her step onto the back patio, barefoot, coffee mug still in hand. She slid the door shut behind her and pulled her phone to her ear.

I didn't think anything of it at the time.

Instead, I flopped deeper into the couch, let my eyes skim the ceiling. Clea had a good ceiling. Vaulted, with beams.

Ten minutes passed before I remembered I had a thing later that night. An event or a dinner or something semi-important that required me to at least not be in yesterday's hoodie.

I stood and stretched, calling toward the patio, "Hey—I should probably head home soon and get cleaned up.

Clea poked her head back inside, smiling. "Aw, already? I was just about to turn on a movie"

I rolled my eyes playfully at her response.

She stepped back into the living room, barefoot still, and leaned her weight against the doorframe like she was trying to seem casual about it. "You're coming back though, right? Like... soon? You can't just give me a morning like this and vanish for three days."

I grinned, slipping past her to gather my stuff. "Relax. I'm not ghosting you. You'll survive."

"No, I won't," she said dramatically. "I'm already spiraling."

"Oh no," I deadpanned. "A film director spiraling. So rare. So tragic."

She laughed and threw a pillow at me. I caught it midair and held it to my chest.

"I'll text you later," I said, grabbing my bag. "Maybe even send you a pic to remind you I still exist."

"Can I print it and wear it around my neck like a locket?"

"Only if you promise not to tell anyone we folded laundry like a married couple."

She stepped closer, plucked at the sleeve of my jacket like a little kid refusing to say goodbye. "You're actually very rude for leaving. I'm wounded."

"Aww." I softened, pressing my palm gently to her cheek for a second. "Want me to kiss it better?"

She blinked, then smirked. "Don't tease me unless you mean it."

Her smile tugged at something in me. And just for a moment, everything was light. Easy.

"Okay, come on, clingy," I teased as I made my way toward the door. "Walk me out like the sad Victorian housewife you are."

"I am sad and Victorian. That's my whole brand."

She followed me barefoot down the hallway, "Promise me you'll return from the front lines."

"If I don't," I replied, "burn my diaries."

We were laughing, full out laughing, as she opened the door—

And then we weren't.

Because Natasha was standing right there.

Hand raised like she'd just been about to knock.

She was in sunglasses and a jean jacket and holding an iced coffee in one hand like she hadn't just appeared out of nowhere.

I stopped short, nearly colliding with her shoulder as I stepped forward.

"Whoa—sorry," I muttered automatically, stepping back.

"Hey," Natasha said, voice even, low. Her eyes moved past me to Clea, then back to me. "Didn't mean to uh interrupt."

"You didn't," Clea said, a little too quickly. She stepped forward, suddenly all professional energy. "Right on time."

Right on time?

I glanced between them. Clea hadn't mentioned any meetings. Not a word.

"Oh," I said. "I was just leaving."

Natasha tilted her head. "So I gathered."

The pause that followed was sharp. Thin, but noticeable.

I felt it settle between us, like static.

And just like that, the cozy morning evaporated.

"I thought we'd talk over a couple of things," she said to Natasha. "The producers sent that revised breakdown for the finale by figured it was easier to go over in person."

"Yeah sure," Natasha said, still looking at me. Not staring. Not glaring. Just... watching.

I adjusted the strap of my bag. "Right. Okay. Well. I'll get out of your way."

"You don't have to rush," Clea said, but it felt like it was more out of politeness than hope.

"I was already heading out," I said, offering a small smile that I hoped didn't look as tight as it felt. "Raincheck on that movie yeah?"

Clea's expression softened at that. "Yeah. Definitely."

I turned to go, slipping past Natasha with a mumbled "'Scuse me," but our shoulders bumped again, just lightly bare skin grazing cotton. It was enough. Enough to spark that old, familiar flicker low in my spine. I didn't look back. I couldn't.

But I heard her voice behind me.

"You uh left your charger," she said, almost offhandedly.

I turned halfway, brow furrowing. "What?"

Natasha pointed inside. "On the side table. That green braided one."

"Oh." I didn't know whether to be embarrassed or unnerved. "Right. Thanks."

She nodded like it was nothing. Like she wasn't holding the world's most carefully constructed poker face.

Clea slipped past me to grab it, but Natasha beat her to it stepped into the house and reemerged a few seconds later, holding the cord loosely in one hand. She handed it to me without meeting my eyes.

Our fingers brushed.

It was half a second. Less. But it still happened. I felt it all the way up my arm.

"Appreciate it," I murmured.

"No problem."

That fucking voice.

I stepped back onto the porch, swallowing down whatever reaction wanted to crawl its way up my throat.

Clea came up behind me again, resting her hand gently at my lower back. "Text me when you get home?"

"Yeah. Of course."

"And come back soon, alright?"

Her eyes searched mine, and I wanted to say something more reassuring. Something to match the way she was looking at me. But I wasn't sure what was sitting on my face, and I wasn't sure what Natasha had read from it either.

"I will," I said. "Promise."

Clea smiled. Natasha didn't.

I nodded once, then turned and headed down the steps.

My phone buzzed when I got to the end of the block.

A message from Clea:

"Miss you already, sunshine. ❤️"

I started typing something back. Then paused.

I looked up at the sky instead.