One way or another

(This chapter is really rushed and I need time to come up with how to end the story. But we're at the homestretch only two chapters left!)

It was a Monday. Which felt unfair, honestly.

Usually mondays for me were about cleaning the deepest darkest depths of my apartment, and prepping meals for when I travel.

And now it held more than coffee breath and callsheets it held a decision I'd been avoiding for exactly seven days.

Seven days since I left Clea's front door, bumping shoulders with the last person I thought I'd see.Seven days since I'd been pretending like I didn't feel her eyes follow me down the sidewalk.

I hadn't slept right since. Not because of Natasha though, sure, her voice was like a ghost in every room but because of the slow burn of guilt. For what I'd done. For what I'd taken. For what I never gave back.

Clea didn't deserve to be a placeholder. She deserved to be someone's first choice.

So I texted her.

"Can I come by?"

She answered in less than a minute.

"Door's open." As soon as possible I made my way to her house, today it felt more different than anything, I'm sure the house itself was aware I didn't come here to watch coming of age movies and eat top tier breakfast.

She was on the couch, hair up, glasses low, one sock half off, she was cozy and I wasn't mad at her for being so in such a clean looking almost untouched house.

"Hey," she said gently.

"Hey," I echoed, quieter. My voice barely made it out of my chest.

I sat down, far enough that we both felt the space between us.

"I'm sorry," I said first. "I think... I was just trying to not feel so empty. And I used you."

Clea didn't flinch. She didn't even look surprised.

"I know," she said. "I knew it from the second time you kissed me. But I liked you. And I hoped maybe... you'd let go of her."

I swallowed. That guilt rose again, thick and hot.

"She's not the kind of person you let go of," I said. "Even when she's not yours."

I leaned my head on her shoulder, knowing that it would be the last time she'd let me be so close.

"I want you to settle down, I don't want you to be another option because I'm stuck." I could barely say.

"I wish I understood why she means so much to me..."

Clea smiled, soft and sad. "So go get her and find out."

My head snapped up.

"She's leaving," Clea said, standing, grabbing her phone. "She called me this morning. Told me she's flying out. Something about running out of excuses to stay on the West Coast."

A beat of panic thudded behind my ribs.

"What airport?"

"LAX. Her flight's in an hour."

I was already up.

Clea didn't stop me. She just reached for my wrist.

"You better mean it," she said. "Don't break your own heart twice."

I nodded.

Then I ran.

—

Airports are loud, like really fucking loud.

I shoved past gate signs and overpriced coffee kiosks and a couple making out next to a bathroom. My chest hurt.

I spotted her near the TSA line, coat tucked over one arm, sunglasses on indoors like always. She looked smaller than I remembered. Or maybe I just finally saw her without all the armor.

"Natasha!"

She didn't hear me. Or didn't want to. I tried again, louder.

"Natasha!"

She turned.

Everything in me stopped. My shoes, my brain, my ability to be cool or logical or patient. All of it froze.

She took one step toward me, then hesitated.

I took the rest.

"I can't do this anymore," I said. "The waiting. The wondering if you're still mad or scared or just done with me."

She opened her mouth, but I didn't let her speak yet.

"I was with Clea because she made me feel like I wasn't falling apart. But I never stopped loving you. Not for one second. And if you don't want me, if this was never anything to you, then just say it. I'll go."

She stared at me.

Then, voice quiet and hoarse: "You love me?"

I blinked. "Yes. Obviously. Painfully."

She took off her sunglasses. Her eyes were wide, soft. Vulnerable in a way I'd never seen.

"I'm scared," she said. "I've only ever had flings, things with expiration dates. I know how to disappear. I don't know how to stay."

"You don't have to know," I said. "Just don't run."

"I thought if I kept my distance, I wouldn't mess it up," she whispered. "But staying away hurt more than being close ever did."

I stepped in closer.

She looked at me, and for the first time in a long time, didn't look away.

And finally-

"I love you," she said.

It broke something open in me.

I grabbed her face with both hands and kissed her. Not carefully. Not softly.

It was hungry, aching, everything we'd been choking back. Her hands gripped my jacket, pulling me in. We didn't care who was watching. We didn't care about the line behind her or the security guard who definitely muttered something about moving along.

We didn't move.

When we finally pulled apart, her forehead pressed to mine.

"I was really about to get on that plane," she said.

"I know," I breathed. "But you didn't."

She smiled.

"Guess I just needed a reason to stay."

"You have one," I said. "You've always had one."

I'm home...I'm finally home.

The uber ride back was pretty quiet to say the least.

Natasha held my hand. Like a need. Like she was grounding herself with it. Like she was afraid she might disappear without it.

She didn't go home.

I didn't ask her to come over, and she didn't ask for permission either. She just followed me, suitcase wheels skipping once on the curb outside my place, then we were inside, and my fingers were shaking trying to unlock the door because it all still felt too good to be real.

Inside, she didn't look around. Didn't make a joke about my lack of furniture or the dying succulent I forgot to water for a week. She just stood in the middle of the living room and looked at me.

For god knows how long.

I dropped my keys, my bag, the jacket I'd thrown on in a panic.

She dropped her suitcase.

And when she kissed me again, it wasn't the same as the airport. That had been desperation. Relief.

It felt like choosing.

We didn't sleep together that night. That part doesn't matter right now.

What mattered was the quiet way she brushed her teeth with a travel toothbrush from my bathroom drawer. The way she folded her jeans and set them carefully over the back of a chair. The way she stood in my oversized t-shirt, blinking at me from my bed like it was familiar already, like she'd been dreaming about this version of us for just as long as I had.

And in the morning, she was still there.

I woke up to the sound of the kettle whistling. Not the electric one she had dug around and found the old stovetop one I always forgot I had.

I padded out barefoot, hair wild. She was standing in my kitchen, stirring a mug of something.

"You're uh out of milk," she said without turning around. "I'm improvising with what ya got."

I came up behind her and wrapped my arms around her middle, cheek pressed to the cotton of her shirt.

"Should've known you'd stay just to bully me."

She leaned into me. "That, and the incredible emotional declaration you made at a federal checkpoint."

I smiled into her shoulder.

We stood like that for a while.

Eventually, she turned around in my arms. "You ever gonna ask what I was doing at Clea's that day?"

My stomach did a little drop.

"No," I said. "Not unless you want to tell me."

She looked at me, something behind her eyes softening.

"She asked me to come over. Said she had an idea for a scene rework, something about emotional pacing. I didn't know you were there until she opened the door really."

I nodded, silent.

"She didn't do anything wrong," Natasha added. "Just trying to be helpful to a long time friend like me and I didn't stay long."

"I know."

She cupped my jaw, thumb brushing just under my cheek.

—————

It had been a year.

One year since I first stepped onto this set, nerves shot and hands full of sides. One year since I sat across from Natasha in a folding chair, trying not to stare too hard while pretending to understand her

It had been a year.

One year since I first stepped onto this set, my nerves were all over the place and my hands were juggling a bunch of scripts. One year since I sat across from Natasha in a folding chair, doing my best not to stare too much while acting like I totally got what she was saying. One year since I met Clea, who took a chance on me and kept supporting me even when I was a mess.

So when they told me there was going to be some kind of surprise on set, I thought it'd be something simple, like a group photo and some donuts. Instead, it was an all out celebration. There were decorations, food, and even some balloons that probably weren't union-approved. Plus, there was this massive 'HAPPY 1 YEAR ON SET' banner hanging across the soundstage rafters.

Somebody had even made a collage of behind the scenes photos.

"Oh my god," I muttered. "Is this... a theme party?"

Natasha leaned in. "If the theme is 'we still have no health insurance,' then yeah."

I turned toward her and raised an eyebrow. "You helped plan this, didn't you?"

She gave me that sly smile tilted at the corner, low and a little proud. "I mean, I made suggestions. Clea did most of it."

That landed heavier than I expected. "Clea?"

"Yeah." Natasha shrugged. "She was all over it. She said it felt important. Said we'd earned it."

She squeezed my hand once. "Happy one year."

I smiled at her, small but real. "Same to you."

I walked in with Natasha, her hand brushing mine as we crossed through the side entrance. She'd been touching me all morning, in these small, sweet ways. Not in any big or obvious way, but just enough that I noticed an arm around my back during breakfast, her fingers wrapping loosely around mine while we waited for notes, that light touch on my thigh under the table during script tweaks.

I didn't mind.

Actually, it felt like breathing again.

"I swear to god, if someone makes me give a speech," I muttered as I stepped onto the stage, spotting the table of cupcakes and a very poorly disguised champagne bottle someone had tried to wrap in a napkin.

"You'll be fine," Natasha said, grinning. "You're good under pressure."

"I'm good at pretending to be good under pressure," I corrected.

She stopped walking and tugged me back gently by the elbow.

Before I could say anything back, Clea spotted us and waved from across the room, a slice of cake in her hand and frosting already smudged at the corner of her mouth.

I hadn't really spoken to her alone since... everything. She'd been professional. Cool. Friendly, even. She wasn't the Clea I cuddled and found sanctuary in she was back to her work self I hated it...a lot.

We wandered over to the snack table. There were cupcakes with edible glitter.

Clea finally walked over. She was holding a paper plate with two slightly melted cookies and a bottle of water.

"Hey," she said, like it was just any other day. Just... polite.

"Hey," I echoed. "This is really... a lot. Thank you."

She shrugged. "It was overdue. You've worked hard. People love you here."

That hit me in the throat. I tried to smile but my face didn't cooperate.

"You didn't have to do all this," I said. "I mean, I appreciate it, I just—"

"It's fine," Clea cut in gently. "I wanted to."

I searched her face for any crack, any lingering bitterness, but all I saw was exhaustion. Maybe a little distance. But she wasn't cruel. She never had been.

"I'm glad you're here," she added after a beat. "Still. I'm glad."

Natasha stood next to me, quiet but present. She didn't try to interfere. Just gave us the space, eyes flicking between us now and then.

"Me too," I said softly. "Still."

Clea nodded and turned away before anything could get heavier. "I'll check on the crew," she said. "We've got a shot coming up in twenty."

She walked off, calm and steady.

"I don't think she hates me," I said, half to myself.

"She doesn't," Natasha confirmed. "But she's still figuring out how to stop... loving you."

I glanced at her. "You're okay saying that?"

She shrugged, sipping her coffee.

I reached over and touched her hand on instinct. She didn't pull away. She never did anymore.

The next twenty minutes were a blur of setup, camera placement, lighting tweaks, and one of the PAs trying to fish a party streamer out of a light grid with a broom.

Everyone was in a good mood.

We broke for lunch a few minutes later, and that's when I noticed someone had made a little sign on the break table that read "Setversary Lunch" in marker. A joke, probably, but it still made me smile.

Clea sat a few tables away with the producers. I caught her eye once. She raised her cup in a small toast.

I raised mine back.

New and the usual humbug had already settled in by the time I stepped onto the soundstage.

Natasha was already there, slouched in a director's chair, but the moment she spotted me, her whole face softened. She stood and came over, wrapping an arm around my waist.

I tried to act normal, but normal was an act when Clea was the one greeting me with a nod that wasn't quite cold, but definitely not warm.

"Morning," she said, glancing between Natasha and me.

"Morning," I replied, swallowing the lump in my throat.

Clea's smile was tight but real. "You look tired."

"Could say the same to you," I said, trying to keep my tone light.

Clea just shrugged. "Sleep's a luxury around here."

Natasha squeezed my waist. "Maybe we can fix that someday."

Clea rolled her eyes but laughed, You two are like a public service announcement for PDA."

I chuckled.

Later, the entire crew gathered outside for the big shoot.

Clea and Natasha had planned something after wrap, a little surprise party with the team. I was hoping it'd break the ice, maybe even let me breathe.

That's when the PR team showed up. No warning. No heads up. Just a small group of camera operators and interviewers, all running like bees around Clea.

"Surprise," one of the producers said, grinning like they'd just dropped a bomb.

Clea's face tightened. "We weren't expecting you today."

"Well, it's the shoot day, right? Thought it'd be a perfect day for a behind the scenes feature."

Natasha's hand found mine under the table. I squeezed back, the sudden spotlight making my skin crawl.

The PR woman, who was clearly new and struggling, came over with a mic. "Hi! Can we get a quick word about how it's been working with Natasha and the new star?" She totally butchered Clea's name calling her "Claire" twice. I almost laughed out loud.

Clea's jaw clenched, but she said, "I'm Clea."

The PR woman blinked, "Right, Clea. Sorry! So, what's the best part about being part of this project?"

Natasha smiled, and her voice was low but sincere. "It's about the people. The team feels like a family."

I nodded, heart pounding a little as her eyes met mine just for a second.

Then, the sky cracked open.

A sudden downpour drenched the set like the sky had been holding a grudge.

"Everyone, equipment inside now!" Clea barked, her calm slipping.

We scrambled. Lights, cameras, cables everything was soaked or about to be. Natasha pulled me toward the gear tent, both of us laughing despite the storm.

As we ducked under the tarps, a camera from the PR crew caught the moment our laughter, our soaked clothes, the way she held me.

I hoped they'd cut that footage, but somehow, I doubted it.

Clea was yelling orders but paused to glance our way.

Later, when the shoot was officially called, and we all gathered inside, shivering and dripping, the planned celebration felt... tentative. But Natasha stayed close, fingers intertwined with mine, grounding me.

That night, as we all sat around a small table in the crew's lounge, the mood was half party, half debrief.

"So," Clea said, raising her glass, "Happy one year of putting up with my nonsense."

Everyone laughed, except me and Natasha squeezed my hand, silently telling me to relax.

The PR producer came by, apologizing for the chaos and the rain footage. "We might have gotten some great shots unplanned, but really real."

I scoffed softly. "Yeah, real embarrassing."