When the world noticed me

Honestly, I felt it before I even killed the engine. The vibe was off.

The second I strolled past the rows of trailers toward basecamp, the glances started up.

Just those little looks people give when they're in on something. Because, duh, making out at LAX in front of half the city? News travels. Fast.

Natasha rolled in a few minutes after me, sunglasses on like she was dodging paparazzi, even though we were literally inside a windowless building. Classic move.

Didn't say much barely anything, really. Just walked by and let her hand brush against mine, grounding. Like, I'm here, chill out.

We didn't need words. Not right then.

Clea was already on set by the time I wandered onto the soundstage. Clipboard in one hand, iced coffee in the other, deep in conversation with a PA about lights or whatever. She looked exactly like always put together, focused, barely blinking as she squinted up at the lighting rig.

She glanced over when her PA wandered off.

"Morning," she said, all business.

"Hey," I tried. Managed half a smile. It probably looked weird.

"You get the new sides?"

"Yeah, last night."

She nodded, did this tiny lipped smile, and was gone off to video village like I was just another prop.

It wasn't mean, exactly.

Next up? Quinn's big meltdown scene. Loads of drama, all eyes on me. Natasha's not even in this one just me, my face, and a camera practically up my nose.

I'm trying to psych myself up, headphones blasting, script digging into my knees. I mumble the lines to myself, hoping something clicks.

The soundstage door slams open.

"Uh, we've got a situation!" Some PA's yelling, looking like he's just seen a ghost. "Big, big problem."

Everyone's heads swivel like meerkats.

Clea tosses her iPad aside, already annoyed. "Define problem."

PA looks ready to cry. "Props trailer's locked. Nobody can find the key."

Clea just blinks. "So... use the backup?"

PA shakes his head. "No backup. That was on the giant carabiner thing Danny lost last week?"

Across the room, Danny pipes up, "Didn't lose it! I loaned it out—"

I just groan. "Unbelievable," I mutter, probably a little too loud.

Clea's rubbing her forehead now, about to lose it. "Anyone got bolt cutters?"

Everyone just stares at her.

She's serious. "Bolt cutters. To get through the stupid lock."

Right then, Natasha cracks up. "Wait- you're telling me a $20,000 shoot day is getting owned by a padlock from, like, Walmart?"

PA nods, dead serious. "Also, all the fake guns and cash? Locked in there, too."

Clea's giving him that thousand-yard stare. Like, maybe if she looks hard enough, the key will just materialize.

She turns to the AD. "Please tell me we've got something, anything, not in that trailer scheduled today."

He just shrugs. "No dice. All three scenes need it."

I nudge Natasha. "Wanna go steal some bolt cutters?"

She grins. "Dibs on driving."

We really weren't the ones for this job. Not even close.

Natasha behind the wheel of some dying production van, and get this a MapQuest printout from, like, 2003 shoved in the glove box.

It's laughable.

Meanwhile, I'm in the passenger seat, frantically googling "how to break into a trailer without wrecking the hinges because apparently, that's my job now. On 5G.

"Honestly, this is indie film at its most tragic," I mumbled.

Natasha shot me this side-eye that could curdle milk. "Indie? Please. This is like, community access channel dumb."

She yanked the van left so hard a box of paper plates in the back did a full Olympic slide. I clung to the door like we were about to roll it.

"Where are you even going?" I squawked.

"Hardware store. Trust me, I know a spot. Been there twice."

"Twice? That's it?"

She just shrugged. "Didn't need lumber, babe. Just duct tape and a plunger. Still counts."

We pulled into this hardware store with a washed out yellow awning and a sign that just said TOOLS. Not even trying. She parked like she was aiming for a high score in Bad Parking Simulator dead center over two spaces.

Inside smelled like motor oil and... disappointment? Maybe 1970, if you could bottle it. Guy at the counter didn't even glance up from his tabloids. Somewhere in the back, an 80s tune warbled out, but damned if I could name it.

"Hey," I said, sidling up to the counter. "You got bolt cutters?"

"Back wall," he grunted, still on his magazine.

We passed by aisles of faded lawn chairs and rusty something-or-others until we hit pay dirt bolt cutters.

Of course Natasha went straight for the big one.

"Holy hell," I whispered, "that could break into Fort Knox."

She grinned. "Perfect."

She carried it up like she was buying milk. Cashier didn't even blink.

"That's $74.99," Natasha just swiped the production card like she'd done this a hundred times. Maybe she had. I honestly didn't wanna know.

Back on set, it was basically a low budget tailgate folks slouched in camping chairs, someone tossing around a sad bag of pretzels.

The prop trailer just sat there in the middle of the lot, looking way too pleased with itself for an inanimate object.

Clea was camped out next to it, arms folded.

"This is ridiculous."

Natasha waltzed in, bolt cutters in hand, swinging 'em around like she'd won a trophy at the county fair. "Don't worry, we got you. Gonna bust out your little plastic arsenal."

Clea shot her a look. "Just please don't trash the door, okay? That's a rental."

Natasha rolled her eyes, all mock-offended. "Wow, thanks for the vote of confidence." She turned to me, waving the cutters. "You wanna do the honors or should I?"

I shrugged. "You brought the muscle, go for it."

She took this dramatic breath, clamped the cutters around the padlock, and... nothing. Not even a squeak.

Natasha scowled, tried to adjust her grip. Clea leaned in, all skeptical. "Is it supposed to be that hard?"

Natasha grunted, "It's, like, fused shut. Rusted to hell."

Second try, same result. She finally gave up, panting. "This thing's basically a Kraken."

I nudged her aside. "Move. Let me do it."

I grabbed the bolt cutters, and with the sheer force of being totally over this week's nonsense, I gave it a go. Padlock snapped, easy as anything.

The crew erupted. I mean, you'd think I'd bench-pressed a car.

Turned to Natasha, smug as hell. "Guess I win the strongman contest."

She just grinned. "Guess you're the hired muscle now."

Clea, cleared her throat behind us. "Okay, superheroes. Can we get on with it?"

Props made a miraculous comeback. Disaster dodged, at least for about five minutes.

Suddenly one of the stunt doubles eats it over the dolly track. Full faceplant, right into a cart of fake blood. Not a gentle spill, either more like, kaboom, blood volcano. Think "Carrie,".

Lynn's already evacuating the blast zone, hands in the air. "Nope. No way. This is so not in my job description."

Makeup's doing damage control, but the cart? Toast. Half the day's blood stock gone. Instantly. I'm like, "Are we screwed or...?"

"Maybe we've got more. Unless somebody blew it all on the slo-mo bar fight."

Clea's pinching her nose, looking like she's doing mental math on how to salvage scene twenty-two. "Fine. Ten-minute break. Everybody, breathe."

God, it was roasting. The AC had bailed (again), so I was basically slow-cooking in my own sweat, and my mic pack was driving me nuts. Scratchy in all the worst places.

And I hadn't seen Natasha in two hours.

Found her eventually, hanging out by the loading ramp, staring up, I didn't even think about it, just shuffled across the lot, juggling a mess of script pages.

She heard me coming and turned around.

"Hey," she said soft as hell,I shot her a "hey" right back.

Stopped there, awkward. What, was I supposed to recite poetry? Words didn't seem to wanna line up right then. Natasha just grinned all slow, lazy, and brushed a rogue chunk of hair behind my ear.

She goes, "Wanna hide?"

I blinked. Did I hear her right? "Hide?"

"Yeah. There's a secret room behind props. Full of old signs and busted junk. Total dead zone. We could pretend we're mannequins or whatever."

I snorted. "Wow. Steamy."

She didn't miss a beat. "Obscenely romantic, let's go."

It's barely a broom closet, just a lonely chair, empty cups, and shelves stacked with fake "CLOSED" signs.

Natasha plopped down and opened her arms like she was summoning a cat onto her lap.

Didn't even have to think about it I curled up sideways on her, legs tucked, head on her shoulder. Her arms wrapped around me.

"See?" she murmured, chin on my hair. "Told you it'd help."

I melted. Closed my eyes.

Outside, set kept raging shouts, metal clatter, Clea's high-pitched "No no no, that's not how she'd say it!" echoing off somewhere but it all went fuzzy. Like we'd ducked under a blanket and everything else just... faded out.

We're grinning like idiots, noses almost bumping.

She breathes out, right on my mouth, and it's one of those shivery moments. Her hand slides up my back, fingers curling like she's scared gravity might yank me away. So, I just sink into her, why not.

"Can I kiss you?" she whispers, all hesitant, like maybe I'll say no.

Nah, not happening. I just nod.

The kiss is slow, like we've got nowhere to be.

I go in again, arms up around her neck, and my fingers tangle in her hair because I'm predictable like that. She yanks me closer, sweaty skin and the whole place stinking of Lysol—romance, right? I don't care.

My back hits the wall and she's right there, pressing in, one leg wedged between mine. Balance, sure, or maybe not just balance. Whatever, I'm not asking.

She trails kisses down my jaw, mouth hot and totally unfair. I bite my lip, grinning like a dope.

"Pretty sure this counts as trespassing," I mumble.

"Good," she says, all smug. "Should've given us a trailer."

"Maybe if we stopped making out in the closets, they would."

She looks up, noses brush. Her eyes are ridiculous.

"Let them try and stop me."

I laugh—way too loud. She kisses me again, maybe to shut me up, maybe just because she can.

"You've got dust in your hair," Natasha says, voice all soft.

She reaches up, brushes at my head. Probably nothing there, but her hand lingers, fingers sliding through my hair, down to my neck.

"Do I?" I say, leaning in, basically begging for more.

"Mmhm. Tragic. Absolutely shameful. You're never working here again." She grins, totally unrepentant.

"You trying to get me in trouble?" I ask, not exactly resisting as she slips her thigh between mine again, steadying herself or maybe just copping a feel.

"Trying? Babe, that ship sailed. You're the one moaning in a janitor's closet." Her hands are on my sides now, slow, deliberate, making me twitch.

I cover my mouth, trying not to snort as she starts kissing down my neck, all smug and warm.

"You're such a pain," I whisper, tipping my head for her.

"You say that, but I don't see you shoving me away."

She's not wrong.

My hands slide under her shirt just fingertips. She sucks in a breath, stomach tensing when I drag my thumb along her waistband.

She leans in, nose brushing mine again. "You're doing it. The look."

"What look?"

"That one you get right before you pull some reckless shit."

I smirk. "Like this?"

I give her a gentle shove just enough to trade places, pin her to the wall. My hands settle on her hips. She grabs my shoulders, holding on tight.

She raises her eyebrows. "Oh, so we're playing like that now?"

"Yep. Just like that."

I kiss her again, harder this time. We're both grinning against each other, can't help it.

She grabs my shirt, twisting it up in her fists, not taking it off, just clutching like she's scared I'll vanish. Her leg hooks around mine, pulling me in, and suddenly I can't breathe right.

"You're gonna kill me in here," I mumble.

She kisses under my jaw. "Just trying to make your last day on set count."

"It's not my last day," I remind her.

She shrugs, mouth pressed to my skin. "Getting a head start, then."

I laugh into her hair, breath snagging when her hands slip under my shirt again, colder now, bolder too.

"You're ridiculous," I whisper.

She kisses my neck, then my collarbone, voice low. "You're not so bad yourself."

Her touch sends a thrill through me, making me gasp. I lean in closer, our bodies fitting together like puzzle pieces in this cramped space. "God, Natasha," I murmur, my voice a little shakier than I'd like to admit

Her eyes glint "Is that a compliment or a complaint?"

I roll my eyes, but the smile doesn't leave my face. "Both, maybe."

Her hands move up to my breasts, gently cupping them through my bra. I can feel her breathing quicken. "You're so sensitive," she says, a hint of wonder in her voice.

"Yeah, well, you have that effect on me."

"Good to know." She kisses me again, her tongue flicking out to trace my lower lip before delving deeper. Our kisses grow more urgent, our breaths mingling in the small space.

Natasha breaks away, panting. "Fuck, I want you."

I nod, unable to form words. I want her too, more than I can say. She reaches behind me, unhooking my bra with a deftness that speaks of experience. It slides down my arms and I let it fall to the floor, forgotten.

Her hands are on me now, kneading and teasing my bare skin. I arch into her touch, my nipples hardening against her palms. She takes one in her mouth, teeth grazing the sensitive flesh, and I bite back a moan.

"You're so beautiful," she murmurs, switching to the other side.

The sensation sends a jolt straight to my core. "Keep doing that," I pant, "and I'm not going to last."

She kisses her way down my body, her mouth leaving a trail of fire. She reaches the waistband of my jeans, hooks her thumbs into them, and starts to tug.

"Let's get you out of these," she says, her voice thick with desire.

I lift my hips to help her, and soon my jeans are pooled at my ankles. She kisses along my inner thighs, sending shivers up my spine. I'm trembling, my breath coming in gasps.

"Tell me what you want," she says, looking up at me through her eyelashes.

"You." It's all I can manage.

"You've got me." And with that, she's kneeling before me, her mouth pressing against my damp panties. The fabric is no barrier to her questing tongue. I can feel it through the thin material, teasing and stroking.

I grip the shelves for support, my knees threatening to buckle. "Natasha, please," I beg.

With a smug smile, she pulls the panties aside and dives in, her tongue sliding over my folds. I moan loudly, the sound echoing off the metal walls. She licks and sucks, finding my clit.

My hips start to rock, seeking more friction. She chuckles against my skin, the vibration adding to the overwhelming sensation. "So eager," she whispers.

Her fingers join in, sliding inside me. She curls them, hitting that perfect spot, and I see stars. "Oh god, yes, like that," I moan.

The noises from outside fade away, and it's just us, lost in this stolen moment. Her mouth and fingers work in tandem, bringing me closer and closer to the edge.

"I'm gonna cum" I warn her, my voice shaky.

"Do it," she urges, her voice muffled against me. "Cum for me."

And I do. I cum hard, my legs giving out as waves of pleasure crash over me. Natasha holds me up, her arms wrapping around my waist, her tongue still lapping gently at my oversensitive clit.

As the tremors subside, she stands, kissing me again, tasting myself on her lips. "You're amazing," I murmur.

"No, you are." She smiles

We returned to set like nothing had happened, which honestly should've won us an award. Or at least a slow clap from someone who noticed how my shirt was buttoned one off and Natasha had smudged eyeliner under one eye.

Clea didn't say anything when we passed her. Just raised an eyebrow. Natasha gave her a short nod, and I offered a very nonchalant "hey," like I hadn't just been pressed against the water heater twenty minutes ago.

"Makeup's gonna kill you," Clea muttered as we passed, her mouth barely moving. "You've got a red spot on your neck."

Natasha elbowed me as I flushed bright red.

We got back to blocking like it was nothing.

I only remember Natasha leaning just a little closer than the script called for, her hand brushing my sleeve in a way that felt more like a secret than a stage direction.

Between takes, she didn't drift back to her chair like she used to. She stayed near me.

We shot late. The sun was going down, and half the crew looked ready to start gnawing on C-stands. I was leaning on a sandbag, reading over tomorrow's sides, when Natasha plopped down beside me and gently bumped my shoulder.

"You don't suppose you wanna get dumplings after?" she asked.

"Or should we keep hiding in utility closets?"

"I don't know," I said, flipping the page. "You set the bar pretty high with that mop bucket ambience."

She grinned. "I do what I can."

Natasha nudged me again, more gently this time. "Hey."

I looked over.

"Today was good," she said.

I nodded. "Yeah. It was."

And it was. Even with all the bullshit, the bad coffee, the reshoots, and the slightly awkward triangle between me, Natasha, and Clea that no one had dared acknowledge out loud yet it still felt good.

"You coming home with me?" I asked, not pushing. Just curious.

She leaned her head back, looked up at the fading sky. "Yeah. If you want."

"I do."

She smiled at that not her usual smirk, not the smartass one.

when the last rig was packed and Clea gave us the nod to go, Natasha stood, stretched, and held her hand out.

I took it.

We walked off set like that hands brushing, shoulders close.

———it'd only been a few weeks since we wrapped, but it felt like another lifetime already.

Things had slowed down. The buzz around the show's wrap was fading out, and the part of me that was still wired for production schedules and early call times didn't know what to do with itself.

I'd been back into a regular routine: grocery runs,laundry piles, reading scripts I didn't care about yet. Natasha and I saw each other often, but it was natural now. Not little moments in trailers or long looks across scenes. Just...breakfast on Thursdays. Movie nights where she'd watch and fully commentate. Her fingers brushing mine when she thought I wasn't paying attention. It was peaceful, and I liked it like that.

So when she buzzed my apartment just past 9 p.m. on a Wednesday, I was caught a little off guard.

I pressed the intercom.

"Nat?"

"Hi," she said, already out of breath. "Can I uh come up?"

"Yeah, of course."

By the time I cracked open the door, she was already halfway down the hallway, hoodie half zipped, phone in one hand, keys in the other. She looked excited. Not fake excited. Her kind of excited. Wild eyes, quick breath, one shoelace untied.

"I have an idea," she said before I could even say hi.

I stepped back, let her in. She dropped her keys in the bowl by the door like she always did now.

"Okay?" I said slowly. "You're either gonna pitch me a podcast or a pyramid scheme."

She didn't laugh. Not even a smirk. She stood in the middle of my living room, hands on her hips.

"I want to go public," she said.

I blinked.

"With...?"

"You. Us. All of it."

I sat down on the edge of the couch. My chest tightened before I could stop it.

"Oh."

She caught it the way my voice dropped. The way I started fiddling with the hem of my sweatpants.

"I thought you'd be happy," she said, not hurt, just confused.

"I am. I think. I just...can we talk through it first?"

She sat down next to me. Not touching me yet. Just sitting close.

"I know what it means," she said. "I know it's a lot. But I'm not scared of it anymore. I don't want to pretend. I want to post a picture. I want to hold your hand at press junkets. I want people to know."

I looked down at the floor.

"It's not you I'm worried about," I said.

"I've been in this industry long enough to know how fast it turns," I added. "They'll speculate, they'll compare timelines, they'll bring up Clea. They'll look at old photos and make guesses and treat us like a story."

"We are a story," she said softly. "Corny I know but we get to tell it how we want."

I looked at her. She wasn't scared.

"What if it backfires?" I asked. "What if it makes things weird on future sets?"

She finally reached for me, her hand on my knee.

"Then we deal with it," she said. "Together."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

I swallowed hard.

"Okay," I said finally. "Then let's do it."

—————

So there it was the "hard launch," as Natasha so fondly called it, was... surprisingly casual.

She posted a photo. It was blurry and kind of sideways. The two of us on my couch, her feet in my lap, me laughing at something off screen. No caption. Just a red heart.

I wasn't tagged. She said she wanted to keep that part slow. She'd let people figure it out, and then I could post when I was ready.

Her comment section blew up in less than an hour. The internet wasn't subtle. People started piecing things together set photos, interview clips, one from a coffee run where we didn't realize we were holding hands.

She didn't shy away from it. She texted me screenshots of ridiculous fan theories with 20 laughing emojis. She ignored anything cruel. She shut it down when people crossed lines.

She didn't stop holding my hand in public.

Two weeks later, her manager called.

Apparently, a streaming company wanted to do a "spotlight feature" on the show's cast now that it had wrapped. A whole campaign stylized photoshoots, interviews, behind the scenes reels. And they wanted me and Natasha to headline it. Together.

"We're not trying to sell a romance," the producer had said on the Zoom call. "We just want to highlight the genuine chemistry that drove the series. And let's be honest the fans already know. We'd rather shape the narrative than chase it."

I was hesitant. I'd just started to breathe normally again. But Natasha sat in on the call with me. Her pinky wrapped around mine the entire time.

"They're going to tell the story no matter what," she told me once the call ended. "Might as well give them a version that's real."

⸻

The studio was in the Arts District. One of those converted warehouse spaces with exposed beams, big windows.

When we walked in, a woman with a clipboard greeted us. I recognized the name from the call sheet Liv, the shoot producer. She was friendly.

She took us through the moodboard again.

Natasha just nodded like it was nothing.

We were sent to separate dressing areas. The stylists had already laid everything out for us. They'd put me in a soft white ribbed tank, slightly cropped, with a pair of dark slouchy trousers and no shoes.

My hair was left pretty natural, just a bit of product and finger combing. They barely touched my face, just a little under eye stuff and some balm.

I looked at myself in the mirror for a second. It didn't feel like a character.

It felt like... me, but the exposure was raised a little. Like if you squinted, you could almost see what Natasha saw when she looked at me.

When I came out, she was already standing near the seamless backdrop. Black shirt, untucked, sleeves rolled halfway up her forearms.

She was barefoot too.

Her hair looked like she'd run her fingers through it once and called it a day which was probably exactly what happened.

"You look good," she said.

"So do you."

She gave me that crooked smile that always did something to my stomach.

Liv gestured for us to come onto the set. The photographer Matteo greeted us both and showed us a few inspiration shots.

All soft edges, natural light spilling in through the huge warehouse windows.

"No big movements," he said, adjusting something on the lens.

Natasha raised an eyebrow and muttered just loud enough for me to hear, "Could just say don't fidget.'"

I bit back a laugh as we stepped onto the set.

The first setup was the couch. Low, neutral toned, textured. We sat down, and Natasha instinctively moved closer, her thigh brushing mine.

Her hand rested against the cushion behind me, fingers close to my lower back but not quite touching.

"Just look at each other for a second," Matteo said.

I did. I looked at her, and she was already looking at me.

Her eyes were a little softer than usual. Less guarded.

I knew that look now.

It was the one she gave me When I got shy after she complimented me. When I brought her coffee exactly the way she liked without asking.

"You're nervous," she murmured, voice low enough that only I could hear.

I nodded once. "A little."

"You're doing fine."

"Your hand's shaking."

"So is yours."

We both smiled. The shutter clicked once, twice, quietly.

"Perfect," Matteo said. "Stay there."

He moved around us, taking shots from different angles. At one point, Natasha's fingers slid behind me, brushing the thin fabric of my tank top. Her thumb traced a slow line up my spine.

"Lean into her a bit," Matteo said.

I did, my shoulder meeting hers. She turned slightly, and our foreheads almost touched.

I could smell her.

Soap and skin.

"Do you want to kiss me right now?" she whispered.

I blinked. "What?"

"I won't. I'm just asking."

I swallowed. "Yes."

She didn't. She just smiled again, softer this time, and tilted her head so our cheeks grazed.

"Got it," Matteo said, lowering the camera. "Okay. Let's stand."

We moved slowly, The next setup was simple a clean wall, soft natural light, nothing else.

Natasha stepped up first. I stood a few inches in front of her. They asked her to wrap her arms around my waist, but gently. Not possessive. Just... there.

Her arms slid around me. Her chin hovered above my shoulder. I let my head tilt slightly back until it rested against hers.

"Can you close your eyes?" Matteo asked.

I did.

I heard her breathe. I felt the pressure of her fingers curling just slightly into my hips.

Then they took a few solo shots me sitting on a stool, Natasha on the floor, us against the white brick wall but somehow, all of them kept pulling us back together.

One final setup. Matteo gestured us back to the couch.

"Same position as before," he said. "But this time, can you... hold her face?"

Natasha gave me a look. I gave her one back.

I reached up slowly and touched her cheek with one hand, then the other. My fingers traced the lines near her mouth, the shape of her jaw, the little scar near her temple. She closed her eyes.

It didn't feel like a shoot anymore.

"Okay," Matteo said quietly. "That's it."

I pulled back. Natasha opened her eyes. Her expression didn't change. She didn't move her hands from where they were, resting lightly against my legs.

"You okay?" she asked.

"Yeah," I said. "Weirdly, yeah."

Liv came over, said we were wrapped, thanked us both.

We changed back into our own clothes in silence.

Before we left the studio, Natasha stopped me near the elevator.

She placed a kiss on my cheek and fixed my hair a bit, looking at me like I was a prize.

"Good job movie star" she said with a smirk.

"Couldn't have done any of this without you I mean it Nat"

"Well I do have that sort of good luck charm with fame huh"

I bumped her with my elbow and lead her by the waist into the elevator.

————

It started with a tweet.

Some critic from an indie film site posted a still from episode two.

The caption said something like: "Quinn is the best thing to happen to this show since Charlie herself. A masterclass in stillness. Emmy incoming."

I'd seen praise before. Random fan posts here and there, mostly during the trailer drops. But this felt different.

Within a few hours, it spread.

Clips circulated, stitched into edits with moody music and black and white filters. Quotes were pulled out that moment where Quinn says "You don't lie with words, you lie with your face," apparently really hit people.

The comment sections were a mess of crying emojis, "mother is mothering" comments, and actual paragraphs of praise from people who used to say nothing hit them emotionally anymore.

By the time the second episode finished airing, I was trending.

And not just Quinn. Me. By name.

Natasha kept reading the tweets aloud while we sat on the couch. One leg draped over mine, the bowl of popcorn slowly going stale between us.

"'Quinn deserves a spinoff, an Oscar, and possibly my hand in marriage,'" she read, smirking. "You seeing this?"

"I'm trying not to."

"Too bad," she said, holding her phone up like a mirror. "You're famous now, babe."

I nudged her knee. "I've been famous for like two hours. Can you let me have a second of quiet before I spiral?"

But I was already spiraling.

Not like last year when I felt like I was floating just outside of everyone's line of sight.

By the next morning, my agent was texting in all caps.

"VARIETY IS ASKING FOR AN INTERVIEW. NYT WANTS A PROFILE. YOUR FACE IS ON PEACOCKS HOMEPAGE."

I didn't know what to say back. I just sent a thumbs up emoji and let my phone slide off the edge of the bed.

"People love you," Natasha said again, over coffee. "I mean, they already did, but uh now it's... public."

I stared into my mug. "Is it weird I don't know what to do with it?"

"No," she said simply. "But you should enjoy it."

I nodded. Tried. Took a deep breath.

The press cycle kicked into high gear.

I did Zoom interviews, podcasts, sat for photoshoots where they made me sit on too-small chairs and tilt my chin "a little to the left no, too much okay hold that." I got asked about chemistry with Natasha so many times I could answer in my sleep.

I was called everything from "enigmatic breakout" to "the new face of grounded performance." Someone wrote a think piece on how Quinn represented "a new era of queer stoicism," which... sure.

It was flattering. It was overwhelming. It was everywhere.

On set, it changed things.

Cameras followed us between takes now. B-roll teams hovered, trying to catch "Natural magic" for some behind the scenes package. Crew members smiled at me a little longer.

Costumers double-checked my looks twice as often. I overheard my name in conversations I wasn't part of "she just has it, you know?" "Her acting is out of this world." "They're already talking awards."

And through it all, Natasha was there for me.

If I froze mid scene, lost in my own head, she'd brush my hand on the way out of frame.

If I started second guessing a line delivery, she'd nudge me and whisper something dumb like "You sound hot. Do it again."

She kept me grounded. Every day.

One night after filming, I sat in my trailer with the door open, staring at my own reflection in the mirror.

Not out of vanity more like I couldn't believe it was me that people were responding to.

Natasha knocked once, then let herself in.

She didn't say anything right away. Just came up behind me and placed her hands on my shoulders.

I looked at us in the mirror. My face. Her face behind mine. Two people who'd managed to claw their way out of their own messes and land here.

"Is it stupid that I'm scared this will go away?" I asked.

She leaned down, kissed the top of "Even if it does, I won't."

And that was enough to exhale again.

—

Two days later, a delivery showed up to my trailer. A full arrangement of white orchids and pale blue hydrangeas. No card. No note.

The P.A. was giddy about it. "You're a whole thing now," she said. "People are obsessed."

I didn't know if it was from fans, from a studio rep, or from Natasha just being extra. But I took a picture, texted it to her with a ? and she just replied, "Looked like you."

It was funny. Fame didn't feel how I expected. It wasn't glittery or loud.

It was people knowing your face and thinking they know your heart.

It was your inbox filled with strangers saying you made them cry.

It was being asked to speak on panels about characters you hadn't even fully unpacked yet. It was weird, exhausting, amazing.

And it was happening.

All of it.

Natasha stood by my side through every beat of it, and now the only question left was how much of us the world was about to see next.