Hard to Miss

We were everywhere.

That's how it felt, anyway. Billboards, bus ads, people tweeting stills like they'd spotted the second coming.

"Quinn Cale supremacy" trending twice in one week. Red carpet edits on TikTok that made my face look borderline unrecognizable.

Not because they changed anything, just because I barely recognized myself anymore.

Not in a bad way. Just in a holy shit kind of way.

I'd done press before. But not like this. This was different.

This time I wasn't answering questions alone.

"This is Natasha Lyonne and her incredible co-star, breakout fan favorite—"

"My name's in the intro now," I whispered to her backstage, heart hammering. "When did that happen?"

She leaned close to my ear, fingers brushing my spine. "When the world finally caught up to what I already knew."

The public rollout of us as a real thing an actual, breathing, undeniable couple had been messier than the network would've liked, but cleaner than either of us expected.

There were no staged pap photos. No timed Instagram soft launches. Just a series of red carpet glances and one interview where she held my hand under the table the entire time.

Still. People talked. That was part of it now.

The good, the bad, the ugly.

And through all of it, she stayed next to me. Let them say what they wanted. Let them speculate and ship and dissect and rewrite.

We had work to do.

—

We were in New York for the series finale screening.

Not the actual last episode but a private, invite only screening for the final batch before the finale aired.

A "thank you" night for the cast and crew, plus industry guests, friends, and way too many drinks.

I had a dress I didn't pick out. Natasha had a suit she absolutely did.

"You're staring," she said, swiping lip balm on with her finger in the mirror of our shared hotel bathroom.

"Just trying to process the fact that you somehow look cooler in ten minutes of effort than I do after being steam pressed and styled like an Oscars nominee."

She winked. "Comes with age, kid."

I threw a tissue at her.

Outside the event space, it was already loud. Fans across the street screamed at every black car that pulled up. Someone held a sign that said "CHARLIE + QUINN FOREVER" in all caps, painted in glitter.

I felt weirdly calm, even as a reporter shouted my name for the first time.

We were ushered inside before it could get too loud, into the front section of the theater where our team had reserved a whole row.

The house lights dropped.

And then, the screen lit up with us.

—

The audience reaction was unreal.

Laughs, gasps, claps everything landing right where it should. It was surreal watching myself from this distance, this angle,still feeling each one.

When the lights came back up, the applause started slow, then turned into something huge. I blinked fast, trying to stay cool. Natasha kissed the side of my head.

"You crushed it," she said.

"I'm trying not to cry in full glam."

"You look hot either way."

The afterparty was everything it should be. Lavish. Packed.

We were halfway through a very strong second round of drinks when Clea found me by the bar.

"Hey," she said, smile low-key but real. "Look at you."

"Look at you," I said, pointing at her black velvet blazer. "Directorial queen."

"Don't change the subject," she teased. "You're blowing up. You know that, right?"

"I'm trying not to think about it too hard."

Clea sipped her drink. "You were always gonna do this. I knew that. I'm just glad you figured it out in time."

It wasn't awkward. That surprised me the most.

"Thanks," I said, voice lower.

"Just... don't let it swallow you. All of this." Her hand gestured toward the party, the noise, the lights. "Hold onto the parts that are still you."

I nodded.

Then she pointed past me. "Looks like one of those parts is looking for you."

I turned and Natasha was standing there, hair a little undone, holding out her hand like she was about to pull me into the middle of the dance floor.

"Come on," she said. "Let's give 'em something to stare at."

Finally letting it all feel real.

The music pounded.

Natasha spun me into her arms and said it right into my ear:

"I'm proud of you."

I pulled back enough to look at her. "I'm proud of us."

Then the confetti cannons went off because apparently, we do those now and I could've sworn I saw Clea laughing near the back, raising her glass.

Not bitter. Just full circle.

We made it.

I made it.

A few weeks passed. The season officially aired its finale, and for the first time, I didn't feel like I had to brace myself when the credits rolled.

The press was kind. The fans were louder than ever.

Natasha and I were sitting in my living room the night after the finale aired. Empty takeout containers on the coffee table, her sock-covered feet on my lap. She had her head tilted back on the couch, half-asleep, but still listening to the soft music playing from my phone.

"Think it's all gonna cool down soon?" I asked, absentmindedly tracing my fingers along her ankle.

She snorted. "Not a chance. You're about to be booked out for the next three years."

"Right..." I sad quietly not knowing if I was sad or just exhausted.

"I want more of this," I said.

"This?"

"You. Us. Thai food and being too full to move. All of it."

She smiled. "Good. Because I was thinking maybe we could get a place. One that's both of ours."

I sat up. "You serious?"

"Dead serious. I'm tired of leaving in the morning. I like waking up next to you."

I didn't even need to think about it. I just nodded. "Let's do it."

She leaned in and kissed me, slow, soft. "We should celebrate."

"I thought that's what this dessert was for."

"That was for the finale," she said.

The Thai food cartons were on the coffee table, most of it half eaten. Natasha pushed her spoon through the melted mango sticky rice and didn't say much for a minute.

"You said you wanted more of this," she said, mouth still half-full. "So does that mean you're not avoiding it anymore?"

I looked over. "Avoiding what?"

"Clea."

My stomach tightened.

"I wasn't avoiding it," I said. "Just... putting it off."

"Same thing."

I sat back. "Okay, yeah. I was avoiding it."

She nodded and licked her spoon clean.

"She texted me last week," Natasha added. "Said she was good. Said she hoped things were good with you too."

"I didn't know that."

I picked up a napkin and twisted it between my fingers.

Natasha leaned back on her hands. "Look, I'm not mad. I just need you to be straight with me."

"I didn't think you'd want to talk about her."

"I don't. But I need to know you're not holding on to whatever guilt you're dragging around."

I paused. "It's not that."

"Then what?"

"I feel bad," I said. "Not because I regret anything. But because I hurt someone who didn't deserve it. I didn't plan it, and I didn't mean to use her. But I did."

Natasha nodded once. "Okay."

"That's it?"

"Yeah. You told the truth. I'm not asking you to make up for it. I just wanted to know you were being honest with me."

She got up and started gathering containers. I stood too and helped.

She didn't push it further. We tossed out the trash. She wiped down the table with a paper towel. I folded up the takeout bag.

Nothing else was said about Clea.

Two months later, we stood at another red carpet, shoulder to shoulder.

This time, it was different.

I didn't flinch at the cameras. I didn't shrink back when they called my name. I smiled, wide and real, and reached for Natasha's hand as we walked into the venue together.

Inside, a studio rep greeted us and asked if we'd consider returning for a second season.

Natasha grinned at me and let me answer.

I just smiled.

"Let's see what's up next."