Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

2025 

Frank Langdon had never hit a woman before, but he'd been close.

Almost too close. She would have told him to stop if she was uncomfortable, but she hadn't, so he kept going — even when he'd torn his knuckles across a splintered piece of plaster wall, and Mel was sobbing, and Cassie McKay was watching them behind the camera with her fingertips pressed together, nodding solemnly along to the scene unfolding in front of her.

Mel cried harder as he pulled his hand from the wall, shaking off debris and flecks of paint that landed in her hair as she turned her face to the side, cheeks red and splotched, eyes squeezed shut as though she wasn't sure he'd intended to miss.

"Please stop," she rasped, words barely audible through her sobs as her chest heaved and the tremor in her hands grew tenfold. Mel pushed herself further along the wall, resting her shoulder against the bookcase in the corner of the room to steady herself, and Frank's gaze followed her before his body did.

She began to hum to herself as he approached — a quiet, instinctive thing that was more her than her character, a self-soothing technique she could probably trace back to childhood, if she tried hard enough — and flinched when he raised his hand again, pausing mid-strike.

Frank stared at her a beat longer, arm suspended in the air, then lowered it again. "Jesus fucking Christ, Amy," he spat, turning away from her. He brushed his hand against the hem of his shirt, streaks of blood tainting the material as she watched him shake his head and pace the room.

The silence that fell in the aftermath of so much screaming and crying was more disconcerting than the chaos of it all, and Mel could feel her body giving way to adrenaline as she tried and failed not to twitch too regularly in response. Her eyes followed him around the room as she forced her sobs to reduce to whimpers, eyebrows knitted together and eyes red-ringed from the long take.

She'd been keeping track of minutes at some point, but she'd lost her train of thought the moment she saw blood, and she only came to when Frank suddenly crossed the room again and knitted the fingers of his large hand into her hair, tugging sharply on it and pulling her head back with force.

It hurt, but she let it. She'd never been one to ruin a take — especially not a oner. Frank leaned in closer and Mel felt her lip quiver without consent, keeping her eyes on his as the camera operator approached with the Steadicam, shifting closer in proximity and intensity.

He searched her face, blue eyes frosting over to become almost grey as she stared at him, eyebrows sutured together. "What do you seriously think I'm going to do to you?" he asked, voice decibels lower than it had been only moments ago.

Mel cowered away from him, turning her head and refusing to meet his eyes until he grabbed her chin and forced her to do so. "You know you fucking do this shit to me, right? I'm fine until you push me to the point I break, then you have the nerve to cry like I've done something wrong and you're the victim. But guess what, Amy? You're fucking not. You're just as bad as me — how does that feel?"

He was speaking through his teeth, jaw clenched and the veins in both his forehead and neck popping out. His typically soothing voice now low, and eerily steady was enough to make her tears stop but the dry sobs continue, her throat becoming raw and further stripped by the second.

All Mel could do was stare at him and study the depth of his subdued irises, forcing herself not to be calmed by his gaze as usual but rather the opposite. Frank suddenly shoved her head to the side and freed his fingers from her hair, a sharp pain shooting through her head as he pushed her to the side and she raised her hand to the top of her skull to soothe the pain, stumbling and gripping onto the bookcase again.

"You're not a good person, Archie," breathed Mel, swallowing thickly as her eyes began to water now.

She watched as his breathing suddenly slowed, a form of control she could only wish to have in moments like these. Mel made a mental note to ask him about that once they were finished, but focused on the scene as he took another intentional step toward her. Instead of putting his hands on her this time, Frank stilled and said nothing, continuing to stare into Mel's eyes until a huff of air escaped his nostrils and he smiled, features relaxing as he glanced to the side and stretched his neck.

"You're smiling," she stated, searching his face as her gaze flickered across his features. Behind her, she fumbled along the now-empty shelf of the bookcase picked up a broken piece of a picture frame in her hand, feeling the splintered wood graze her palm. "You're proud of that? That you scare me?"

Placing his hand in the centre of Mel's chest, Frank fisted the material of her jumper, the last traces of blood from his earlier stunt clinging to the pale fabric. "You know," he said slowly, pulling her closer and clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth in thought, "it's a shame we're out here and people don't get to give you their pity."

He cocked his head and his eyebrows pulled together with fake sympathy, lips pouting slightly. "I'm as good as it gets for you, and you know that, right? There are worse people than me in the world."

Mel swallowed thickly and raised her hand in the space between them, holding the jagged piece of wood beneath his chin, well aware that it was very much real, but prodding lightly anyway. She could see a flint of acknowledgment in Frank's eye that she had to fight not to smile at. "It doesn't feel like it." And then: "Let go."

Frank stared at her for only a beat longer before he smiled to himself again — a small, barely audible chuckle sounding from his throat as averted his eyes and he let go of Mel's clothing, her own hand lowering as she dropped the material with an inconsequential clack against the floor.

"Clean this up." He walked away, glass crunching beneath his feet as he grabbed a jacket and walked out the front door into the night, slamming it shut behind him.

Following the brief outline for the improvised scene, Mel, with a tremor raking her body, looked across the living room and kitchen area where there was smashed glass and thrown books scattered across the floor, the architectural model she'd been fawning over broken and littered in miniscule pieces.

Cassie trusted Mel and Frank enough to keep the camera rolling, and their artistic inhibitions were so cohesive that, when Mel inhaled a staggered breath and began to make her way into the kitchen in search of a dustpan to attempt the clean up effort, the camera followed.

Mel approached the sink and began to take out cleaning materials from the storage beneath, straightening up for a moment when she didn't feel entirely right and feeling the Steadicam operator step beside her just as she vomited into the sink, hair partially shielding her face.

Mel, who hadn't anticipated such a physical reaction, pulled back slowly, placing the sleeve of her jumper to her mouth and looking into the sink with tear-filled eyes as she turned on the tap.

A long stretch of silence passed before Cassie finally yelled, "Cut!"

She clapped once, clasping her hands over a disbelieving grin as chatter broke out on set and Mel straightened up, wiping her eyes as the adrenaline she'd build up slowly began to leave her. She tucked her hair behind her ears and ran the back of her hand over her forehead, strands of her hair sticking to it uncomfortably. Before she could acknowledge any of what had happened, she was being offered a class of water by one of the set medics and Cassie was rubbing her back.

"Holy fuck," Cassie said with a disbelieving laugh, shaking Mel slightly as she took a small sip of water, smiling herself.

Frank had re-entered the set during that time and was being tended to by another medic, his hand wrapped in gauze and an ice pack. He always knew when to take it too far. Mel found his gaze from across the room and they exchanged a knowing smile, his eyebrows lifting in acknowledgment as she let out a breathy laugh to herself.

"You guys," Cassie began, holding out her hands and shrugging when they met in the middle of the room, "that's the best improv I've ever seen." She shook her head, looking between the two of them. "You okay?"

"We're good, Cass," promised Frank, averting his gaze to Mel. "We spoke about it last night."

"All or nothing," she said softly, gratefully accepting a mint from a runner.

All or nothing wasn't new, but working with Frank was. 

She'd met him three years earlier: before she'd graduated college, and taken her hiatus, and her mom had died. Mel liked to think she'd met him before all of that stuff had happened, because the universe (or something equally as important, or maybe stupid, depending on the day she was having) knew she needed someone to guide her through it — or at least be by her side, even from across the country.

The thought comforted her in a vague, superstitious way, as though coincidence had placed him somewhere nearby in advance, just in case she needed someone who understood the strange, intense ecosystem she had grown up inside.

Melissa King had been part of that ecosystem for so long that she had almost no memory of what life looked like without it. Her earliest memories of acting were quiet, procedural things: long afternoons spent sitting beside her mother while scripts were read aloud at the kitchen table; wardrobe fittings where adults knelt at her feet with pins between their lips; the strange patience of film sets, where hours of waiting eventually condensed into a few minutes of work.

Mel had fallen into it almost accidentally. A local casting director had seen her at a school recital when she was six, and her first proper role had been small, barely more than a few lines in a television drama, but the reaction she received on set had been immediate and unanimous in a way that felt almost eerie in hindsight.

Adults kept pausing to look at her and lowered their voices when they spoke about her. The attention given to her unabashed talent might've become overwhelming if not for the quiet, unwavering presence of her mother.

Meredith King had never intended to raise a child actor, and before Mel was born she'd been a lecturer in literature who believed stories mattered because they helped people understand themselves. She approached her daughter's sudden entry into the film industry the same way she approached everything else in life — with patience, and scrutiny, and a firm belief that intelligence mattered more than ambition.

Every script was read carefully, every contract negotiated with stubborn calm, and Meredith turned down projects that seemed exploitative or shallow even when agents insisted they would make Mel more profitable or more visible.

Her daughter, she told them, wouldn't become famous for nothing, and her solemn protectiveness created an unusual environment for a child growing up in Hollywood. Mel worked often enough that people in the industry began to recognise her, but not so often that the work became her entire identity. School remained non-negotiable and weekends were still spent at home where Meredith insisted that life continue at a normal pace no matter how chaotic the outside world seemed.

And Mel never questioned it — because acting didn't feel like a career to her when she was still young enough that the concept of learning how to tie her shoelaces still felt foreign. It felt more like an extension of the same curiosity she had always possessed: an instinctive interest in how people thought, and behaved, and how emotions moved across someone's face when they believed no one was watching.

She'd always been observant, but maybe that instinct had been shaped by the quiet absence that existed in the background of her childhood. Mel had been born a twin, though the word twin always felt slightly misleading when Rebecca King had lived only long enough to be named, leaving behind a presence that existed more as a story than a memory.

Meredith didn't speak about it often, but Mel grew up knowing there had once been two heartbeats even when now, there was only one.

The knowledge lingered in subtle ways, like how Mel developed an unusual sensitivity to emotional shifts in the people around her, noticing things that other children overlooked which, somehow, conveniently, translated into her acting.

By the time she was ten years old, directors had begun writing roles with her in mind, and the performance that altered the trajectory of her life arrived not long after. The film itself was small and quiet, a sombre character piece about loss that few studios initially wanted to back, let alone fund. Mel played a child navigating the emotional fallout of a family tragedy in a role demanding a depth of feeling that might've seemed unreasonable for someone barely entering adolescence.

Meredith hesitated before allowing her to audition, but the film was released the following year, and the response was immediate. Critics wrote about the performance with a mixture of astonishment and reverence, struggling to reconcile the gravity of what they'd seen with the fact that the actor delivering it was barely twelve years old.

Awards season arrived quietly at first, but then suddenly Melissa King was being mentioned alongside veteran performers and her name was circulating through conversations that had previously existed far beyond the reach of child actors.

The night of the Academy Awards felt strangely distant even as it happened, and Mel remembered the weight of the dress Chanel had loaned her for the evening, the way the stage lights made the audience disappear into darkness, and the firm, reassuring pressure of her mother's hand in hers as they sat in the audience.

When her name was called, the theatre erupted into applause, and she walked onto the stage to accept the Oscar for Best Supporting Actress with the careful composure of someone who had already learned how to exist beneath intense scrutiny.

The moment replayed across television screens for weeks afterward — an overwhelmed child standing at a podium while an audience of Hollywood's most powerful figures rose to their feet in admiration — but Mel herself remembered almost none of it.

She recalled thanking her mom, and calling the "members of the Academy" the "Academy of the members", and recounted the way her mother had calmly told her to breathe in the press room when Mel hadn't even realised she'd been holding her breath.

In the years that followed, Meredith continued to maintain the same careful boundaries she always had; fame didn't alter the rules of their household, and Mel continued to work steadily, choosing roles that demanded seriousness and emotional complexity rather than easy popularity, and gradually developed a reputation that followed her into adolescence.

Yet Meredith never allowed acting to eclipse the rest of her daughter's life. When Mel finished high school, the expectation from agents and studios was obvious: she could transition seamlessly into adult roles, continue building momentum, and capitalise on the unusual credibility she had accumulated at such a young age — but Meredith disagreed.

Her daughter, she insisted, deserved an education that existed beyond film sets, and red carpets, and makeshift classrooms in trailers — so Mel enrolled at Columbia, trading premieres and publicity tours for lecture halls and late-night study sessions.

Professors expected thoughtful essays rather than emotional performances, and classmates treated her like any other student once the novelty of her name wore off. She studied literature, and psychology, and theatre history with the same intense focus she had always applied to acting, and the academic environment suited her, offering a new framework for understanding the emotional complexities she'd spent her life portraying.

And then, in the middle of her junior year, she got a call to say her mother had fainted at work. When the headaches began, they appeared inconsequential at first, but the diagnosis arrived just before Christmas the same year with brutal clarity: malignant pheochromocytoma.

Mel flew home for winter break the same day she received the news, and the months that followed blurred into a series of hospital visits, cautious conversations with doctors, and long nights spent sitting beside her mother's bed while machines hummed softly in the background. It did not take long for her to decline.

But Meredith remained remarkably composed throughout it all — and even as her strength began to fade, she was still reminding Mel that she had a life of her own to live. As they sat in a hospital room one February evening with the sun disappearing behind the skyline outside the window, she took Mel's phone out of her hand and read the email forwarded from her agent herself.

"Honey," Meredith had said. "They want you to present. It's the Oscars."

Mel had shaken her head, taking her phone back and turning it over on the edge of her mother's bed. "That doesn't mean anything."

Meredith had reached for her hand, then, and squeezed it tightly. "But it does," she'd told Mel softly. "Everything you do means something."

Meredith King died a month later, eight weeks before Mel was scheduled to graduate. Mel completed her degree anyway, walking across the stage alone to accept the diploma her mother had been determined she would earn — and the industry, as it always did, assumed she would return to acting immediately.

She didn't.

For two years, she disappeared from public life altogether. There were no film announcements, or interviews, or sightings at premieres or festivals. The girl who had once been considered Hollywood's most promising child actor seemed to step quietly out of the spotlight, leaving behind a silence that industry reporters filled with speculation.

The truth was far less dramatic, though; Mel simply needed time to exist without performing for anyone. When she finally agreed to read a script again, it felt less like a triumphant return and more like the tentative reopening of a door she had closed for her own survival — but it also happened to be the project that would bring her back into Frank Langdon's orbit.

His own path into the acting world had been something steadier and more gradual, the slow accumulation of respect that accompanied consistent work.

Frank grew up far from the machinery of Hollywood in West Branch, Michigan, where careers in film seemed about as realistic as leaving West Branch. His early life contained none of the theatrical environments that shaped Mel's childhood, and acting had entered his world almost by accident, the result of a scheduling conflict that placed him in a high school drama class he had never intended to take.

What began as a simple attempt to fulfill an elective requirement quickly revealed that Frank possessed the unusual ability to listen on stage, which everyone seemed to notice before he did. Scenes felt more alive when he participated in them, as though his focus created space for other actors to become more truthful themselves.

That instinct eventually carried him to a small audition for a new television drama: a modest role in an ensemble cast that no one expected to last behind a single season. Instead, it won an Emmy for Outstanding Drama Series, and he was seventeen when the recognition arrived seemingly overnight, the hobby he'd stumped into suddenly becoming a career. And throughout those early years, there was one name he encountered repeatedly in conversations around him.

Melissa King.

Directors spoke about her with admiration while agents referenced her performances when describing the emotional depth they hoped to find in young actors. Her films circulated through the same festivals and awards circuits Frank occasionally attended, their professional lives moving through the same industry spaces without quite intersecting — until they met for the first time under the bright lights of the Dolby Theatre for a technical rehearsal Meredith had all but begged Mel to attend.

Mel was twenty-one, and Frank was twenty-three, and he couldn't understand how everyone he'd ever spoken to had described her as bubbly when she seemed nothing short of hollowed out. The ceremony's producers had paired them together to present the costume design category, recognising the curious symmetry of their careers: two critically respected young actors who had arrived in Hollywood by entirely different routes.

They'd introduced themselves and exchanged pleasantries, then she'd banished herself to the corner of the backstage area with the teleprompter script and a pen, glasses pushed high on the bridge of her nose. He'd wanted to speak to her some more — ask her questions, get to know her — but she hadn't really seemed to be in the mood for small talk, and he supposed he wasn't either. He was fresh off the back of a ten hour flight from London, and he was counting down the hours until he could be in the shower or, better yet, in bed.

Watching her read through the script over the top of his phone, Frank noticed immediately that she looked exactly the way she did on screen: focused, observant, and somehow calmer than anyone had a right to be. He could tell, even then, that it was an act — but he never said anything.

When she finally let herself re-emerge, their ensuing conversation felt unexpectedly natural. They joked about the absurdity of award shows, compared experiences of working in the industry at different ages, and discovered an easy conversational rhythm that made the impending live performance a week later feel less intimidating.

But Frank did notice one thing that puzzled him slightly. Every so often, Mel glanced down at her phone like her life depended on it — and he never asked why.

Later, he would learn that the messages arriving during those brief moments were updates about her mother's health, small pieces of information she was trying to process while simultaneously preparing to stand in front of millions of viewers. He'd read an article from some tabloid a few weeks ago about how Mel had failed to attend the Sundance premiere of one of her films, citing a "family emergency". Then, embarrassingly enough, he'd been trailing Reddit threads to make sure his own name wasn't being stirred up in anything when he came across a comment stating Mel had been seen making frequent visits to Johns Hopkins Hospital.

At the time, none of that was visible to the audience.

When they stepped onto the stage together, they appeared relaxed and perfectly in sync — two actors sharing an effortless rapport that made the moment feel spontaneous rather than scripted — but Frank had felt the way her fingertips trembled as she settled her hand on his arm and they took position.

It was the first time their paths had truly crossed, but he held her steady — and neither of them realised then how often they would continue to cross in the years that followed.

But maybe this — filming together on their first producer credit — was the culmination of it all.

Cassie had been the one who started the entire ordeal. Months earlier, long before the snow-covered cabin set had been constructed on the outskirts of a small town in Oregon, the script had arrived quietly in the inboxes of two agents.

Dana Evans read it first.

Dana had represented Mel since she was fourteen years old, back when the industry still referred to her as a prodigy instead of a legacy actor. She had the reputation of being one of the most formidable agents in LA — fierce in negotiations, unflinching in confrontations, and protective of her clients with a loyalty that sometimes bordered on maternal — but also possessed an excellent instinct for material.

So when a script arrived from writer-director Cassie McKay with a note explaining that she had written the entire film specifically for Mel and Frank, Dana read it immediately.

Then, she called Michael Robinavich, who had represented Frank for nearly as long. Where Dana was sharp and expressive, Robby was subdued, dryly sarcastic, and possessed a deep-rooted, philosophical misanthropy that somehow made him extremely effective in Hollywood negotiations.

The two agents had worked around each other long enough to understand the significance of a call like that. Dana told Robby to read the script and he did, because everyone knew never to say no to Dana Evans.

The project had felt different from the beginning: partly because of Cassie's voice as a writer, but mostly because the two of them had been circling the idea of collaborating for years.

Mel and Frank had been acquaintances since the day they'd met, but they'd become friends somewhere along the way: somewhere between him sending her flowers after the news of her mothers death broke and her phoning to thank him two weeks later, resulting in a four hour phone call. From that, they'd sustained a relationship through text messages, late-night phone calls, shared industry frustrations, and occasional dinners when their schedules happened to place them in the same city.

They understood each other's careers in a way few people could — and before they had a chance to notice it, other people had. There were never really rumours — not when Frank had a steady girlfriend of two years then a string of flings with various actresses and models that usually came to light through Deux Moi or somewhere equally as lucrative — but people always had something to say. Some wondered if they were playing the long game while others denounced the concept entirely, but everyone always wondered when they would finally work together.

Cassie McKay had simply been the person to make it happen with her volatile story about a young couple retreating to an isolated winter cabin in a last attempt to salvage their collapsing relationship. The characters were messy, emotionally complicated, sometimes cruel to each other in ways that felt uncomfortably human — and, unsurprisingly, the kind of roles Mel and Frank both gravitated toward.

Mel had gone quiet when Frank suggested they produce it, sitting in the bay window of her Chelsea apartment while Frank sat in his trailer in Budapest.

Neither of them had producer credits yet, though both had watched enough sets and read enough contracts to understand what the job required. It was a step beyond simply showing up to perform and a shift toward ownership, or maybe even responsibility. The idea lingered for a moment, then Mel said yes — because she had nothing to lose after two years out of the limelight.

Now, months later, that decision felt very real as they stepped away from the set and into the narrow corridor of trailers parked along the edge of the snowy clearing.

The cold outside bit immediately at Mel's face as she pushed open the door leading out of the soundstage structure. The entire production had relocated to a remote area several hours from the nearest city, where the surrounding forests and heavy snowfall created the exact atmosphere Cassie had envisioned for the film.

Frank fell into step beside her, shrugging into the jacket someone had handed him earlier, fiddling with the bandage around his hand.

"You okay?" he asked after a moment, studying the side of her face.

Mel nodded, smiling up at him. "I'm fine," she said, though her voice still sounded hoarse from crying. "You don't have to ask after every take."

He glanced at her again, assessing in the quiet way he always did after emotionally heavy scenes — or anything, these days. "I know," he offered, twisting his lips and focusing his gaze ahead of him. "I just want to make sure you're happy doing this."

"I am," Mel assured.

"Because I want you to be happy," he continued.

Mel looked at him now, eyebrows furrowing. "I know."

Frank sighed, his breath mingling in the air. "And you don't owe anyone anything—"

"Frank," Mel interrupted, stopping in her tracks as he slowed, looking down at her. "I promise you, I wouldn't be here if I didn't want to be." 

He nodded, unconvinced, and looked back at the indentations of their footprints in the snow. "You get why I'm asking though, right?" he asked. "I just want you to be back because you're ready, not because you feel like you're doing me, or Cassie, or the studio a favour."

Mel blinked and reached for his uninjured hand, squeezing it gently. "You, and Cassie, and the studio are doing me a favour," she explained. "I took my time off, and I'm happy I did. It's fine, and I waited, and I never complained... but I got bored, Frank." Mel posted a shrug, shaking her head. "This is what I'm meant to do. I know that now."

Frank huffed a breath, squeezing Mel's hand back. "I'm sorry," he apologised, scratching the back of his neck. "This just means a lot to me, doing this with you."

She searched his face, eyes wide and curious. "Me too," she replied, taking a step forward and coaxing him in the same direction. They walked with their hands linked for a moment, swinging comically between their bodies.

They reached the row of trailers after a moment, the soft crunch of snow beneath their boots the only sound for a moment. The production had arranged them in a loose semicircle facing the forest, small pockets of light glowing warmly from inside each door.

Frank leaned against the railing outside his trailer and flexed his injured hand again once he and Mel separated. "You realise," he said thoughtfully, "this is a pretty massive shift for both of us."

Mel looked up at him and he gestured vaguely toward the set behind them. "First producing credits, obviously, and the fact we took a gamble on funding an indie film. Then there's the emotional domestic warfare in a snowstorm, too."

"That would do it," Mel added dryly.

Mel shook her head, but the smile lingered. It was strange, being back — not just on a film set, but back in the industry itself after deliberately stepping away from it. For two full years, she'd lived quietly, finishing the process of grieving her mother and trying to figure out what her life looked like when it wasn't defined by constant work.

Returning had felt like walking onto thin ice and Frank seemed to sense that hesitation, because his voice softened slightly. "This is good though," he said. "Exactly the kind of project you should come back with."

Mel twisted her lips to the side, assessing him. "You think?"

"Yeah," he said simply, shrugging. "Small production, smart script, director who actually knows what she's doing. Control."

"And?" she asked, eyebrows lifting despite herself.

"And," he continued, "you trust the guy you're acting opposite."

Mel huffed a laugh and shook her head, glancing toward the door of her trailer. "Your ego is unbelievable."

Frank grinned. "You love it."

She didn't argue.

Instead, she leaned against the railing beside him, looking out across the snowy clearing where crew members were still moving equipment between trucks and trailers. The quiet, remote atmosphere of the location made the entire production feel slightly removed from the rest of the industry — as though they were building something entirely separate from the machinery of major studio filmmaking.

"It still feels weird, though," she admitted after a moment.

Frank tilted his head. "Being back?"

"Being back and actually having a say in things," she admitted, clearing her throat. "It's the kind of thing my mom always wanted for me."

"And she was right to want that," he said easily. "This is the fun part."

"For you, maybe," Mel replied, brushing the back of her hand against her cheek.

Frank studied her for a moment before speaking again. "You know what this is?"

"What?" Mel asked, entertaining him.

"Practice," he offered, his tone remaining light but undeniably intertwined with reassurance. "Low-stakes producing means a low-stakes comeback. You get to ease back in and figure out what parts of this job you actually want."

Mel exhaled slowly, supposing he had a point. She fell quiet for a moment and watched her breath crystallise in the air as she considered his words. "This whole thing..." Frank continued, hesitating for a moment. "It's making me think about directing."

Her gaze lifted to meet his, finding his blue eyes already set on her, face half-resigned in anticipation. "You can laugh, if you want. Wouldn't be the first time."

Mel felt her eyebrows knit together a fraction, her eyes softening as she shook her head. "I'd never laugh at that, Frank."

He nodded, bowing his head and scuffing his foot across the snow-covered ground. "I know you wouldn't." A comfortable silence settled between them before Frank spoke again. "You're still writing, right?"

The question caught her off guard and Mel looked away quickly, focusing instead on the line of snowy trees beyond the trailers. "Sometimes," she replied softly.

Frank raised an eyebrow. "You've been saying 'sometimes' for three years."

She shrugged. "It's not serious."

He huffed disbelieving, lips parting. "That's a lie."

Mel gave him a warning look. "Frank—"

"You had two whole years to yourself, and you want me to think you didn't finish a single screenplay?" Anything Mel could come up with in response would've been a lie, so she stuck with silence instead and leaned further into the railing. "You let anyone read it yet?"

"No." Frank raised his eyebrows at her, and Mel shrugged, lifting her hands out in front of her. "If you've not read it, no one has," she emphasised.

He rattled his head side to side, accepting her answer only because he liked the thought of himself being all or nothing to Mel. "Will I ever get to?" he asked, reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out a deck of cigarettes, clutching one between his teeth.

"They're private," Mel said, watching him struggle to shield the breeze with his right hand and produce a flame from his lighter with his left.

"They're probably good," he rebuffed as she stepped forward and took the lighter from him. Frank glanced up, watching her face shift in concentration as she flicked the spark wheel and guarded the flame.

"That's not the point," she said softly, pressing the lighter into his palm and taking a step back.

Frank squinted at her, taking a long draw as he considered the woman standing in front of her. He'd not seen her for four months before they stepped onto set two weeks ago. While Frank had been filming in London, Mel had been teaching English in Cambodia, and they'd both been pretending the seven hour time difference wasn't an inconvenience.

The night she'd phoned Frank to thank him for the flowers he'd sent, he'd told her to call him if she ever needed anything — and two weeks later, when his phone hadn't rang and he hadn't received a text, he'd called her. He'd said it was because he was bored and wanted the illusion of company while he was on a press tour at the time, but really it had been because he felt the same strange affinity toward Mel that everyone seemed to. It was a stark, unsettling feeling of wanting to ensure her wellbeing even when she was virtually a stranger to him behind headlines and social media.

She hadn't questioned it even though she suspected it was something to do with pity, and they'd spoken every few days from then on. It was a few messages her and there and first, then voice notes, then scheduled calls every Thursday night depending on their time zones and commitments. It had been the only semblance of a routine in the time she'd taken out from acting.

Frank studied her for a moment longer before finally letting the subject drop, though the expression on his face suggested he remained unconvinced as he exhaled the smoke out from the corner of his mouth.

"Fine," he said. "But when you finally sell one, I'm taking full credit for encouraging you."

Mel laughed. "Encouraging is a generous word for what you're doing."

Before Frank could respond, a production assistant hurried past them on the narrow strip of packed snow between the trailers, breath visible in the cold air. She slowed only long enough to glance between them and offer a quick, apologetic reminder. "Cassie says ten minutes until the next setup."

"Thank you," Mel replied.

Frank lifted his hand in acknowledgment, offering a thumbs up that the assistant nodded gratefully at and continued down the row of trailers, already calling out to someone further along the line. The moment she disappeared around the corner, the quiet returned and Mel felt a small knot tighten in her stomach.

It had been building slowly over the past few days — quiet at first, barely noticeable beneath the adrenaline of returning to work — but now that the scene they had just filmed was over, her mind had begun drifting forward to the next emotional milestone in the script.

Frank noticed immediately — because he always did. "What?" he asked.

Mel didn't answer right away. Her eyes stayed fixed on the delicate patterns of frost forming along the railing beneath her hands, watching the way the ice traced thin, branching lines through the metal.

"Nothing."

Frank made a soft, skeptical sound. "Mel."

She sighed, knowing that tone meant he wasn't going to let it go. "We have that scene coming up later this week."

For a brief second Frank simply blinked, processing, then understanding dawned across his face. "What, the sex scene?"

Mel folded her arms loosely across her chest, the movement instinctive and protective. The cold had begun to creep through the sleeves of her sweater, but she barely noticed it. Her attention remained fixed stubbornly on the railing as if the frost patterns had suddenly become fascinating.

In truth, she had been thinking about the scene since she'd first read the script and imagined herself acting across from Frank.

It wasn't that she had never filmed anything like it before. Over the years she had done a handful of intimate moments on screen — scenes meant to suggest vulnerability or closeness between characters without crossing into anything explicitly sexual, mostly just kissing sequences that most directors handled delicately with ellipses — but she'd been under twenty-one, so they'd had to do it that way.

And for that reason, this was different in an emotionally raw way that made her uneasy. Cassie had written the scene as the first moment in the film where the couple allowed themselves to reconnect physically after pages of conflict and resentment, something messy and human.

But Mel hadn't let her be any of those things in a long time — not since she'd broken up with John three months into her hiatus, and certainly not with Frank. Not like that, anyway.

Mel had known him long enough that their friendship had settled into something comfortable and steady, yet even after all that time, there remained something about Frank Langdon that she had never fully figured out.

Their friendship had been unlikely from the start.

Frank was naturally confident in a way Mel had never quite managed to be. He moved through rooms easily, spoke with an unforced charisma that drew people toward him without effort, and even when he was quiet, there was a kind of relaxed assurance in the way he carried himself.

Mel, by contrast, had always been shy. Not painfully so — years of interviews and public appearances had taught her how to navigate social situations — but she still possessed a reserved core that few people ever saw past. Her instinct was to observe first and speak second: to watch the emotional currents in a room before stepping into them.

Frank had stepped into her world anyway, and she had never quite understood why.

And now she was meant to have sex with him. Simulated sex, she supposed, but the point still stood. The thought made something inside her chest flutter in a way she found deeply inconvenient.

Frank leaned back against the trailer beside her, his posture loose and unbothered, though the calmness in his voice carried a deliberate gentleness.

"You know we've got an intimacy coordinator for this exact reason, right?" he asked, taking another drag of his cigarette.

"I know," she replied, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth.

"And you have a no-nudity clause in your contract," he added mildly. "So it's my ass on display, not yours."

Mel nodded, smiling gently.

That clause had existed in her contracts for nearly a decade now, written in firm language that Dana had insisted upon after Mel turned sixteen. At the time it had simply felt like a boundary — something that protected her from the kind of pressure young actresses sometimes faced — but back then, intimacy scenes had been theoretical. Now, they were simply part of the work. Mel got it (she'd always been partial to watching a sex scene herself, what could she say?) but still, the vulnerability of the upcoming moment lingered beneath her ribs.

"So let's take a step back," he said, his tone shifting toward something deliberately practical. "We have an intimacy coordinator, and a director who respects actors, and a contract that protects your boundaries." He lifted his bandaged hand slightly, gesturing between them. "And you have me."

Mel looked up at that. Frank's expression had softened in a way that carried none of Archie's volatile energy or the sharp intensity he had brought into the scene earlier. What remained instead was the familiar steadiness she had come to associate with him over the years.

It was the same expression he wore when he talked her down from spiraling about a bad purchase like the fifty dollar tote bag she'd been conned into buying at MoMa, and the same one he used when she called him at two in the morning because she couldn't stop thinking about something her mother had once said.

It was, she realised suddenly, the expression of someone who had decided long ago that her comfort mattered. "We'll choreograph everything," he continued. "Nothing happens that you're not comfortable with."

Mel exhaled slowly. "I know."

"And if you ever want to stop," he added gently, flicking ash off the end of his cigarette, "we stop."

She studied him for a moment, her eyes searching his face as if trying to locate the source of that calm.

"You're very calm about all of this."

Frank shrugged. "I've done enough of them to know they're about ninety percent technical choreography and ten percent pretending to be turned on."

Mel let out a small laugh before she could stop herself. "That's not a very romantic description."

Frank's mouth curved slightly at the corner. "It's not supposed to be romantic," he said. "It's supposed to be safe."

The honesty of that statement settled between them in the cold air, and Mel became aware again of the quiet snowfall drifting down through the trees. The world felt strangely suspended around them, as if the entire production had paused just long enough for her to breathe.

After a second she pushed away from the railing and stretched her arms above her head, blinking when her contacts started to make her eyes feel dry. "Thanks," she said softly.

Frank glanced at her, the faintest smile appearing across his lips. "Anytime."

They remained there for another moment, standing side by side as the snow continued to fall softly through the forest clearing, settling over the quiet production site where their strange little film was gradually taking shape.

For the first time since returning to the industry — since stepping back into a world that still carried echoes of everything she had lost — Mel felt something resembling steadiness begin to return.

And Frank, as usual, seemed perfectly content standing beside her while she found it.

The cabin bedroom had been rearranged three times before Cassie was satisfied.

Lights were softened and bounced off pale reflectors to mimic the muted glow of winter moonlight through the windows, and a small lamp on the bedside table cast a warm pool of amber across the bedspread. The room itself was modest — a wooden bed frame, thick quilts, a narrow dresser and a window overlooking the dark forest — but through the monitors, it looked cinematic and intimate in a way that made the space feel smaller than it was.

Mel stood in the adjoining bathroom for a moment longer than necessary. Her costume for the scene was deliberately simple: an oversized T-shirt that belonged, in the logic of the film, to Frank's character. The wardrobe department had softened the fabric until it hung loosely around her frame, the neckline slipping slightly off one shoulder as if it had been worn for years.

She studied herself briefly in the mirror before leaving the room, the kind of small ritual she had developed over years of acting: a moment of quiet before stepping back into someone else's life.

When she emerged into the bedroom, Frank was already there sitting on the edge of the bed with Cassie and the intimacy coordinator, a woman named Perlah who had flown in from Atlanta to work on the production. A laptop had been propped on the dresser displaying the storyboard and notes from their earlier rehearsals, the screen angled so everyone could see.

They looked up when Mel entered.

Cassie smiled immediately. "Perfect timing."

Frank straightened slightly, his posture shifting in that subtle way Mel had come to recognise — the moment he registered that she had entered a room.

"Hey," he said quietly.

"Hey."

They gathered loosely near the foot of the bed while Perlah ran through the choreography again, her voice calm and professional.

"So, we're not dealing with anything new," she said, tapping lightly at the laptop screen where the scene outline was displayed. "The idea is that it begins tentative and gradually becomes more emotionally charged, but everything stays within the boundaries we set."

Mel nodded, arms loosely folded over her stomach, and Perlah looked between them as Frank stood beside Mel, his bent arm resting against her shoulder, towering above her.

"Quick reminder," she said matter-of-factly. "It's completely normal for the body to react physically during scenes like this. If that happens, we pause, reset, and carry on. No embarrassment, no pressure."

Frank huffed softly under his breath and Mel glanced sideways at him, catching the faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Cassie clapped her hands together lightly. "Alright, why don't we take positions and see what happens?"

The cameras were already in place when they took their marks, one sitting low near the foot of the bed and angled upward to capture their movements as Mel crossed the room. Another tracked slowly from the doorway on a Steadicam, ready to follow her into the scene. A third remained near the window for close-ups.

Mel stepped out into the hallway while the crew settled and from beyond the doorway, she could hear the quiet shuffle of equipment and the muted murmur of voices as everyone prepared.

Then, Cassie's voice rang out from behind the monitor. "Okay," she said, wrangling her headset into place, "let's try keeping the laughter to a minimum."

Frank's voice floated back from the bedroom. "No promises."

Mel pressed her lips together, fighting a smile as Cassie shook her head and called, "Action."

When she stepped into the doorway, Frank was sitting on the edge of the bed, shoulders slightly hunched as he flipped through a worn paperback book. His character was convinced he was writing the next Great American Novel, and Mel's was an architect — both of them attempting building something around the ruins of their relationship.

Mel leaned her shoulder against the frame, brushing her hair behind her ear. "What are you reading?" she asked, voice coming out softer than expected.

Frank looked up and for a second, the playful energy he had been carrying vanished, replaced by something quieter and more focused as he slipped into character. "Nothing important," he said, closing the book and placing it on the bedside table. "Come here."

Mel crossed the room slowly.

The camera tracked her movement — the soft padding of bare feet across the rug, the faint rustle of fabric as she approached him —  and she stopped between his knees.

Frank's hands settled gently at her waist.

Even knowing the movement had been planned, the contact sent a small, surprising shiver up Mel's spine. His palms were warm through the thin cotton of the shirt as he tilted his head back to look at her.

The silence between them stretched deliberately — an improvised pause Cassie had encouraged — and Mel became suddenly aware of how close they were standing. Frank traced small, absent-minded patterns against her sides with his bandaged hand, throat bobbing as he swallowed. Then, he leaned forward and placed his forehead against her stomach.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled as she started ahead, jaw working as she lamely placed a hand on the back of his head, fingers sliding through his hair. She'd done that once before, when they'd spent two weeks straight together in Vancouver last summer. He'd had to leave for a festival premiere, and she'd stayed, walking him downstairs to the lobby of her rental unit. Neither of them had wanted to pull away once they'd hugged, but his car was waiting outside, and Mel had never been one to cause delays.

"I know," she breathed, allowing herself to glance down at Frank as she held him.

"What can I do?" he asked quietly.

Mel hesitated. It was a simple line, but something about the way he delivered it — low, steady, almost hesitant — made her chest tighten unexpectedly as she shook her head once, hesitating. "Anything," she offered in a voice barely above a whisper.

The word lingered in the air between them for a moment, then Frank rose slowly from the bed, looking down at Mel as his hands slid upward along her arms until they rested lightly near her shoulders.

The movement had been choreographed, but the warmth behind it had not. Mel felt her breath hitch as he leaned closer, voice dropping. "You're sure?"

She nodded, giving the cue, and Frank closed the distance between them, his lips brushing hers in a tentative first kiss for their characters and them.

It was softer than Mel expected: not dramatic or not theatrical — just the gentle pressure of his mouth against hers, careful and exploratory as though both characters were testing something fragile, giving parts of themselves they'd been withholding until now.

The cameras captured the moment from three angles while the room around them fell completely silent, and Frank kissed her again, a little deeper this time.

Mel responded instinctively, her hands rising to rest lightly against the sides of his neck as they'd discussed. The warmth of his skin beneath her fingers made it unexpectedly difficult to remember that there were fifteen people standing quietly around the room watching. His hand slid to the small of her back, drawing her closer, and Mel felt the steady rhythm of his breathing against her chest as they kept their movements slow and deliberate to match the pacing Cassie had described.

From somewhere beyond the cameras came the faint sound of someone shifting their weight — but inside the scene, the world had narrowed to the small circle of space between them.

Frank pulled back just long enough to search her face before kissing her again, this time angling his head slightly as his fingers curled lightly into the fabric of her shirt.

Mel felt heat rise unexpectedly in her cheeks. She had acted opposite dozens of people in her life, yet something about this moment — the familiarity of Frank's voice, the steadiness of his hands, the knowledge that this was not merely a colleague but someone she trusted deeply — made the intimacy feel far more real than she had anticipated.

When she parted her lips and met his tongue with her own, she was glad he was holding her steady. They moved toward the bed together, guided more by the choreography than conscious thought.

Frank sat first, drawing her gently down with him so she settled on his lap, straddling him as their foreheads brushing as they adjusted. He slipped a hand beneath the fabric of her shirt, groping her breast as she let out a soft sigh. She'd lost track of the amount of times she'd practiced moaning in the mirror, unsure what sounded real and what sounded performative anymore. This, she had no idea about. 

Behind the monitor Cassie leaned forward, completely absorbed by their professionalism and the waves of tension rolling off them. Mel gripped Frank's hair tighter and he let out a strangled grunt, his lips still latched around hers, more pressing and searching now.

Frank felt her eyebrows knit together against his forehead and the warmth of her tears beginning to transfer to his cheeks, remembering for a moment that he was supposed to be doing his job. He hesitated for a moment, searching for his next line — some variation of "what's wrong?" or "are you okay?" — but then Mel shifted on his lap, adjusting her weight with a low dip of her hips, and he suddenly froze.

For half a second, Mel thought she had missed a cue, then he pulled back slightly and removed his hand from where it had stilled against her breast.

Cassie looked up and Frank blinked hopelessly at Mel, who was searching his face cautiously. He cleared his throat, breaking their eye contact with a series of clarifying blinks as he turned to look at Cassie. "Time out," he simply said, trying not to laugh as the moment sobered him.

Crew members burst into quiet laughter while Mel immediately buried her face in her hands, smiling. "Oh, my God," she groaned, dismounting from his lap.

Frank leaned forward, elbows on his knees, shaking his head in embarrassment.

"I told you," Perlah said calmly from beside the monitor, not remotely surprised. "Perfectly normal."

Mel peeked through her fingers and Frank looked up at her helplessly as she dissolved into laughter. "I thought you said this was ninety percent choreography."

"Apparently the other ten percent has opinions," he muttered.

Cassie wiped tears from the corner of her eyes, humming a laugh to herself. "Alright, five minute reset everyone."

Crew members politely turned away while Frank stood and grabbed a blanket from the end of the bed, wrapping it loosely around his waist with exaggerated dignity.

Mel was still laughing as she straightened her shirt, face flushed as someone came alone with a handheld fan to help diffuse the warmth in her cheeks. Beside her, Frank took deep, steadying breaths, and stretched out his neck.

"I thought maybe you'd make it to the third or fourth take," she said, pinching her cheeks through a small.

Frank huffed. "It's been a while."

"I thought you were with that model the night before you flew out here."

He tilted his head. "So?"

"That was two weeks ago."

He lifted his eyebrows. "That is a while." 

Mel hummed a laugh as another runner passed, offering Frank a cold bottle of water that he took gratefully, taking small sips. "I don't know what you're laughing at," he began, leaning toward her conspiratorially. "Your nipples got hard the moment I got near them."

Mel blinked, startled, and felt her lips part as she fumbled for words that never game. Frank's face ceased with a smile that became a grin as he stepped away, laughing to himself as he went to talk to Cassie.

By the time they approached what everyone hoped would be the final run of the scene after six more takes, the small cabin bedroom had taken on the strange, suspended atmosphere that often settled over a set after hours of repetition. The crew moved more quietly now, their earlier chatter softened by fatigue and concentration, boots muffled against the wooden floorboards and cables coiled neatly along the edges of the room. Outside the frost-rimmed windows the evening had deepened fully into night, the forest beyond dissolving into darkness while artificial moonlight spilled through the curtains.

They had long since passed the stage of nervous politeness that had marked the first takes. Hours of repeated closeness had worn the edges off the awkwardness, replacing it with something easier. A few takes earlier, when Mel had accidentally knocked her head against the headboard and sworn under her breath mid-kiss, more laughter had followed from the room.

Now, though, the atmosphere sharpened again as the crew returned to their positions. They repeated every line and movement, motions controlled and mechanical but charged with an unmistakeable warmth.

Before Frank could feign pushing into Mel, a modesty garment over his length, a bedsheet half-pulled over his ass, he pushed her hair out of her face and held her gaze.

"I don't want anyone else."

The words were quieter this time than they had been in earlier takes, less forceful and more uncertain. Mel's fingers found the back of his neck as they had rehearsed, drawing him slightly closer until their faces hovered inches apart.

"In what way?" she asked.

"In any way," he clarified, kissing her before either of their characters could dwell on the words.

The kiss unfolded slowly, tentative at first before deepening with the rhythm they had established across the afternoon's rehearsals. From behind the camera, the sound was barely more than a soft rustle of breath and fabric, but on screen it carried the intensity Cassie had been searching for all day. Frank's hand slid up to cradle Mel's jaw while hers curled instinctively against his shoulder as the camera glided closer, capturing the small details: the rise and fall of their breathing, the way his thumb brushed the curve of her cheek, the faint shimmer of tears in her eyes.

For a moment, the room seemed to forget the presence of the crew entirely.

Then Cassie's voice broke through their pants and moans. "Cut," she called, the word landing softly, almost reluctant.

For a second, neither Mel nor Frank moved, still caught in the suspended quiet of the scene. Then, Frank exhaled and rolled carefully onto his back beside her, staring up at the ceiling with the bedspread pulled over his thigh.

"Yeah," he said after a beat, slightly breathless, "we fucking killed it."

Mel laughed quietly, turning to look at him. "Don't say that like we've just discovered method acting," she joked lightly.

Around them, the crew began to stir again as someone adjusted the lighting panel and another stepping forward to hand Frank his discarded shirt and a pair of trousers. Cassie emerged from behind the monitor with a wide smile that she tried unsuccessfully to suppress.

"That," she said, pointing gently at them both, "was the one."

A ripple of relieved applause moved through the room and Mel sat up, pushing her hair back while Frank swung his legs off the bed. They exchanged a quick glance of relief before breaking into matching grins.

"Congrats," Perlah said warmly, stepping forward. "You survived the most awkward day of filming."

Frank looked at Mel, and lifted his eyebrows as he dressed himself.

"I'd give you the Oscar for that scene alone," Cassie offered, nodding.

Frank laughed, pulling the trousers over his hips and forcing his shirt down over his head. "I'd settle for another cigarette."

Someone snapped a few behind-the-scenes photographs while the set was reset for smaller insert shots and Mel and Frank stood beside one another, both still flushed and slightly crumpled from the final take, laughing as though the entire day had been nothing more than a strange, elaborate joke that hadn't settled deep in their bones.

Packing up the cabin took longer than anyone expected, though no one seemed particularly eager to rush it. Equipment cases clicked shut one by one, cables disappeared from the floor, and the steady hum of lights being powered down left the room feeling larger and quieter than it had the entire shoot.

Mel lingered near the bed while wardrobe gathered the last of the costumes, the room looking oddly bare now that the camera rigs had been dismantled, the carefully constructed intimacy of the set already beginning to dissolve back into something ordinary. Someone carried out the bedside table while another rolled the mattress cover away, and the illusion of the scenes they had spent hours perfecting faded piece by piece.

Across the room, Frank was shrugging into his coat while talking with one of the producers, nodding along as they discussed what would happen next: editing schedules, rough cuts, the slow crawl of post-production that would stretch into the new year. Someone mentioned potential festival submissions and the conversation drifted easily between practicalities and well-wishes, everyone exchanging the familiar refrain of "we'll keep in touch" that followed the end of a small production.

Every few seconds, Frank's gaze flicked back toward Mel as if checking she hadn't slipped away without saying goodbye.

Eventually, the last equipment case was wheeled out and the room emptied almost entirely. The remaining crew offered waves and Christmas wishes as they passed through the doorway, leaving the two of them standing near the window where flecks of snow had begun to gather against the glass.

Frank walked over, rubbing his hands together against the cold. "Twenty-four days," he said, glancing around the now half-empty cabin.

Mel smiled, though the expression carried a quiet weariness beneath it. "Twenty-four long days," she corrected. 

Frank tutted, the corner of his mouth tipping. "You make it sound like being with me's a chore."

She huffed a laugh. "Isn't it?" She didn't mean it.

For a moment they simply stood there, the silence comfortable rather than awkward, and Frank shifted his weight slightly, the easy humour fading from his expression as he looked at her. "You know what you're doing for Christmas?" he asked casually, though the question had clearly been waiting for a while.

Mel tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and leaned lightly against the windowsill. "I'm not sure yet," she said. "I might take myself somewhere warm. Pretend it isn't December for a few days."

Frank nodded slowly, though his eyebrows creased with quiet concern. He'd asked the same question the last two years since her had mother died, and the answer was always some variation of the same vague plan: a short trip somewhere, a quiet few days alone, an attempt to fill the silence without drawing attention to it.

"You could still come to LA," he said gently. "Mom keeps asking if you're coming this year."

Mel laughed softly at that, the sound warming slightly at the mention. "She asks every year."

"And every year you say no."

"That's because already have a full house," she defended lamely.

Frank shook his head immediately. "You know there's always room for you." He leaned back against the wall beside her, folding his arms as he spoke. "You know my dad would insist on cooking enough food for about twenty people whether you're there or not. And Poppy still tells everyone about the time you beat her at chess after Thanksgiving dinner."

Mel's smile widened at the memory. The previous Thanksgiving had been chaotic in the best possible way: Frank's father James loudly debating film trivia across the table, his mother Michelle insisting Mel try every dessert she had made, and his sister Poppy dragging her upstairs afterwards to show her an entire wall of photographs and college acceptance letters. It had been noisy, and warm, and overwhelming in a way that felt strangely comforting.

"They were really kind to me," Mel said quietly.

"They love you," Frank replied. "Which is why you're always invited." He glanced sideways at her. "And why I worry when you disappear somewhere by yourself every Christmas."

Mel didn't answer immediately. She watched the snow gathering against the window for a moment before turning back to him, her expression soft but certain. "I know you do," she said. "And I appreciate it. Really. But I'm always going to come back." Her voice carried a sincerity that made it impossible to mistake. "But sometimes it's just easier if I go somewhere quiet for a bit."

Frank studied her for a moment, weighing whether to argue. In the end, he only sighed lightly and nodded, accepting the answer the same way he always did. "Alright," he said. "Just... send me pictures."

Mel laughed again. "Of the beach?"

"Of wherever you end up," he said. "Proof that you're actually having a nice time and not hiding in Chelsea watching Elf or something."

She tilted her head at him. "What's wrong with Elf?"

"How long you got?" he asked, which Mel pursed her lips at.

The last crew member called goodbye from the doorway then, waving as they headed out into the cold and Mel and Frank returned the gesture.

"Call me, Mel. I mean it," he instructed.

Mel nodded. "I will."

She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him in a long hug, the kind that came easily after nearly a month of working side by side and three years of friendship. Frank hugged her back just as tightly, resting his chin briefly against the top of her head.

"Take care of yourself," he murmured.

"I do."

He pulled back, though his hands remained on her shoulders for a second longer than necessary. "And if you change your mind about LA," he added, "there's a spare room waiting. Or you could stay at my place if you don't want to be around all the chaos. Whatever you want."

Mel smiled warmly. "I know."

They lingered there for a moment longer, the cold air drifting in from the open door as the last of the lights outside flickered off.

"Safe travels," Frank said, kissing her temple as they pulled apart.

"You too."

Then, she slung her bag over her shoulder and headed out into the snowy night with her suitcase trailing behind her, turning once at the path to wave before disappearing toward the waiting cars. Frank watched until she was gone, hoping wherever she ended up for Christmas would feel a little less lonely than the ones before.

2026 

The soft hum of morning traffic drifted up from the streets of Midtown as Mel and Frank stepped off the service elevator and into the polished corridor of the luxury hotel where their press day was taking place.

James, one of the event coordinators, halted abruptly halfway down the hallway, his clipboard held loosely against his chest as he blinked at the pair in surprise. "I guess you both know we've got a busy day ahead," he began monotonously. "Each interviewer will have ten minutes with both of you before we rotate them out. We'll run from nine until about six, but there's a breakfast spread available now if you want to help yourselves. The only other thing to note is— Sorry, who's this?"

His gaze flicked between Mel and the taller, broader figure walking slightly ahead of her, and for a moment Mel thought she might have forgotten Jack Abbot entirely. Jack, a broad-shouldered, steady presence in her life since she was sixteen, gave a polite nod, his jaw set and a faint crease of impatience between his greying brows. He pressed the back of his left hand lightly to his mouth and lowered the coffee he held in the other hand, as if unsure whether to introduce himself or silently let James recover.

"Jack," he offered, extending his hand and dropping it just as quickly. He slid his hand back into his pocket, clearing his throat and shifting his weight with a casual ease that belied the protective vigilance he exuded.

Jack Abbot had been by Mel's side for much of her life once she began navigating the more demanding aspects of Hollywood. While he technically worked for her agency, in practice he'd become something closer to a constant companion, particularly during moments when her anxiety or the press circuit might overwhelm her. He never lingered or stood rigidly at her elbow, just maintained a discrete distance, always observant but never obtrusive.

Growing up, Mel had learned early to navigate public attention carefully after her big break, slipping between crowds and folding herself into corners, becoming invisible when necessary. It was a skill she had refined over years, a way of keeping herself from being defined solely by the spotlight that had seemingly always consumed her. Jack had been indispensable in helping her maintain that sense of normalcy whenever the industry threatened to intrude too forcefully — before she took a step back from it, anyway.

But since her return to the industry — between campaigns, and shoots, and appearances — she'd needed Jack at her side more now than she remembered. She'd been out in the city just the week prior, wandering through SoHo in search of a gift for her agent Dana, when a sudden crush of tourists and passersby had triggered a panic flare-up. By the time she made it back to her apartment, she'd been forced to call Jack, grateful for his calm presence and the reassurance that the chaos of New York could be managed without her breaking down completely.

It was precisely because of this that Dana had insisted he accompany her today, ensuring that nothing would destabilise the carefully orchestrated press schedule — and now, of course, he was here, quietly towering over the coordinated flurry of activity.

"I'll be back at six to escort you out," Jack said quietly, his tone even but deliberate, a subtle smile touching his lips. "You'll do great today, kid. And tell Frank I say hi."

"I will. Thanks, Jack," she said, giving him a brief hug.

James, finally recovering his composure, nodded briskly. "Head in, then."

The suite itself was a study in understated luxury, the sunlight from tall arched windows spilling across the high ceilings, gleaming surfaces, and plush armchairs. Cameras were already positioned at multiple angles, capturing a setup that was more intimate than grand, intended to feel personal rather than performative.

Across from the two armchairs set for Mel and Frank, a single chair for the interviewer waited, angled slightly toward them, and nearby a poster for their film, since titled The Willows after the cabin's name, was perched on an easel: a muted, minimalist oil painting of a snow-swept cabin surrounded by skeletal trees and footprints leading to the front door, the title rendered in a simple serif font. 

While James rejoined the rest of the organising team who seemed to collectively groan at his presence, Frank emerged from the corner of the suite as if conjured, his presence filling the room with easy familiarity. "Finally," he said, his deep voice wrapping around Mel as he pulled her into a tight hug. "You made it."

Mel laughed, giving him a small squeeze in return. His frame always seemed impossibly large, and even after years of friendship, the simple act of being enveloped by him was oddly grounding.

It had been seven months since they wrapped filming, yet the intervening year had been a whirlwind: a festival screening in Cannes with Venice to follow, staggered international releases, and a trailer that had sent online speculation and their fanbases into a frenzy.

Frank guided Mel to the breakfast spread set up along the side of the suite, more for himself than her. They each helped themselves, settling at the edge of the table as they nibbled and sipped, the comfort of routine offering a brief reprieve from the intensity of the day ahead.

James had returned briefly to double-check schedules, and the journalists began arriving in staggered waves. For the first interview, a young writer from a New York-based culture magazine leaned forward, eyes bright with curiosity. "Mel, it's been a long time since we've seen you in a lead role. How was it coming back to something so emotionally raw?"

Mel's fingers traced the rim of her coffee cup. "It was terrifying," she said slowly, carefully, glancing toward Frank. "I'd been out of practice for two years, and... the story called for a level of intimacy and vulnerability I hadn't explored since. But Frank was there, and we've known each other for so long that there was this kind of trust built into every scene. It was really nice to lean on someone and feel like I could take risks."

Frank nodded, his voice warm as he added, "Working with Mel on this was a completely different thing for me. You usually become friends with your co-stars after you finish a shoot, right? But starting with that kind of understanding I think really let us become these people together instead of just performing."

The cameras clicked quietly as they continued to answer questions, seamlessly shifting between the technical challenges of producing, the immersive environment of the snowbound cabin, and the subtleties of portraying a relationship that was at once tender and fractious.

By the time the midday pause rolled around, Mel and Frank had cycled through a dozen reporters. They took a brief respite, stepping aside to refresh coffee and reassess their notes as someone touched up Mel's makeup. Outside, the hum of New York in the summer pressed against the suite's windows, a reminder that while the world continued unabated while the narrative they'd poured everything into was finally being introduced to those who would carry it to audiences.

Even amidst the structured chaos of a press day, there was a calm certainty between them as the chairs and cameras formed a small vacuum chamber where time seemed to stretch and contract around them.

They had fallen into an easy rhythm: Mel speaking softly but deliberately, offering thoughtful insights into her character's struggles and growth, and Frank leaning back with a measured calm, adding colour and warmth to the discussion while keeping a quiet eye on her, offering subtle reassurance in small gestures.

"I think both the characters are really complex, and it was nice to play someone who didn't have their life figured out and was experiencing that alongside someone else who felt the same," Mel told one interviewer, her voice gentle but assured, threading each word with the careful precision of someone aware that these snippets would be quoted and dissected.

"And what about you? Would you say that you've got your life figured out?" he prompted, glancing up at Frank, who sat with a calm, knowing smile, one hand resting lightly on his knee, legs crossed widely over one another.

Mel hesitated for the briefest fraction of a second, the soft flush rising to her cheeks, before shaking her head with a tentative laugh. "Not at all," she said finally. "I can barely decide what bagel I want when I go to the shop — everything choice feels like the end of the world."

Frank let out a low laugh, almost a hum, his eyes briefly flicking to hers, the unspoken camaraderie between them clear. "Seeded or plain," he said, shrugging in mock exasperation. "It's serious business." Mel's lips twitched as she glanced at him, amused despite herself.

The questions flowed on — about character motivations, the improvisational nature of the script, and what drew them to the project — and through each one, Mel felt Frank's presence like a tether, anchoring her through the repetitive, sometimes exhausting cycle of the day. He never dominated the conversation, but he filled the silences and complemented her observations with a warmth that made even the most loaded or awkward questions feel safe to answer.

It was during one of the later interviews that the balance was tested. The man seated before them leaned forward slightly, the kind of grin that immediately set Mel on edge. "I'm sure you've both seen the comments floating around online following the release of the trailer. Naturally, people are pretty excited to see the two of you on screen together, but we also saw some hints at an intimate moment between you two. What was it like filming that, Mel?"

Mel's chest tightened, a flicker of panic curling low in her stomach. Her hands twined in her lap as she glanced at Frank, a small, awkward laugh escaping her to buy some time. He didn't meet her gaze at first, eyes instead settled on the interviewer. "I had a great time, personally," said Frank, tone sharp but not unkind. "I think that was probably one of the funniest days we had on set."

The interviewer nodded, licking his teeth and looking between the two of them as Mel smiled politely. "I've heard it can be a pretty tedious process, that's for sure — and Mel, you've not acted in a movie since you were twenty-two, so I was wondering what it was like for you to film something so—"

"Sorry," Frank said, leaning forward. The movement was subtle but deliberate — his elbow brushing hers, a grounding presence and a shield against the invasive line of questioning — as he shrugged. "What are we doing here?"

The interviewer, somehow, looked startled at Frank's interception. He opened his mouth to speak, but Frank beat him to it. "Whatever intimacy is in the film was professional, overseen by an intimacy coordinator, and executed with respect and care. Framing it as something personal or sensational isn't fair or relevant to Mel."

The interviewer blinked once, caught off guard by the calm insistence in Frank's tone. His smile faltered, his words dying in his throat. "Sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"If you have anymore questions, I'd probably circle to those," Frank offered with a nod, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest.

The room seemed to contract for a moment around the subtle shift in authority, the energy aligning around Frank's quiet defense. Mel exhaled softly, relief unfurling like a slow wave as her shoulders released tension she hadn't even realised she was holding.

The interviewer shifted awkwardly, clearing his throat and nodding quickly before moving on to a safer, craft-focused line of questioning.

From there, the rest of the press day resumed its rhythm. The questions cycled through character motivations, favourite scenes, and the challenges of filming with such limited time, each answer flowing more smoothly now that the earlier tension had been diffused. Frank and Mel spoke in tandem, occasionally exchanging small smiles or brief glances that made even a crowded suite feel private, as though they were sharing a secret world that no one else quite understood.

When the inevitable question about nudity and intimacy arose again, Mel spoke first, her voice calm and deliberate. "It was... intense at times, but also incredibly safe," she said. "We had a full-time intimacy coordinator called Perlah, and she was amazing. And Frank and I know each other and trust one another completely, which I thinks makes all the difference."

Frank added lightly, a teasing glint in his eye but the edge of seriousness unmistakable: "Yeah. Nothing happened that wasn't choreographed or comfortable. Embarrassing at times, maybe, but always safe."

Mel smiled, tucking her lips beneath one another as she dipped her head and looked at her lap.

Through it all, their ease and mutual respect lent the answers a vibrancy that was impossible to manufacture — the shared intimacy of collaboration, friendship, and trust threaded into every sentence.

By the end of the day, as the final cameras were packed away and the last notes were taken, the suite quieted. The press team filtered out, leaving Mel and Frank with a few moments of exhausted, peaceful camaraderie.

Mel leaned back in her chair, finally allowing herself to exhale fully. Frank caught her eye, a small, mischievous smile playing across his lips, and she laughed softly, the day's tension finally slipping free. "We survived," she murmured, the words carrying equal parts relief and satisfaction.

"We did," he replied, voice warm and steady.

At the culmination of their day, it was Mel who drove Frank and Jack away from the hotel. The evening traffic had begun its slow crawl, headlights blinking on one by one as the sky shifted from pale gold into the cooler blues of early night.

Jack had folded himself awkwardly into the back seat, long legs angled sideways between the middle seats so his head wouldn't brush the roof of the car every time they passed over a bump. He had spent most of the journey lamenting, with theatrical indignation, that he should've been the one driving.

"I'm serious," he insisted, voice muffled slightly from the position he had slumped into. "I'm a better driver than both of you."

"You're also staying at a hotel five minutes away," Mel replied mildly, one hand resting loosely on the steering wheel while she waited at a light.

Frank laughed quietly beside her, elbow propped against the window as he looked out at the passing streets. Jack grumbled under his breath for another block or two before finally relenting as they pulled up outside the hotel where he was staying for the night.

He leaned forward between the seats, resting his forearms on the console. "Well, thanks for the ride," he said, a grin breaking through his earlier theatrics. "Try not to have too much fun without me."

Mel rolled her eyes fondly and Jack stepped out, bending awkwardly to clear the roof as he leaned back in through the open door to kiss Mel lightly on the cheek before offering Frank a firm handshake. A moment later, he disappeared into the lobby, his tall frame swallowed by the revolving doors.

The car grew noticeably quieter once he was gone and Frank leaned back into the passenger seat, exhaling slowly. "He would've complained the entire time if he'd been driving."

"And still claim he was doing us a favour," Mel offered.

They both laughed softly, the tension of the day dissolving into something far more relaxed now that the cameras and microphones were behind them. Instead of heading straight home, Mel turned down a quieter side street and pulled into a small parking space near a row of shops.

"Food," she announced, glancing at him.

Frank raised an eyebrow. "Food?"

"I'm starving," she said, already reaching for the door.

They stepped out into the cooling evening air and walked side by side along the pavement. The neighbourhood was lively without being chaotic — a string of small grocers, cafes, and corner shops glowing warmly under soft lights. They ducked into a small supermarket first, collecting a handful of things almost absentmindedly.

"What can you even cook with all this stuff?" Frank asked as he wheeled the cart along, glancing at the items Mel was placing inside it based on craving alone.

"I don't know if it's cooking or assembling," she offered, studying the items. "I'll figure it out."

When Mel reached for the paper bag at the checkout, Frank nudged her hand away and took it himself, following Mel to a bakery a few doors down that she'd told him time and time again was her favourite. He had a sneaking suspicion that they'd driven over here for dessert rather than dinner itself, but he leaned over the counter on his forearms and watched Mel with mild amusement as she studied the pastries thoughtfully.

"You're overthinking this," he said after a moment, smiling despite himself.

"You've not had anything from here before," Mel said softly, edging past him and peering into the cabinets lined with things Frank couldn't even conceptualise pronouncing.

"It's dessert. I'll take anything," he offered, watching as Mel turned to look at him with feigned disdain. He held up his hands and bowed his head, allowing her to continue.

After she selected a few options and the woman behind the counter boxed them up, she tried to give them to Mel and Frank for free. They declined and let her have a photo with them instead, paying and thanking her before driving to Mel's apartment.

It was a quiet residential street (quiet for New York, anyway) that Mel's building stood out in, a bright, sun-washed yellow that reflected the fading light of the day.

The staircase inside the building was narrow and winding, wooden steps worn smooth by decades of use. Each floor held only one apartment, but by the second flight Frank was already balancing the bakery box and one of the grocery bags against his hip with increasing difficulty.

"These stairs get worse every time," he muttered.

Mel laughed softly as she climbed ahead of him. "I can take something, you know. The offer still stands."

He shook his head and huffed. "Shut up."

When they reached the fourth floor, Mel unlocked the light oak door to her apartment and nudged it open with her foot as Frank stepped inside behind her and set the bags down on the kitchen counter, glancing around almost immediately with quiet curiosity.

He hadn't been there in months.

The layout was the same — the small L-shaped kitchen just inside the door, open to the living room beyond — but subtle changes had appeared everywhere. There were new plants on the shelves, their leaves spilling gently over the edges of mismatched ceramic pots. The wallpaper in the kitchen — off-white with tiny blue flowers — remained, but the shelves now held more spices, more jars and little objects that felt unmistakably Mel. He noticed a few new framed prints on the wall, too.

"You've changed things," he said.

"Have I?" she replied lightly, pulling groceries from the bag.

Frank wandered slowly through the space as she unpacked.

The living room still held the same sofa and two armchairs arranged in a semicircle around the coffee table, upholstered in the faded seventies floral print Mel loved so much. Behind them, the tall bookcase stretched across the wall — books arranged in careful sections, some stacked horizontally, others upright with little bookmarks peeking from their pages.

But there were new additions: a small lamp beside the sofa, another plant on the windowsill, a few photographs tucked between books.

Frank leaned against the counter watching her move around the kitchen, slipping tomatoes into the fridge and placing the basil gently in a glass of water.

"What time's your flight tomorrow?" she asked without looking up.

"Seven," he said. "I'll get a cab back to the hotel later."

"You don't have to."

"I know."

She glanced at him briefly. "I don't mind driving."

Frank smiled faintly, though he looked away before she could catch it fully. Part of him had been hoping she'd say that. Time between them was always limited — schedules crossing, cities changing — and they had grown used to stretching even a few hours together into something that felt meaningful.

The curtains were still open, and the last warm light of evening streamed through the large arched windows overlooking the street below.

Mel switched on the television for background noise and lowered the temperature on the air conditioning before settling onto the sofa.

"I wish you were here for more than just today," she said.

Frank dropped down beside her with a quiet exhale.

"Me too," he said. "But we've got Venice soon." She nodded, and he noticed her silence. "You'll get used to it," he reminded her. "You're still getting back into the swing of things."

They sat for a moment in comfortable silence, the long day finally catching up with them as the apartment filled with the gentle sounds of evening — the low hum of the air conditioning, the distant noise of traffic beyond the residential street.

After a beat, Mel stood again and picked up the bag of groceries with a sigh. "I hate cooking," she mumbled.

Frank lifted his eyebrows. "That's why I have Larry."

Mel squinted at him as she opened a cupboard door. "We can't all have private chefs, Frank."

He barked a laugh. "You can. I've seen your net worth. You just don't want one because it'd make you feel too bad."

"You're saying you don't feel bad?" she asked, gesturing with the packet of spaghetti in her hand.

Frank shrugged. "Larry makes me three meals a day plus snacks. I love him like he's family."

"Alright," she said, tying her hair back. "You're banned from the kitchen while I cook."

Frank raised an eyebrow. "Banned?"

"Yes."

He watched her retrieve a chopping board from the holder and place it on the counter. "You don't trust me?"

She glanced at him over her shoulder. "You're distracting."

Frank leaned against the counter anyway, elbows resting on the smooth oak surface, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watched her in the evening light spilling through the large windows. Mel said nothing, but he caught her glancing in his direction every so often, as if to check he wasn't meddling.

After ten minutes, when something was boiling and something else was sizzling, Mel turned around to look at him, asking, "So... that model you were seeing. How's that going?"

Frank exhaled slowly, a faint laugh escaping him as he shook his head. "It didn't really work out," he admitted, leaning his forehead against his hand for a moment. "I wanted to keep it casual, you know? But apparently that's not how relationships are supposed to work."

Mel raised an eyebrow, tilting her head slightly as she wiped her hands on a towel and reached for the basil, turning back toward the chopping board.

"Maybe it's because you don't know how to commit," she teased lightly, though the comment lingered between them in a more reflective way than either immediately acknowledged.

Frank's eyebrows furrowed slightly, amusement and curiosity warring in his expression. "Oh yeah? When was the last time you committed?" he asked with a laugh.

Mel paused, a quiet shadow crossing her face as she recalled John, the time they had shared, and the grief that had quietly severed their bond. She didn't answer immediately, just let her hands still on the knife and the basil before setting them both down.

Frank noticed the pause, the shift in her demeanor, and immediately softened. "Sorry," he said gently, voice low as he pushed himself upright. "I didn't mean to— I was joking. Really."

Mel gave him a faint smile when she turned around, crossing her arms over her stomach. "I know," she said simply, the tension easing. "It's okay."

"No, it's not, I should've thought—"

"He's happy," Mel interrupted, nodding gently. "Last I heard, he came second at the Palmer invitational."

Frank lifted his eyebrows. "Last you heard, or last you Googled?"

Mel pressed her lips together but couldn't fully suppress her smile. "Googled," she admitted. "But we spoke on the phone a couple of weeks ago and he got himself some new clubs and renewed his Nike sponsorship, so he can't be all that bad."

Frank huffed a laugh. "I wouldn't be that bad either if all I had to do was hit a couple birdies."

"You score birdies. I think," Mel corrected. 

"Not much of a big golfer myself."

"Probably for the best," Mel replied, though she couldn't help the way the corners of her mouth etched into a frown.

She really had loved him — even when they'd broken up, she'd still felt something for John — but Mel couldn't remember what gala they'd been at when they met, she just remembered it was something she'd been contractually obligated to attend. LACMA, or something like it. She hadn't been old enough to drink, and he'd sworn off alcohol while he was competing, so they'd bonded over that when he sidled up to her at the bar and perched on the stool beside her. He'd been funny, and charming, and just the right amount of cocky that it didn't make her stomach swirl uncomfortably. 

Mel knew nothing about golf, so he'd explained it to her. John knew nothing about acting, so she'd told him the least boring parts. He'd been most of her firsts — first fuck, first "I love you", first break up — but Trinity Santos had been her first kiss when she was sixteen on the set of a coming-of-age film that had premiered at the Berlinale. Trinity still texted her about it to this day, and Mel still got flustered when she saw clips of it floating around.

Either way, she'd loved John — but the passing of her mother had been too much to deal with, and when she'd felt herself slipping away, she'd cut it off even when he'd offered to pull her back in. It wasn't fair to him, she'd told Samira stoically, even when she'd spent days crying over it.

She shook the thought free from her head as she finished cutting the basil, and her and Frank stood in companionable silence as he helped her plate up, his hand hovering on her lower back whenever he had to step around her, almost apologetic in its lingering warmth. They didn't talk about it again, just pretended he'd never brought it up in the first place as they watched a film and let the soft domestic rhythm of the apartment envelop them, both acutely aware that their time together was limited and the world outside still demanded attention.

By the time the morning light crept in slowly, pale and diffused through the arched windows of Mel's living room, Frank had fallen asleep on the couch across from her, halfway off as his hand contorted awkwardly against the carpeted floor.

Mel stirred first, a faint rustle of blankets and a quiet intake of breath as she blinked against the weak golden rays, catching sight of Frank's relaxed face, unshaven and peaceful in a way she rarely saw outside of these rare, unscheduled moments.

She reached for her phone on the coffee table, the screen illuminating the unread messages and missed calls. A quick glance told her everything she needed to know: Frank's flight had long since departed. She let her head loll to the did on defeat, rubbing at her eyes as she outstretched a leg to gently kick his arm.

Frank shifted slightly, a low groan escaping he adjusted himself.

"Morning," she murmured softly, the words warm with astonishment.

Frank blinked slowly, his gaze settling on her in that hazy post-sleep daze. "Morning," he rasped, voice thick with sleep as he ruffled his hair with a flat palm. "Did I miss it?"

"By about two hours," she said lightly, tilting her head and reading the messages from Dana again. "Dana said Robby's put you the two o'clock flight instead."

Frank craned his neck to look at Mel, squinting. "How does Dana know?"

"Robby thought you might be here. Your keycard at the hotel never logged you coming back."

A rueful grin spread across his face as he pushed himself upright, sloping his arms against the back of the couch. "Figures."

They lingered on the sofa for a few minutes longer, letting the world outside the apartment remain paused as they sipped coffee Mel had brewed and took turns to shower. He wore the same clothes as yesterday and borrowed a cologne he didn't want to know why Mel owned — and by mid-morning, they were outside and slipping into the chaos of the city.

They adopted a couple of Citi Bikes ditched at the end of Mel's street and tugged their caps lower over their heads, Mel gripping onto her handlebars while Frank alternated between one hand and no hands at all.

The city rolled past them in a blur of warm brick buildings and vibrant shopfronts as they rode in easy synchrony, the exertion of cycling mingling with the lightness of a day free from schedules, cameras, and scripted questions.

A handful of fans spotted them, and they stopped for photos each time, half-off their bikes as they smiled and leaned in, arms draped around whoever it was who'd had their day made by meeting them.

Frank made the same quiet joke about the bikes being faster than the paparazzi each time it happened, and Mel always laughed accordingly, the sound husky and melodic. The interaction was brief but genuine, leaving both of them smiling as the fans scurried away, exhilarated and slightly breathless.

They continued down the streets, taking the long way back to Frank's hotel — and when they finally reached it, Mel felt oddly hollow, like she'd expected it to be worlds away. But Frank had his family to her back to, and another actress or model he'd probably pick up as soon as he landed, and she would be seeing him in a month, anyway, so she didn't let herself dwell on the disparate feeling of emptiness that always accompanied his departure. She didn't let himself go inside with him, because she'd learned long ago that going into a hotel with anyone for any reason would have her wind up on a Reddit thread she had no interest in reading, so she said goodbye to him on the street.

"Safe flight," she mumbled into his chest as Frank encircled his arms around her, her own limply coming up to his back.

"Get home safe," he told her, kissing the top of her head. "I'll see you in Venice."

Late afternoon light settled over the Venetian lagoon with a theatrical patience, as though the city itself understood the role it played each year when the Venice Film Festival arrived. The water surrounding the Lido shimmered with pale blue reflections and the low hum of boat engines weaved itself through the sound of the distant applause drifting across the promenade from earlier arrivals. There was movement everywhere — boats ferrying actors, directors, and producers across the lagoon; photographers gathering behind carefully placed barricades; festival staff speaking urgently into headsets while the last of the evening's preparations clicked quietly into place — and Mel, surprisingly, felt less out of place than she'd expected.

She'd always liked Venice most out of all the film festivals she'd attended, though she'd lost track of that number long ago. She liked that entire city seemed to breathe cinema for the festival's few days, but she wasn't so sure about the part she played in it yet.

Across the lagoon, a long boat cut through the water toward the Lido, its wake scattering ribbons of silver across the surface. Mel sat near the bow, one hand resting lightly against the polished railing as the warm wind moved gently through the loose strands of hair framing her face.

Beside her, Frank leaned back against the cushioned seat, his posture relaxed in the easy way he carried himself at public events, though she could tell from the slight tension in his jaw that he was feeling the same quiet electricity she was.

He caught her glancing at him and smiled faintly. "Still nervous?"

She exhaled slowly. "Only mildly terrified."

"That's progress."

The boat curved closer to the dock where the festival arrivals took place and even from a distance, the noise of the crowd began to swell with cheers, voices calling names, and the constant mechanical rhythm of camera shutters snapping in quick bursts.

Mel shifted slightly in her seat, smoothing the fabric of her dress almost unconsciously, scared to ruin the finished product of several fittings in Rome only weeks earlier. The final floor-length column of pale silk skimmed her frame with effortless precision, the neckline soft and sculptural as her hair fell across her back in a loose braid, the antithesis to Frank's charcoal suit.

He noticed her adjusting the fabric again and lifted his eyebrows. "You look beautiful, Mel," he said quietly. "Stop fidgeting."

Mel smiled bashfully, though the compliment made her cheeks warm. "You can't say that every time like it's a get out of jail free card."

"It's true every time," he told her, leaning further back into the chair and adjusting his sunglasses.

Before she could respond, the boat slowed as it approached the dock, and the noise intensified instantly. A line of photographers leaned forward behind the barriers, lenses lifting like a sudden forest of glass and metal as the vessel glided into place. Festival staff moved quickly along the dock, guiding the boat gently against the edge while security stepped forward to assist.

Frank stood first, offering Mel his hand.

She accepted it, rising carefully to her feet as the hem of her dress settled around her ankles. For a brief moment, before stepping onto the dock, she paused and looked out into the lights and the crowd, realising just how many people were shouting their names.

Frank leaned slightly closer. "You're fine," he told her steadily. "We've got this."

They stepped onto the dock together and the sound hit them immediately in a a rolling wave of applause and excited voices that echoed across the water as photographers began calling out directions in quick succession.

The flashbulbs created a constant murmur of light, brief bursts illuminating the evening air as the two of them moved slowly along the walkway toward the red carpet.

Frank's hand settled instinctively against the small of Mel's back and she felt the steady warmth of his palm through the silk of her dress, a quiet reassurance that steadied her breathing as they paused for photographs.

They turned slightly, shoulders angled toward each other as the photographers fired off another volley of images.

He craned his neck, turning his mouth away from the camera. "You'd have thought they'd got a good shot by now," he said, warm breath fanning her ear.

She let out a soft laugh that got lost beneath the noise of the crowd, then continued forward along the carpet, stopping periodically as journalists called their names. Fans pressed against the barricades holding programmes or holding their phones outstretched for photos. Mel signed a few quickly, smiling shyly as someone told her they couldn't wait to see the film.

Frank handled the interaction with the same easy confidence he always seemed to summon in public spaces, occasionally leaning down to exchange a few words with fans or pose for selfies before moving along. By the time they reached the entrance to the theatre, Mel felt the strange mixture of exhilaration and exhaustion that always accompanied events like this.

Inside, the noise softened to a quieter, more reverent atmosphere. The interior of the screening hall glowed with warm light, rows of velvet seats stretching down toward the massive screen where the festival logo shimmered faintly.

Dana appeared almost instantly, moving through the lobby with the same unmistakable energy she always carried. "You survived the carpet," she said with a nod, scanning Mel quickly for any sign of distress.

"Barely," Mel offered through a laugh.

"You look stunning, kid." She turned toward Frank with a nod. "You're not so bad either."

"Thanks, Dana. You're beautiful as ever."

She squinted at him. "Watch yourself."

Robby appeared shortly after, hands tucked into the pockets of his dark jacket as though he would rather be almost anywhere else. "Congratulations," Robby said dryly.

"On what?" Frank asked, eyebrows furrowing.

"Making an indie drama the most anticipated screening of the night."

Frank blinked. "That sounds like praise."

"It's the closest you'll get to it," Robby offered, clapping his back then leaning in to hug Mel as the group moved toward their assigned seats in the slowly filling theatre.

When the lights began to dim, Mel leaned slightly toward Frank. "Do you think it'll be obvious?"

Frank huffed a humourless laugh. "No. I'm not staying for this shit."

Mel smiled. They both had the same habit. Watching themselves on screen had always been a peculiar form of self-conscious torture neither of them enjoyed for long, so they never stayed. Besides, they'd already watched this film more than all their other projects combined since being producers, spending hours in the editing suite watching different cuts of them pretending to fuck or shouting at each other.

When the opening credits appeared, they sat quietly and watched the first moments unfold — the snowy landscape, the distant cabin, the quiet tension of the opening sequence — then Frank nudged Mel's knee with his own and they slipped quietly from their seats.

Moving along the side aisle with practiced subtlety, they exited the theatre just as the first major dialogue scene began — and outside, the festival bar hummed with a completely different atmosphere.

Soft jazz played somewhere in the background while clusters of guests gathered around small tables, glasses of wine catching the light of the overhead lamps.

Frank exhaled dramatically and Mel laughed softly, the tension she'd felt dissipating. "I always feel slightly guilty," she admitted as he pulled out a seat for her at the bar, settling on a small table near the window that overlooked the lagoon.

"You shouldn't," he replied, nodding toward the bar. "Drink?"

She leaned back in her chair, watching the reflections of distant boats shimmer across the water while Frank left and returned with two glasses of something sparking, settling across from her with his legs crossed widely one over the other.

They clinked glasses softly because it felt like something they should do, then he glanced toward the theatre doors. "Everyone in there's about to watch us fuck, you know."

Mel winced, stretching out her neck with closed eyes. "Do you have to say it like that?"

Frank raised his eyebrows. "Well, what would you call it?"

Mel opened her eyes, looking thoughtful for a moment as Frank held her gaze steadily. She subsided with a brief tilt of her head. "Fucking, I guess."

* * * 

The screening ended long after Mel and Frank had slipped away from the theatre, but word of the reception travelled quickly through the winding corridors of the Lido. By the time the final applause rolled through the screening hall and spilled out into the lobby — loud, sustained, the kind of applause that carried a distinct note of genuine enthusiasm — messages were already appearing on both of their phones from publicists, agents, and friends who had stayed inside to watch the entire film.

Cassie's message came first. 

Standing ovation. I hope you two are proud of yourselves.

Mel read it aloud as she and frank finished their drinks, her voice carrying a warm mixture of disbelief and quiet relief. Frank leaned back in his chair, one arm draped lazily over the backrest, the corners of his mouth lifting into a small smile that was equal parts pride and amusement.

"See?" he said. "Skipping out clearly worked in our favour."

Mel laughed softly, and eventually the two of them drifted back toward the festival crowds, drawn by the inevitable gravity of the post-premiere dinner that had been arranged for the film's cast and crew. Venice during the festival had a way of blending celebration with exhaustion, and the dinner had been arranged at a small waterside restaurant tucked along the quieter edge of the Lido, its terrace extending out toward the lagoon where lanterns swayed gently in the evening breeze. The tables were scattered with flickering candles and low arrangements of white flowers, the entire space glowing softly under the warm amber light of suspended glass lamps.

When Mel and Frank arrived, they were greeted immediately by Cassie, who had already claimed a seat at the long table along with several members of the production team. Cassie looked radiant in the loose, slightly rumpled way that directors often did after premieres: her hair tied back hastily, a glass of wine already in hand, her expression animated with the aftershock of adrenaline.

"There you are," she said as they approached, pointing accusingly at both of them. "I pick a seat at the end of the row and two disappear before the title card."

Frank pulled out a chair beside Mel, his grin unapologetic. "You told us you didn't want actors hovering over the audience reaction."

"That's not what I meant and you know it," she returned with a scowl.

Mel leaned forward, resting her elbows lightly against the table as she laughed. "Good news about the standing ovation, though."

Cassie's expression softened immediately. "It was beautiful," she said, more sombre this time. "You should've stayed."

The table gradually filled with the rest of the team and a handful of festival guests as conversation flowed easily and the initial tension of the evening dissolved into relief.

Mel sat beside Frank along one side of the table, occasionally leaning toward him to exchange quiet comments while Cassie animatedly described the audience's reaction to certain scenes.

"You should have heard the silence during the third act," Cassie was saying, gesturing with her glass. "That kind of silence where nobody even moves."

Frank nodded thoughtfully. "That's usually a pretty good sign."

Mel listened with quiet fascination, still adjusting to the idea that the film they had shot in the snowy isolation of a small set months earlier was now being discussed with such enthusiasm in one of the most famous film festivals in the world.

Every so often, someone would approach the table to congratulate them, pausing briefly to shake hands or exchange a few words before moving on to the next gathering of festival guests, but it was sometime during the second course that Abigail Wesley appeared and stayed.

Mel noticed her first as a movement near the edge of the terrace — a tall woman with honey-blonde hair pulled into a loose knot, wearing a sleek black dress that fell in clean, sculptural lines along her frame — and she moved through the restaurant with the quiet confidence of someone accustomed to being noticed, pausing briefly beside their table with a small, almost tentative smile.

"Hi," she said politely as the group gradually turned toward her. "I'm so sorry to interrupt," she continued, her voice warm but slightly nervous, "but I just wanted to say I loved the film."

Cassie immediately straightened in her chair. "Not a bad interruption," she offered.

She laughed softly and Frank studied her for a moment, recognition flickering across his expression.

"Abigail, right?"

She blinked, pleasantly surprised, then smiled. "Abby."

Mel glanced between them, curiosity piqued.

Abby was not unfamiliar to anyone who followed fashion even casually; she'd become a regular presence on runways in Paris, Milan, and New York, her campaigns appearing in magazines and billboards with increasing frequency over the past few years. Mel had seen her face plastered across the side of a bus in London about a year ago — but in person, she seemed far less intimidating than her public image suggested.

Up close, her features carried an easy warmth — freckles scattered lightly across her nose, her expression open and genuine rather than carefully curated — and she was smiling like she was nervous to be at their table. She sounded more English in person than she had in the interviews Mel had seen. 

"Mel," Abby said with a smile, turning toward her, suddenly shaking her head. "I mean— Sorry. You're Mel."

Mel felt her cheeks warm slightly as she let out a soft laugh. "That's me."

"I've loved your films forever," Abby offered, placing a hand to her chest. "That film you did where you went and found your dad and he was a big actor? That changed my life. How old were you?"

Mel lifted her eyebrows and looked down at her plate as she smiled humbly. "Uh, twelve."

Abby shook her head. "Honestly, you were amazing."

Mel smiled again, her face almost entirely red now, and Frank gestured casually toward the empty chair beside him.

"Do you want to join us?"

Abby hesitated only briefly before accepting. "If you're sure I'm not intruding."

"You're absolutely intruding," Cassie said cheerfully. "But it's fine. Sit."

Abby settled into the chair, smoothing her dress lightly before reaching for the water glass placed in front of her. Conversation resumed almost immediately, the dynamic shifting naturally as Abby slipped into the group with surprising ease. She spoke animatedly about the film, mentioning specific moments she had loved — the quiet tension between the characters, the way the snowy landscape felt almost like another presence within the story — and they everyone listened as though they'd never seen it themselves.

"You could feel how isolated they were," she said thoughtfully. "It made everything feel so intimate."

Mel found herself relaxing as the discussion unfolded. Abby's enthusiasm seemed sincere rather than performative, and within minutes her, Frank, and Abby had fallen into an easy rhythm of conversation that felt remarkably natural.

Frank asked about the fashion shows she'd recently walked in Paris, and Abby joked about the chaos of backstage dressing rooms and the endless cycle of flights between cities. "You wouldn't believe how little sleep everyone gets during fashion week," she said, shaking her head.

Frank smiled, one corner of his mouth tipping higher than the other. "Or how good you look without any."

Mel laughed quietly beside him, suddenly feeling like she was intruding.

For a while, the evening drifted along with wine glasses refilled, plates cleared and replaced, and the faint sound of music drifting in from somewhere further down the terrace — but eventually, Mel began to feel the quiet weight of exhaustion creeping into her limbs.

The premiere, and the red carpet, and the crowds had all required a kind of social energy she was still learning to sustain. She turned toward Frank, and saw that his hand was on the back of Abby's chair. "I think I might head back soon," she murmured.

He faced her, briefly abandoning the conversation he was having with Abby and noticing the fatigue in her expression. "You sure?" he asked.

She nodded. "Yeah, I'm just tired."

Cassie overheard the exchange and reached across the table to squeeze Mel's hand gently. "You've earned the sleep," she said, nodding in the direction of the door. "Go."

Mel stood slowly, smoothing the fabric of her dress as she gathered her small clutch.

"It was really nice meeting you," Abby said warmly as Mel stepped away from the table.

"You too," Mel replied, smiling back but noticing that she was glancing between Abby and Frank instinctively.

They looked comfortable beside each other — Frank leaning back slightly in his chair, Abby resting her elbow against the table as she listened to something Cassie was saying — and she inhaled deeply to steady herself.

"Goodnight."

Frank rose halfway from his chair.

"I'll walk you to the boat."

"No, no, you're good," she argued, shooing him away with her hands. "Stay."

Frank pressed his lips into a thin line and followed her through the restaurant anyway.

Outside, the night air felt cooler along the waterfront, the lagoon stretching dark and glassy beneath the scattered lights of the city beyond. "She's nice," Mel said, turning toward him and brushing a strand of hair out of her face when the breeze blew it awry.

"Abby?" he asked, walking with his hands in his pockets. "Yeah, she's great."

For some reason, she'd been expecting him to say more — but Frank had always been one to keep his cards close to his chest. If he was thinking what Mel was, he wouldn't tell her now: probably in the morning when he rolled out of bed an hour after everyone else, eyes heavy and limbs dead.

"Text me when you get back to the hotel," he said when they reached the edge of the dock. "I'll come get you for breakfast in the morning."

Mel nodded, wrapping her arms around herself. "Sounds good."

They exchanged a brief hug before she stepped onto the waiting boat, the engine humming softly as it pulled away from the dock. Frank remained standing there for a moment, watching the small vessel glide out across the water before turning back toward the restaurant.

By the time he returned to the table, Abby and Cassie were deep in conversation about filmmaking versus fashion photography, laughing over some shared anecdote about chaotic production schedules.

Frank slid back into his seat. "What did I miss?" Abby smiled.

The dinner continued for another hour, gradually winding down as guests drifted away toward other festival parties scattered across the island. Eventually, Frank and Abby found themselves lingering near the entrance of the restaurant, the night air warm around them as they stepped outside.

They were still talking when a camera shutter neither of them noticed clicked somewhere across the street — but a photographer stationed quietly near the edge of the promenade had captured the moment perfectly: Frank leaning slightly toward Abby as she laughed, the two of them framed by the soft glow of lantern light along the waterfront.

The photograph would appear online only a few hours later. By the time Mel woke the following morning, the headline had already begun circulating across entertainment sites.

VENICE SPARK? Frank Langdon spotted leaving dinner with model Abigail Wesley after Willows premiere

Mel stared at the image for a long moment. The photo itself was harmless — two people talking outside a restaurant — but the speculation surrounding it had already begun to spiral, and she felt something small and uncomfortable tighten briefly in her chest. When she closed the tab and went to search his name, it wasn't beside hers anymore but grouped with Abby's instead.

She tried to tell herself it didn't matter.

Heather Collins' office overlooked a narrow stretch of Manhattan street where taxis drifted past in slow bursts of yellow and the building itself was older: one of those townhouses that had been converted into a series of small private practices. The hallway outside still smelled faintly of polished wood and old carpet, and the office Heather worked in had clearly been renovated since the last time Mel had visited in person.

She noticed it the moment she stepped inside.

The room had once been painted a deep, muted green — something calm and grounding that softened the edges of the space — but now the largest wall had been repainted a pale, cheerful orange. The change seemed to ripple across everything else: the cushions on the sofa, the rug beneath the coffee table that carried faint golden threads through its pattern, and a collection of small ceramic objects sat that neatly arranged along the bookshelf in shades Mel couldn't quite name.

Mel lowered herself onto the familiar two-seater sofa and glanced around the room with quiet curiosity, trying to decide whether she liked the change or not.

Across from her, Heather noticed the way her gaze lingered on the wall. Heather sighed and tapped her fingers against her calf where her legs were crossed.

"You hate it, don't you?" she said, grimacing. "The building administrator thought navy and green were depressing."

Mel blinked, caught off guard. "I don't hate it," she began, looking around again and trhing hard to summon something encouraging. "It's— it's nice." 

Heather narrowed her eyes immediately. "That's very kind of you," she said dryly, "but I hate it. I've been getting headaches all week."

Mel laughed softly, the sound easing some of the tension she'd carried with her up the stairs. The colour itself wasn't terrible — she could admit that much — but there was simply a lot of it.

"I would've chosen blue," Heather added, gesturing vaguely at the wall. "But apparently that wasn't considered."

Mel leaned back into the sofa, folding one leg beneath her. "I think you'll get used to it."

Heather waved a hand dismissively. "I think I'll have to."

Then, she shifted slightly in her chair and smiled across the room. "How are you, Mel?"

It was a simple question, one Mel had answered hundreds of times over the years — during interviews, during meetings, during phone calls with friends who lived on different continents — but hearing it here always made her pause.

"Oh," she said slowly. "Are you sure we can't keep talking about the paint?"

Heather's smile widened. "Nice try."

Mel had been seeing Heather for nearly three years now, ever since the quiet, hollow weeks that followed her mother's death when the world had felt oddly suspended around her, as though everything else continued moving while she remained fixed in place.

At first, the sessions had been something arranged gently but firmly by her Dana, who understood better than most how dangerous it could be for someone in Mel's position to simply carry on working without allowing the grief to surface somewhere safe. What had begun as a reluctant obligation gradually became something Mel relied on: a calm, private room where she could set aside the careful composure she wore in interviews and meetings and speak honestly about the strange dissonance of returning to work without her mother's voice somewhere in the background.

Heather had an unhurried patience about her, the sort that never forced Mel to explain more than she was ready to, but somehow still managed to draw out the quieter truths she tended to bury beneath everything else. Over time, the sessions became less about surviving the loss itself and more about learning how to build a life that continued around it: a process Mel still wasn't entirely certain she had mastered.

Mel exhaled quietly and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I'm okay," she said eventually. "Really."

Heather nodded once, accepting the answer but not fully satisfied by it. "That's good," she replied. "You've had quite a year."

Mel shifted slightly on the sofa. "You mean the film?"

"I mean everything."

Heather reached for the mug resting beside her chair and lifted it into both hands.

"I saw you on the cover of Vogue last week," she continued. "You looked very composed."

Mel felt a small, embarrassed smile tug at the corner of her mouth. "Thank you."

Heather had developed a habit over the years of collecting Mel's magazine covers whenever she came across them — something she insisted helped her understand the difference between the version of Mel that existed publicly and the quieter person who sat in this room every few months — but had noticed that Mel rarely spoke about her personal life in interviews.

Fans often speculated about it endlessly online, but the details remained private. Heather knew the truth behind most of those silences: the grief that had followed her mother's death, the breakup with John, the quiet effort it took to rebuild the rhythm of her life.

"You're getting better at receiving praise," Heather observed.

Mel rubbed the side of her nose absentmindedly, a familiar nervous gesture. "Frank says I can't avoid it," she admitted. "So I mostly just stay quiet and let people talk."

Heather smiled at that. "That sounds like progress," she offered, sounding more like Frank than Mel wanted to let herself realise.

For a moment, the room settled into a comfortable silence, the faint hum of traffic drifting up from the street below. "So," Heather said eventually, "what does the next few months look like for you?"

Mel let out a soft breath. "Busy."

"How busy?"

She hesitated. "I'm going to LA next week. There's another round of interviews and a couple of studio meetings."

Heather nodded. "And then?"

Mel leaned her head back against the sofa. "Then I've got auditions," she said quietly. "Big ones."

Heather raised an eyebrow. "What kind of big?"

"The kind where the scripts arrive with watermarks and you're not allowed to print them."

Heather laughed. "Very big, then."

Mel nodded, shifting in her seat. "There are two studio films I'm reading for next month. One of them is a period drama and the other's this indie film. More crying and screaming, probably."

"And how do you feel about that?"

Mel stared for a moment at the pale orange wall across the room. "Good, I guess," she offered. "It's good to get it out somewhere, but it still feels weird."

"In what way?"

Mel considered the question carefully. "For so long after mom died, everything just... stopped," she said. "And I know it's because I chose to step away from it, but it still felt like I was moving through everything at half speed."

Her voice remained calm, but the words carried a quiet weight. "But now suddenly everything is happening again," she continued. "Interviews, premieres, auditions, meetings. Dana keeps sending me scripts that are massive."

Heather tilted her head slightly.

"That sounds overwhelming."

"It is a bit." Mel laughed faintly. "But I keep thinking about how much she would have loved all of it," she added after a moment. Heather didn't interrupt, and Mel looked down at her hands to buy herself times. "She used to read every script before I accepted a role," she said. "Even when I was sixteen and convinced I understood everything."

"And now?"

Mel shrugged. "Now I read them on my own."

There was a pause, then Heather asked gently, "How are you managing that?"

Mel considered the question. "Frank helps," she said quietly.

Heather's expression softened. "In what way?"

Mel smiled faintly. "He's very steady," she said. "Even when everything else feels chaotic. He's always there to pick up the phone."

Heather leaned forward slightly, resting her elbows on her knees. "An anchor," she said.

"Something like that," Mel replied thoughtfully. "He's good at reminding me that none of this is permanent," she added. "That the noise of it all comes and goes."

Heather studied her expression carefully.

"And how does that feel?"

Mel thought about it. "Safe," she said.

Heather smiled.

"That's a good word."

The conversation drifted gradually into lighter territory after that — stories about press junkets, awkward interviews, the peculiar ritual of walking red carpets while pretending not to notice hundreds of cameras — and at one point, it stopped feeling like a therapy session altogether. They spoke for nearly another hour before the session finally ended, the late afternoon light shifting across the windows as the city outside moved steadily into evening.

When Mel stepped back onto the street, she walked toward the subway station a few blocks away, slipping her headphones around her neck as she descended the stairs into the station.

The platform was crowded but not chaotic, and Mel found a seat near the end of the carriage when the train arrived, pulling a paperback from her bag and opening it across her lap as the doors slid closed. For several minutes she read quietly, letting the rhythm of the train settle her thoughts.

Then she felt it: the strange sensation of being watched. She glanced up and across the carriage, a young woman stood near the doors, her hands tucked into the pockets of a light jacket as she stared openly at Mel.

Mel smiled politely and the girl blinked, suddenly aware of herself.

"Are you Mel King?" she mouthed. Mel nodded and the girl looked momentarily horrified by her own boldness.

"I'm so sorry," she said quickly as she approached, taking up the empty seat beside her. "I didn't mean to stare."

"No, it's alright," Mel said warmly, removing her headphones. "What's your name?"

"Emma," she replied.

"It's nice to meet you, Emma."

They shook hands awkwardly as the train rattled along the tracks beneath the city. Emma looked slightly stunned. "I'm in film school," she blurted suddenly. "We were literally watching one of your movies in class last week."

Mel laughed softly. "Really?"

"Yeah."

The conversation unfolded easily after that: Emma explaining she was studying cinematography, Mel asking about her plans after graduation, the two of them swaying gently with the movement of the train as commuters shuffled around them.

By the time Mel's stop approached, she had scribbled Emma's contact information onto the back of a receipt with a promise to pass it along to someone she knew at a studio. As the train slowed, Mel gathered her bag and stood.

"Good luck with everything," she said.

Emma looked completely overwhelmed and mumbled gratitude as Mel stepped onto the platform and turned briefly to wave before the doors slid shut again.

When she finally emerged onto the street, the sky above the city had deepened into evening and her phone buzzed. She glanced down at the notification and laughed aloud. Frank had posted an Instagram story.

franklangdon: @melking spotted in LA

The attached photo showed a towering billboard glowing above swathes of cars and people in LA: a Lancôme campaign image of Mel gazing serenely into the camera. She Mel stared at it for a moment before smiling and swiping up, replying with mock abuse before returning home.

Dennis Whitaker had known Frank for so long that it was difficult for either of them to remember a time when the other hadn't existed somewhere in the background of their life. They had met at school as teenagers — two boys with far too much energy and nowhere particularly useful to direct it — and had remained stubbornly, loyally intertwined ever since.

Dennis had always been the louder of the two, the one with a guitar slung over his shoulder and a habit of turning even the dullest afternoon into some kind of performance, while Frank had gravitated naturally towards the stage in a different way. Now, Dennis was a musician in his own right, spending much of his time touring or buried in studios — though whenever their schedules aligned, he had an uncanny ability to reappear in Frank's life as though the years between their teenage bedrooms and their adult careers had never quite happened.

But Yolanda Garcia had entered that orbit far more recently, though with a confidence that made it seem as though she had always belonged there. Frank had met her about a year earlier during a magazine shoot in LA where she'd been hired as the photographer, and what began as an easy rapport between subject and camera had quickly developed into something closer to friendship. Since then, she'd drifted naturally into his small circle of friends, film camera often in hand as she documented the quiet and chaotic moments of their lives with the same sharp eye that had first brought them together.

Dennis and Yolanda had been sitting at the breakfast bar in Frank's house for the better part of an hour, the two of them leaning lazily against the granite counter as though they had nowhere else in the world to be, while Frank occupied the long dining table on the opposite side of the open-plan room with a growing air of frustration.

His accountant had gone on holiday the week before and the request for a particular document from Robby had arrived at precisely the wrong moment. Frank had been told he needed to find something buried somewhere in the stacks of paperwork before him — what exactly that something was, he hadn't entirely understood — and so he'd resigned himself to combing through every folder in the vague hope that recognition alone would strike when he saw it.

Receipts, tax forms, contracts, and letters had been shuffled, examined, discarded, and stacked again in neat, increasingly meaningless piles. The late afternoon sun filtered through the tall windows lining the wall behind him, stretching long gold lines across the terracotta tiles while the quiet domestic calm of the house was punctuated only by the rustle of paper and the low murmur of Dennis and Yolanda's conversation behind him.

They had clearly moved on to drinks some time ago.

"I'm just saying," Dennis was insisting, gesturing loosely with the glass in his hand as he spoke, "if you're sleeping with a girl, you should—"

"Go down first," Frank interjected absently.

He had turned another plastic sleeve in the folder and, finally, there it was. Relief flickered across his face as he slid the sheet free and scanned it quickly before closing the folder and abandoning the whole stack of paperwork on the table.

"Fuck, Frank," Yolanda laughed, twisting around on her stool to look at him. "We thought you were miles away."

"No," he said as he stood and crossed the room to join them. "I was listening."

Yolanda reached up to the cabinet above the counter, pulled down a heavy-bottomed glass, and filled it with ice from the dispenser. The cubes clattered against the crystal before she poured a measure of whisky and slid the glass across the counter towards him.

"That's your strategy, then?" Dennis said, raising an eyebrow.

Frank leaned his elbows on the counter and took a slow sip, the cool burn settling comfortably in his chest.

"Why not?" he said lightly. "If you finish early like you do, at least you've already done something helpful."

Yolanda burst out laughing while Dennis groaned loudly, swearing at both of them as they talked over each other.

"I mean, he's not wrong," Yolanda added with a grin, gesturing to Frank. "Have you seen the number of people lining up to be with Frank? Whatever you're doing seems to be working."

"And he's not even trying," Dennis shot back.

"Because he really wants—"

"You're done," Frank cut in, though the corner of his mouth twitched.

Dennis pointed at him accusingly. "Touchy."

Frank shot him a flat look that only made the two of them laugh harder.

For a moment, the three of them sat in companionable quiet, the warm glow of sunset creeping across the room and casting long shadows across the floor.

"You alright?" Dennis asked eventually.

Frank turned the glass slowly between his hands. "Yeah," he said after a moment. "I'm good."

Yolanda studied him with a knowing expression. "You've been weird since we got here."

Frank hesitated. "Mel flies in tomorrow."

The reaction from both of them was immediate. Frank hadn't seen Mel in person for almost a month, since Venice. They'd both been travelling constantly since then, and while they still spoke often, the rhythm of it had shifted.

What had once been daily calls had slowly become every few days. It wasn't intentional, but he missed her more than he liked admitting.

"I'm excited to see her," Dennis said, pouting. "It's been ages."

Frank nodded faintly. "Yeah."

He turned the glass again.

"I just don't know how much time we'll actually get. She's here for the Variety interview and a couple meetings, then she's straight back to New York."

"Well," Yolanda said decisively, tapping the counter, "that's why you should come out tonight. Keep you busy til she gets here."

Frank raised an eyebrow. "I never said I wouldn't."

Dennis clapped him on the back. "Good. Because we're not letting you sit here doing taxes on a Friday night."

They ended up at a club in West Hollywood called Please Don't Tell, a dimly lit place hidden behind an unassuming entrance that Yolanda happened to know the owner of. It meant they bypassed the line outside and were led instead through a side corridor to a quieter upper level where a handful of people lounged on velvet sofas around low tables, the bass from the floor below humming faintly through the floorboards.

Frank leaned against the balcony railing overlooking the crowd while Yolanda spoke animatedly beside him about something he was only half following. His attention had drifted; downstairs, a woman in a  satin camisole was dancing with a friend, the soft sheen of the fabric catching the coloured lights as she moved. Her dirty blonde hair swung across the open expanse of her back and something about it reminded him instantly of Mel.

Not the girl herself — the resemblance stopped at the hair — but the way Mel might have dressed if she had been there that night. He watched absently as the girl leaned towards her friend to say something over the music before glancing up towards the balcony.

When their eyes met, Frank gave a small, polite smile, and she smiled back.

A moment later her gaze shifted past him and brightened.

Frank turned slightly to see Dennis leaning against the railing nearby.

She lifted a hand and waved, and Dennis's face lit with recognition.

"Oh shit," he said, pushing away from the railing. A few minutes later he was climbing the stairs again with the girl and her friend beside him.

"Guys," Dennis said over the music, "this is Kim. We went to college together."

Frank straightened slightly. "And this is her friend Princess."

"Hi," Frank said.

Kim looked him over with an open curiosity that suggested she had recognised him long before Dennis had appeared downstairs.

"Hi," she said with a slow smile.

* * *

Frank woke the next morning with a dull throbbing behind his temples and the pale California sunlight flooding his bedroom through the open blinds. He squinted against it and dragged a hand across his face before sitting up slowly against the headboard.

At the foot of the bed, Kim was pulling on her jeans. Fragments of the night returned to him in hazy flashes — the cab ride home, him eating her out on the kitchen counter, his fingers gripping at her hair as she rode his length — but behind that, the memory blurred.

She noticed he was awake and paused.

"Oh," she said as she ran her palms over her trousers, flattening them out. "Hi. I thought you'd still be asleep."

Frank rubbed the back of his neck. "Morning."

"I was just going to slip out."

There was a brief, awkward silence while they both tried to piece together the events of the previous night. She could go to the media and say anything about him — his home, their time together. She might have taken pictures, or perhaps someone else had, and there was nothing he could do if she left just like that. There was nothing he could do if she stayed, either.

"You look worried," Kim said eventually, hands resting in her hips as she studied him.

Frank exhaled slowly. "I'm pretty sure I came in you."

She lifted her eyebrows, tucking her lips beneath one another. "Twice."

He closed his eyes briefly. "Fuck," he muttered. "Are you on anything?"

Kim shook her head, reached for her phone at the foot of the bed. "I'll grab a Plan B on my way home," she said quickly. "It's fine."

Frank sat up straighter. "Right now?"

"I have work in a couple of house."

Frank swung his legs off the bed, covering his lap with the corner of the duvet.

"Give me fifteen minutes," he said. "I'll run out and get it. Have a shower and I'll cook you something when I'm back."

"You don't have to—"

"Least I can do."

Nothing about the previous twelve hours had unfolded the way Frank might have predicted, but the quick errand of running to CVS had given him just enough time to wake fully and begin replaying the night in his mind, each recollection arriving in uneven flashes that refused to arrange themselves into a neat sequence.

While Kim had showered upstairs, the steady sound of water running through the pipes above him, Frank had occupied himself in the kitchen with a quiet determination to appear far more composed than he actually felt. He moved around the space with restless energy, cracking eggs into a pan and setting bread into the toaster while muttering faintly to himself under his breath — the sort of absent, irritated commentary people make when they are half-scolding themselves and half attempting to regain control of a situation that had slipped slightly beyond their expectations.

By the time Kim came downstairs again, the pill already taken and the awkward practicality of that conversation firmly behind them, breakfast was waiting on the table.

For the next hour, they spoke with surprising ease as though the events of the night before hadn't happened at all. Frank found himself listening with genuine interest as Kim described her work as a nurse, and although the finer technical details of her profession were entirely lost on him, he masked his ignorance with a curiosity that was at least sincere.

It was easier to talk about charting and career ambitions than to dwell on the hazier parts of the night before.

They had also, without needing to formally discuss it, reached an unspoken agreement that Dennis didn't need to know the details of what had happened. Frank had assumed it was a mutual decision — though that assumption proved unnecessary when, half an hour after his return from the pharmacy, his phone buzzed on the counter with a message from Dennis asking, with suspicious casualness, how the evening had ended.

Clearly, they hadn't been subtle about leaving together. Frank could piece that much together on his own.

The rest of the night, however — the more specific details — remained frustratingly blurred. One thing he had somehow failed to remember (and very much should have) was the exact timing of Mel's arrival.

He had known the date and time of her flight for weeks. It had been mentioned often enough that the information had lodged firmly in his mind; yet when the front door suddenly began to unlock and both he and Kim instinctively turned their heads towards the sound, Frank still didn't expect Mel to walk through it.

She entered with the distracted focus of someone fresh off a flight, her attention on the suitcase she was pulling behind her as she pushed the door closed with her shoulder. The movement of the wheels over the tiles echoed softly through the house.

For a moment, she didn't look up. Then she did.

Frank noticed the change in her expression immediately. Mel's smile didn't disappear — she was far too polite for that — but something shifted subtly in her face. It wasn't in her mouth or even her eyes, but in the small lift of her eyebrows as she took in the scene before her: the two of them sitting together at the table, plates half-finished, coffee steaming gently between them.

Kim stood up so quickly her chair scraped against the floor.

"I'm so sorry," Mel said almost instantly, one hand rising to cover her mouth then hesitating, as though she had accidentally interrupted something far more private than breakfast. "I'll come back."

Frank pushed his chair back at once. "Mel, hey. You're fine," he said quickly, crossing the room to meet her before she could retreat back through the door.

He pulled her into a quick hug, pressing a brief kiss to her cheek in the easy, familiar way they always greeted one another.

Mel returned the gesture just as warmly, though she pulled away slightly quicker than usual, as though conscious of the woman standing a few feet away watching the interaction unfold.

"Hi," she said gently, turning towards Kim with a small, reassuring smile. "I'm Mel."

"Kim," she replied, visibly flustered. "It's... nice to meet you."

Frank rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly aware of how absurd the situation must look.

He also knew — perhaps more keenly than he would've liked — that Mel wasn't in the dark about his life. She knew perfectly well that he slept around, and it hadn't ever been a secret between them.

Still, knowing she knew and having her walk directly into the aftermath of it were two entirely different experiences.

"You want some toast?" he asked, grasping for something normal.

"Sure," Mel said softly.

She left her suitcase by the door and walked over to the table, choosing the chair beside Kim rather than the empty one across from her: a small, thoughtful decision that immediately softened the awkwardness in the room. Frank moved back into the kitchen, retrieving a plate, knife and glass from the cupboard and setting them down in front of her before taking his own seat again.

For a few moments, the conversation drifted uncertainly between them.

Then Mel noticed the way Kim had gone pale.

"Are you okay?" she asked gently, turning her body slightly towards her.

Kim hesitated before asking the question that had clearly been troubling her. "He hasn't just cheated on you, has he?"

For a brief moment, the room went completely silent — then both Frank and Mel burst out laughing.

"No," Mel said quickly, placing a reassuring hand on Kim's back. "Fuck, no. We're not together."

"Are you sure?" Kim asked, still uncertain. "Just— the tabloids and—"

"Definitely," Frank said, pointing vaguely across the table towards Mel with his coffee cup. "And fuck you for saying it like that."

The tension dissolved quickly after that, the three of them settling into an easier conversation that slowly pushed the awkwardness aside. About half an hour later, Kim checked the time and stood abruptly.

"I should go," she said, her mouth pulling.

"I'll drive you," Frank offered automatically, standing as he gathered the plates and carried them to the dishwasher.

Kim shook her head.

"I really appreciate how nice you've both been about all this," she said, slipping her jacket on, "but I'm wearing last night's clothes and, well, you're you. If someone saw us together that might not look great. For you."

It was a very reasonable point. "I'll get you a car, then," Frank offered.

When Kim left, Frank and Mel moved to the living room, sitting side by side with her head against his shoulder.

"Does Dennis know?" she asked.

Frank let out a quiet breath. "Pretty sure he set the whole thing up."

Mel laughed softly, though the sound carried a faint edge of tiredness. She closed her eyes for a moment, exhaustion finally catching up with her after the overnight flight.

"I don't actually remember most of it," Frank admitted after a moment.

Mel lifted her head slightly. "How bad on a scale of one to ten?"

Frank grimaced.

"Plan B bad." She blinked at him. "Yeah," he continued with a faint, embarrassed smile. "Apparently twice. Maybe three times. I vaguely remember the floor."

"Excellent," Mel said dryly.

Frank stood and stretched his arms above his head, the hem of his shirt lifting slightly. "You can go lie down in the spare if you want," he said more gently. "You've probably been up for hours. I'll drop you off at your hotel after."

Mel rubbed at the space between her eyes, suddenly aware of how exhausted she felt — the flight, the time difference, and the strange emotional disorientation of the morning settling over her all at once.

"It's alright," she murmured. "I'll just... get a few hours."

When she stood, Frank pulled her into another hug — the proper greeting they'd missed earlier.

She wrapped her arms around him and stayed there for a moment before pulling back with a quiet laugh.

"Wear a condom next time," Mel said as she turned towards the spare bedroom down the hall.

Frank sighed and placed a hand on the back of his neck, scratching it lightly. "Glad you're here, too!" he called after her.

The soundstage where the interview had been arranged possessed the quiet, controlled atmosphere of somewhere that had hosted hundreds of conversations before theirs. It was a large converted studio in LA, its concrete floors softened by rugs and lighting stands, cables snaking carefully across the ground while assistants moved with the unhurried efficiency of people accustomed to the delicate choreography of a filmed conversation.

Two armchairs had been placed opposite one another in the centre of the room, angled just slightly so that whoever sat in them would face both each other and the cameras simultaneously. Between them sat a small round table with two glasses of water and a discreet arrangement of white flowers that looked almost deliberately casual.

Mel stood just off to the side of the set while a hair stylist adjusted the soft fall of her hair over her shoulders. She wore a cream silk blouse tucked neatly into dark tailored trousers, the kind of understated elegance that felt natural to her. The stylist lifted a section of hair and smoothed it lightly across her collarbone before stepping back to assess the balance under the studio lights.

"Perfect," she murmured.

Mel nodded faintly, though her attention drifted across the room to where Frank stood with one of the sound technicians.

A small wireless microphone was being clipped carefully to the inside edge of his jacket while another assistant threaded the wire discreetly down the lining so that none of it would appear on camera. Frank listened patiently while they explained how sensitive the microphones were, occasionally nodding while absently rubbing the back of his neck.

The whole process was strangely ritualistic.

Every interview like this began the same way — lights tested, sound levels adjusted, hair smoothed, clothing straightened — and created a peculiar liminal moment before filming began: the quiet pause between preparation and performance.

Frank glanced up then and caught Mel watching him, smiling back.

The expression was small but genuine, and something about it softened the faint tension she hadn't realised she was carrying. A production assistant stepped forward with a clipboard.

"Okay," she said brightly. "We're ready to go whenever you are."

Mel walked over to the set and lowered herself into one of the armchairs while another stylist quickly adjusted the line of her blouse against the back of the seat.

Across from her, Frank sat down as well, resting his hands loosely together. They simply looked at each other for a moment, then one of the cameras whirred softly as it powered fully to life.

A producer raised a hand and pressed his headset into his ear. "Whenever you're ready."

Frank leaned back slightly in his chair, studying Mel with a faint smile that carried both familiarity and a kind of quiet pride.

"So," he said, "we're here."

Mel laughed softly. "Apparently."

He tilted his head.

"I feel like I should start by congratulating you again."

She groaned faintly, already knowing what he meant. "You've done that enough times."

"I'm serious," he said gently. "Youngest Best Supporting Actress winner ever. That's inane."

Mel shifted slightly in her chair, the compliment making her visibly self-conscious. "It still feels strange when people say it like that."

Frank remembered watching it at home at the time. "I remember that night," he said. "You looked like you thought someone was going to come up and tell you it was a mistake."

"I did think that," Mel admitted, smiling. "I kept expecting someone to tap me on the shoulder."

He laughed. "But that's what I admire about you," he continued more thoughtfully. "You've done these huge films — the studio stuff — but you keep going back to these tiny, strange indie projects."

Mel tilted her head. "You do the same thing."

"That's because of you," he said lightly. Mel shook her head, twisting her lips to the side. "I'm serious," he continued. "I think there's something really brave about choosing films that might never make money but say something important."

Mel considered that for a moment.

"I think I just like stories that feel real," she said eventually. "Sometimes the smaller films are the only place where you can find that."

Frank nodded slowly. "Yeah." There was a small pause before he leaned forward slightly. "So we should probably talk about The Willows."

Mel's smile softened immediately. "Probably."

"Cassie runs a very... specific set," Frank said.

Mel laughed. "That's a very diplomatic way of putting it. I remember the first day thinking, 'oh, this is different' and loving it." Frank nodded. "She really trusted us," she said. "There was never this feeling of being watched or corrected constantly. It was more like... being allowed to discover the scene."

Frank looked at her thoughtfully. "I don't think I've ever worked with someone who listens the way you do when you're acting." Mel blinked.

"What do you mean?" she asked, cocking her head to the side.

"You react to everything," he said. "Like... genuinely react. Not in the rehearsed way actors sometimes do."

She smiled slightly, unsure what to say.

"That's a huge compliment coming from you," she replied. "You're the most instinctive actor I know."

Frank shook his head. "No, I panic then hope something happens."

"That's not true," she said softly.

He studied her for a moment. "I think the reason the film works is because of the relationship between the two characters," he said. "And that only works if the actors trust each other."

Mel nodded slowly.

"We had that immediately."

"Yeah."

The word lingered between them with a quiet sincerity. Across the studio, one of the producers shifted slightly but didn't interrupt. Mel rearranged herself in her chair.

"I think people assume actors who work together a lot must have some complicated dynamic," Frank said thoughtfully. "But the truth is it's usually very simple."

Mel raised her eyebrows. "Oh?"

"You just like each other," he said.

Mel laughed softly. "That helps." She glanced at him then, her expression warmer. "You're also very generous. You make space for other people in scenes."

"That's because you're terrifying to act opposite," he replied. "In the best way."

She laughed quietly.

"You're ridiculous."

"No," he said, shaking his head. "I mean it."

The conversation drifted easily after that — stories from the set, Mel's return after her time away, scenes they remembered differently. At one point Frank described the final day of filming, when the entire crew had gathered around the monitors to watch the last shot.

"It was one of those rare moments where everyone knew we'd made something special," he said.

Mel looked down briefly at her hands. "I think that's the thing about independent films," she said softly. "Everyone's there because they care about the story."

Frank nodded. "And I think that's why people will love this one."

The cameras continued rolling quietly as the two of them spoke, the conversation moving between humour and sincerity with the effortless rhythm of people who had spent weeks working side by side.

At one point, Mel reached forward and adjusted the small microphone clipped to her blouse where it had shifted slightly.

Frank noticed and smiled faintly. "What?"

"Nothing," he said.

"You're smiling," she noted gently.

"I was just thinking," he admitted. "When people watch this, they'll think we rehearsed all of this."

Mel laughed. "And we definitely didn't."

"No," he said. "This is just how we talk."

She nodded softly, smiling. "Yeah."

2027 

When The Willows finally released in December, it did so with a quiet ferocity, sweeping past every expectation for its indie distributor and claiming the highest domestic box office take they'd ever seen. Audiences and critics were captivated, and everywhere the film screened, murmurs of awe followed Mel and Frank like shadows. Their performances were lauded as masterful, each subtle flicker of expression and every lingering gaze drawing viewers deeper into the story.

But it wasn't just their acting; it was the way they moved together, the way Frank's hand would briefly brush Mel's during a staged photo, or the private smile they shared across the press room, that made the air between them feel almost visible — like they were really selling the part. 

So maybe, when Mel and Frank watched the livestream and received their nominations at the Oscars, they'd sort of expected it, both on the phone to each other shouting and exclaiming dumbfoundedly before calling everyone else.

A month later, on the day of the awards, Mel felt a fluttering nausea as she stepped from the car, thanking the driver and the attendant who helped her from the vehicle. The venue sprawled before her, the red carpet stretching like a river of light and color, alive with photographers shouting names and flashes punctuating the scene in endless bursts.

When an event coordinator signaled her to step onto the carpet, she hesitated before finding Frank, standing ahead and already scanning the crowd. Any tension that had gripped her moments before dissolved, replaced by the comfort of his familiar presence. He spotted her, mouth opening in mock surprise as she approached him carefully, navigating the hems of her skirt, as they grasped each other's forearms briefly, smiling as they assessed one another: admiration, pride, and quiet affection radiating between them.

After a moment, their hands fell, but his palm found the small of her back, and hers rested lightly on his shoulder blades. Their eyes met, fleetingly, the warm brush of connection leaving her stomach twisting and his palms warm against her. His smile was charming and soft, the kind that spoke without words as camera shutters clicked around them, pulling them into the orbit of the night yet keeping them suspended in their own small world.

They trudged through their individual photographs before being guided to the interview area.

There, Mel nervously twisted her bracelet around her wrist as Frank leaned gently against her, elbow resting lightly on her shoulder. Their eyes met for a fraction of a second, communicating a depth of understanding only they could share as he leaned toward her.

"I'm gonna shit myself."

Mel smiled, the apples of her cheeks rising as she let out a soft laugh and the interviewer arrived, microphone in hand. "Mel and Frank, you both look amazing," she said, her voice warm, "how are you feeling tonight?"

"Good," they replied in unison, smiles soft. "Excited," added Mel, her eyes flicking briefly to Frank.

"Your film has four nominations tonight," the interviewer continued. "Particularly for Best Picture — what are your thoughts on your odds?"

Frank laughed, humility softening his tone. "There are so many incredible films nominated, and whoever wins will be deserving. We're just grateful the story we love is being seen."

Mel nodded, her fingers tightening slightly around her bracelet. "It's overwhelming," she admitted softly. "And to be here at all, with Frank... it's such a special feeling. When Cassie approached us about The Willows, I never imagined it would lead here."

They answered a few more questions, speaking of gratitude, artistry, and the journey of independent filmmaking before being led inside to their seats. Mel sat with Frank on her left and when Cassie lost Best Director to Parker Ellis, she smiled genuinely, clapping with warmth and pride for her fellow nominee as she ascended the stage, receiving her award with a gracious nod and giving a brief, heartfelt speech before exiting as the ceremony continued.

The programme moved along to Frank's category and one by one, the five nominees were introduced, the cameras briefly capturing each face in a small inset on the large screens for viewers at home.

Mel could feel Frank vibrating beside her, every muscle taut with anticipation, his jaw tight, hands clenched gently in his lap. She had never seen him want something so intensely, and he wanted this more than he wanted anything in the moment, perhaps even more than she did.

When they announced his name, polite applause filled the room as Frank smiled, glancing at Mel. She returned his smile with an encouraging nod, clapping with everything she had, her chest swelling with pride. His gaze remained fixed on the stage, ignoring the handheld camera mere meters away.

"And the Oscar goes to... Frank Langdon, The Willows."

Time seemed to stretch. Frank's body felt rigid, his limbs stiff, until he felt Mel shift beside him, standing and clapping, her hands warm and her presence grounding. Without thinking, he turned toward her, wrapping an arm around her back, pulling her close. Mel's chin rested lightly against his shoulder, chest tight with the sincerity of the moment as she squeezed his arm and ignored the burning in her eyes.

The commentator's voice narrated his walk — his first win, his second nomination — and each step toward the stage became a measured ascent, until he took the award. Alone on the stage, the weight of the night pressed down, and Frank laughed softly, a nervous, incredulous sound.

"Wow," he said, surveying the audience. "Thank you — thank you so much. First, to my fellow nominees: I admire you, your work, your talent."

He took a breath, voice steadying. "To our crew, thank you for your commitment, for believing in this film — everyone, on and off set. Cassie McKay, our extraordinary director, thank you for trusting me with this story and allowing me to bring it to life with such care and artistry. My agent, Robby, thank you for keeping me grounded and on track. And my family — thank you for your belief and your love."

Frank paused, the enormity of the moment crashing over him: thousands of eyes, every whisper and movement amplified, all culminating in this recognition. "Sorry," he murmured, laughter light but sincere, scattering through the room. His hand brushed against his jaw, the expression turning tender and reflective. Across the sea of faces, he caught Mel's glistening eyes and her soft, unwavering smile.

"There's such a beauty in artistic freedom and telling stories that matter with the people who inspire you," he continued, measuring his words with care. "And I’m eternally grateful for that opportunity."

He inhaled slowly, then looked squarely at Mel. "Someone once told me life needs three things: someone to look up to, something to look forward to, and something to chase. I look up to everyone I work with, I look forward to every story we create together, and what I chase... is the same dedication and heart I see in one person every day. Mel..."

Applause surged as the cameras found her. Her smile was shy, nearly overwhelmed, as Cassie reached over to squeeze her hand. In that single word — "Mel" — and the pause that followed, Frank conveyed the entirety of his respect, admiration, and gratitude.

"Working with you, knowing you, being inspired by you... it's one of the greatest privileges of my life. You're an extraordinary scene partner, and a remarkable human being. Thank you a million times over, I love you."

The audience's applause swelled, overwhelming, as Frank's words hung in the air and camera's flickered around the room, capturing the moment for eternity, while he counted down the seconds, realising his time on stage was slipping away.

"Again, thank you to the Academy and everyone who has made this possible. I'm truly grateful."

He waved briefly, the cheers echoing in his ears, before stepping off the stage. The ceremony paused momentarily for advertisements, and he was guided first to the general photo room, a throng of photographers calling for every angle and every glint of the award in his hand.

After what felt like endless flashes, he was led into the press room, where over a hundred journalists awaited, paddles raised, questions poised as Frank answered them with practiced charm, yet all the while his mind was fixed on returning to the auditorium — to Mel.

Ten minutes later, he slipped back into his seat just as the awards for Best Editing concluded, settling beside Mel, who still radiated elation, the glow of his win lighting up her expression.

"You've got this," he murmured, his voice low but steady, the corners of his mouth tilting into a soft, encouraging smile as he reached for her hand and squeezed it.

"Here are your nominees for Best Actress," the presenter began, cycling through the names, the camera panning across each nominee in turn.

Mel's pulse raced as the lens lingered on her and offered a shy, tentative wave, her hand trembling slightly, and Frank immediately placed a supportive hand over her knee. His presence was grounding, a steady anchor as she waited, breath hitching and anticipation thrumming through her veins.

"And the Oscar goes to..." the presenter began, hesitating over the envelope, a soft tut escaping her lips. Her eyes glistened, and she glanced across the room with an unmistakable spark of emotion. For a heartbeat, the room erupted into murmurs, claps, and cheers before the words were even spoken. "Melissa King, The Willows."

The announcement seemed to reach her through a fog. Mel's eyebrows knitted together, her heart hammering so hard it felt as if it would burst through her chest. Her body froze, adrenaline surging like electricity through her veins, burning against her skin. Millions of eyes felt like they were watching, the enormity of the moment threatening to overwhelm her.

She barely registered the audience's applause, but when she turned to Frank, his hand was already on her waist, thumb brushing away the soft crease between her eyebrows, grounding her in the smallest, most intimate gesture. He leaned in for a quick hug and pressed a gentle kiss to her cheek before she made her way up to the stage, her steps careful over the flowing layers of her gown.

"This is Melissa King's third nomination and her second win," the commentator's voice echoed as she ascended the stairs. "At twenty-six, she remains the youngest winner for Best Supporting Actress."

The presenter embraced her warmly, handing her the award, and Mel's hands shook as she gripped it, the gold statuette suddenly impossibly heavy yet impossibly precious. She paused in the centre of the stage, taking a shaky breath, voice barely above a whisper.

"Oh... wow." Her laugh was nervous, trembling, as she pressed a hand to her chest, feeling the frantic beat of her heart beneath her fingers. "I'm sorry, I think I might actually be sick." Light laughter rippled across the room, and she took another deep, grounding breath.

"Thank you... for this." Her voice grew steadier, carrying into the auditorium. "And thank you to the phenomenal women in this category. You're all incredible."

The cameras cut to the other nominees, some with hands over their hearts, some clapping gently, some smiling with quiet acknowledgment. Mel let her eyes sweep across the auditorium, gathering their energy and holding it close.

"And the crew. Oh my God, the crew. Everyone behind the scenes: none of this would have been possible without you. Each of you poured your heart and soul into this film, and made it what it is." Her voice cracked slightly, the emotion building, but she pressed on, unwavering.

"And... to my mom and my agent Dana: thank you for being the women you are, and showing me what strength and perseverance look like. I'm so lucky to have you in my life."

Mel paused, letting the words sink, drawing in a steadying breath as she allowed herself a small, relieved sigh. She ran her free hand along the forearm clutching the Oscar, letting the gravity of the moment settle over her.

"A moment like this... it's the result of so much luck, and timing, and opportunity. So thank you, Cassie McKay, for trusting me with this part and allowing me to be part of something so rare and so special. Your patience and guidance made this possible, and I’ll never forget it."

She glanced across the room, eyes finding Frank's, the warmth of his presence grounding her once more. "And — last but definitely not least... Frank. Thank you. For existing, really, but also for sharing your talent and generosity, for pushing me when I hesitated and letting me push back. I’m so grateful to know you," she offered as he smiled at her, nodding. "Oh! And I love you, too. I should say that back."

A nervous laugh escaped her, genuine and raw, as applause erupted around her, a tidal wave of warmth and admiration. "I know I have so much more to learn, and so much more work to do, but this moment is a reminder to keep going, and growing, and this... this is an incredible honour."

Mel offered a soft wave, cheeks flushed a deep crimson, as she made her way off the stage, the applause following her, the weight of her achievement settling into her chest like something warm, and permanent, and real.

By the time she left the stage, the applause swept through the press room like a living thing, rising and falling, folding over itself as Mel ascended the steps. Every step forward felt like walking across a wire strung high above the world, every flash from a camera a spotlight on her every movement.

The general photo room had already drained her — and the red carpet had been a storm of colour, and voices, and flashes — but this was something else entirely. It was intimate and terrifying all at once, a place where her words would carry farther than she could ever imagine.

The questions came quickly, a blur of voices and cameras, but Mel's mind had already slipped from the room. She smiled, nodded, answered — her voice polite, her hands adjusting the award nervously — but her thoughts were elsewhere and everywhere at once. She could feel it in her chest: a need she couldn't quite name, and it all pointed to Frank.

She realised she wanted nothing more in that moment than to reach him, to collapse into his presence and let the whirlwind of the night settle against him, to celebrate with him: not just the win, but everything that had led to it, everything they'd shared on set and off, every long day and private joke, every interview. She didn't fully understand why, but Frank was her anchor.

That thought struck her with sudden clarity — more than it had in Heather's office — and it startled her, making her pulse quicken in a way that had nothing to do with adrenaline or cameras. She had always admired him, leaned on him in small ways, and trusted him in ways she hadn't allowed anyone else — but this was different. This was something that had quietly taken root under the easy comfort of friendship, under the shared silences and the subtle intimacies, and now it was undeniable.

She tried to push the feeling aside, telling herself that tonight, at least, they had a world of cameras and reporters between them — but even as she answered the next question, she kept thinking of him.

She wasn't ready to define it, but she knew in that instant that whatever this was would not be fleeting — and for the first time, she understood just how much she wanted that steadiness. Just how much she wanted him.