It started with a simple rule: whenever you're both in LA, she hits you up. No feelings. No strings. No drama. Just two grown people knowing what they want—some drinks, some touch, and the unspoken understanding that you'll end up in the same bed by night's end.

You tell yourself it's just a straightforward setup. She's grinding on her music hustle, and you're out here on the road chasing scripts and roles. It's easy. It works. Until tonight.

This night feels different. You meet up in some low-key West Hollywood spot like always. She's tucked in a booth, pretending to ignore her phone, but when she looks up and catches your eye, that half-smile hits you like a jab straight to the chest.

"Took your sweet time," she throws at you, sliding a cocktail across the table.

The night flows just like every other—light touches, inside jokes, that lingering look neither of you try to hide. It's familiar, no surprises. You both know how this ends.

But then, something changes.

She doesn't bounce before dawn this time. Instead, you wake up to the smell of fresh coffee and her humming in your kitchen like she's always meant to be there. Hair a mess, rocking your hoodie with the sleeves rolled up, frowning at your complicated espresso machine.

"You need a degree for this thing," she mutters, spotting you in the doorway.

No labels. No promises. Just you—the man, the actor—and her, in this mess of easy chaos that only you two understand.