Ezra was not supposed to be this sweaty.

Not here. Not now. Not standing in the private first-class lounge at LAX with a five-figure duffel bag, a croissant he couldn't eat, and a gay crisis that felt worse than the time he accidentally called his high school English teacher "daddy" during roll call. (In his defense, it had been early, and Mr. Hargrove did have objectively devastating forearms.)

The press tour started tomorrow. International. Flashbulbs, microphones, hashtags. There were charts involved. Spreadsheets. Coordinated outfits. And a battalion of publicists who absolutely expected him and his co-star to sit next to each other on flights and look like they weren't actively losing their minds over whatever the hell was happening between them.

Or - were they supposed to pretend?

That was the problem.

Because Ezra didn't know. Didn't know if they were dating, or just recklessly blurring the lines between publicity stunt and personal disaster. If the kiss at the Golden Halos was a grand statement, a drunken lapse in judgment, or some champagne-soaked explosion of all the things he hadn't let himself say out loud. (He prayed it was all three.)

It had been a week. A week of vague texts, accidental brushes of hands, two nearly-conversations that ended with Ezra fake-laughing and locking himself in the trailer bathroom to scream. And one conversation where his co-star had said "so, uh, that happened," and Ezra had short-circuited so violently he forgot what day it was.

Now he was standing under a halo-shaped light fixture - ironic - with a rapidly cooling coffee and a head full of emotional static, preparing for a 12-hour flight next to the man who may or may not be his boyfriend.

And then his co-star walked in.

Ezra's stomach flipped like a gymnast. His eyes definitely did a double take. Maybe even a triple.

God help him, the man was hot. Like, "this hoodie should be illegal" hot. Like, "he could ruin Ezra's life just by existing slightly too close" hot. The way he moved? Criminal. The way he sat down next to Ezra with zero fanfare, completely unaware that Ezra was going through it in real time?

Unforgivable.

Ezra stared at the floor. At the ceiling. At his coffee. Anywhere but directly at his co-star, because if he looked too long he might start writing poetry about cheekbones or something humiliating.

His mouth opened before his brain could stop him.

"So... uh. Are we dating or not?" he asked, voice wobbling on the last syllable like it was clinging to a cliff. "Because I need to know before the world decides we're soulmates and I accidentally propose in Italian during a junket."

He laughed - nervously, lightly, like he hadn't been rehearsing that sentence for four days.

No answer yet.

Ezra rubbed his palm on his jeans. "Seriously. I need, like, a sign. A nod. A thumbs up. I'll even accept interpretive dance at this point."

He finally risked a glance.