Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The air in Studio 8H had a specific smell. It was a layered scent, a seventy-year-old lasagna of history and creative desperation. There was the dusty perfume of old wood and paint from the sets, the sharp, metallic tang of the lighting rigs, the faint but persistent aroma of stale coffee, and underneath it all, the electric hum of pure, unadulterated chaos.

Sabrina Carpenter breathed it in like it was expensive oxygen. At twenty-five, she was no stranger to chaotic green rooms and high-stakes stages, but this was Saturday Night Live. This was the comedy pantheon, the place where legends were forged in the crucible of live television. She was the musical guest, a two-song cherry on top of the cultural sundae, and she was buzzing with an energy that felt like popping candy fizzing under her skin. Her new album was a global phenomenon, a bubbly, coquettish masterpiece of pop perfection that had her name on everyone's lips. She felt invincible.

She was currently perched on a stool in the writers' room, a cavernous, cluttered space that looked like a university library had thrown up on a startup's lounge. A gaggle of writers, most of them looking like they hadn't seen the sun in a decade, were gathered around a long table, pitching her ideas for sketches she could cameo in.

"Okay, so you're a contestant on a baking show," a young writer named Ben, all frantic energy and horn-rimmed glasses, was saying, "but everything you bake comes out looking... suggestive."

Sabrina threw her head back and laughed, a bright, musical sound that made a few of the writers blink as if they’d forgotten what genuine joy sounded like. "A phallic pastry? Groundbreaking," she deadpanned, but her eyes were sparkling. "I'm not mad at it. What else you got?"

She loved this part. The creative spitballing, the energy of a room full of people trying to make something funny out of thin air. She was wearing a ridiculously short, baby-pink Miu Miu skirt set that felt deliciously out of place amongst the worn jeans and hoodies. Her platform heels made her tower over most of the seated writers, and she knew, with the practiced self-awareness of a pop star, that she was a splash of vibrant, unapologetic color in their monochrome world.

It was then that the door swung open, and the decibel level in the room—a low hum of murmured pitches and typing—dropped to zero.

Pedro Pascal walked in.

It was like watching a movie star enter a room in a movie. He had a presence that seemed to suck all the ambient light towards him. He was older, of course. Forty-nine. The age gap was a canyon, a geological feature you could map and study. His hair was a chaotic salt-and-pepper masterpiece, and the lines around his eyes weren't flaws; they were testimonials. They spoke of late nights, hearty laughs, and probably, Sabrina thought with a little internal smirk, a fair amount of brooding. He was wearing a soft, brown cardigan over a simple t-shirt, looking less like a Hollywood megastar and more like a devastatingly handsome literature professor who was about to ruin some co-ed's life.

A wave of something hot and unfamiliar and utterly inconvenient washed over Sabrina. It wasn't just that he was attractive. He was Pedro Pascal. The internet's Daddy. The man whose face was currently plastered on everything from dystopian dramas to quirky indie films. He was a Serious Actor, the kind who probably read Tolstoy in his downtime and had opinions on postmodernism. She was a pop star who sang songs with lyrics like, "I'm on my espresso, a shot of Depresso." They were from different planets.

Lorne Michaels followed him in, his expression as placid and unreadable as ever. "Pedro, glad you could make it. This is the team. And our musical guest, Sabrina Carpenter."

Pedro’s eyes, warm and dark and frankly a little bit soulful for a Tuesday afternoon, swept the room and landed on her. He gave a small, polite smile. "A pleasure."

His voice. Oh, no. It was just as bad as she’d feared. That low, gravelly timbre with the hint of a Chilean accent curling around the edges. It was a voice that could convince you to invest in a doomed startup or confess your deepest secrets. Sabrina felt a ridiculous, traitorous flutter in her stomach. She immediately crushed it.

She hopped off the stool, the click of her heels on the linoleum a sharp counterpoint to the sudden silence. She extended a hand, her nails painted a glossy, immaculate white. "Sabrina. Huge fan of your work," she said, her voice dripping with the bright, practiced effervescence she could turn on like a tap.

He took her hand. His was large and warm, his grip firm but gentle. The contact sent another stupid jolt straight up her arm. It was the most cliché, rom-com-trope reaction in the history of the world, and she hated it.

"Likewise," he said, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. "My niece is obsessed with your music. Plays it constantly."

And there it was. The subtle, unintentional dismissal. My niece. It was the verbal equivalent of a pat on the head. He wasn't being mean, not at all. He was being polite. He was acknowledging her in the way one acknowledges a cultural phenomenon that belongs to a generation two steps behind his own. He was putting her in a box. A cute, glittery, chart-topping box that was miles away from his own serious, prestigious world.

A spark of defiance ignited in her chest. Oh, she knew the type. The serious artists who looked at pop music as a confection, a trifle. They respected the success, the machinery of it, but they didn't respect the art. They thought it was frivolous. And by extension, they thought she was frivolous.

She gave him her sweetest, most dazzling smile, the one that graced magazine covers and made interviewers forget their questions. "Oh, that's so sweet! You should tell her I said hi. It's always so great when the whole family can enjoy my music, you know? Even the... older generations."

She let the word older hang in the air for a fraction of a second too long, a tiny, glittering barb disguised as a pleasantry.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Bowen Yang, who was leaning against a filing cabinet, press his lips together to hide a smile.

Pedro's eyes narrowed, just slightly. The polite, distant mask flickered. He saw it. He caught the barb. A flicker of something—annoyance? surprise? —danced in his gaze before being smoothed over again. He dropped her hand.

"Of course," he said, his tone perfectly level.

Lorne, oblivious or perhaps just expertly ignoring the microscopic war that had just been declared, clapped his hands together. "Excellent. Everyone's acquainted. Now, Pedro, we have a few ideas for the monologue, and Ben here has a killer 'Waking Up' sketch for you."

The meeting resumed. Pedro took a seat at the table, a respectful distance from Sabrina, and listened intently to the pitches. He was a professional. He offered thoughtful suggestions, laughed at the right moments, and treated every idea, no matter how absurd, with a quiet consideration. He was, in a word, charming.

And it drove Sabrina absolutely insane.

She couldn't focus. She was acutely aware of him. The way he’d run a hand through his messy hair when contemplating a joke. The low rumble of his laugh. The way the fabric of his cardigan stretched across his shoulders when he leaned forward. She felt like a teenager with a crush, and it was infuriating. She was Sabrina Carpenter. She wrote songs that made boys feel this way. She was the one who held the power, the one who left them breathless and confused. She was not the one to be flustered by some actor's handsome, patronizing face.

The problem was the tension. It was immediate and suffocating. It wasn't just annoyance on her part. It was something thicker, something that coiled in the space between them. When he'd looked at her, really looked at her for that split second after her "older generations" comment, she'd seen it. A flash of fire. A recognition. It was the look of a man who was used to being in control, realizing he was in a room with someone who had no intention of letting him be.

"Sabrina?"

She blinked, pulled from her internal monologue. Sarah Sherman was looking at her, her expression a mix of concern and mischief. "We were thinking of putting you in the 'Family Dinner' sketch with Pedro. You'd play the new, much-younger girlfriend he's bringing home to meet his hyper-critical family."

Sabrina's brain short-circuited. It was too perfect. It was a nightmare.

"You'd have to, like, make out with him," Sarah added, her eyes wide with glee. "A lot. For comedy."

Every head in the room turned to look at them. Sabrina felt a hot blush creep up her neck, and she hated it. She was a performer. She’d kissed actors on screen before. It was part of the job. But the thought of having to press her lips against Pedro Pascal's, with this... this thing simmering between them, felt less like acting and more like lighting a match in a room full of gasoline.

She needed to regain control of the narrative.

She looked directly at Pedro, whose face was a carefully blank canvas. She gave him a slow, deliberate smile. "Oh, I don't know," she purred, letting her voice dip into a lower, huskier register. "Do you think you can keep up, Pedro?"

The room went dead silent again. It was a direct challenge, flirty and audacious and utterly unprofessional. For a moment, Pedro just stared at her. The polite professor was gone. In his place was something far more dangerous. The corner of his mouth twitched upwards, a slow, predatory curl that was ten times more devastating than his polite smile.

"I think," he said, his voice a low, intimate growl that seemed to bypass the ears of everyone else in the room and travel straight down her spine, "I'll manage."

Oh, hell, Sabrina thought, her heart doing a frantic, traitorous tap dance against her ribs. This week is going to be a problem.

Chapter Text

The promo shoot was scheduled for Wednesday afternoon, a notoriously frantic day at 30 Rock. The table read had been that morning, a sprawling, four-hour marathon of caffeine-fueled laughter and merciless cuts. The "Family Dinner" sketch had made it through, albeit with some revisions. The make-out session had been described in the stage directions with the clinical, unsexy phrase: [They share a long, passionate, and slightly awkward kiss, to the horror of the family.]

Sabrina had managed to avoid Pedro for most of the day, a feat that required strategic bathroom breaks and a sudden, intense interest in the architectural details of the hallways. But now, there was no escape.

She found him standing under the hot lights of a small, makeshift set near the main stage. He was talking to the director, a woman with a headset and an expression of permanent exhaustion. Pedro had shed the soft professor cardigan for a fitted black sweater that did unforgivable things to his shoulders and chest. It was simple, elegant, and screamed "I don't have to try."

Sabrina, by contrast, had very much tried. Her stylist had put her in a sheer, black lace top over a silk bralette, paired with leather pants that fit like a second skin. Her hair was a cascade of perfect blonde waves, and her makeup was sultry, with a smoky eye and a glossy nude lip. The brief for her look was "sexy but playful." The result was "lethal." She was weaponized femininity, and she planned to use every tool in her arsenal. If he was going to see her as a frivolous pop tart, she was going to be the most delicious, dangerous pop tart he’d ever laid eyes on.

"Ah, Sabrina, you're here!" the director said, her voice tinny through the studio speakers. "Great. So, for this first one, super simple. You'll stand back-to-back, then turn and smile at the camera. Pedro, you say 'I'm Pedro Pascal, and I'm hosting Saturday Night Live...' and Sabrina, you say '...with musical guest, me, Sabrina Carpenter!'"

"Got it," Sabrina chirped, moving into place.

She could feel the heat radiating off his back, even through the fabric of their clothes. He was taller than she was, even in her four-inch heels. It was a solid, grounding presence that made the fizzing energy inside her feel even more chaotic.

"And... action!" the director called.

They stood for a beat, then turned. Pedro delivered his line with effortless charm. Then it was her turn. She looked straight down the barrel of the camera, widened her eyes, and gave a playful pout.

"...with musical guest, me, Sabrina Carpenter!" she said, adding a little wink at the end.

"Cut! Great," the director said. "Okay, next one. I want you two to have a little banter. Pedro, you're the seasoned pro, a little bit serious. Sabrina, you're the fun, bubbly one. You're going to try to get him to loosen up. Improvise something."

Sabrina's smile became genuine. Oh, this is my playground, she thought.

"Action!"

Pedro turned to her, his expression carefully neutral. "So, you ready for Saturday? It can be pretty nerve-wracking."

"Nerve-wracking? Please," she scoffed playfully, stepping closer to him, invading his personal space. She reached up and pretended to adjust the collar of his sweater, her fingers brushing against the warm skin of his neck. He stiffened, almost imperceptibly, but his eyes darkened. "I live for the chaos. You, on the other hand... you seem a little tense. You should smile more. You've got a great smile. For an older guy."

There it was again. The age thing. It was a cheap shot, but it was the only weapon she had that seemed to land.

His jaw tightened. He looked down at her, his proximity forcing him to angle his head in a way that felt shockingly intimate. The studio lights caught the silver in his hair. His eyes weren't warm and soulful now. They were molten.

"And you," he murmured, his voice so low she could barely hear it, "seem to have a lot of... energy." The way he said "energy," it sounded like an accusation. Like she was a golden retriever puppy he'd just found chewing on his favorite leather shoes.

"It's called being young and fun," she retorted, not backing down, her hand still resting on his collar. "You should try it sometime. I could give you lessons."

"I'm sure you could," he said, and there was a rough, textured quality to his voice that hadn't been there before. He leaned in, just a fraction of an inch, and the space between them became electric, charged with something that felt a lot like anger and even more like desire. "But I think I'll pass. I'm not sure my heart could take it."

"Cut!" the director yelled, fanning herself with her script. "Okay, wow. The tension there is... wow. I don't know what you two are doing, but keep doing it. That was gold."

They sprang apart as if they'd been burned. Sabrina's heart was hammering. Her little game had backfired spectacularly. She had wanted to get under his skin, to provoke him, but she hadn't anticipated the recoil. She hadn't expected him to aim his own brand of intensity right back at her. It was overwhelming.

"Okay, last one for this setup," the director called, oblivious to the nuclear fission occurring between her two stars. "I want you close. Like, real close. Sabrina, maybe you whisper something in his ear. Like a little secret. Then you both look at the camera and smile. Mysterious. Intriguing."

Sabrina took a steadying breath. Showtime.

She sidled up to him, the leather of her pants whispering against the wool of his. The scent of his cologne, something subtle and woodsy and expensive, filled her senses. She rose onto her tiptoes, bringing her lips close to his ear. His skin was warm. She could see the fine, dark stubble along his jaw, the way a single vein pulsed in his neck.

Her mind went completely blank. What was she supposed to whisper? A joke? A flirty line? Everything seemed trite and stupid.

So she whispered the truth.

"You make me nervous," she breathed, the words a ghost of a sound against his ear.

A full-body shiver went through him. She felt it, a tremor that started in his shoulders and ran all the way down his spine. He didn't turn his head, but she saw his knuckles go white as he clenched his fists at his sides.

When she pulled back, his eyes were closed. He took a slow, deep breath, then opened them. He looked directly at her, and for the first time, the mask was completely gone. There was no polite actor, no patronizing "internet daddy." There was just a man, looking at a woman who had just confessed to rattling him, and his expression was a raw, staggering mixture of fury and raw, unadulterated want.

"Good," he said, his voice a ragged whisper. "Now you know how it feels."

Before she could process the raw honesty of his admission, he turned his head to the camera, a perfect, charming, million-dollar smile instantly plastered on his face.

"Action!" the director must have called, because he was looking at the lens.

Dazed, Sabrina turned as well, her own practiced, bubbly smile snapping into place out of pure muscle memory. They looked like the perfect pair. The handsome, charming host and the beautiful, effervescent musical guest. No one watching would ever guess at the war being waged between them, or the even more dangerous truth: that it was a war both of them were desperately afraid of losing. And even more afraid of winning.

Chapter Text

The sketch rehearsal was somehow worse than the promo shoot.

The set was a recreation of a stuffy, suburban dining room, complete with a fake roast and a collection of family photos where Pedro's face had been awkwardly photoshopped onto someone else's body. The "family" consisted of Kenan Thompson as the skeptical dad, Heidi Gardner as the passive-aggressive mom, and Bowen Yang as the flamboyantly unimpressed brother.

Sabrina, playing "Tiffany," was in her element. She flitted around the set, touching things, asking vapid questions, and generally being the bubbly blonde nightmare his family was supposed to hate. Pedro, as "Alan," was supposed to look beleaguered but besotted. He looked, to Sabrina's discerning eye, mostly just beleaguered.

"Okay, let's take it from Tiffany's entrance," the stage manager called.

Sabrina bounced onto the set. "Hi! Oh my god, your house is so... vintage! I love it! It's so... authentic!"

Pedro, as Alan, forced a tight smile. "Tiffany, these are my parents, and my brother, Kevin."

"So nice to meet you all!" she chirped, shaking Kenan's hand with way too much enthusiasm. "Alan has told me so much about you. He talks about you guys, like, all the time. It's so cute."

Bowen, as Kevin, looked her up and down with a withering stare. "Alan, you didn't tell us she was a zygote."

Sabrina giggled, both as Tiffany and as herself. The line was pure Bowen.

The scene progressed, a minefield of passive-aggressive comments from the family and bubbly, oblivious deflections from Tiffany. Pedro played his part perfectly, looking increasingly uncomfortable, running a hand through his hair and trying to placate both sides. The tension in the fictional scene was mirroring their real tension so perfectly it was almost painful to watch.

Then, they got to the kiss.

"Okay," Heidi said, as the mom. "You two just seem... so different. Is there really a... connection there?"

Pedro looked at Sabrina. The script said he was supposed to look at her with adoration. Instead, his eyes were dark and unreadable, filled with the same conflicted storm she'd seen during the promo shoot.

"Mom," he said, his voice tight. "I love her."

And then he was supposed to pull her in and kiss her.

He hesitated. For a split second, in the middle of a rehearsal for a live comedy sketch, he just stood there, looking at her. The air crackled. The crew went silent. Kenan raised an eyebrow.

Sabrina realized he couldn't do it. Or he wouldn't. The line between the character's reluctance and his own was blurring, and he was frozen.

Fine. She would do it.

She closed the distance between them in a single step, grabbed the front of his shirt in her fists, and pulled him down to her. Her lips crashed against his.

It was not a "comedy" kiss.

It was not awkward or chaste. The moment their mouths met, it was pure combustion. All the simmering tension, the annoyance, the challenges, the whispered confessions—it all ignited. His lips were softer than she'd imagined, and for a heartbeat, they were unresponsive with shock. Then, a low sound rumbled in his chest, something between a groan and a growl, and he responded.

His hand came up to cup the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair, holding her in place. His other arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her flush against him. He tilted his head, deepening the kiss, and his mouth opened against hers. It was hungry. Desperate. He tasted faintly of coffee and mint, and overwhelmingly of a desire he had clearly been trying, and failing, to suppress.

Sabrina's entire body went up in flames. Her brain was screaming DANGER, DANGER, THIS IS A REHEARSAL IN FRONT OF TWENTY PEOPLE, but the rest of her was screaming MORE. Her hands, still fisted in his shirt, clung to him as if he were a lifeline. She kissed him back with all the pent-up frustration and baffling attraction that had been tormenting her all week. She forgot the cameras, the crew, the comedy. She forgot her own name. There was only the solid wall of his chest against hers, the possessive grip of his hand in her hair, and the devastating, all-consuming pressure of his mouth.

A loud, fake cough broke the spell.

They sprang apart, their chests heaving. Sabrina's lips were swollen, her hair a mess. Pedro looked like he’d been struck by lightning. His eyes were wide, dazed, and blazing with a raw emotion that made her knees weak.

Kenan Thompson stood with his arms crossed, an enormous grin spreading across his face. "Okay, okay," he said, his voice booming with laughter. "I think we get it. There's a connection. But let's save some of that for Saturday, alright? Some of us gotta eat dinner after the show."

The crew erupted in laughter. Bowen was fanning himself dramatically. Sabrina's face was on fire. She couldn't look at Pedro. She stared at a fixed point on the fake wall, her entire body thrumming with adrenaline and a profound, terrifying awareness.

What had started as a game, a way to needle the serious actor and assert her own power, had morphed into something real and terrifying and utterly, unstoppably, out of control. And it was only Wednesday.

Chapter Text

The laughter of the crew echoed in the cavernous studio, but for Sabrina, it was a distant, roaring wave. Her entire universe had shrunk to the space between herself and Pedro Pascal, a space that was now vibrating with the aftershock of their kiss. Her lips tingled, swollen and sensitive. Her body was a live wire, humming with a frantic energy that was equal parts exhilaration and sheer, undiluted panic. She had started a fire, a massive, out-of-control inferno, just to see if he would feel the heat. Now they were both standing in the heart of it.

She risked a glance at him. He was staring at the floor, his chest still rising and falling in sharp, unsteady breaths. A dark flush had crept up from the collar of his sweater, staining his neck. His hands, which had held her with such shocking possessiveness just moments ago, were clenched into tight fists at his sides. He looked like a man who had just run a marathon and lost a fistfight in the final mile. He looked wrecked. And a twisted, thrilling part of her loved it.

"Okay, people, let's reset! From the top!" the stage manager’s voice boomed, shattering the fragile moment.

Reset. The word was absurd. There was no resetting from that. It was like trying to un-ring a bell or put a firecracker back together after it had exploded. But this was SNL. The show, in its relentless, unforgiving march toward Saturday night, always went on.

Pedro took a half-step back, finally breaking eye contact with the linoleum. He didn't look at her. He looked past her, his gaze fixed on some imaginary point in the distance, his jaw set like granite. The professional was back, the mask slammed down into place, but the cracks were showing. The effort it took him to maintain that composure was palpable. It was a performance more compelling than anything in the script.

Sabrina, ever the performer herself, mirrored his retreat. She turned away, fluffing her hair with a shaky hand and forcing a bright, unbothered smile. "Sorry, guys! Got a little carried away," she chirped to Kenan and Bowen, her voice a few octaves higher than usual. "Guess Tiffany is just really into Alan."

Bowen fanned himself with his script. "Honey, if that was 'carried away,' I need you to direct my next relationship."

The run-through continued, but the temperature in the room had fundamentally changed. Every line, every movement was now loaded with a subtext so heavy it was practically a character in the sketch. When they reached the kiss again, Pedro didn't hesitate. He leaned in, placed a chaste, comically loud smooch on her lips that lasted precisely one second, and pulled away. It was technically perfect. It was a joke. It was the most dishonest thing she had ever felt. His lips were warm, a ghost of the earlier inferno, but his eyes were cold and distant. He was punishing her. He was punishing them both.

When the rehearsal finally broke, the cast and crew scattered like dandelion seeds in the wind. Sabrina made a beeline for her dressing room, the click-clack of her heels a frantic staccato on the floor. She needed a moment. She needed to breathe. She needed to figure out what the hell she was going to do.

She half-expected him to follow her, to corner her in the hallway for a whispered, furious confrontation. Part of her even wanted him to. But he didn't. She made it to the sanctuary of her dressing room, the door clicking shut behind her, and was met only with silence.

She leaned against the door, her head thrown back, and let out a long, shaky breath. On the table, a bottle of expensive water sat next to a vase of white peonies she hadn’t ordered. A note was propped against it, written in a hurried, masculine scrawl on a piece of SNL letterhead.

My niece was right. You’re good.

There was no signature. There didn't need to be.

Sabrina snatched the note, her heart doing a painful lurch. You're good. It wasn't a compliment on her music. It was a concession. An admission. It was his white flag in their stupid, unspoken war. It meant he’d been watching. It meant the kiss had been more than just a reaction. It meant he was just as messed up about this as she was. And the peonies—they were a classic apology flower. Elegant, sophisticated, a little formal. So him it was almost funny.

She sank into the chair in front of her vanity, staring at her own reflection. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright with a feverish light, her lips still visibly swollen. She didn't look like Sabrina Carpenter, the polished pop princess. She looked like a girl who had just been thoroughly and devastatingly kissed.

The rest of the day became an excruciating exercise in avoidance. She saw him from a distance in the commissary, surrounded by writers, looking handsome and charming and completely out of reach. Their eyes met for a fraction of a second across a sea of heads, a jolt of pure electricity, before he looked away first.

Later, she passed him in the hallway as he was coming out of a meeting with Lorne. They were alone. The corridor was narrow. For a breathless moment, she thought he would have to speak to her. Instead, he flattened himself against the wall to let her pass, his gaze fixed firmly on the scuffed floor, his body so tense it seemed to thrum with a silent, furious energy. The gesture was so deliberate, so pointed in its avoidance, it felt more intimate than a touch. It was a silent, shared acknowledgement that they were dangerous to each other. That the two of them, in close proximity, were a liability the hallowed halls of 30 Rock simply couldn't handle.

The silence between them wasn't empty; it was screaming. And as she walked past, the scent of his woodsy cologne teasing her senses, Sabrina knew with a terrifying certainty that this screaming silence was far more potent than any argument they could ever have.

Chapter Text

Thursday was a blur of fittings, blocking rehearsals, and frantic last-minute rewrites. The building itself seemed to vibrate with a specific pre-show anxiety, a thrumming energy that got under Sabrina’s skin and amplified her own internal chaos. She’d managed to maintain a 50-foot radius from Pedro all day, a feat of strategic maneuvering that would have made a military general proud. But her luck was about to run out.

Late in the afternoon, she was headed back to her dressing room, humming the bridge of her second song, a slinky, provocative pop track called "Magnetic." She was feeling a fragile sense of control, a belief that maybe, just maybe, she could ride this out. She could do the show, be professional, and escape this pressure cooker with her sanity intact.

She rounded a corner in the labyrinthine backstage area and ran, quite literally, straight into a solid wall of man.

"Oof—" The air rushed out of her lungs as she stumbled backward, her overpriced iced latte flying from her hand in a perfect, tragic arc.

A large, warm hand shot out and clamped around her upper arm, steadying her before she could topple over in her ridiculous platform boots. "Woah, hey— I’ve got you."

That voice. That low, gravelly timbre that had been haunting her dreams. She looked up. Of course. It was Pedro. The one person in the entire building she was trying to avoid.

His hand was a brand on her arm. His face was inches from hers, his expression a mixture of surprise and immediate, undisguised concern. "Are you okay?"

Sabrina’s brain rebooted. "My latte," she whispered, her eyes wide with horror as she watched the brown liquid seep into the ancient, stained carpet. "That was a seven-dollar oat milk masterpiece."

Pedro followed her gaze, and a small, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. It was the first genuine, unguarded expression she’d seen from him since their disastrous rehearsal. "A tragedy in three acts," he murmured. His eyes flickered back to her face. "I'm sorry. I wasn't looking."

"Neither was I," she admitted, her voice barely a whisper. She was acutely aware of his hand, still holding her arm. His thumb was rubbing small, soothing circles against the fabric of her sleeve, a completely unconscious gesture that sent a cascade of sparks down her spine. The hallway was empty. The air was still. It felt like they were in their own private bubble, the chaos of the studio fading into a distant hum.

"We need to talk," he said, his voice dropping even lower. The hint of a smile was gone, replaced by a seriousness that made her stomach clench.

"There's nothing to talk about," she lied, trying to pull her arm away. His grip tightened, not painfully, but firmly. An anchor. "It was a rehearsal. For a comedy sketch. We were acting."

His dark eyes searched hers, cutting through her flimsy defenses. "Was that what we were doing, Sabrina? Acting?" He said her name, and it felt different this time. Not the polite, formal 'Sabrina Carpenter' of their first meeting, but just… Sabrina. Intimate. Real.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said, her voice shaking slightly. She hated how weak she sounded. "You're the serious actor. You tell me."

A flicker of frustration crossed his face. "Stop it," he said, his tone sharp but quiet. "Stop doing that. This isn't a game."

"Isn't it?" she shot back, finding a sliver of her old defiance. "It felt like a game when you were looking at me like I was a piece of gum on the bottom of your shoe. It felt like a game when you sent flowers with a cryptic note instead of just talking to me."

His jaw tightened. "The note wasn't cryptic. It was an apology. For underestimating you." He took a breath, his gaze intense. "And the flowers were because I acted like an ass. And because I didn't know what else to do after I kissed you like that in front of two dozen people." He looked down at his hand on her arm, as if just realizing it was still there. He didn't let go. "I haven't been able to think about anything else since."

The confession hung in the air between them, raw and dangerous. It was exactly what she had wanted to hear and the very last thing she was prepared for. The anger and defensiveness drained out of her, replaced by a terrifying vulnerability.

"Me neither," she confessed, the words so quiet they were barely a sound.

The tension in the hallway became thick, heavy, a physical weight pressing in on them. He was so close. She could see the flecks of gold in his dark brown eyes, the faint scar that cut through one of his eyebrows. She could smell that cologne, that intoxicating mix of sandalwood and something uniquely him. Her body was screaming at her to close the distance, to finish what they had started in that rehearsal room. Her brain was screaming at her to run.

"This is..." he started, his voice rough. "...a bad idea."

"Probably the worst," she agreed, her gaze dropping to his mouth.

His eyes followed hers. He knew what she was looking at. He knew what she was thinking. A low groan rumbled in his chest, and he took a half-step closer. The bubble shrunk, the air crackling with static. He was going to kiss her. Here, in the middle of the hallway, where anyone could walk by. It was reckless and stupid and she wanted it more than she wanted her next breath.

"Pedro! There you are!"

The voice, belonging to one of the show's producers, shattered the moment like a pane of glass.

They sprang apart, guilt and adrenaline making them clumsy. Pedro dropped his hand from her arm as if he’d been burned, taking two large steps back. Sabrina busied herself with looking at the coffee stain on the floor as if it were the most fascinating piece of abstract art she had ever seen.

"Lorne needs to see you about the monologue cold open," the producer said, oblivious. "He wants to add a bit about the... well, you know." He gestured vaguely at the world outside.

Pedro cleared his throat, his composure snapping back into place with practiced ease. "Right. Of course. On my way." He didn't look at Sabrina as he turned to follow the producer. But just before he disappeared around the corner, he glanced back over his shoulder. His eyes met hers, and in them, she saw a clear, unmistakable promise.

This isn't over.

Sabrina leaned against the wall, her legs suddenly feeling like jelly. Her seven-dollar latte was forgotten. The show, the rehearsals, everything faded away. There was only the ghost of his hand on her arm and the deafening echo of that promise in the screaming silence. This wasn't a bad idea anymore. It was an inevitability.

Chapter Text

The cast and crew dinner on Thursday night was a mandatory tradition, an attempt to foster a sense of camaraderie before the final, frantic 48 hours. It was held in a private room at a trendy Italian restaurant near Rockefeller Center, a place with dim lighting, exposed brick, and appetizers that cost more than Sabrina's first guitar. Normally, she loved these things—the free food, the industry gossip, the chance to feel like part of a team. Tonight, she dreaded it.

She arrived deliberately late, hoping the seating would already be established, allowing her to strategically place herself at the opposite end of the table from Pedro. Her plan was foiled the moment she walked in. The only available seat was a conspicuous one: directly across from him.

He was seated between Kenan and Lorne Michaels, looking relaxed and infuriatingly handsome in a simple grey Henley that clung to his frame in all the right ways. He was mid-story, his hands gesturing as he spoke, and the table was captivated. He had a natural charisma, a warmth that drew people in. Seeing him like this, in his element, she understood why the world had fallen in love with him. It made their antagonistic, tension-fueled interactions feel even more bizarre and out of place.

Their eyes met as she slid into her chair. He faltered for a second, losing the thread of his story. A beat of silence. Then Kenan clapped him on the shoulder. "And then what happened, man?"

Pedro blinked, tearing his gaze from hers, and seamlessly picked the story back up. But the connection had been made. A silent acknowledgement. You're here. I'm here. This is happening.

Sabrina busied herself with the menu, her cheeks burning. She ordered a glass of Pinot Grigio and tried to engage in a conversation with Chloe Fineman about a particularly disastrous wig fitting, but she was acutely aware of him. Every time he laughed at something Lorne said, the sound seemed to vibrate right through her.

The universe, it seemed, was in a matchmaking mood. As appetizers were cleared, Lorne got up to take a call, and Kenan was pulled into a deep conversation with a writer, leaving a sudden, gaping silence between Sabrina and Pedro. It was awkward. Excruciating.

He cleared his throat. "I'm sorry about your latte."

Sabrina looked up from her breadstick, surprised. "Oh. It's okay. The carpet has seen worse, I'm sure."

"I can buy you another one," he offered, his expression sincere. "Seven-dollar oat milk masterpiece, I believe you called it."

She couldn't help but smile. A real, genuine smile. "It's a very specific art form." She decided to take a risk, to step onto the fragile bridge he was extending. "I didn't know you were a peony-apology kind of guy. I had you pegged as more of a 'sends a bottle of whiskey with a grim nod' type."

A slow smile spread across his face, transforming his features. It reached his eyes this time, crinkling the corners. The full, unadulterated Pascal charm. It hit her with the force of a physical blow. "I contain multitudes," he said, his voice a low, playful rumble. "Besides, whiskey felt a little... presumptuous."

"And flowers weren't?" she teased, feeling a bit of her own playful confidence return.

"The flowers were for the pop star," he said, his gaze turning serious, intense. "The whiskey would have been for the woman who cornered me in a hallway and called me old. I figured I should apologize to the right person."

Oh. Oh. Her breath hitched. He was making a distinction. He was seeing past the persona, the Miu Miu skirts and the bubbly lyrics. He was acknowledging the person underneath, the one who had been trying to get his attention, to provoke a reaction from him all week.

"And which one am I talking to now?" she asked, her voice softer than she intended.

His eyes held hers across the table. The ambient chatter of the restaurant, the clinking of glasses, it all faded away. "I'm hoping I'm talking to Sabrina," he said simply.

It was a truce. A white flag. More than that, it was an invitation. An invitation to put down their weapons, to stop the game, and to see what was left when all the smoke cleared.

They talked. Really talked. Not as a movie star and a pop star, but as two people. They discovered a shared love for old black-and-white horror films, the original Frankenstein and Dracula. He told her a hilarious, self-deprecating story about his first-ever audition, which involved a fake mustache and a disastrous attempt at a Scottish accent. She told him about the time she fell off the stage mid-song in Germany and seamlessly incorporated it into the choreography, earning a standing ovation.

She saw the man behind the "internet daddy" persona—he was funny, intelligent, and surprisingly humble. A little bit goofy. He saw the woman behind the "pop tart" label—she was sharp, witty, and fiercely passionate about her work. They were from different generations, different worlds, but in that little bubble of conversation, they found a surprising amount of common ground. The age gap, which had been a weapon for her and a source of his initial dismissal, seemed to melt away, replaced by a genuine curiosity.

The tension between them hadn't vanished. In fact, it had gotten worse. But it had changed. It was no longer the sharp, antagonistic crackle of a coming storm. It was now a low, steady hum of magnetic attraction, a pull that felt both terrifyingly new and as old as time itself. As the main courses arrived, he leaned forward slightly.

"For the record," he murmured, his voice for her ears only, "I don't think you're frivolous. I think you're formidable."

Sabrina’s heart skipped a beat. Formidable. He saw her as formidable. It was the single most attractive thing anyone had ever said to her.

Chapter Text

Friday at Studio 8H was dedicated to camera blocking and rehearsals on the main stage. For Sabrina, that meant her soundcheck. It was the part of the week where the chaos of sketch comedy fell away, and she was back in her kingdom. The stage was her domain.

She was performing two songs. The first was "Espresso," the global mega-hit, a fun, flirty, undeniable bop. But the second... the second was different. It was a new track from the deluxe version of her album, a song called "Torch." It was a ballad. A raw, vulnerable, stripped-down piece she had written late one night with just a piano and a broken heart. It was about the lingering, burning embers of a past love, a feeling that never quite goes away. It was deeply personal, and she was nervous to perform it live for the first time.

She stepped onto the stage, bathed in the cool blue and purple wash of the stage lights. The studio was mostly empty, save for the technical crew, a few lingering writers, and her band. It was quiet, the air thick with anticipation. She took her place at the microphone stand, her fingers tracing its cool metal surface. She was wearing simple black trousers and a silk camisole—her performance armor stripped away. This was just her.

"Let's run 'Torch' first," she said into the mic, her voice echoing slightly in the vast space. "From the top."

The opening notes from the piano trickled out, delicate and melancholic. Sabrina closed her eyes, shutting out the world, and let the music fill her. She wasn't thinking about hit records or chart positions or brand partnerships. She was thinking about the feeling that had inspired the song—the quiet ache, the stubborn hope, the flame that refuses to die.

She began to sing.

"You're not my lover, you're just a torch I'm still holding... Burns me to the bone, but I'm not letting go."

Her voice was different here. The bubbly effervescence was gone, replaced by a breathy, intimate clarity. There was a story in her tone, a history of pain and resilience that couldn't be faked. Every note was infused with genuine emotion. This was her art, unfiltered and unadorned. This was the part of herself she rarely showed the world.

Unseen by her, Pedro Pascal had slipped into the back of the studio. He had been on his way to his dressing room when he heard the opening notes of the piano. He had intended to just walk past, to keep his distance, to honor their fragile truce from a safe distance. But then she started to sing.

He stopped dead in his tracks, concealed in the deep shadows by the studio entrance. And he listened.

He had heard her music, of course. The catchy, clever pop songs his niece played on a loop. He had respected the craft, the sheer skill it took to create something so infectious. But this... this was something else entirely.

This was art.

He watched her, a lone figure bathed in colored light, her entire being poured into the song. He saw the subtle tremor in her hand as she gripped the mic stand, the way her eyes remained closed, lost in the world she was creating. She wasn't a "zygote," as Bowen's character had joked. She wasn't a "frivolous pop tart." She was a storyteller. A poet. She was taking a universal feeling of heartbreak and longing and turning it into something beautiful and resonant.

"This house is haunted, every room has a ghost of you... I talk to the walls, hoping they'll talk back, too."

The lyrics were devastatingly simple and profoundly sad. He felt a pang of something in his own chest, a resonance with the feeling she was describing. He, a man who had built a career on conveying complex emotions, was completely captivated by the raw, honest emotion she was displaying on that stage.

He had been so wrong about her. He had looked at her youth, her success, her bright, shiny pop-star packaging, and he had put her in a box. He had dismissed her. The realization hit him with a sense of deep, profound shame. Their antagonism, her barbs about his age—he saw now that he had earned them. He had been patronizing and arrogant, and she had simply refused to let him get away with it. Formidable, he had called her. He hadn't known the half of it.

The song swelled to its crescendo, her voice soaring, filled with a heartbreaking mixture of pain and strength. It was the sound of a woman who had been through the fire and had come out the other side, not unscathed, but stronger.

As the final, lingering piano note faded into silence, the studio was utterly still. Even the hardened crew members seemed to be holding their breath.

Sabrina opened her eyes, a little dazed, as she always was after singing that song. A smattering of applause broke out from the writers and her band. She gave them a small, shy smile.

From the back of the room, hidden in the shadows, Pedro stood frozen. The attraction he felt for her, which had started as a confusing, inconvenient physical pull, had just deepened into something far more potent. It was respect. It was admiration. It was awe.

The pop star had just revealed the artist. And he was utterly, completely, irrevocably sunk.

Chapter Text

After the soundcheck, Sabrina felt emotionally raw, as if she’d left a piece of her soul on the stage. She retreated to the quiet sanctuary of her dressing room, kicking off her boots and sinking into the plush armchair in the corner. She felt exposed, vulnerable. Performing "Torch" always did that to her.

She was scrolling mindlessly through her phone, trying to ground herself back in reality, when there was a soft knock on her door.

"Come in," she called out, assuming it was her manager or a producer with a last-minute note.

The door opened, and Pedro Pascal stood in the doorway.

Sabrina’s heart did a frantic little stutter-step. He looked hesitant, almost nervous, which was a look she never thought she’d see on him. He wasn’t wearing the mask of the charming movie star or the serious actor. He just looked like... a man. A man with something important to say.

"Can I...?" He gestured into the room.

"Yeah, of course," she said, sitting up a little straighter, suddenly self-conscious in her simple camisole and socked feet.

He stepped inside, closing the door quietly behind him. The small room suddenly felt charged, the air thick with unspoken words. He didn't sit down. He just stood there for a moment, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans, his gaze soft and serious.

"I was listening," he said finally, his voice quiet. "To your rehearsal."

Sabrina’s stomach clenched. "Oh. Just working out the kinks."

"There were no kinks," he said, shaking his head slightly. "It was... extraordinary." He looked directly at her, his eyes full of a sincere, unvarnished emotion she hadn't seen before. "That song... Sabrina, it was breathtaking."

The compliment, coming from him, after everything, landed differently. It wasn't flattery. It was a statement of fact, delivered with a quiet reverence that made her cheeks flush.

"Thank you," she managed to say, her voice small.

"I came here to apologize," he continued, taking a step closer. "Properly. Not with flowers or a note or a joke at dinner. I need to apologize to you." He gestured vaguely between them. "When I first met you, in the writers' room... I was an arrogant prick."

Sabrina blinked, taken aback by his bluntness.

"I saw this... beautiful, young, ridiculously successful pop star," he went on, a look of self-reproach on his face, "and I made a whole host of assumptions. I was dismissive. Patronizing. I put you in a box because it was easier than dealing with the fact that you were... intimidating."

"Intimidating?" she repeated, a little laugh escaping her lips. "Me? You're The Mandalorian."

"And you're Sabrina Carpenter," he countered, a small, wry smile on his face. "You build empires. I just play pretend in them. But it wasn't just the success. It was you. Your confidence. Your energy. It's... a lot." He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture she was coming to recognize as his tell for when he was feeling flustered or overwhelmed. "And instead of just being a man and admitting that, I acted like a stuffy old asshole. And I am truly, deeply sorry for it."

The apology was so direct, so sincere, it completely disarmed her. All the witty retorts, all the defensive walls she had so carefully constructed all week, crumbled into dust. She was left sitting there, looking at this man who was baring his own insecurity to her, and she felt a powerful wave of... something. Empathy. Connection.

"You weren't a complete asshole," she offered, a small smile playing on her lips. "Maybe just, like, 75 percent."

He let out a short, relieved laugh. The tension in his shoulders seemed to dissipate. "Okay. I'll take 75 percent." He looked at her, his expression turning serious again. "Watching you on that stage... I saw the artist. The real one. The one who writes songs like 'Torch.' And I was so ashamed of how I'd misjudged you."

This was it. The moment everything changed. The "enemies" part of their dynamic was officially over, slain by a single, honest conversation. All that was left was the raw, undeniable attraction, an attraction that was now compounded by mutual respect and a startling emotional intimacy.

"I might have been a little... provocative," she admitted, her gaze dropping to her hands. "The age jokes... that was my armor. You made me nervous, and I didn't like it, so I lashed out."

"I know," he said softly. He closed the remaining distance between them, crouching down in front of her chair so they were at eye level. The gesture was one of deference, of vulnerability. It made her heart ache. "I think we make each other nervous."

His proximity was dizzying. She could see the laugh lines around his eyes, the warmth in his gaze. He was looking at her not as a pop star or a kid, but as a woman. An equal. The air in the room was electric, humming with the force of their shared confession.

"Pedro," she whispered, her voice thick with an emotion she couldn't name.

"Sabrina," he whispered back.

His hand came up, and he hesitated for a fraction of a second before his fingers gently brushed a stray strand of hair from her cheek. The touch was feather-light, but it sent a bolt of lightning through her. It was a question, a plea, and a promise all at once.

And in that moment, as she looked into his dark, soulful eyes, Sabrina knew she was completely and utterly lost.

Chapter Text

The touch lingered. His knuckles, warm and slightly rough, grazed her cheek for a beat too long before he pulled his hand away. The space where he had touched her tingled, a phantom caress that seemed to burn straight through to her soul. They were kneeling and sitting, respectively, in the sterile quiet of her dressing room, closer than they had been all week, and yet the distance felt vaster, more perilous than ever. The pretense was gone. The games were over. All that remained was the terrifying, beautiful, undeniable truth.

"This is..." he began, his voice a low, gravelly whisper that seemed to get tangled in the charged air between them. He shook his head, unable to find the right word. "Complicated."

"Insane is another word for it," Sabrina supplied, her own voice barely audible. She felt a strange duality, a sense of calm clarity mixed with a frantic, full-body panic. "You're... you. And I'm... me."

"I am acutely aware of that," he said, a wry, tired smile touching his lips. "You're a global phenomenon with a billion streams and an army of fans who would probably string me up by my toes if they knew I was even thinking about..." He trailed off, his gaze dropping to her mouth. He didn't need to finish the sentence.

"And you're a critically acclaimed actor, the internet's 'daddy'," she retorted softly, using the term not as a weapon this time, but as a statement of fact, of the gulf between their public personas. "People see you as this... pillar of dignified cool. And I'm the girl who sings about espresso and staying up all night. This doesn't make any sense."

"And yet," he murmured, his eyes lifting to meet hers again, full of a raw, turbulent honesty. "Here we are."

Here we are. Two simple words that held the weight of their entire week. The antagonistic first meeting, the electric promo shoot, the cataclysmic rehearsal kiss, the awkward avoidance, the fragile truce, the breathtaking revelation of her music, and now, this. This quiet, terrifying, electrifying moment of truth.

"What are we doing, Pedro?" she asked, the question a genuine plea for clarity in a situation that had none.

He was silent for a long moment, studying her face as if trying to memorize it. "I think," he said slowly, choosing his words with immense care, "we are trying very, very hard to be professional. To get through the next thirty-six hours without setting this entire building on fire."

It was an admission and a strategy all in one. He was acknowledging the fire. He was acknowledging that it was real, that it was consuming them both. And he was proposing a temporary ceasefire, not of the attraction itself—that was clearly impossible—but of any action related to it.

"Just... get through the show," Sabrina repeated, testing the words. It sounded sensible. It sounded adult. It sounded like the most impossible task she had ever been given. How was she supposed to stand on a stage and kiss him for a sketch, knowing what she knew now? How was she supposed to make eye contact with him during the goodnights, surrounded by the entire cast, and not give everything away?

"We do the show," he affirmed, his voice firm, as if he were trying to convince himself as much as her. "We're professionals. That's what we do. We hit our marks, we say our lines, and we act like none of this is happening."

"And after?" she whispered, the word hanging in the air between them, loaded with a million possibilities. After the show, after the lights went down, after the professional obligation was fulfilled. What then?

His eyes darkened, the internal conflict warring on his face. He looked at her, and the raw want in his gaze was so potent it was almost a physical touch. It was a look that promised long nights and tangled sheets and the complete obliteration of common sense.

"After the show," he said, his voice dropping to a rough, intimate growl, "we can talk about what happens after the show."

It was an agreement. An unspoken pact. They would put a lid on this simmering pot, just for a little while longer. They would push it all down, all the tension and desire and newfound respect, and focus on the job. But the promise of after was there. A dangerous, thrilling light at the end of the tunnel. It made the waiting both bearable and completely torturous.

He stood up then, the spell breaking. The intimacy of their crouched confession dissipated, and he was once again a tall, imposing figure in her small dressing room. "I should go," he said, moving toward the door. "Rehearsals."

"Yeah," she said, her throat dry. "Me too."

He paused with his hand on the doorknob, his back to her. "Sabrina?"

"Yeah?"

He turned his head slightly, looking at her over his shoulder. A final, devastatingly honest confession. "I really wish I had met you ten years from now. Or I had met you ten years ago."

And with that, he was gone, leaving her alone in the quiet room with the echo of his words and the impossible, maddening promise of "after."

Chapter Text

Saturday. The day was a fever dream.

The air in 30 Rock crackled with a unique, high-stakes energy that only a live show can produce. It was a controlled-chaos ballet of last-minute changes, quick-change rehearsals, and the palpable thrum of adrenaline. For Sabrina and Pedro, it was something else entirely. It was a tightrope walk.

Their agreement—to be professionals, to wait until after—had transformed the very atmosphere around them. Every time they passed in the hallway, every brief moment of eye contact across the bustling studio floor, was no longer fraught with antagonism but with the heavy, portentous weight of their pact. It was a shared secret in a building where secrets were impossible to keep. The tension was no longer a fire they were trying to put out; it was a bomb they were both holding, waiting for the timer to run out.

Sabrina nailed her performance of "Espresso." Fueled by a nervous energy so potent it was practically radioactive, she delivered a masterclass in pop performance. She was effervescent, flirty, and utterly in control, her vocals flawless, her stage presence magnetic. She caught a glimpse of Pedro watching from the wings, his expression unreadable but intense, and she held his gaze for a single, defiant beat before turning back to the camera with a dazzling smile. See? her look said. This is me. All of it.

Then came the "Family Dinner" sketch.

Standing backstage, waiting for their cue, was the most intense moment of the day. They stood side-by-side in the dim light, not touching, not speaking. Sabrina could feel the heat radiating from his body. She could hear his quiet, steady breathing. The silence was so loud it was deafening.

"You were incredible," he murmured, his voice low and close to her ear, just as the stage manager gave them the five-second warning. "Your performance."

"You're not so bad yourself," she whispered back, her heart hammering against her ribs. "For an older guy."

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Ready?"

"No," she said honestly.

The lights came up. They walked onto the set.

The sketch flew by in a blur of laughter from the live audience. Kenan, Heidi, and Bowen were on fire, their comedic timing impeccable. Sabrina played "Tiffany" with a manic, wide-eyed glee, and Pedro played the beleaguered "Alan" to perfection. But underneath the comedy, for the two of them, another scene was playing out. Every line about their characters' unlikely pairing, every joke about their age difference, felt intensely, personally pointed.

Then came the moment.

"Mom," Pedro-as-Alan said, his voice tight with scripted exasperation. "I love her." He turned to face her. The studio lights were hot. The eyes of millions of people were on them. But in that moment, all Sabrina could see were his eyes, dark and deep and full of the promise of after.

The script called for a quick, comedic kiss. A peck. That was what they had rehearsed after their initial, incendiary encounter.

But as he leaned in, something shifted. The look in his eyes changed. The carefully constructed walls of professionalism, the pact they had made, it all seemed to evaporate under the heat of the lights and the roar of the crowd. This wasn't Alan looking at Tiffany anymore. This was Pedro looking at Sabrina.

His hand came up to cup her jaw, his thumb stroking her cheek, a move that was nowhere in the script. The audience "oohed," thinking it was part of the joke, a sweet, romantic beat before the punchline. But Sabrina knew better. This was real.

He leaned in and his lips met hers.

It wasn't the chaste peck they had rehearsed. It also wasn't the desperate, fiery collision from the first rehearsal. It was something else entirely. It was a kiss that was achingly, exquisitely tender. It was slow. It was deliberate. It was a confession, broadcast live to the entire world, but encoded in a language only the two of them could understand. It spoke of respect, of apology, of a desire that had deepened into something far more profound. His lips were soft, moving against hers with a gentle pressure that made her knees go weak. For a split second, she forgot where she was, forgot the audience and the cameras, and simply kissed him back, pouring all the confusion and longing and hope of the past week into that one, impossible moment.

He pulled back slowly. His eyes were dazed, his breathing unsteady.

Bowen, perfectly in character, broke the spell. "Well," he drawled, looking them both up and down with disdain. "I'm going to need therapy. And a spritzer."

The audience roared with laughter, the sketch moved on, and somehow, they got through it. They hit their marks, said their lines, but they were both on autopilot. When the sketch ended and they ran off stage into the dim backstage area, the adrenaline hit them like a tidal wave.

They stopped in the shadows, their chests heaving.

"That was not the plan," Sabrina breathed, her voice shaky.

"No," Pedro said, his voice rough. He was staring at her, his eyes blazing with an intensity that stole the air from her lungs. "It wasn't."

He didn't say anything else. He just looked at her, and in his gaze, she saw the last vestiges of his restraint crumbling. The bomb was ticking faster. The word after was no longer a distant promise. It was here. It was now. And it was going to be explosive.

Chapter Text

The SNL afterparty was a New York institution, a semi-mythical gathering where cast members, crew, hosts, and a smattering of A-listers unwound in a loud, crowded, and ridiculously cool downtown bar. The air was thick with the smell of expensive booze, truffle fries, and collective relief. The show was done. The pressure was off.

For Sabrina and Pedro, the pressure had just begun.

They arrived separately, swallowed instantly by a sea of well-wishers and colleagues congratulating them on a great show. Sabrina found herself swept into a booth with Bowen, Sarah, and a few of the writers, a flute of champagne pressed into her hand. She laughed at their jokes, rehashed the night's best moments, and tried her best to seem present, but her eyes kept scanning the room.

She found him. He was standing near the bar, talking to Kenan and Fred Armisen. He was holding a glass of what looked like whiskey, a small smile on his face as he listened to one of Kenan’s stories. He looked impossibly handsome, relaxed, a movie star holding court. But then he lifted his head, as if he could feel her gaze, and his eyes found hers across the crowded, noisy room.

The connection was instantaneous. The rest of the party, the music, the chatter, it all faded into a dull, ambient roar. There was only him. His eyes, dark and intense, held hers. The small smile on his face vanished, replaced by that same raw, unguarded look from the backstage hallway. It was a look of pure, unadulterated longing. A look that said, I see you. Only you.

A shiver went down Sabrina's spine. This was a different kind of tension. It wasn’t the will-they-won't-they of the past week. This was the agonizing, delicious prelude to a foregone conclusion. The when. The how.

Bowen nudged her, following her gaze. "The sexual tension between you two tonight could power a small country," he murmured into her ear, his voice laced with amusement. "That kiss in the sketch? The Academy should investigate."

Sabrina felt a hot blush creep up her neck. "It was acting, Bowen."

"Sure it was, sweetie," he said, patting her hand. "And I'm straight. Now if you'll excuse me, I see a producer I need to beg for more screen time." He slid out of the booth, leaving her alone with her thoughts.

The night wore on, a surreal montage of faces and conversations. People kept coming up to her, telling her how great her performances were, how funny she was in the sketch. She smiled and thanked them, her social autopilot fully engaged. But her internal compass was pointed in only one direction.

She watched him across the room. He was a magnet, and she was helpless steel. She watched as a stunning actress she recognized from an HBO show laughed a little too loudly at something he said, touching his arm. A sharp, unfamiliar pang of jealousy shot through Sabrina, so intense it surprised her.

He saw her watching. He subtly disengaged from the actress, taking a step back, his eyes finding Sabrina’s again. He gave a slight, almost imperceptible shake of his head. It's not what you think.

Later, she was cornered by a music executive who wanted to talk about a potential collaboration. As he droned on, she saw Pedro leaning against a far wall, alone for the first time all night, watching her. His gaze wasn't just intense anymore. It was possessive. Impatient. He looked like a man who was done waiting.

The party swirled around them, a chaotic dance of which they were the two still points. It was a game of cat and mouse, but a strange one, where both were the cat and both were the mouse. The chase was in the stolen glances, the magnetic pull, the agony of being in the same room but worlds apart.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she felt a vibration from the phone in her clutch. She pulled it out, her heart hammering. A new text message from an unknown number.

I’m at the back door. Come with me.

It wasn't a question. It was a command. A plea. An escape plan.

Sabrina’s breath hitched. She looked up, and he was gone from his spot against the wall. This was it. The timer had hit zero. The moment of detonation.

She stood up, her legs feeling unsteady. "Hey guys," she said to the group at her table, forcing a casual smile. "I'm exhausted. I think I'm gonna call it a night."

She received a chorus of goodbyes and air kisses. She didn't wait for any of them to stick. With her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs, she navigated the crowded room, her eyes fixed on the red EXIT sign at the back of the bar. It felt like a beacon, a portal to another world.

She pushed open the heavy door and stepped out into the cool, damp alley. It was quiet, a stark contrast to the thrumming party inside. And there he was.

He was leaning against the brick wall, shrouded in the shadows, the red glow of the exit sign catching the silver in his hair. He pushed off the wall as she approached, his face a mask of tense, controlled anticipation.

He didn't say a word. He just looked at her, his eyes asking the final question. Are you sure?

Sabrina didn’t speak either. She just walked toward him, closing the last few feet of distance between them, and gave a single, decisive nod.

Yes.

A slow, relieved breath escaped his lips. He held out his hand. She took it. His fingers wrapped around hers, warm and strong. And without a word, he led her out of the alley and into the waiting darkness of the New York night.

Chapter Text

The taxi ride was silent. Not the awkward, screaming silence of the hallways at 30 Rock, but a new kind of quiet. A heavy, humming silence, thick with anticipation and the weight of a decision finally made. Sabrina sat pressed against the cool leather of the seat, her hand still held firmly in Pedro’s. His thumb was stroking the back of her hand, a slow, deliberate motion that sent shivers up her arm and straight to her core.

She stared out the window at the blurred, glittering lights of the city streaking past. New York at 2 a.m. was a world of its own, full of secrets and possibilities. Tonight, she was one of them.

She risked a glance at him. He was already looking at her, his profile outlined by the passing streetlights. His expression was serious, his brow slightly furrowed, as if he were trying to solve a complex equation. The "charming actor" was gone. The "confused man" was gone. In his place was a man who knew exactly what he wanted, and the gravity of it.

"My hotel is closer," he said, his voice a low rumble that was barely audible over the hum of the tires on the pavement. It wasn't a question. It was a statement of logistics, but it felt like so much more.

"Okay," she breathed. That single word was her final consent. Her final surrender.

The ride felt both impossibly long and terrifyingly short. When the cab pulled up in front of a sleek, discreet hotel in SoHo, Sabrina’s heart was beating so hard she was sure he could hear it. He paid the driver, and they got out, the cool night air a shock to the system. He kept her hand in his as he led her through the quiet, opulent lobby. The night concierge gave them a polite, professionally indifferent nod. They were just another one of the city's countless secrets.

The elevator ride up was even more silent, more charged, than the taxi. The space was small, forcing them into a proximity that was both thrilling and agonizing. She could smell the faint, lingering scent of whiskey on his breath, mixed with that woodsy cologne that she would now forever associate with him. He was still holding her hand, his grip a warm, solid anchor in the swirling chaos of her mind.

The elevator chimed, the doors sliding open onto a quiet, carpeted hallway. His room was at the end. He let go of her hand only to pull the key card from his pocket. Each second was stretched thin, elastic with tension. The click of the lock disengaging was the loudest sound she had ever heard.

He pushed the door open, holding it for her to enter.

The room was a suite. Dark, spacious, with a massive floor-to-ceiling window showcasing a breathtaking panorama of the glittering Manhattan skyline. The only light came from the city itself, casting long shadows across the room.

Sabrina stepped inside, her heels sinking into the plush carpet. She walked toward the window, drawn by the view, her back to him. She could hear the door click shut behind her. The sound echoed in the silent room, a definitive, final punctuation mark. The world was shut out. The party, the show, their public lives—it was all on the other side of that door. In here, they were just a man and a woman.

She heard his footsteps on the carpet, slow and deliberate, approaching her from behind. She didn't turn. She kept her eyes on the city lights, her arms wrapped around herself, her heart a frantic bird beating against the cage of her ribs.

He stopped just behind her. So close she could feel the heat of his body, but not touching. Not yet.

"Sabrina," he whispered, his voice rough with an emotion she couldn't decipher.

She took a shaky breath. "Pedro."

She felt his hands on her shoulders. They were warm and heavy. He turned her around slowly, deliberately, to face him.

The city lights backlit his frame, casting his face in shadow, but she could see the burning intensity in his eyes. All the questions, all the conflict, all the waiting, it was over. All that was left was this. The two of them, in a dark room, high above the sleeping city.

"I have wanted to do this," he began, his voice a low, strained growl, "since the moment you walked into that writers' room and called me old."

A shaky laugh escaped her lips. "I have wanted you to do this since the moment you looked at me like I was an alien life form you were mildly interested in dissecting."

A slow, predatory smile curled his lips. The smile he'd given her after her challenge during the promo shoot. The one that had made her insides melt.

"Is that so?" he murmured.

He lowered his head, and this time, there was no script. No audience. No jokes. No hesitation.

His lips met hers, and the world fell away.

It was not the angry, desperate kiss from the rehearsal, or the tender, questioning kiss from the live show. This was the kiss that both of those had been building toward. It was pure, unadulterated release. A dam breaking. It was hungry and desperate, a collision of a week's worth of pent-up longing, frustration, and a desire so potent it was almost painful. His arms wrapped around her, one hand tangling in her hair, tilting her head back, while the other slid down her back, pressing her flush against the hard lines of his body. He kissed her like a man starved, and she kissed him back with equal, reckless abandon. It was a kiss that tasted of whiskey and champagne and the intoxicating, terrifying flavor of a very, very bad idea finally coming true.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

His touch was the match. Her skin was the gasoline. The moment his palm made contact with the bare skin of her lower back, a searing heat shot through her, pooling low in her belly. It was a simple touch, but it held the weight of a week's worth of stolen glances, unspoken thoughts, and explosive tension. This was the point of no return.

Sabrina gasped into his mouth, a broken, needy sound. Her body arched instinctively, pressing herself more firmly against him, chasing the sensation. He groaned, a deep, guttural sound of a man at the very edge of his control. His other hand, no longer content with her waist, slid up her side, his thumb brushing the sensitive curve of her breast through the thin silk of her camisole.

"God, you feel..." he breathed against her lips, unable to finish the thought. He didn't need to. She felt it too. This impossible, electric rightness.

"Don't talk," she whispered, then immediately contradicted herself. "No. Talk. Tell me what you're thinking."

A dark, dangerous smile played on his lips. He pulled back just enough to look into her eyes, his own blazing with a possessive fire. "I'm thinking," he growled, his voice a low, rough purr that vibrated through her whole body, "that I have been imagining this moment every second since you challenged me in that writers' room. I've been imagining what you feel like. What you taste like." He punctuated the last sentence by capturing her lower lip between his teeth, tugging gently before soothing the spot with his tongue.

A whimper escaped her. Her mind, usually her sharpest weapon, had dissolved into a haze of pure sensation. There was only the heat of his body, the intoxicating scent of him, and the devastating promises in his voice.

His hand on her back moved, his fingers tracing her spine with an agonizing slowness before finding the clasp of her bralette. He didn't unhook it. He just rested his fingers there. A question.

Her answer was to surge upward, her mouth finding his again in a kiss that was pure, frantic need. Her own hands, no longer content to just hold him, went to the hem of his Henley, pulling it upward with clumsy, desperate fingers. She needed to feel him.

He broke the kiss to help her, pulling the shirt over his head in one fluid motion and tossing it aside. And then she could see him.

The dim light from the city window sculpted him, casting shadows across the hard planes of his chest and the sharp lines of his shoulders. He was perfect. Not magazine-cover perfect, but real-perfect. The dusting of dark hair on his chest, the way his skin glowed in the ambient light, the sheer, solid presence of him. He was beautiful, and he was hers, at least for tonight.

"You're staring," he murmured, his voice laced with a raw vulnerability she had never expected.

"So are you," she shot back breathlessly. His own gaze was devouring her, a hot, appreciative trail from her flushed face to where her own top was still very much on.

"I can't help it," he confessed, his voice rough. "You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." He reached for the straps of her camisole, his fingers ghosting over her collarbones. "May I?"

She could only nod, her throat tight with emotion.

He slid the silk straps off her shoulders with a reverence that made her heart ache. The fabric pooled around her waist. Then, with that same painstaking care, he reached behind her and unhooked her bra. He let it fall away, and then his hands were on her, cupping her breasts, his thumbs stroking her nipples, which were already hard and aching for his touch.

Sabrina cried out, her head falling back, her eyes fluttering shut. "Pedro..." His name was a plea.

"Shhh, I've got you," he whispered, his mouth returning to her neck, kissing a fiery path downward. "I just want to feel all of you. Taste all of you." He took one of her nipples into his mouth, his tongue and teeth working a devastating magic that made her hips buck against him. "Is this okay?" he murmured against her skin. "Tell me what you want, Sabrina. I'll do anything you want."

"You," she gasped, her fingers tangling in his hair, holding him to her. "I want you. Now. Please."

That was all the permission he needed. The slow, deliberate worship was over, replaced by a storm of mutual need. In one swift movement, he was standing, pulling her up with him. He fumbled with the button and zip of her leather pants, his usual dexterity gone, replaced by a desperate haste that she found incredibly endearing. She kicked them off, along with her boots, until she was standing before him in nothing but her tiny thong.

He looked at her, his chest heaving, his eyes wide with a look of pure, unadulterated awe. "Fuck," he breathed. It was the most eloquent compliment she had ever received.

Then he was on his knees in front of her. "I meant it," he rasped, looking up at her, his hands resting on her hips. "Every inch." Before she could process his intent, his mouth was on her, his tongue finding the wet heat of her through the thin lace of her panties.

Sabrina screamed, a sound that was torn from the very depths of her soul. Her fingers clenched in his hair as her entire world shattered into a million points of blinding white light. Her knees gave out, and he caught her, his strong arms wrapping around her as he rose, lifting her against him.

He carried her into the bedroom, their mouths locked in a frenzied, open-mouthed kiss. He didn't place her on the bed; he fell with her, tumbling onto the cool, soft sheets in a tangle of limbs.

He landed on top of her, his weight a welcome, grounding presence. He was still dressed in his jeans, the rough denim a stark, thrilling contrast to her bare skin. He propped himself up on his elbows, looking down at her, his hair a mess, his eyes dark and wild. The city lights streamed in through the window, painting stripes of silver and shadow across their bodies.

"You are going to be the death of me, Sabrina Carpenter," he growled, his voice thick with a desire so profound it was almost worship.

"Good," she breathed, her legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him impossibly closer. "Then we can die together."

Chapter Text

His words, "Then we can die together," hung in the air, a final, reckless vow before the deluge. The last barrier of restraint shattered. Pedro pushed himself up slightly, his eyes burning into hers. The fight was over. Now came the surrender.

"You have no idea how long I've been waiting to be inside you," he growled, the words a rough, desperate confession. He fumbled with the button of his jeans, his movements clumsy with a need that mirrored her own.

"Then what are you waiting for?" she challenged, her voice a husky whisper. She reached down, her fingers brushing his as she helped him with the zipper. The contact, so brazen and intentional, made him hiss in a sharp breath.

He kicked his jeans and boxers off, the motions fluid and urgent, and then he was bare, magnificent in the shadowy light of the city. He settled between her legs, the heat of his skin a brand against her inner thighs. He didn't enter her, not yet. He held himself above her, letting her feel the full, heavy length of him pressing against her entrance.

"I want you to feel this," he murmured, his forehead resting against hers. "I want you to feel every inch of me. Tell me you want it, Sabrina. Tell me you want me to fuck you."

The crude word, coming from his mouth, was the most exquisite thing she had ever heard. It was raw, honest, and stripped of all pretense. "I want you to fuck me," she breathed, her hips lifting off the bed, a silent, desperate plea. "Pedro, please..."

That was all he needed. He drove into her in one long, slow, perfect stroke.

They both cried out. It was a sound of homecoming, of agony, of relief. Sabrina's eyes rolled back as her body stretched to accommodate him, the feeling of being filled by him so intense it bordered on pain, but a pain so welcome it was indistinguishable from pleasure. He was thick and hot and he fit inside her as if he were made for her.

He stayed still for a moment, buried deep inside her, letting them both absorb the shock and beauty of the connection. "Fuck," he whispered, his voice trembling. "You feel... perfect. You feel like mine."

"I am," she sobbed, a single tear tracing a path down her temple. "Tonight, I'm all yours."

"Not just tonight," he growled, a possessive, primal sound. And then he began to move.

It was slow at first, a deliberate, torturous rhythm designed to build a fire. He pulled almost all the way out before sinking back into her, each thrust deeper than the last. He watched her face, his eyes tracking every flicker of emotion, every gasp and moan.

"That's it, beautiful," he praised, his voice a low rumble. "Look at me. I want to see your face when you come."

"I'm close," she gasped, her nails digging into the muscles of his back. "So close, don't stop."

"I'm not going anywhere," he promised, his pace quickening. The slow burn erupted into a raging inferno. His thrusts became harder, faster, a frantic, desperate rhythm that matched the frantic beating of her heart. The sound of their bodies colliding, of their ragged breaths and soft moans, filled the room, a secret symphony against the backdrop of the silent city.

"Tell me you like that," he demanded, his voice strained. "Tell me how good it feels."

"It feels so good," she cried, her body starting to tremble, the first tremors of her orgasm beginning to build. "It's too much."

"No, it's not," he countered, leaning down to kiss her, his tongue plunging into her mouth in time with his thrusts. "Take it. Take all of me, Sabrina."

He slid one hand between their bodies, his fingers finding her clit, rubbing a firm, steady circle. The dual stimulation was electric, catastrophic. Sabrina screamed, her back arching off the bed as a violent, shattering orgasm ripped through her. Her inner muscles clenched around him, milking him, pulling him deeper.

It was what sent him over the edge. With a guttural roar that was her name, he stiffened, his own release flooding her, hot and heavy. He pumped into her, chasing the last waves of her pleasure, his body shaking with the force of his climax.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of their harsh, ragged breathing. He collapsed onto her, his weight a dead, welcome anchor. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, his lips pressing against her damp skin. She held him, her arms wrapped tightly around his shaking frame, her legs still tangled with his.

The deluge had passed. They had survived. And in the quiet, breathless aftermath, lying tangled in the sheets of a stranger's hotel room, they were no longer enemies, or lovers, or a movie star and a pop star. They were just two people who had finally, finally found each other.

Sabrina woke slowly, pulled from a deep, dreamless sleep by a sliver of insistent morning light cutting across her face. For a blissful, disoriented moment, she didn’t know where she was. The sheets were too soft, the thread count too high. The air smelled unfamiliar, a mix of expensive soap, stale champagne, and a warm, musky, masculine scent that was both foreign and deeply, fundamentally comforting.

Then it all came flooding back. The afterparty. The alley. The taxi. The door clicking shut. Pedro.

Her eyes flew open. She was in his bed. Alone. The other side of the king-sized bed was empty, the sheets a chaotic tangle, a clear battlefield of the night’s surrender. Panic, cold and sharp, lanced through her. Did he leave? Did he regret it? Was she just a groupie who’d been snuck in and was meant to sneak out before the sun came up? Her heart, which had felt so full just hours ago, clenched with a sudden, painful anxiety. This is what she got for being reckless.

She sat up, clutching the sheet to her chest, her hair a wild rat’s nest around her shoulders. Her clothes were in a messy pile on a chair, along with his. The room was bathed in the unforgivingly bright light of a Saturday morning, a stark contrast to the moody, romantic shadows of the night before.

Then she heard it. A soft clink of ceramic on ceramic, coming from the adjoining living area.

She slid out of bed, her bare feet sinking into the plush carpet. The sheet, trailing behind her like a royal train, was her only shield. She padded quietly to the doorway of the bedroom and peeked around the corner.

Pedro was standing in front of the massive window, the one that had served as the backdrop to their initial collision. He was wearing a pair of dark grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips, and nothing else. His back was to her, his hair was a rumpled mess, and he was holding a cup of coffee. The morning light illuminated the strong lines of his back and shoulders, and Sabrina felt a pang of something so potent it almost buckled her knees. It was a dangerous mix of lust, affection, and a terrifying sense of… belonging.

He seemed to feel her presence. He turned, and the moment he saw her, a slow, warm smile spread across his face. It was a genuine, unguarded smile, full of sleep and a quiet, profound contentment. All of her morning-after anxieties evaporated like mist.

“Morning,” he said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. It was even deeper in the morning. She made a mental note of that.

“Hi,” she breathed, pulling the sheet tighter around herself. “I thought… I woke up and you were gone.”

His smile faded, replaced by a look of soft concern. He put his coffee cup down on the console table and walked toward her, closing the distance between them. He stopped just in front of her, his hands coming up to cup her face. “Hey,” he said gently. “I just went to make coffee. I was trying not to wake you. I would not have left.” He looked at her, his dark eyes searching hers. “I would never do that.”

The sincerity in his voice was a balm to her frayed nerves. “Okay,” she whispered, relief washing over her.

“Okay,” he echoed. He leaned in and gave her a slow, soft kiss. It wasn’t the fiery, desperate kiss of the night before. It was a morning kiss. Tender, sweet, tasting faintly of coffee and a new, startling intimacy. When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against hers.

“How are you?” he asked, the simple question loaded with meaning. Are you okay? Do you regret this? What happens now?

“I’m…” she started, trying to find the right word. She felt… different. Like a fundamental part of her had been rewritten overnight. “I’m good.” She looked up at him, a playful smirk beginning to form on her lips as the old Sabrina reasserted herself. “A little sore. You’re… vigorous. For an older guy.”

He threw his head back and laughed, a loud, genuine bark of a laugh that filled the quiet room. “Oh, you’re back, are you?” he said, his eyes sparkling. “I was wondering when the little brat who started all this was going to show up.”

“She never left,” Sabrina quipped, poking him in his bare chest. “She was just… momentarily incapacitated.”

“I’ll say,” he chuckled. He looked down at her, his expression softening again. “I had a really good time last night, Sabrina.”

The simple, high-school sweetness of the phrase, coming from him, was almost more intimate than any of the dirty talk they had exchanged. “Me too,” she said, her voice softer now. “It was… more than I expected.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, his gaze intense. “Me too.”

An awkward, charged silence fell between them. The big, unspoken question hung in the air. What now? They were a movie star and a pop star who had just spent a spectacular, reckless night together. This wasn't a normal one-night stand. Their lives were complicated, public, and messy.

Pedro, ever the adult in the room, seemed to sense the shift. He broke the tension with a classic, time-honored maneuver. “Are you hungry?” he asked. “I think I am legally and morally obligated to buy you breakfast. I’m thinking pancakes. A mountain of them.”

Sabrina’s smile returned, bright and relieved. Pancakes. That she could handle. That was normal. “Only if they come with a side of those seven-dollar lattes you owe me,” she said.

“I’ll order you a whole pot,” he promised. He turned to grab the room service menu from the desk, and as he did, his sweatpants shifted slightly, revealing the top of his hip and the sharp V that disappeared below the waistband. Sabrina’s eyes snagged on the view, and a jolt of pure, unadulterated lust shot through her, as potent as it had been the night before.

She cleared her throat. “Actually,” she said, her voice dropping to a low, suggestive purr. “Maybe breakfast can wait.”

Pedro froze, menu in hand. He turned back to her slowly, a dark, wicked glint in his eye. “Is that so?” he murmured, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Sabrina Carpenter, are you trying to seduce me?”

She let the sheet drop to the floor. “Trying?” she said, raising an eyebrow. “Honey, I’m succeeding.”

Chapter Text

The mountain of pancakes did eventually arrive, along with a silver pot of coffee, an assortment of berries, and two lattes in large ceramic mugs. It was delivered by a stoic room service attendant who didn't so much as blink at the sight of Pedro Pascal answering the door in sweatpants and a hotel robe. They ate in bed, sitting cross-legged amidst the rumpled sheets, the massive tray balanced between them. It was domestic. It was normal. It was the most surreal and wonderful meal of Sabrina’s life.

They talked. They laughed. The banter was easy, flowing between them like a current. The sharp, defensive edges they’d had all week were gone, replaced by the soft, comfortable intimacy of new lovers. He told her about growing up in Texas and Chile, about his early years as a struggling actor in New York, waiting tables in places not unlike the one they’d been at last night. She told him about writing her first songs in her bedroom in Pennsylvania, about the dizzying, terrifying vertigo of her first hit, about the loneliness that sometimes came with a life lived in the public eye.

They were discovering the map of each other, tracing the borders of their pasts and finding surprising points of intersection. He understood the pressure. She understood the feeling of being a character, of having a public persona that didn't always align with the person underneath.

"It's just... weird," she said, popping a blueberry into her mouth. "People see you as one thing. For you, it's the stoic, handsome hero. The Daddy of the Internet." She said the last part with air quotes and a giggle.

He groaned, covering his face with his hands. "Please, don't. My sister sends me the memes. It's mortifying."

"It's endearing!" she laughed. "But it's not you. Not all of you, anyway. And for me, it's the 'sexy, unbothered pop star'. They don't see the girl who obsesses over chord progressions and cries at Pixar movies."

"I saw her," he said quietly, his playful demeanor vanishing. He reached across the tray and took her hand. "I saw her on Friday, during your soundcheck. And she was more impressive than any pop star."

Her heart did a little flip. She squeezed his hand. "And I saw the goofy, self-deprecating guy who did a disastrous Scottish accent at an audition. He's way more interesting than The Mandalorian."

"Hey, let's not get crazy," he joked, but his eyes were soft. "Mando has a cool helmet."

They existed in this bubble, this sun-drenched hotel suite high above the city. For a few hours, they were just Sabrina and Pedro. There were no managers, no publicists, no fans, no expectations. There was just the easy intimacy, the lingering heat from their morning, and the dawning, terrifying realization that what had happened between them wasn't just a one-night thing. It felt... significant.

The bubble burst with the shrill, intrusive ring of a cell phone.

Sabrina jumped. It was her phone, lying on the nightstand. The screen lit up with a picture of her manager, a formidable woman named Liz who had the organizational skills of a five-star general. Reality came crashing in.

"Oh, God," Sabrina breathed. "I have to take this. I was supposed to be at a label brunch an hour ago."

Pedro's face fell slightly. The easy smile vanished, replaced by a look of resignation. The outside world was calling. "Right. Of course."

She answered the phone, her voice a pitch higher than usual. "Liz! Hey! Sorry, I overslept, crazy week!" She listened for a moment, her eyes wide. "Oh, the numbers are in? That's amazing! ...Yeah, the sketch was fun... No, I haven't seen social media yet, my phone died." She was lying through her teeth, and she could feel Pedro watching her, his expression unreadable.

"Okay," she said finally. "Yeah, I'll be there in an hour. Text me the address. Bye."

She hung up and let out a long, shaky breath, flopping back against the pillows. "Well. 'Espresso' is predicted to go number one in twelve more countries, and apparently, the 'Family Dinner' sketch is the number one trending topic on Twitter." She looked at him. "Specifically, the kiss."

Pedro ran a hand over his face, a gesture she now knew meant he was stressed. "Of course, it is."

The easy intimacy of the morning was gone, replaced by the stark, complicated reality of their situation. "I have to go," she said softly. "They're sending a car."

"I know," he said. He looked around the room, at the rumpled bed and the breakfast tray, as if seeing it all for the first time. This perfect, private bubble. "So this is it, then?"

The question was quiet, but it landed with the force of a thunderclap. Was this it? A stolen night, a perfect morning, and now back to their separate, heavily-managed lives? The thought sent a surprising, sharp pang of pain through her chest.

"I don't know," she said, her voice small and honest.

He looked at her, his gaze intense, searching. He was the adult. He was the one who was supposed to be level-headed. But in his eyes, she saw the same thing she was feeling: a desperate, urgent desire for this not to be it. For this bubble, somehow, to not have to pop.

"My flight to London isn't until tomorrow night," he said, the words a quiet offering. "I'm supposed to start pre-production on a new film."

Tomorrow night. He had another day. Another night. The unspoken invitation hung in the air between them, fragile and full of possibility.

"This is a bad idea," she whispered, echoing his words from the hallway.

"Probably the worst," he agreed, a ghost of a smile on his lips. He reached out, his finger tracing her jawline. "So. My place or yours?"