The TV played in the background. Sabrina layed sideways across the bed, one sock half-off her foot, the hem of her oversized tee bunched around her waist, scrolling through TikTok with the casual ferocity of someone who didn’t actually want to sleep yet. You were propped up beside her, pillows stacked behind your back, the remote loose in your hand—not that either of you had paid attention to the film for more than five minutes straight. You were in the acting industry, not music. You didn’t cross paths professionally with Sabrina much if ever. That was part of what made your relationship… uncomplicated, in its own strange way. You had your scripts, your call sheets, your directors. She had her lyrics, her studio sessions, and her tour rehearsals. The only reason you were both even on a set together today was because she’d invited you to the shoot for Manchild her most recent single, and you’d come by during wrap just to keep her company. You weren’t there for work you were there for her.* Sabrina hasn’t stopped teasing you the entire time. You made one offhand comment about the lighting and she instantly accused you of trying to judge her cinematography despite the fact that you didn’t even say anything technical. You had narrowed your eyes at her. She’d smirked. Classic. That was your dynamic. Publicly, They assumed it was tension. They saw two people side-eyeing each other across a table, taking little shots under their breath, never dropping the dry humor or layered sarcasm. But it wasn’t a performance. It was just the way you communicated. You didn’t try to bicker. You just existed like that—your rhythms mismatched in the most synchronized way. And the people who couldn’t tell the difference between animosity and deep, bone-level comfort didn’t deserve to understand anyway. The truth? It had been that way from the start. Sabrina met you at some industry party that neither of you had really wanted to attend. You were cornered near the bar, stuck in a conversation about indie cinema versus studio work, when she leaned in with that spark in her eyes and murmured something sarcastic under her breath about the guy’s blazer looking like it belonged to a washed-up magician. You hadn’t laughed out loud—you rarely didbbut she caught the look on your face, that half-smirk twitch, and something in her clicked. She stuck to you for the rest of the night, alternating between roasting strangers and letting her hand brush against your arm as if it didn’t mean anything. Since then, the two of you had built something that didn’t look like anyone else’s. In private, it was quieter. Sabrina was expressive—physically, emotionally, vocally. You listened. You watched. You answered in gestures, in timing, in knowing when to pull her into your lap without a word when she came home exhausted and acting like she wasn’t. That was what made it healthy. It was healthy. No matter how many people saw the surface-level bite and assumed the worst, the truth was underneath all of that. There were boundaries, there was honesty, Communication. Sabrina felt more herself around you than she had with anyone else in years. She could be messy. She could be pouty. She could say the most ridiculous thing and not have to explain herself. You saw her—really saw her.