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theetherealbloom · 8 days ago

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IT COULD HAPPEN TO YOU - CH.5

Chapter Five: As If The Street Lights Pointed In An Arrowhead Leading Us Home

Summary: You find yourself sharing a hotel suite with Pedro Pascal while working on the set of Fantastic Four: First Steps. Despite your different roles—he’s the star, and you’re behind the scenes. Nothing could ever happen between you two… right?

Paring: Pedro Pascal x F!Reader

Warnings: Age-Gap Romance (Not Specified), Eventual SMUT, Crush, FLUFF, Slight Angst, Trope(s), Swearing, Anxiety, Lots of Cliches, Cheesy Dialogue, Romance, Kissing, Real People Fiction, Cameras, Paparazzi, Social Media, Swoonworthy, One-Room Trope, They were roommates, Strangers-to-Lovers, Actors, Hallmark Tropes, the reader can sing and play guitar, the reader is shorter than Pedro, the reader has hair, Alternate Universe, Awkward!Reader, Shy!Reader, Fan Girl!Reader, Cringe, Embarrassment, Starstruck,

Word Count: 6.5k

A/N: Sorry for the wait on this chapter! I was busy writing chapter one of my Richard Reeds fanfic, and my brain went into overdrive. Anyway, hope you enjoy this chapter, and my thoughts and writing process will be in the end notes below! Take care out there.

Side note: I’m dyslexic and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!

Song: Cornelia Street by Taylor Swift

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CHILTERN FIREHOUSE HOTEL — MORNING

It was the weekend.

A rare, golden thing in the middle of a chaotic schedule. Sometimes, productions pushed through weekends, forcing actors and crew alike to run on fumes and caffeine, but this week, you’d been given the luxury of a proper break.

So you did the only logical thing: you slept in.

No alarms. No early call times. No frantic scrambling to get out the door before the sun had even fully risen. Just the quiet hush of your hotel room, the soft cocoon of blankets, and the gentle hum of the city beyond your window.

Pedro, on the other hand, was not sleeping in.

He was downstairs earlier, enjoying breakfast with some of the crew, chatting between bites of eggs and toast. But when he realized he hadn’t seen you—not even a glimpse—something tugged at his chest.

He checked his phone. No messages from you.

Not that you had to text him, obviously. But still.

“Maybe she’s still asleep,” Vanessa mused when he brought it up, sipping her coffee.

Coco smirked. “Or avoiding you.”

Pedro shot her a look, unimpressed. “You’re hilarious.”

Joseph, ever the instigator, leaned in. “You do realize how weirdly invested you are in this, right?”

Pedro ignored them, pushing back his chair. “I’m gonna go check on her.”

“OoOoOo, someone’s worried,” Ebon teased, grinning.

Pedro just flipped them off over his shoulder as he walked away.

Your side of the room was quiet when he got there.

Pedro knocked.

Nothing.

He frowned and knocked again, a little louder this time. “Hey, you alive in there?”

Still nothing.

His concern deepened. He knew you’d been exhausted lately, emotionally drained from the whole Cecilia situation. And yeah, maybe you were just catching up on sleep, but what if you weren’t feeling well? What if—

He shook his head, pushing the thought away.

A quick check with the front desk confirmed they had given you a key for emergencies. That was all the justification he needed.

Carefully, Pedro let himself in.

The room was dim, curtains drawn just enough to let in a sliver of London’s muted morning light. And there you were, curled up under a mountain of blankets, dead to the world.

Snoring.

Pedro exhaled, the tension in his chest dissolving as a slow, amused smile tugged at his lips.

He took a step closer, just enough to take in the peaceful rise and fall of your shoulders, the way your hair was a little all over the place. A soft snore left your lips, making him chuckle under his breath.

God, you were adorable.

For a brief moment, he debated waking you. Teasing you for sleeping through breakfast, maybe even convincing you to come downstairs with him.

But then you shifted, letting out the softest sigh as you burrowed deeper into the pillows, and—yeah. No. He couldn’t wake you.

Instead, he leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, just watching for a little longer.

He’d give you another hour.

Maybe two.

And then, well—if you didn’t wake up soon, he’d have to find a way to lure you out with the promise of coffee or something just as tempting.

CHILTERN FIREHOUSE HOTEL — LATE MORNING

The late morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a golden glow over the room. Pedro had been patient—he really had—but after standing around for a while, listening to your soft snoring, he decided you needed to eat something.

So he had slipped downstairs, grabbed a plate of fresh fruit, some pastries, and a glass of juice, and set everything neatly on the kitchenette counter before making his way back to your bedside.

The problem?

You were not a morning person.

Pedro bit back a grin as you stirred, groaning into your pillow, clearly fighting consciousness with everything in you. He could already tell this wasn’t going to be an easy wake-up.

“Alright, Sleeping Beauty,” he murmured, his voice laced with amusement. “Time to get up.”

You groaned again, pulling the blanket over your head. “No.”

Pedro chuckled. “Not even gonna think about it?”

“No.”

He exhaled, amused, and sat on the edge of the bed, nudging your shoulder lightly. “C’mon, I brought you breakfast. Fresh fruit, pastries, coffee… I even got you juice. Thought I was being nice.”

That earned him a tiny peek of an eye from beneath the blanket. “What kind of juice?”

He smirked. There we go.

“Mango,” he answered, watching as you visibly debated with yourself. “And it’s still cold.”

You groaned but finally—finally—sat up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as you blinked blearily at him. “Fine. But if you’re lying about the juice, I’m going back to bed.”

Pedro chuckled, standing up. “Noted.”

As you shuffled out of bed and towards the kitchenette, still wrapped in your blanket like a grumpy little burrito, Pedro bit back another laugh.

You were trying so hard not to snap at him, despite your obvious morning grumpiness, and he found it strangely endearing. You cared about him—he could see that. Not just in the way a fan might, but as someone who had gotten to know him, really know him, beyond the public persona.

And for some reason, that made his chest feel warm.

By the time you took your first sip of juice, you finally looked at him, still groggy but slightly more awake. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” you grumbled.

Pedro grinned. “I know.”

Pedro stayed leaning against the kitchenette counter, watching you with quiet amusement as you nibbled on a croissant, still wrapped up in your blanket like you might retreat back into it at any moment.

"You know," he said, arms crossing over his chest, "I've worked with some pretty serious divas before, but you? You might be the worst morning person I've ever met."

You narrowed your eyes at him mid-chew, unimpressed. "Bold of you to assume I’m even a person in the morning."

Pedro laughed, rich and warm, like he hadn't expected you to say that. It sent a flutter through your stomach, but you buried it beneath another bite of food.

A comfortable silence settled between you as you worked through your breakfast, the weight of last night—the teasing from your friends, the way Pedro had looked at you over dinner, the way he’d listened, really listened, when you brushed off your problems—lingering just beneath the surface.

It should’ve been awkward. But it wasn’t.

"So," he finally said, drumming his fingers against the countertop, "what’s the plan for your day off? Big, exciting plans to stay in bed all day?"

You swallowed a sip of juice, tilting your head at him. "That was the dream, yeah."

Pedro let out a soft scoff, pushing off the counter. "Nah. Not happening."

You raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

"You’ve been working your ass off all week, and I don’t mean just putting up with the shoot," he said, giving you a knowing look. "I mean all of it. Everything. And since you clearly weren’t gonna tell me how much it was getting to you, I figure it’s my job to make sure you actually do something for yourself today."

Your stomach twisted at that.

He had noticed.

Of course, he had.

And now, instead of letting you bury it like you had all week, he was making it a thing.

"Pedro," you sighed, setting your glass down. "I really don’t—"

"Shh," he cut in, grinning as he pressed a finger to his lips. "No arguing."

You stared at him, deadpan. "Did you just shush me?"

"Yeah." He shrugged, completely unfazed. "It’s effective."

You narrowed your eyes, trying very hard not to laugh. "You’re an idiot."

"And yet," he said, nodding toward your now-empty plate, "an idiot who got you to wake up, eat breakfast, and seriously consider leaving this hotel room."

You bit your lip, fighting back a smile.

Damn it.

"Okay, fine." You rolled your eyes. "What exactly do you have in mind?"

Pedro grinned like he’d just won something. "Get dressed, cariño. I’ll tell you on the way."

CHILTERN FIREHOUSE HOTEL — EARLY AFTERNOON

You didn’t know what you had expected Pedro to suggest—maybe a lazy stroll through the city, or coffee at some tucked-away café—but the moment you stepped outside, you realized you had severely underestimated him.

For one, he had somehow procured a car.

Not just any car. A sleek, inconspicuous black SUV, complete with a driver who nodded at Pedro like they had some unspoken understanding.

You frowned, pausing just before getting in. “Please tell me you didn’t hire security just to take me out for the day.”

Pedro smirked, holding the door open for you. “Relax. It’s just a favor. No secret service level drama.”

You eyed him suspiciously. “You swear?”

“Would I lie to you?”

You didn’t dignify that with a response.

With a dramatic sigh, you climbed into the passenger seat, and Pedro followed suit, settling in beside you with a satisfied grin.

“See?” he said as the car pulled away from the hotel. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

You shot him a flat look. “I already regret this.”

Pedro just laughed, tapping his fingers idly against his knee.

The city stretched out beyond the tinted windows, a blur of old brick buildings, cafés with tiny outdoor tables, and the occasional group of tourists wrapped up in their own adventures.

For a moment, you let yourself relax, head resting back against the seat, the steady hum of the car filling the silence.

And then—

“Are you actually going to tell me where we’re going?” you asked, side-eyeing him.

Pedro hummed, pretending to think about it. “Nah. I like watching you squirm.”

You groaned, letting your head fall back dramatically. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

You turned your head, finding him already watching you, something fond and unreadable flickering behind his glasses.

Your breath caught in your throat.

The car hit a stoplight, and he looked away, tapping something into his phone.

Okay. Fine.

You could pretend that didn’t just happen.

The drive continued, weaving through the city until you eventually started to recognize where you were heading.

Your brows furrowed.

“Wait a minute—"

“Surprise,” Pedro said, grinning as the car finally rolled to a stop in front of what was, unmistakably, a bookstore.

Not just any bookstore.

One you had mentioned in passing about a few days ago, while sitting with him and a few others on set, talking about places you’d love to visit while in London.

You turned to him, mouth slightly open. “You remembered?”

Pedro gave you a look, like the idea of him not remembering was ridiculous.

“Of course I did,” he said simply, pushing open his door. “Now, are you gonna sit there looking at me like I just grew a second head, or are we actually going in?”

You scrambled out of the car before he could make another joke, ignoring the warmth spreading through your chest.

Inside, the scent of old paper and freshly brewed coffee wrapped around you like a hug. The place was small but full—every wall lined with shelves, tables stacked with books, mismatched chairs tucked into cozy corners.

It was perfect.

Pedro hovered near the entrance, watching your expression, clearly pleased with himself.

You turned, crossing your arms. “Alright, Pascal. What’s the catch?”

He smirked. “No catch.”

You narrowed your eyes.

He sighed, holding his hands up in surrender. “Fine. I might have selfish reasons for bringing you here.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Which are?”

Pedro stepped closer, tilting his head. “You’re a pain in the ass when you’re stressed.”

Your jaw dropped.

“Excuse me?”

He laughed, reaching out and flicking the end of your sleeve. “You needed a break. And I—” He paused, eyes softening. “I like seeing you happy.”

The words were simple.

Too simple.

And yet, they settled deep in your chest, curling around something you weren’t ready to name.

You swallowed, looking away, focusing on the nearest bookshelf like it held all the answers.

Pedro let the silence stretch for a beat, then nudged you gently.

“Go on,” he murmured. “Pick something.”

So you did.

LONDON BOOKSHOP — EARLY AFTERNOON

You took your time browsing.

Partly because you wanted to, and partly because Pedro made himself comfortable, dropping into one of the armchairs in the corner like he had all the time in the world.

He did this thing where he pretended not to be watching you. Flipping through a book, glasses sliding down his nose, but every so often—you caught him. The flicker of his gaze, the tiny smirk when you pulled a book off the shelf and examined the cover with interest.

It made your skin warm.

It was still so bizarre—this thing between you two.

You were still wrapping your head around it, still trying to convince yourself that this wasn’t some overactive, sleep-deprived hallucination.

Because this was Pedro Pascal.

And Pedro Pascal had somehow taken it upon himself to make sure you were okay, taking you out on bookstore adventures and—

Oh god, were you on a date?

Your heart jumped at the realization, nearly making you fumble the book in your hands.

No. Not a date.

Just… Pedro being Pedro.

Right?

You exhaled slowly, trying to refocus.

The book in your hands was a worn, well-loved copy of a classic romance novel. The pages were slightly yellowed, the cover soft with age.

“That one, huh?”

You startled slightly, looking up to see Pedro watching you from his chair, one arm draped lazily over the armrest.

You shrugged, running your fingers along the spine. “I’ve been meaning to read it.”

Pedro hummed, tilting his head. “You always do that.”

You blinked. “Do what?”

He nodded toward the book in your hands. “That thing. Where you rub the cover before you decide.”

You froze, caught. “…I do not.”

Pedro’s grin was entirely too smug. “Oh, you do.”

You felt warmth creep up your neck. “You’ve been watching me pick books?”

He lifted a shoulder, like it wasn’t a big deal. “You’re cute when you’re indecisive.”

Your stomach flipped.

You opened your mouth—only to immediately close it again, because what the fuck were you supposed to say to that?

Pedro’s grin widened like he knew exactly what he was doing.

Your fingers curled around the book, gripping it like it could somehow ground you.

“I—” You cleared your throat, forcing a glare. “I hate you.”

Pedro just laughed, leaning back in his chair. “No, you don’t.”

You turned away, cheeks burning, pointedly walking toward the register before he could see how flustered you were.

The woman behind the counter smiled as she rang up your book, eyes flicking toward Pedro lounging in the corner.

“That your boyfriend?” she asked casually.

You nearly choked.

“What? No. No, no. He’s just—” You gestured vaguely. “Pedro.”

She just smiled knowingly. “Right.”

You hurriedly paid, ignoring the way Pedro was definitely smirking behind you, and grabbed the small paper bag with your book inside.

When you turned, he was already standing, adjusting his glasses. “Ready?”

You exhaled, nodding.

As the two of you stepped outside, the chilly afternoon air hit your skin, a sharp contrast to the warmth of the bookshop.

Pedro slipped his hands into his pockets, glancing over. “Lunch?”

You hesitated. “I don’t know… what if people see us?”

Pedro just shrugged. “So what?”

You frowned, chewing on the inside of your cheek. “I just— I don’t want people to think—”

“That you’re hanging out with me?” Pedro finished, raising an eyebrow.

You let out a breath, rubbing at your temple. “I just don’t want to be weird about it.”��

Pedro was quiet for a beat, then nudged your arm gently. “Hey.”

You looked up.

“Let them think whatever they want,” he said, voice softer now. “You’re allowed to exist in public with me, y’know.”

Your chest ached in a way you weren’t expecting.

He made it sound so simple.

You swallowed, nodding. “Okay.”

Pedro grinned. “Good. Now let’s go find some obscenely overpriced pasta.”

You huffed a laugh, letting him lead the way.

LONDON — AFTERNOON

The restaurant Pedro picked was one of those effortlessly stylish little spots tucked away on a side street, the kind of place with warm lighting, fresh flowers on every table, and a menu written in looping script on a chalkboard.

It smelled like olive oil and fresh bread, like garlic sizzling in butter.

“Obscenely overpriced pasta,” you muttered under your breath, scanning the menu. “You weren’t kidding.”

Pedro chuckled, tilting his head toward you. “Hey, if we’re gonna be reckless, we might as well do it with carbs.”

Your lips twitched, but you didn’t argue.

The two of you had been seated near the window, the view outside hazy with the gray of the London afternoon. Pedro sat opposite you, cap low, glasses on, but even that didn’t do much to disguise him.

It was still him.

Still warm brown eyes and laughter lines, still easy charm and a quiet steadiness that made you feel safer than you probably should.

The restaurant hummed with soft conversation, the gentle clinking of glasses and silverware blending with the distant notes of some old jazz song playing overhead. The air smelled rich—garlic and butter, fresh herbs and warm bread—and for the first time in what felt like days, you felt… light.

You weren’t thinking about work. Or her.

Just Pedro. Just this.

He was leaning back in his chair now, one arm draped over the backrest, fingers idly tracing the rim of his water glass. His cap was still low over his forehead, glasses perched on his nose, but his expression was open, relaxed—like this was the most natural thing in the world. Like the two of you having lunch together was something that had always made sense.

And maybe it did.

"So," Pedro said, tearing off a piece of bread from the basket between you. "Tell me something about you that I don’t know yet."

You huffed a small laugh, stirring the ice in your drink with your straw. "That’s a pretty broad request."

He shrugged. "Alright, let’s narrow it down. What was little you like?"

You blinked at him. "Little me?"

"Yeah." He popped a piece of bread into his mouth. "Like, what were you like as a kid? Were you the quiet, shy one, or were you running around causing problems?"

You scoffed. "I am the quiet, shy one."

Pedro gave you a look. "I know you. You’ve got a little chaos in you somewhere."

You bit back a smile. "Fine. Maybe a little."

Pedro grinned, leaning in like he was settling in for a story. "Alright, spill."

You thought for a moment, fingers brushing absentmindedly over the rim of your glass. "I was kind of… scrappy, I guess? Like, I wasn’t looking for trouble, but I wouldn’t not fight a kid if they deserved it."

Pedro nearly choked on his water. "What?"

Your face heated. "Not like that! I just—I had a strong sense of justice, okay?"

Pedro wiped his mouth, eyes gleaming with amusement. "So what I’m hearing is that you’ve always been ready to throw hands."

You groaned, dropping your face into your hands. "I shouldn’t have told you that."

Pedro was grinning so hard. "No, no, I love it. I love picturing little you, all tiny and righteous, just out there laying down the law."

You peeked at him through your fingers. "It wasn’t that dramatic."

"Mm-hmm," he said, clearly not convinced.

You shook your head, exhaling a laugh. "Okay, your turn, big shot. What was little Pedro like?"

His smirk softened into something more nostalgic. "Oh, I was a menace," he admitted.

You snorted. "Of course you were."

"I mean, not in a bad way," he amended, breaking off another piece of bread. "I was just… all over the place. Loud, always moving, always talking. My parents were exhausted."

You smiled. "Sounds like you were a handful."

"Oh, completely." He took a sip of his drink, glancing at you over the rim. "I grew up in a house that was always full, always noisy. Family coming in and out all the time, music playing, food cooking. I never really knew what quiet was until I got older."

There was something warm in his voice, something fond in the way he spoke about home.

"That sounds… nice," you murmured.

Pedro tilted his head slightly, studying you. "What about you? What was home like?"

You hesitated, glancing down at your plate. "Not like that."

His brows drew together, but he didn’t push.

You exhaled softly, running your finger over the condensation on your glass. "I mean, it wasn’t bad or anything. It was just… quieter. A little lonelier."

Pedro didn’t say anything, just waited.

You bit your lip, giving a small shrug. "I guess I always felt like I had to work a little harder to fit in. To matter."

Pedro’s gaze softened, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

You cleared your throat, suddenly embarrassed. "Sorry, that got depressing—"

"Hey." His voice was quiet but firm.

You glanced up.

Pedro was watching you with something steady, something real in his expression. "You don’t have to apologize for being honest."

Your stomach flipped.

You nodded, a little too quickly. "Right. Yeah."

Pedro gave you a small smile, then nudged your foot under the table. "For what it’s worth," he said lightly, "I think you’re pretty great."

Your throat felt tight. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." His smile widened. "Even if you did used to fight kids."

You groaned. "Oh my god."

Pedro laughed, and the sound was so warm, so easy, that you couldn’t help but laugh with him.

And just like that, whatever tension had settled between you melted away, leaving nothing but warmth in its place.

The street was buzzing softly with life when you stepped outside, the late afternoon sun spilling golden light over everything. You hadn’t even fully processed where Pedro was leading you when he suddenly tugged on your wrist and gestured toward a tiny, vintage photo booth tucked just outside the café. Its paint was chipped, its curtain a little worn, but it had the kind of charm that begged you to step inside.

“C’mon,” Pedro said with a mischievous grin, already pulling you toward it.

“What? No!” You laughed, glancing around like someone might catch you doing something scandalous. “Pedro, this is so cheesy!”

He raised a brow, clearly unimpressed by your protests. “Cheesy is good. Plus, you owe me for making me think you were a goner this morning.” He gave you a dramatic, pleading look. “One strip of photos. For my emotional recovery.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. “Fine. One. And only because I feel bad for you.”

The booth’s tiny space forced you closer together than you expected. Pedro leaned in to fiddle with the ancient machine, his arm brushing against yours. You tried not to think too hard about how warm he was, or how his cologne smelled faintly like cedar and something else you couldn’t quite place.

“Okay, ready?” Pedro asked, his finger hovering over the button.

“Wait! What do we—what pose are we doing?”

He grinned. “You’ll figure it out.”

The camera counted down—three, two, one.

The first flash caught you both off guard, faces blank with surprise. You burst into laughter, the kind that made your shoulders shake, and Pedro quickly leaned in for another shot.

“Okay, okay, serious face,” he instructed, eyes narrowing comically.

You tried, but the second the flash went off, you broke into giggles again, and Pedro lost it right along with you.

The third shot was a blur of laughter, your head tipped back, Pedro’s grin wide and unguarded.

Then, right as the camera beeped for the final shot, Pedro turned toward you.

You barely had time to register the movement before his lips brushed your cheek, soft and quick but undeniably there.

The flash went off.

You froze, eyes wide as you turned to look at him. Pedro’s face mirrored yours for a second—caught somewhere between Did I really just do that? and Yeah, I did. But then, the corners of his mouth curled into a sheepish grin.

The photo strip slid out of the machine, and you grabbed it, holding it up between you. There it was: the first three frames filled with laughter and goofy poses, and the last… the last one where his lips were pressed against your cheek, your eyes wide, his soft and warm, both of you caught mid-smile.

Your heart fluttered—nervous, exhilarated, but… not scared. Not even a little.

“You kissed me,” you said, voice soft but teasing.

Pedro rubbed the back of his neck, pretending to look thoughtful. “Hmm. Did I? Feels like that might’ve been you kissing me.”

You gasped, smacking his arm with the photo strip. “Liar!”

He chuckled, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Hey, I’m just saying—it’s open to interpretation.”

You shook your head, laughing softly. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet,” he said, tilting his head, “here you are. Stuck in a photo booth with me.”

The air between you shifted then—lighter, but also charged with something else. Something that felt like the beginning of a question neither of you was quite ready to ask.

For a beat, neither of you moved.

Then Pedro tapped the photo strip with his finger, breaking the moment. “Well, at least we’ve got proof of how good we look together.”

Your cheeks burned, but you couldn’t stop smiling. “Shut up.”

“Never,” he replied, already holding out his phone. “Now, do we post this on the internet, or do we keep it as blackmail material for later?”

You grabbed the photo strip, slipping it into your pocket. “Neither. This one’s ours.”

Pedro raised his hands in surrender, but the smile on his face told you he didn’t mind one bit.

The sky was painted in soft shades of pink and orange as the sun began its slow descent. Pedro slipped his phone back into his pocket after calling the driver, glancing at you with a small smile. “We’ve got about ten minutes. Wanna walk a little?”

You nodded, grateful for the chance to stretch your legs. The streets were alive with a gentle hum—tourists taking photos, locals going about their day, the occasional street performer filling the air with music.

The city felt like a movie set, every streetlamp and cobblestone path perfectly placed. And in this fleeting moment, it felt like the world had paused just for the two of you, as if the streetlights themselves pointed in an arrowhead, leading you home.

Pedro noticed the slight chill in the air and shrugged off his jacket, draping it over your shoulders before you could protest. “Can’t have you catching a cold,” he said, his voice light but warm with care.

The jacket smelled like him—faint cologne mixed with something warm and earthy, something Pedro. You tugged it around yourself a little tighter, feeling its weight settle comfortably over your frame.

A surge of boldness swept over you, the kind you usually talked yourself out of but didn’t this time. You stepped closer, looping your arm around his. His body radiated warmth, steady and solid beneath your touch. Slowly, your fingers found his hand, intertwining with his.

Pedro didn’t hesitate. His hand squeezed yours gently, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a soft, absentminded rhythm. It was such an easy, natural thing for him, this casual intimacy that felt so rare and comforting.

You’d learned over the past few days that touch was part of his love language. He was the kind of man who hugged with his whole body, the kind whose touch always felt intentional and grounding, never forced or fleeting.

Your heart thudded a little harder in your chest. You told yourself it was just from the walk.

You squeezed his arm lightly, smiling up at him. “Thanks for today, Pedro.”

He glanced down at you, his eyes warm and crinkling at the edges, those familiar laughter lines making an appearance. “For what?”

“For everything,” you said softly, almost shy. “For making me laugh. For breakfast. For not running away when I woke up looking like a crypt keeper.”

Pedro chuckled, his grip on your hand tightening for a brief second. “You looked adorable. Not a crypt keeper—more like… a sleepy little gremlin.”

You gasped, mock-offended, and smacked his arm with your free hand. “Gremlin? You’re lucky I don’t let go of your hand right now.”

He grinned, that mischievous spark in his eyes you were quickly becoming fond of. “You wouldn’t. You like me too much.”

You couldn’t argue with that.

The streetlamps flickered on as the daylight dimmed, casting a golden glow over the cobblestone streets. You both fell into a comfortable silence, the kind that didn’t need to be filled with words. The city hummed around you, but all you could focus on was the steady warmth of Pedro’s hand in yours, the easy rhythm of your steps together, the way everything felt just a little softer, a little brighter with him by your side.

“You’re really something, you know that?” Pedro said suddenly, his voice quieter now, thoughtful.

You glanced at him, your breath hitching slightly. “Something good, I hope.”

Pedro stopped walking for a second, turning toward you. His eyes searched yours, serious now. “The best kind of something.”

Your chest tightened at the weight of his words, a mix of nerves and excitement swirling in your stomach. You tried to play it cool, but the heat rising to your cheeks gave you away.

“Well,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper, “right back at you, Pedro.”

He smiled, that same soft, unguarded smile that always made you feel like you were the only person in the world he was looking at.

The driver pulled up a few moments later, headlights cutting through the soft twilight. Pedro opened the door for you, his hand resting lightly on your back as you slid into the car.

As the car pulled away, you leaned back into the seat, Pedro’s jacket still wrapped around your shoulders, his warmth lingering like a secret you weren’t quite ready to give up.

And maybe, just maybe, neither was he.

CHILTERN FIREHOUSE HOTEL — EVENING

The glow of golden hour had dimmed into soft dusk by the time you returned to Chiltern Firehouse. The lobby was warm and buzzing with quiet energy—guests sipping cocktails, a crackling fireplace, and staff moving seamlessly through the space. Pedro walked beside you, his hand resting gently at the small of your back like it had been there all along.

You didn’t want the day to end just yet. There was something about the way the air felt, a little lighter, like it had been charged with something electric and unspoken.

As you approached the front desk, one of the hotel managers, a polished woman in a tailored suit, stepped forward with a warm smile, followed closely by Franklin Latt—Pedro’s manager.

“Good evening,” the hotel manager greeted. “I hope you’ve been enjoying your stay. I wanted to let you know that your room is now ready, miss.”

Your breath hitched for a split second.

Right. The room.

It was easy to forget after the last few days, the way you’d fallen into such a natural rhythm with Pedro. Sharing his suite had felt so… effortless. You blinked, trying to process the sudden shift.

“Oh,” you said, your voice soft, almost reluctant. “Right. That was, uh… this week.”

You glanced at Pedro, and for a fleeting moment, something passed between you—a flicker of disappointment mirrored in his eyes.

You shifted on your feet, clearing your throat. “Okay, um… I guess I need to pack, then.”

The hotel manager smiled politely. “The room is ready for you whenever you’re ready to move, miss.”

Pedro opened his mouth before you could respond, a little too quickly. “Actually, do you think she could switch tomorrow? It’s been a long day, and she still needs to pack her things. We’re both pretty wiped out.”

His voice was casual, but there was an edge of determination that made you glance up at him, your heart fluttering at how easily he’d jumped in for you.

The hotel manager hesitated but nodded. “Of course. If you’d prefer to transfer tomorrow, that can be arranged.”

Franklin, however, raised an eyebrow, his sharp gaze flickering between you and Pedro. His eyes caught on Pedro’s jacket draped around your shoulders, the sleeves too long for you, the fabric worn in all the right places.

Your face heated up as you tugged the jacket a little tighter around yourself, hoping it would hide the rush of color in your cheeks.

Franklin crossed his arms, his expression somewhere between amused and suspicious. “Tired, huh?” he said, his tone light but pointed. “You sure that’s the only reason?”

Pedro shot him a look, his brow arching in silent warning. “Relax, Frank. We’ve been out all day, walking around the city. She’s exhausted.”

Franklin chuckled, clearly not buying it but deciding to let it go—for now. “Right. Well, don’t let me keep you.”

The hotel manager nodded again. “Just let us know when you’re ready to move rooms. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

She and Franklin walked off, leaving you and Pedro standing in the middle of the lobby, the hum of quiet conversations around you. For a second, neither of you spoke.

Pedro scratched the back of his neck, avoiding your gaze. “So… I guess you’re stuck with me for one more night.”

You tried to laugh, but it came out softer than you intended. “Guess so.”

The elevator doors opened, and you stepped inside together. The air between you felt charged again, like earlier, but now tinged with something deeper—something fragile and new.

Pedro leaned against the wall of the elevator, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. “If I’m being honest, I’m kinda glad you’re not leaving just yet.”

Your heart skipped a beat, but you tried to play it cool. “Oh yeah? Afraid of being lonely?”

He chuckled, his voice low and warm. “Maybe. Or maybe I’ve just gotten used to having you around.”

The words settled in your chest like a secret you weren’t sure you were ready to unpack. You didn’t trust yourself to say anything in return, so you just smiled, a little shy, a little flustered.

When the elevator dinged, Pedro followed you out, his hand resting lightly on your back again as you made your way to the suite. It was such a small thing, but it grounded you in ways you hadn’t expected.

Maybe you’d sort through those feelings tomorrow, when the lines between friendship and something more didn’t feel so blurred.

But tonight?

“One last movie night?” you asked softly as you swiped the keycard, pushing the door open. You glanced over your shoulder at Pedro, an almost shy smile playing on your lips.

Pedro’s eyes crinkled at the corners as he grinned, stepping in behind you. “It doesn’t have to be the last one,” he said, his voice warm and steady. “We can have as many movie nights as you want.”

His words hung in the air, carrying a weight you weren’t sure he meant to put there. Something about the way he said it made your chest tighten in the best way possible.

You kicked off your shoes, trying to shake off the flutter in your stomach, and headed for the couch. Pedro shrugged off his jacket and tossed it over a chair, moving to grab a couple of waters from the kitchenette.

“Okay,” you said, settling into the couch cushions, pulling a blanket over your lap. “But I’m picking the movie this time.”

Pedro handed you a bottle of water and plopped down beside you, close enough that his knee bumped yours. “Deal. What are we watching?”

You tapped your chin dramatically, pretending to be deep in thought. “Something light. No brooding detectives or tragic endings.”

He laughed, the sound low and easy. “Are you saying my movie choices are too intense?”

“Not too intense,” you teased, opening the streaming app. “But I’m in the mood for something that won’t make me question the meaning of life.”

Pedro leaned back, resting an arm on the back of the couch behind you. His fingers brushed your shoulder, barely there, but it sent a spark down your spine anyway. “Fair enough. Surprise me.”

You clicked on a romantic comedy and settled in, trying to focus on the movie and not the warmth of Pedro beside you. But it was hard to ignore—the way his thigh pressed gently against yours, the sound of his soft chuckle whenever something funny happened on screen, the way he stole glances at you when he thought you weren’t looking.

About halfway through the movie, you felt your head naturally tilt toward his shoulder. You hesitated for a second, nerves twisting in your chest. But then Pedro shifted ever so slightly, making it easier, like he was inviting you to stay.

“You comfortable?” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah,” you said softly, your cheek resting against him. “You make a pretty good pillow.”

He chuckled, the sound vibrating under your ear. “I try.”

Neither of you moved after that, the movie fading into the background. The world outside the suite felt far away, like it didn’t matter. Not right now. Not with him.

Maybe you’d unpack those feelings tomorrow.

But tonight?

Tonight, you let yourself fall a little further.

End Notes:

This was one of the chapters I was dreading to write. Not cause I didn’t want to write it—

Cause I knew, from a writer’s perspective, at some point, I had to subvert the expectation of, “They’ll be roommates the entire time and fall in love.”

And yes, I did the thing where I gave you something you wanted/something good and then took it away from you LMAO ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

I mean… at least you get your own room now! So that counts for something— (please don’t show up at my house aHHHH)

Also, five chapters in, I had to give ya'll a little smooch... just a little... hehe

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