After the shoot...

The three of you clatter into the back room, still tipsy, Emma Stone’s hand warm and sweaty in yours. After the shoot, someone produced a bottle of champagne… and then another, and another. Emma Watson drank with the sort of enthusiasm and relief you’d typically associate with winning a war, while Emma Stone clutched a bottle to her chest with the sort of maternal aggressiveness you’d typically associate with a lioness protecting her cub.

That was a while ago. You’re not sure exactly how long.

But it’s dark, and getting colder, the wind whistling through the shattered windows high above you. Most of the lighting equipment is packed up and gone, and Annie Leibowitz vanished as soon as the shoot was over. She seemed nice, but a bit distracted, and you feel like she probably blew off someone else to be here.

Not that it really matters now.

Because…

Emma Stone sways slightly as she shuts the door, and slams a heavy wooden bar across it. ‘So,’ she says, breathing heavily. Beside you, Emma Watson’s eyes are shiny and bright.

‘Won’t we get told off?’ She giggles nervously. ‘I’m pretty sure we’re not supposed to be in here…’

Emma Stone waves it off carelessly. ‘I gave this cute runner girl two hundred bucks to watch the door. Well, I think it was two hundred bucks. Might’ve been closer to three. I had a lot of cash left over from last night.’

Emma Watson gives a confused laugh. ‘Why would you… why is there someone guarding the door?’ she finishes unsteadily. ‘Unless you’re planning on…’

Her voice trails away as her lips part into a perfect, comical O.

And Emma Stone stalks towards you. That’s the only word for it, you think, still warmed and half-dazed by the ****; it’s like she’s an animal, like something’s been let loose inside her, like she wants something from you and she’s not stopping until she gets it.