...Dinner with the Cast

We’re breathless on the couch, her body draped over mine, both of us half-hidden under a simple hotel shawl some poor interior designer thought added class to the room. It barely covers us. Not that we care.

We’re not the first idiots to christen this overpriced suite’s furniture. Won’t be the last. I just hope - for the sake of whoever draws the short straw on housekeeping duty - they steam-clean the hell out of this couch after we leave.

Emily’s still flushed, hair a wild, tangled mess around her shoulders. Her hands are in mine, and her eyes are locked on the ring, watching it catch the low glow of the bedside lamp.

It fits perfectly.

I’d risked it, weeks back. Stole one of her rings from the little velvet tray in her bathroom—the one she thinks I never notice when I’m over. Compared the size, double-checked it with a jeweler down the street.

It would’ve been… devastatingly embarrassing to fumble that moment on stage. To slide it onto her knuckle and feel it jam, or worse, watch it fall off.

But no... It slid on like it had always been meant for her.

She turns her hand in the light, admiration mixing with disbelief.

“It’s perfect,” she whispers.

“There’s an engraving inside,” I tell her, voice low, rough around the edges.

She hesitates, **** to take it off, even for a second. But curiosity wins.

She slips it free, twisting it between her fingers until she catches the words.

I know.

Her face softens, lips curving, eyes shimmering with something that slices through the exhaustion.

“Ohh… baby.” Her voice cracks around the edges as she leans in, kissing me softly, slow.

When she pulls back, that crooked, teasing smile returns.

“You’d better get ‘I love you’ engraved on your ring when we…” She trails off. It hits her.

Her eyes go wide. Her jaw drops slightly. Then -

“Babe,” she breathes, a stunned laugh punching through. “We’re engaged.”

It settles between us like gravity.

Her eyes flick to the ring. My hand cups her cheek. We both start laughing, quiet, breathless, that uncontrollable, ridiculous kind of laugh that only comes when everything feels too good to be real.

The room goes quiet again. Just the thud of our heartbeats, the hum of the AC, the muted city beyond the windows.

We hold each other, tangled and still, the weight of it finally sinking in.

Then Emily breaks the silence.

“Did Eric say something about dinner later?”

I grin, pressing my forehead to hers. “I can’t remember. Iris can track us down later.”

I kiss her temple, her skin warm and soft against my lips.

“I think we broke the couch." She laughs. I follow.

Getting cleaned up… takes longer than it should.

Mostly because neither of us can keep our hands to ourselves in the damn shower.

It starts innocent enough. Hot water. Shared soap. Lips brushing damp skin. But then she looks at me with that grin - the one that screams trouble - and it’s game over. Our bodies slide together under the spray, mouths crashing, hands everywhere, the water washing away the evidence of our couch ride, but doing nothing to dull the heat simmering between us.

By the time we actually get dressed, we’re thirty minutes late to dinner.

The restaurant is the kind of place that doesn’t need a name on the front.

Just a discreet black awning, a velvet rope, and a quiet doorman in an overpriced suit. It’s one of those ultra-high-end, tucked-away L.A. spots- reservations booked out months in advance, lighting so low it feels like a secret, waitstaff that probably moonlight as Navy SEALs, and a wine list that requires its own translator.

Emily clutches my arm as we’re escorted to the private back table, still wide-eyed from the ambiance. The place hums with quiet wealth - the soft clink of cutlery, low conversation, perfume that probably costs more than my rent.

We’re the last to arrive.

Iris and Emily collide in a hug the second we round the corner, both laughing, their voices overlapping as Iris grabs Emily’s hand to fawn over the ring properly.

“Oh my God, girl,” Iris breathes, twisting Emily’s hand under the light. “It’s even better in person.” She shoots me a look over Emily’s shoulder, smirking. “Good work, boss.”

“Thank you,” I say, smoothing a hand over my still-damp hair, trying to act casual.

The rest of the cast is already seated. Kim, Briana, Yadira, even Misha made it.

There are knowing stares. More than a few sly grins. Kathryn leans in, whispering something to Kim, both of them trying, and failing, not to giggle as we take our seats.

Kim eyes me with faux disapproval, shaking her head. “Hey, your zipper’s undone.”

I look down instinctively.

It’s not.

The table laughs. Emily snorts into her napkin.

“Hilarious,” I mutter, adjusting my jacket anyway.

Emily’s hand finds my thigh under the table. Warm. Steady. Intentional. My hand slides to hers. It’s meant to be discreet. We are terrible at discreet.

Our fingers trace lazy circles over denim and skin. It’s innocent enough to pass. Not innocent enough to go unnoticed. Iris shoots me a warning glare that lasts exactly two seconds before she starts laughing again.

Champagne arrives.

A silver bucket. Frost clinging to the bottle. The waiter pours, crisp bubbles fizzing up as the flutes fill.

Kathryn stands, glass raised, grin wide.

“Okay, everyone, before the food gets here and we all forget why we’re pretending to be classy,” More laughter. “A toast. To Joe and Emily, newly engaged, disgustingly in love, and making the rest of us look bad.”

The other patrons - wealthy couples, studio execs, maybe even a few undercover celebrities - notice. A small smattering of claps follows. A few curious glances. I catch someone in the corner snapping a quiet photo with their phone.

Emily hides her face behind her glass, laughing as we clink together.

The night hums with good food, quiet teasing, and the steady thrum of her hand on my thigh.

We share a ridiculous, indulgent dessert. Some obscenely rich chocolate tart layered with espresso ganache and salted caramel. Her fork slides across mine, her eyes sparkling as she feeds me a bite, her tongue darting out to lick the chocolate off her lip.

I’m honored. Grateful. Humbled to be here. To be seen by these people. To be welcomed by them.

But all I can think about… is getting her back to our suite.

Back to that ridiculous, overpriced hotel room.

And seeing what other soft furniture we can properly christen with our love.