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It wasn’t the movie Beck came for—It was the way Tori’s laughter filled the room. “Chick flicks” weren’t exactly Beck’s thing, and “The Devil Wears Prada” definitely counted as one. So, when Tori planned a date night at her place on Saturday, he expected a pretty chill movie. Some action. Some comedy. Something that didn’t involve photoshoots or models.
He was wrong.
“What’s so interesting about a fashion movie?” Beck asked, pulling popcorn out of the microwave.
Tori gasped, hand on her chest. “Excuse me—it’s so much more than a fashion movie! It’s about the pressures of the fashion industry. And toxic bosses.”
Beck flopped on the couch. “So, it's social commentary.”
“Well…” Tori contemplated before raising an eyebrow. “You know what? You’re actually right.”
That earned a grin from him. “Don’t sound so surprised.”
Tori rolled her eyes and hit play, and the room filled with the hum of city lights and glossy fashion covers. Beck sank deeper into the couch, pretending not to get pulled in. At first, Beck tried to pay attention for Tori’s sake, but when he saw the way her eyes crinkled with her smile as “Suddenly I See” played, he decided to try and see what all of the fuss was about.
By the time Meryl Streep appeared on screen, Beck had stopped pretending not to care.
“You know,” he said, halfway through the first act, “I think I’ve seen that guy in another movie.”
“That’s Stanley Tucci,” Tori said without looking away from the screen. “He’s a legend.”
Beck grinned. “Right. The guy who looks like he secretly owns his own fashion empire.”
Tori laughed, the sound making Beck’s chest tighten in that way he’d never admit out loud.
Another scene rolled by—Anne Hathaway running late again, tripping over her heels—and Beck caught himself leaning forward.
“Okay,” he muttered, “Miranda’s terrifying, but I kind of respect her.”
“Kind of?” Tori turned toward him, half-outraged, half-delighted. “She’s an icon.”
Beck shrugged, smirking. “I’m just saying, if she told me to get her coffee, I’d sprint.”
“See? You’re invested.”
“Am not.”
“You are. You gasped when she tossed the coat on the desk.”
“That was just a reflex,” Beck said, fighting a smile.
“Sure it was.” She nudged his knee with hers and went back to the screen.
Hours slipped by in laughter and playful commentary. Soon, the credits started rolling, and Tori threw her hands up. “See? I told you it’s a masterpiece.”
Beck smirked. “You said it was life-changing. I’m not sure my life’s changed yet.”
“Please. You were glued to the screen when Miranda said, ‘That’s all.’”
“I was not.”
“You so were.” She leaned closer, smug. “I saw your face.”
Beck laughed, shaking his head. “If watching Meryl Streep intimidates everyone counts as character growth, fine. My life’s changed.”
“Exactly,” Tori said triumphantly, curling up beside him. “Welcome to the cult.”
“Is there a membership card?”
“Only if you can quote at least three lines.”
“Easy,” Beck said, grinning. “You have no style… or sense of fashion.”
She gasped, playfully smacking his arm before kissing him.
The movie might’ve ended, but Beck decided he could watch Tori smile for the rest of their lives.