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Their break is marked by the snap of a clapboard.
Melissa finds Zaraganba sitting at the edge of the set. Sleuthing, she thinks as she takes a seat beside him, being greeted by a smile.
She starts with small talk, trying to find the perfect spot to insert her question.
—
Ah, fuck it. She's impatient.
“Why do you smell like Cooki’s perfume?” Melissa asks flatly, watching Zaraganba choke on his coffee.
“Pardon?”
“Don't act dumb, you literally reek of it. It's like she's all over you constantly.”
Good lord in heaven, he's never living this down. There's a huge smirk on her beak, something he hoped she'd kept shut right about now. Melissa makes a big show of leaning over.
“Come ooonnn, spill.” She urges.
”I hate you so much right now.” He says into his hands.
“Please? Like- half of us have an idea of what's going on. This won't leave set, I promise you.”
“It's not that.” He whines, running his fingers over his beard, “It's just– it's not--”
“Official?” She questions.
Zara bites his lip nervously.
“Something like that, yeah.”
Melissa hides her change in expression with a sip of coffee. Well, she's got her suspicions confirmed, Pringle owes her ten bucks.
He sighs.
“Please- if the tabloids get their hands on this….”
Her energy dampens. Frowning and sinking back in her seat, she places a hand on his shoulder.
“I know.”
It's quiet now, awkward and tense. Zara clears his throat.
“....Does everyone know?”
“Oh, with how you two are moving? Yeah, they will eventually.”
“Fuck sake.”
“Well, no offense,” she says stirring her drink, “but I don't think an attempt was made to really hide it. From us, I mean.”
He thought back to the receptionist at the hotel. Bad decisions everywhere.
“Right.”
Fuck.