Chapter Text
It hadn't happened all at once. It was gradual—so gradual that by the time they recognized what was happening, they were already in too deep. Lingering looks. Lingering touches. The extra care, the quiet attention, the way they always seemed to find each other in a room. A deep fondness had taken root, and beneath it, an unspoken heat had been building for months after their first meeting.
The first time they'd actually crossed the line was three months into rehearsals.
After a long day—after everyone had left the building, after the choreographer had called it a night and the last PA had locked up the rehearsal space—distance had naturally closed between them. For one breathless moment, they'd just stood there, foreheads touching, the silence thick with everything they hadn't said.
"Tell me this is a bad idea," Ariana murmured.
"It's a terrible idea."
"Tell me to stop."
Cynthia didn't say anything. Instead, she'd tilted Ariana's chin up and kissed her—soft at first, questioning, then deeper when Ariana made a sound that vibrated through both of them.
They'd tumbled onto a small couch together, all tangled limbs and shallow breaths. Ariana straddled her lap, Cynthia's hands everywhere at once—her waist, her hips, threading through her hair.
"Wait, wait," Cynthia had gasped. "Should we—I mean, is this—"
"Do you want to stop?"
A pause. Then: "No."
"Then we figure out the rest later."
There had been so many laters.
Later, when they'd snuck away into each other's trailers after long days of filming, still in costume, still in character maybe, too hungry for each other to care about anything else.
Later, when Ariana had shown up at Cynthia's door in tears after a difficult phone call with Dalton, and Cynthia had held her until sunrise, stroking her hair and murmuring reassurances until the crying stopped. That night had shifted something between them—their relationship crossing into something terrifyingly intimate.
Later, when they'd had their first real fight three months ago—about boundaries, about going public, about what any of this even meant. Ariana had wanted definitions. Cynthia had wanted patience. Both had wanted things the other couldn't promise.
They still hadn't figured it out.
Their relationship had never been defined. Just stolen moments between takes, hushed nights in hotel rooms across different cities, passionate reunions followed by practical goodbyes.
"It's just complicated timing," Cynthia had said once, tracing patterns on Ariana's bare back as dawn broke through hotel curtains.
Ariana had wanted to argue, wanted to demand more, but Cynthia's fingertips had been so gentle, her voice so tired, that she just closed her eyes and let the moment exist without pressing for answers.
The pattern had established itself: distance, then a collision of intensity that left them both breathless and confused. Press tours and premieres where they performed their friendship for the cameras while their hands found each other beneath tables and behind closed doors. Lingering touches and interview banter that fans dissected for hidden meanings, never knowing how close to the truth their theories actually were.
Somewhere between everything and nothing.
The press suite was too bright, artificial lighting bouncing off every surface with unforgiving intensity. Ariana pulled the cashmere throw tighter around her shoulders and tried not to shiver as the stylist fussed with her hair. Her throat felt like sandpaper, her sinuses were completely blocked, and she'd already gone through half a box of tissues before 7 AM.
"You sure you're okay?" her hair stylist asked for the fourth time.
Ariana nodded, immediately regretting the motion as her head throbbed. "I've performed through worse," she rasped, the words scraping against her raw throat. "Remember that one time in—"
"You passed out backstage after that show."
"But I finished the show."
Ariana Grande didn't cancel. Not for anything. And certainly not for the single press day marking the culmination of a film that had consumed two years of her life—the role she'd dreamed about since she was ten years old, sitting in the Gershwin Theatre and watching Glinda float down in her bubble for the first time. And above all, not the day she'd been circling on her calendar for months, knowing it would thrust her back into Cynthia's orbit. No. She wouldn't cancel. She had a responsibility to see this through. All of it.
Her phone buzzed.
Cyn: See you soon. x
Ariana's stomach flipped. God she missed her.
Ninety-five days. That's how long it had been since Ariana had asked for more and Cynthia had asked her to wait. Again.
Cynthia's thumb had traced circles on Ariana's wrist like that would soften it. "Just be patient with me. Please. I need time to do this the right way." The right way. As if there was a right way to untangle a life she'd built with someone else.
Ariana had pulled her hand away. "You've been handling things for two years, Cyn."
"That's not fair."
"You know what's not fair? Being someone's secret while they go home to someone else every night." Cynthia's eyes had flashed—defensive, wounded.
"You go home to Ethan every night." She'd regretted it the moment it left her lips. They both knew it wasn't the same. Ariana had gone quiet. Not angry. Just... done.
"Fine."
Ariana did not go to the Met Gala the following evening.
They'd exchanged occasional texts since then—polite, friendly, painfully surface-level. Birthday wishes. Congratulations on new projects. The kind of messages you'd send to a colleague you respected.
It had been agony.
Cynthia arrived at the junket location thirty minutes early. She'd chosen her first outfit of the day carefully—a striking all-black ensemble: a structured leather blazer with sharp, architectural shoulders over a sleek black turtleneck, the long coat falling past her knees in elegant lines. Gold earrings caught the light, and rings adorned her fingers. And there, on the ring finger of her right hand, the pink one. The one that meant something neither of them had ever said out loud.
She still wore it.
Cynthia was reviewing the press schedule when she heard a commotion in the hallway.
"I'm fine, really, I just need—" Ariana's voice, but wrong somehow. Raspier. Weaker.
Cynthia stepped out of the holding room just as Ariana rounded the corner, looking absolutely terrible. Her blonde hair was held tightly in a ponytail and her makeup was flawless, porcelain skin and soft red lips that matched her dress. But her eyes were glassy, her nose pink despite the concealer, and even from ten feet away, Cynthia could see her shivering.
Cynthia's eyes widened with concern. "Jesus, Ari." The words came out before she could stop them, stripped of the careful distance she'd been maintaining for months.
Ariana looked up, and something flickered across her face—surprise, relief, longing—before she schooled her expression into a weak smile.
"You look like death," Cynthia said, and despite everything, Ariana laughed. Then immediately regretted it as the laugh turned into a cough.
"Thanks," she managed hoarsely, her gaze traveling over Cynthia's striking silhouette. Even sick, even exhausted, she couldn't help but appreciate the sight of her. Cynthia always carried herself with a presence—all sharp angles and quiet power. "You look stunning. As always."
The compliment hung in the air between them.
Cynthia's expression softened, her carefully constructed walls crumbling at the sight of Ariana so clearly miserable. "When did this start?"
"Yesterday afternoon." Ariana's voice was barely above a whisper.
Cynthia stepped closer, closing the distance between them before she could think better of it. Her hand reached out automatically, palm pressing against Ariana's forehead. The casual intimacy of the gesture made Ariana's chest tighten—how many times had Cynthia touched her like she had every right to, like caring for her was as natural as breathing?
“Baby, you're burning up." The endearment slipped out, also as natural as breathing.
"It's just a cold," Ariana said, leaning into the touch despite herself, despite three months of distance, despite every reason she had to protect her heart. Cynthia's palm was cool against her skin, and the contact felt both physical and emotional.
Memories flooded back—those same hands cupping her face in a hotel room in Paris, sliding down her body in the darkness of a trailer, touching her in ways that had made her forget her own name. Those hands that had held her while she cried, traced lazy circles on her bare back when neither of them could sleep.
Something flickered in Cynthia's eyes—longing, perhaps, or hesitation. The same war Ariana felt inside herself. Their last parting had been complicated. Painful. The kind of goodbye that felt like an ending even though they never truly had a formal beginning.
"I'll be fine." The soft words brought them back to the present.
Cynthia's thumb traced her jawline, a gesture so tender it made Ariana's chest ache. For a moment, the rest of the world fell away—as it always does. There was only this: Cynthia's hand on her face, Cynthia's eyes searching hers, the familiar electricity crackling between them.
Then Ariana sneezed violently into her elbow, and the spell broke.
"Sorry," she croaked, voice nasal and miserable, fumbling for a tissue. "Sorry, that's—I'm so gross right now, I don't know why you're standing this close to me."
"Because you're sick and you clearly need someone to take care of you," Cynthia said simply. She didn't step back. "When's the last time you slept properly?"
Ariana's silence was answer enough.
"Ari."
"I couldn't—" Ariana started, then stopped. I couldn't sleep because I kept thinking about you. I couldn't sleep because my bed felt too empty. I couldn't sleep because I've been anticipating this day. This very moment.
She settled for: "You know me. Press days always make me anxious."
Cynthia was close enough now that Ariana could smell her perfume—something earthy and warm, sandalwood and amber with notes of jasmine. The familiar scent brought back a rush of sense memories: pressing her face into Cynthia's neck while Cynthia's hands traveled down her back, breathing her in during quiet moments together, waking up surrounded by that scent on pillows that weren't her own.
"I've missed you," Ariana whispered, the words slipping out before she could stop them. Her defenses were down, weakened by fever and exhaustion and months of pretending she was fine.
"I've missed you too," Cynthia replied, her voice low and private despite the empty space surrounding them. Her thumb brushed across Ariana's cheekbone. "But you look like you should be in bed." Cynthia continued, the worry in her voice genuine. "Have you taken anything? When did you last eat?"
The caretaking was so achingly familiar. This was what they had always been to each other. Not just lovers, but partners in the truest sense. Making sure the other ate, slept, took care of themselves during grueling schedules.
Ariana ignored the line of questioning.
“You know I can't cancel," Ariana started, already prepared to deliver the same defensive speech she'd given to everyone else.
"I know." Cynthia cut her off gently. "I'm not asking you to."
Of course she wasn't. Cynthia knew her.
“But you're going to let me take care of you today. No arguments."
It wasn't a question.
"Cyn—"
"I mean it, Ariana." The use of her full name was pointed. "I know we're... whatever we are right now. I know things are complicated. But I am not going to pretend I don't care about you."
The words hit Ariana somewhere deep in her chest, in the place she'd been trying to protect. Her eyes stung, and she blinked rapidly, refusing to cry in the middle of a press suite hallway.
"Okay," she whispered.
"Okay." Cynthia nodded once, satisfied. "First, I'm getting you proper tea. Honey, lemon, a little ginger. It will help your throat enough to get through the day."
"You don't have to—"
"I want to." Cynthia's voice softened. "Let me. Please"
There was something in the way she said it—let me—that made Ariana's breath catch. It sounded like more. It sounded like an offering, an olive branch, a door left open.
"Ms. Erivo? Ms. Grande?" A voice appeared around the corner—one of the production assistants, clipboard in hand, headset slightly askew. "The first segment starts in fifteen minutes, and makeup wants to see you both for final touches."
Reality crashed back in. They were the stars of one of the most anticipated films of the year, with obligations and appearances and an entire production depending on them. All of it rested on their shoulders today. Ariana felt her anxiety creeping back in.
"We'll be right there," Cynthia called, her professional voice sliding seamlessly back into place. The transformation was impressive. The way Cynthia could shift from soft and intimate to commanding and unshakeable in the space of a breath.
But her eyes, when they met Ariana's, held a different message entirely. This isn't over. We'll figure this out. I'm not going anywhere.
The morning passed in a blur of questions and cameras. They discussed the themes of the film, the experience of bringing such beloved characters to life, recorded messages for early screenings, IMAX, and television specials.
Cynthia's hand found hers constantly—on camera, between takes, in full view of everyone—and no one thought twice about it. That was the thing about them. They'd always been like this. They deflected personal questions with practiced ease and let their genuine affection show through, always carefully calibrated to read as deep friendship rather than anything more.
Three hours had passed.
Ariana was a professional—had been doing this for a long time. She smiled and charmed and answered questions with practiced ease. But Cynthia, seated beside her, could see the cracks forming. The way Ariana's voice grew progressively hoarser. The barely-suppressed coughs between questions.
By the twelfth segment, Ariana was struggling to stay upright. Her answers were becoming shorter, her voice raspier, her usual sparkle dimmed by exhaustion.
Cynthia noticed. She called for a fifteen-minute break and pulled Ariana off to the side.
"Your fever's getting worse. I can see it."
"I'm fine."
"You're shaking."
"I'm always cold. You know that."
"Ari." Cynthia gripped her shoulders. "I'm not doing this with you. Not today. You're not fine, and we both know it. If you push through this whole day, you're going to collapse."
"Then I'll collapse after." Ariana's jaw set. "I didn't wait ninety-five days to let a fever ruin this. This movie matters too much. You matter too—" She stopped, catching herself.
"I matter too what?"
Ariana looked away. When she spoke again, her voice was barely above a whisper. "I haven't seen you in three months, Cyn. I've been counting down the days. I was not going to let a stupid cold take this away."
"Take what away? Me having to watch you suffer through back-to-back interviews?"
"Yes. No. I don't—" Ariana pressed her palm to her forehead, wincing. "I’ve missed you. So much.” Ariana's eyes welled up. “And this reunion was supposed to be perfect. I wasn’t supposed to be sick. And I—" Ariana felt her throat tighten.
"Come with me," Cynthia said, taking Ariana's hand and leading her down a back hallway.
"Where are we—"
"Just trust me."
She found an empty green room with a sofa, closed the door behind them, and immediately began stripping off Ariana's heels.
"Cyn, what—"
"Lie down."
"We have—"
"Fifteen minutes. You're going to rest for fourteen of them." Cynthia guided her onto the small couch, then settled in behind her, pulling Ariana's back against her chest. "Close your eyes."
"Cyn…"
"Please.” Cynthia’s eyes got serious. “For me"
Ariana huffed, then melted into Cynthia's arms. Within seconds, her breathing began to even out.
Cynthia held perfectly still, barely breathing, as Ariana's body finally surrendered to exhaustion. Within minutes, the tension drained from her shoulders, and her breathing deepened into the slow, steady rhythm of sleep.
Fourteen minutes. That's all they had. Cynthia kept her eyes on the clock on the wall, watching the seconds tick by while Ariana slept in her arms.
She looked down at the woman curled against her chest. Even sick, even exhausted, Ariana was beautiful. Her lashes fanned against her flushed cheeks, her lips slightly parted. The furrow between her brows had finally smoothed out.
Ninety-five days. Cynthia had counted too.
She'd told herself the distance was necessary. That she needed time to sort things out, to figure out how to untangle her life without destroying everyone in the process. But lying here now, with Ariana's heartbeat steady against her chest, Cynthia realized just how much she'd missed her.
Ariana shifted in her sleep, pressing closer, and mumbled something unintelligible. Her hand tightened around Cynthia's.
Cynthia pressed a kiss to the top of her head before she could stop herself. "I know," she whispered into blonde hair. "I know, baby. I'm sorry."
The words hung in the quiet room. Ariana didn't stir.
At the twelve-minute mark, Cynthia began gently stroking Ariana's arm, easing her toward wakefulness. She hated to do it—hated to pull her back from the only rest she'd probably gotten in days—but they had responsibilities. Obligations. A film that mattered to both of them more than almost anything.
"Ari," she murmured. "Sweetheart, we have to go back."
Ariana made a small sound of protest, burrowing deeper into Cynthia's chest.
"I know. I don't want to either." Cynthia's voice was soft, tender. "But we've got three more hours, and then I'm taking you home."
Ariana's eyes fluttered open, hazy with fever and sleep. "Hm?"
"My place. You're not going back to an empty hotel room like this."
"Cyn, you don't have to—" Ariana attempted to stand, but Cynthia's hands were already on her waist, steadying her.
"I know I don't have to." Cynthia tilted Ariana's chin up so their eyes met. "I want to. Let me take care of you. Properly."
Something shifted in Ariana's expression. She was too tired to be stubborn.
"Okay."
"Okay." Cynthia smoothed down her hair and straightened her dress.
The remaining hours of the press junket passed in a carefully choreographed dance.
Cynthia watched over Ariana like a hawk, intercepting questions when she noticed Ariana's voice flagging, redirecting attention when she saw her struggling. Between interviews, Cynthia appeared with throat lozenges, water bottles, more tea.
"You're hovering," Ariana whispered during a brief break, but she was smiling.
"I'm supervising."
"Same thing."
"Drink your tea."
Ariana rolled her eyes but obeyed, and something warm bloomed in Cynthia's chest at the small act of surrender.
When it was finally over. When the last camera stopped rolling and the last microphone was switched off, Ariana slumped against Cynthia's shoulder.
"You did it," Cynthia murmured into her hair.
"Cyn?"
"Hm?"
"Take me home."
Cynthia stood, pulling her gently to her feet. "Come on. Let's get you out of here."