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Connor hadn’t anticipated that being a smoker would be more difficult as an actor than it ever was as a waiter.
In restaurants, smoke breaks are practically guaranteed. They’re sacred. A rule as old as grease burns and bad shoes. It’s what binds colleagues together. It’s how he met his best friends.
On set, though, it mostly just annoys people.
Being a smoker must’ve been great in Hollywood’s golden years, when Humphrey Bogart could light your cigarette mid-scene with a lighter that now costs more than Connor’s rent. Today, with most productions shot inside massive Canadian studios plastered with NO SMOKING signs on every wall, it takes real mental gymnastics to figure out when to light up.
Between takes, he barely has enough time to wrestle himself out of the bulky, deeply impractical hockey costume, find his pack, escape the building, and smoke a single cigarette. Just one. Just enough to blur the noise in his head for a second. Inevitably, a production assistant will appear and say, very politely, that he’s needed on set immediately. Then it’s washing his hands, popping a mint, and hoping Hudson’s comment about him always smelling like ashes was just teasing and not, secretly, a complaint.
But when he gets five uninterrupted minutes alone with his Marlboro Reds—hell, the whole day feels worth it.
Connor knows he should be grateful. He is grateful. It was this or another summer waiting tables in West Hollywood for the most self-entitled people the country has to offer. Still, once they’ve shot all the non-hockey scenes, he’s left killing hours trying to nail the skating footage, feeling quietly miserable that his double looks nothing like him, that he has to take skating lessons every day, and then publicly humiliate himself in front of the camera and the entire crew.
He just wishes he didn’t have to embarrass himself quite this much on the day François Arnaud is on set.
They’ve met before. Of course they have. Always briefly, always politely. Small talk at crew gatherings. François and Hudson even shot a few scenes together, and on certain days François was simply around, which required Connor to pretend he was deeply immersed in character rather than actively managing the fact that he had the largest, most ridiculous crush of his adult life.
The worst part is that it isn’t new.
It started more than a decade ago on Tumblr, back when Connor was a (barely) closeted gay kid with too much internet access and no sense of self-preservation. That was when he first encountered the scene—the one that sent him to illegal websites so he could watch J’ai tué ma mère. It was the first subtitled movie he ever saw. It made him want to learn French, though that was probably just the excuse he needed to keep watching Xavier Dolan and every other gay arthouse film he could find.
The point is: François Arnaud was Connor’s first celebrity crush.
That’s the kind of thing that sounds charming during a press junket, tossed out with a self-aware smile. Right now, though, it’s doing something far less charming to his body: shortening his breath, accelerating his pulse (and no, it’s not the cigarette).
Time, cruelly, has only improved François. He’s tall—very tall. He has an accent. He smells good, effortlessly masculine. He’s nice to Connor. He skates beautifully, because of course he does. And—
The door behind him opens.
Great. Time to return to another hour of public humiliation. Connor takes a breath, already assembling his apologies. He is not unprofessional. He really isn’t.
“Mind if I borrow a lighter?”
That is not the production assistant.
Connor’s body reacts before his brain can catch up, a full second of paralysis while his heart beats very loudly. It takes him another second to turn, because this is somehow both his biggest fantasy and his worst fear: being alone with François.
Sharing a cigarette with him.
He exhales and turns. François is leaning against the wall, a pack of Marlboro Reds open in his hand. Connor feels a stupid, sincere burst of joy that they smoke the same brand. Like Connor, François is only half in costume, hockey pants still on, the rest abandoned. His hair is a mess from the helmet, and it’s deeply unfair that he looks better like this, slightly wrecked, while Connor feels fully destroyed.
“No, not at all,” Connor says, stepping closer. He intends to hand over the lighter, but François already has the cigarette between his lips and leans in, expectant. Connor lights it. François exhales, smiling around the smoke, like he knows exactly what he’s doing.
“Long day, huh?” he says, gentle.
Right. Words. Conversation. Connor can do this.
“Yeah,” he says. “For me, at least.”
François scoffs. “What do you mean? I’m barely standing.”
Connor gives him a look. “I’m not falling for it, sorry. You and Hudson looked like professionals down there.”
François shakes his head. “It’s not a fair comparison, you know.”
“Oh?”
“Canadian advantage,” he says, smiling. “We come pre-installed.”
Connor doesn’t quite know what to do with himself, because this—God help him—feels dangerously close to flirting, and he has never been especially good at pretending not to notice when something he wants is happening in real time.
“Still,” he adds, aiming for casual, “you make it look easy.”
“It isn’t.”
Connor turns to him, mock offended. “That’s worse, actually.”
“Sorry.”
They smile at each other.
“I thought you were really good today,” François says.
Connor opens his mouth to deflect, to joke it away, to do the thing he always does, but François keeps going. “No, really. I mean it. I’ve seen how much you’re putting into this. Not just the physical stuff, but the accent, the Russian, all of it. It’s really impressive. I hadn’t had the chance to say it before, so I’m saying it now.”
The words land slowly. It isn’t just that the man he’s been obsessed with for years is saying them, though that certainly heightens the moment. Connor has spent most of his career bracing for failure, for the moment someone will tell him this isn’t working. That expectation is what makes him work harder, always a step ahead of disappointment. Praise, when it comes, usually feels provisional. So hearing it offered so plainly, from someone whose work he’s watched and admired for years, disarms him.
“Thank you,” he says finally. “That means a lot. Coming from you.”
François is about to respond when the production assistant finally appears. A record, really, that they’ve lasted this long uninterrupted. “Connor, Jacob is looking for you.”
François doesn’t flinch. He looks completely at ease. Maybe he’s done for the day. Connor crushes out his cigarette and drops the butt into the trash by the door.
“See you around?” he asks, already half-following the assistant.
“Yeah,” François says, taking a drag. “I hope so.”
That’s when Connor remembers.
“Here.” He digs the lighter out of his pocket and hands it to François, who looks momentarily surprised. “Careful. It comes with a return policy.”
Connor winks, turns, and walks away before he can think better of it, feeling reckless and starstruck and, somehow, brave.
-
Connor doesn’t see his lighter again for days. Eventually, he gives up and buys a new one.
Maybe he didn’t play it very well. Or maybe he just forgot that François wouldn’t be around long, that his role was small enough for the skating footage to be wrapped in a single afternoon. Either way, Connor is too busy to dwell on it. Once the hockey scenes are done, the production relocates to a cabin in Muskoka to finish wrapping up. There’s barely any internet. It’s good for the nerves. Still, knowing that everything is almost over brings a new kind of anxiety with it.
He isn’t quite sure what comes next. He has his own projects, of course, but he has to actively try to remember the version of his life that existed before this one. Maybe he could pick up shifts at the restaurant again, just for a while. Just until the press cycle begins. Even if the show is small, he knows the promotion won’t be. That part he’s already made peace with. What he hasn’t figured out yet is how to hold himself together until then.
That’s what he’s thinking about at the wrap party, dressed in the suit he saves for special occasions. His mom brought it to his first red carpet, for a small film that premiered in Venice two years ago. Unfortunately, he’s grown since then. The suit is tight now, almost unforgiving. It’s only after his third drink that he feels like he can breathe again—once the jacket is off and the first three buttons of his shirt are undone. Hudson keeps refilling his glass, and Connor lets him. That’s what tonight is for: celebration. Even if the show disappears. Even if it doesn’t change anything. He had fun. He liked the work. He liked the people. That feels worth honoring.
He doesn’t see François for the first hour, and it’s not because he isn’t looking for him. Maybe he’s already somewhere else, on another set, starting over. Connor tells himself that’s fine. Still, he’d hoped the drinks might make him braver tonight. There won’t be another chance like this. No more shared space, no reason to cross paths. No smoke breaks. If he were ever going to be careless, it would have to be now.
He’ll get over it. One day it’ll be a funny story: how he worked on a show with his biggest crush and somehow kept it together. He can’t tell his friends much about the project yet, but this part he’s allowed to share.
After what he thinks is his fifth drink, he decides to go out for a smoke. Something to steady him a little. He asks Hudson if he wants to come, but Hudson is busy impressing the crew with some party trick. Connor weaves his way to the smoking area. It takes longer than it should. There are only a couple of people out there, no one he recognizes. He pulls a cigarette from the pack, then his new lighter. The boring one. Not like the old one. He hopes François is being careful with it, though he’s probably already forgotten it exists.
Connor laughs quietly to himself between drags. Honestly, can you imagine? Him, a nobody twenty-four-year-old who was serving tables at a pretentious restaurant three months ago, and François Arnaud. What’s next? An affair with Alexander Skarsgård?
He lights a second cigarette. Fuck it. Maybe he just needs to get laid. No, he definitely needs to get laid. There’s a cute guy in production design who’s been giving him looks. Kind of looks like Jonathan Anderson. That could work.
He gets lost in his own head. Minutes pass. No one comes looking for him. He doesn’t really want to go back inside anyway. He’s too tangled up in his thoughts to enjoy the party properly.
“Thought I’d find you here.”
The voice cuts through him so cleanly he almost thinks he imagined it.
And just like that, all the frustration drains away.
“Am I that predictable?” he asks, looking up.
François is in a classic black suit. White shirt, black tie. He looks good, obviously, but Connor finds himself missing the casual version of him.
“All smokers are. Myself included.” François steps closer, one hand in his pocket. “Here.”
He hands Connor the lighter. It’s wrapped in a tissue, like it’s something delicate and not an old lighter from a dollar store. Connor smiles at the unnecessary care.
“You took good care of it?” he asks, teasing.
“I did. I swear.” François lifts a hand, mock solemn. Then his expression softens. “I meant to give it back sooner, but you guys went north.”
“Yeah. Wrapped at the cottage.”
“How was it?”
“It was nice,” Connor says, because that’s the answer you’re supposed to give. Then he thinks about the last days on set, the strange weight of them, and adds, “Kind of sad, actually.”
François raises an eyebrow. “Really?”
Connor takes a drag, smiles. “Or I’m just overly emotional.”
“Both things can be true,” François says easily.
He lights his cigarette and stands beside him. Close, but not crowding. Connor notices how rare that feels.
They fall quiet.
It isn’t uncomfortable. God, it isn’t even awkward. Somehow, despite barely knowing each other, they seem to get it. Get each other. Connor doesn’t feel the need to perform or play the part of someone sociable. He lets the silence sit.
“This all went by really fast,” he says, mostly to the night.
“Yeah. Low budget, tight schedule.” François shrugs. “Honestly, what they pulled off was kind of a miracle.”
“Yeah. Jacob and everyone did a really good job.”
“They did.” François studies him for a second, like he’s reading something just beneath the surface. Then he adds, “You did, too.”
Connor lets out a breathless laugh before he can stop himself. It’s not that he doesn’t believe him, it’s just strange to hear it said so casually, by him. François has no idea how long he’s lived in Connor’s head. The thought is absurd. And a little funny.
“What?” François asks, puzzled.
Connor looks down. “When you say things like that—”
“I mean them.”
“I know.” He exhales. “I’m just… not really used to it.”
“Compliments?”
“Yours specifically,” Connor says simply.
“My compliments are different?”
“To me, yeah.”
“Why’s that?”
There’s something knowing in François’s expression, like he already has the answer. Connor barely registers the tension building, still caught in the improbability of it all.
“You’re really going to make me say it?” Connor asks, finally meeting his eyes.
François stiffens, just slightly. “I’m not making you uncomfortable, am I?”
“What? No—” Connor startles at the sharpness of his own voice, then steadies himself. “No. I’m not uncomfortable.”
“But…?”
He exhales. What’s the point of pretending? Of acting like this hasn’t been true for a while now? Yes, he’s watched all his movies. Some more than once. He watched three seasons of Schitt’s Creek just to catch François for ten minutes. Not just because of a crush; he’s a genuine fan. Maybe he doesn’t have to be embarrassed about that.
“I’m a really big fan,” he says. “I’ve been trying to keep my cool, but you’re making it very hard.”
François’s smile deepens. He looks pleased. Flattered. Maybe a little smug.
“Good,” he says.
Connor blinks. “Good?”
“Yeah. It’s kind of nice,” François says. “Watching you blush.”
Oh God.
“Oh God.” Connor laughs, half-disbelieving. “This can’t be—”
“What?” François asks, though he already knows.
Connor swallows. “Are you… flirting with me?”
“That depends,” François says. “Are you flirting back?”
Connor is usually good at this. He’s never been shy. He’s never had trouble getting what—or who—he wants. But this feels different. Like one wrong move could ruin everything.
“I don’t know,” he says. “I think I forgot how.”
“You’re doing fine.”
“I’m literally dying.”
François tilts his head. “Do you want me to go?”
“No,” Connor says immediately. “Please. Don’t.”
François steps closer, into Connor’s space, not bothering to check who might be watching. No one is. The couple who’d been lingering nearby left a while ago. It’s just them now. François stops when they’re only inches apart. He reaches for Connor’s hand—the one without the cigarette—and traces the lines of his palm, slow and deliberate. Connor realizes he hasn’t taken a breath in several seconds, afraid any movement might break the moment.
François looks up. “Do you want to get out of here?”
The answer is obvious, so obvious it gets stuck. There’s nothing Connor wants more than to leave. He’s celebrated enough, made the rounds, done his part. Wanting to go isn’t wrong. Still, there’s Hudson, and the people he’s spent every day with for weeks. He should say goodbye. Wouldn’t it be strange to just disappear with François?
François seems to read it all on his face.
“Or,” he says gently, “we can grab a drink and say our goodbyes first. If you want to leave with me. Of course.”
Connor exhales, finally.
“Yeah,” he says. “That sounds like a good plan.”
-
Half an hour later, Connor is standing on the sidewalk with François, eating a kebab. They stopped at a food truck because Connor hadn’t eaten all day and made the mistake of admitting it. François had insisted they fix that immediately.
“I ate here almost every day while we were filming,” François had confessed earlier. “Cheating on that hockey diet never felt so good.”
Connor hadn’t expected how easy it would be. In less than an hour, he learns things about François that never make it onto his Wikipedia page, like growing up between France and Canada. Or his devotion to Joni Mitchell, which François claims is “the best thing this place ever produced.” Connor objects on instinct, arguing that Carly Rae Jepsen deserves at least an honorable mention. François laughs, genuinely, and Connor realizes he didn’t know that sound before tonight.
François asks him questions, too. Real ones. Connor answers without thinking too hard about how he comes across, even when he becomes aware of the gap in age and experience between them.
François doesn’t seem to notice it, or care. If anything, he keeps folding Connor back into the conversation, grounding him.
“You learned Russian pronunciation in a few months,” François says, shaking his head. “That’s insane. Do you realize how impressive that is?”
Connor blushes. Deeply.
When the kebab is gone, they share a cigarette. Just one, passed back and forth. It feels intimate in a way Connor doesn’t want to examine too closely. He watches people walk by and wonders, briefly, how they look together. He also wonders if, a year from now, people will start recognizing him. The thought feels distant. Almost fictional.
“Tell me something,” François says, handing the cigarette back.
“What?”
“Anything you want to tell me right now.”
Connor thinks. Nothing sticks. Every option is either wildly inappropriate or way too sincere. I’m dangerously close to falling in love with you, which is inconvenient because I’m flying back to LA in a few days to wait tables while you return to your glamorous actor life does not feel like an acceptable first confession.
“You go first,” he says instead.
François smiles, like he’d expected that. “I came after you that day,” he says. “When you gave me the lighter. It wasn’t an accident. I asked Nina where you were and ran after you. I left my own lighter behind on purpose.”
“Why?” Connor asks.
François shrugs, like it’s obvious. “I wanted to talk to you.”
Connor doesn’t know what to do with that. Even now, after everything, it feels unreal. Before he can overthink it, he blurts out, “You were my first celebrity crush.”
François laughs. “Really? So this wasn’t just professional admiration?”
“I was going to save it for press,” Connor says. “Thought it’d make a cute anecdote.” He gestures vaguely between them. “I didn’t think this was possible. It feels kind of ridiculous.”
“Why?”
Connor hesitates. “You can’t laugh.”
“I won’t.”
“I was a sissy gay kid growing up in Odessa, Texas, when I first saw you on my screen,” Connor says, the words tumbling out. “You were the most beautiful man I’d ever seen. I was chubby. I had no friends. I spent all my time online, and that’s how I found your work. I was obsessed. I used to think that if I ever had a boyfriend, he’d at least have to speak French.” He winces. “You have no idea how panicked I was when I found out you were in the cast.”
François is quiet for a moment. He watches Connor like he’s committing him to memory. Connor doesn’t look back, just lets himself be seen.
“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” François says finally.
Connor turns to him, surprised. “You don’t think I’m ridiculous?”
François smiles softly. “You really don’t know, do you?”
“Know what?”
“How fascinating you are.”
“I—” He tries, but the words don’t cooperate. Connor looks down. He’s not overwhelmed, exactly, but he’s close. This feels a little too much like a dream, or a stupid romcom, and those always come with a catch. Right?
“Connor?” François says gently, reaching for his hand again, the same way he did at the party.
“Yeah?” Connor answers, lifting his head to meet his eyes.
“Can I kiss you?” François asks. For the first time, there’s something like hesitation on his face. It catches Connor off guard.
“Here?” he asks, suddenly aware of the street, the open air, how recognizable François is.
“Yeah. Here.” The certainty in his voice dissolves Connor’s worry on impact. “Is that okay?”
Connor nods, a little breathless. “Yeah. Please.”
François leans in. One hand settles at Connor’s waist, fingers curling carefully into the fabric of his shirt, like he’s afraid of doing too much. The kiss is soft, reverent. Their lips brush, pause, brush again. François keeps it gentle, restrained, like he’s trying very hard to behave. It’s sweet in a way that feels almost old-fashioned, and Connor has the strange thought that this is exactly how his younger self would’ve hoped his first kiss would be.
His breath stutters. François feels it immediately and pulls back just enough to look at him, searching his face, his eyes asking the question without words.
Connor answers by closing the distance.
François’s hand slides to his hip, drawing him closer, still measured, still aware of the world around them. His other hand finds the back of Connor’s neck, fingers slipping into his curls. François tastes like heat and smoke and the last of a Negroni. Connor has the fleeting, practical thought that if they don’t stop soon, they’re both getting arrested, and that’s not great press for the show.
They part for air.
“What do you think,” Connor says, a little dazed, “we finish this somewhere behind closed doors?”
François smiles, nodding. “Yeah,” he says. “That sounds like a good plan.”
-
Later, Connor is in François’s bed, in an apartment that feels lived-in, with books everywhere, vinyl leaning against the walls. He’s straddling François’s lap, François’s hands warm and sure against his skin, and Connor’s thoughts don’t stand a chance. Everything narrows to sensation, to François’s name repeating in his head every time he flinches under his touch.
Connor kisses along François’s jaw, slow and exploratory, then down the slope of his throat.
François gasps, hips jerking, a rough sound catching in his throat. Connor bites down at the crook of his neck, just below the ear, leaving a mark before his tongue follows, soothing it. If François has a shoot anytime soon, that’s a problem for the makeup department. Apparently, François agrees, because he tilts his head back, wordlessly offering more.
The intimacy of it gives Connor a brief, startling clarity. Having François like this—close, open, his—doesn’t feel absurd at all. It feels right. Like he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be. He bites him again, lighter this time, and laughs under his breath.
“What?” François asks, voice low and rough, still attentive despite everything.
Connor lifts his head, meeting those impossibly green eyes. “Nothing,” he says, laughing again. “I just—”
François smiles. “I know.”
He wraps his arms around Connor and pulls him into a loose hug, shifting them back against the bed. They laugh together, unguarded and easy, and Connor is suddenly, completely sure: this, right here, is exactly where he wants to be.