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The set lights are too bright. That’s the first thing Atom notices. Too bright. Too loud. Too everything. The studio hums around her, crew members shifting equipment, makeup artists whispering, the low buzz of the lights overhead. It all presses in on her at once. Atom blinks against the glare, forcing her lips into something that resembles a smile when the director calls for another take. Her head feels heavy, like it’s packed with cotton. Her skin is warm in a way that has nothing to do with the heat from the lamps, and every breath drags faintly against her throat, dry and sharp.
“Positions!” someone calls.
Atom straightens automatically. Professional. Always professional.
“Atom, you okay?” a staff member asks between resets, concern flickering across their face.
She nods too quickly. “I’m fine. Just tired.”
It’s a lie. By the fourth take, her voice cracks on a line she’s delivered perfectly all week. She clears her throat and laughs it off, cheeks pink under the makeup.
“Sorry, again.”
By the sixth take, she stands too fast and the world tilts. Not dramatically, just enough that she has to blink hard and lock her knees to keep from swaying. From across the set, Faye notices. Faye always notices. Taller than Atom by a few inches, she stands steady under the lights, shoulders squared, gaze sharper than anyone realizes. She misses nothing, not the tremor in Atom’s hands, not the way she presses her lips together between lines like she’s bracing herself.
They call for a short break. Before anyone can hover, Atom slips away toward the side of the set, pretending to check her phone. The second she’s out of direct view, she presses the back of her hand to her forehead. Warm. No. Not warm. Hot. Her head was burning hot. She exhales slowly. It’s fine. It’s just a small fever. Probably exhaustion. They’re on a schedule and she won’t be the reason filming falls behind. She won’t be the weak link.
“Five minutes!” the director shouts.
Atom squares her shoulders and walks back. When filming resumes, it's a close scene. Intimate. Faye steps into her space easily, naturally, like she belongs. There’s a scripted moment where Faye’s character brushes hair away from Atom’s face. It’s meant to be quick. Instead, Faye’s fingers slide gently behind Atom’s ear, slow and careful. The pads of her fingers graze her temple. They linger. Atom freezes for half a second. Faye’s touch is cool. Too cool against overheated skin.
“You’re burning up,” Faye murmurs, so quiet it barely disturbs the air between them.
The cameras are still rolling. Atom keeps her smile in place.
“I’m fine,” she insists under her breath, stubborn even as her vision blurs faintly at the edges. “Don’t make it a thing.”
Faye doesn’t argue. Not there. Not in front of everyone. But something shifts in her expression, subtle, almost imperceptible to anyone who doesn’t know her. Her eyes darken. The take finishes.
“Cut!” the director calls. “That was good, let’s reset just in case.”
As the crew begins to move again, Faye doesn’t step away immediately. Instead, she lowers her hand from Atom’s hair to her wrist. Her thumb presses lightly against the inside, checking her pulse. It was fast, too fast. Atom tried to pull back, but it’s weak, more habit than effort.
“You’re shaking,” Faye says quietly.
“I said I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
There’s no accusation in Faye’s tone. Just certainty. Atom swallows, blinking hard again.The floor feels farther away than it should. She takes one step back and the world tips. It’s subtle at first. A sway. A miscalculated shift of balance. Faye is already moving. Her hands land firmly on Atom’s waist before she can fall, steadying her easily. Effortlessly. Atom barely reaches Faye’s shoulder, and right now, she’s very aware of that difference as she instinctively leans into the taller girl's frame.
“Okay,” Faye says voice no longer soft. “We’re done.”
Atom shakes her head weakly.
“Don’t, don’t stop filming because of me.”
Faye looks at her then, really looks at her. Makeup can’t hide the flushed skin. Or the glassy eyes. Or the way Atom is clinging without realizing it. Faye’s jaw tightens.
“Atom,” She says quietly, but there’s steel underneath it now. “If you think I care more about the schedule than you passing out under these lights, you don’t know me at all.”
Atom’s breath catches. The director is walking over now, concern written all over her face.
“Everything okay?”
Faye doesn’t hesitate at all before saying
“She has a fever,” Faye says firmly. “We need to stop.”
Atom opens her mouth to protest but Faye’s hand slides up to cradle the back of her head gently, protective, shielding her from the brightness.
“Don’t,” Faye murmurs, softer again, only for her. “ Let me take care of you this time.”
And for the first time all day, Atom doesn't argue. She lets herself lean fully into Faye’s steadiness and Faye holds her like she’s something fragile, something infinitely more important that any scene they could ever shoot.
By the time Atom gets home that night, she feels like she’s been run over. The car ride back was a blur of streetlights and stubborn denial. She’d insisted she was fine when Faye offered to take her home. She had even smiled.
Now unlocking her apartment door feels like climbing a mountain. She barely makes it through a shower, leaning one hand against the tile wall when the steam makes her head spin before collapsing onto her couch. Her hair is still damp, soaking slowly into the blanket she drags around herself. The living room is dim, mercifully dim, and for a second she just lies there staring at the ceiling, breathing. Her bones ache and her skin burns. She tells herself it’s nothing.
Her phone buzzes against the coffee table. She squints at it.
Faye: You’re not fine.
Atom rolls her eyes, even though no one is there to see it. Of course. She types slowly, thumbs heavier than usual.
Atom: I told you I’m okay, just tired.
Three dots appear, disappear and reappear. She stares at them like they’re personally offending her. Then finally there’s a new message.
Faye: Open your door.
Atom frowns. She pushes herself up on one elbow, confused and then there’s a knock. It wasn’t loud or frantic. It was just steady.
Muttering under her breath, Atom forces herself upright. The room tilts slightly. She grips the back of the couch until the dizziness settles, then shuffles toward the door, blanket still wrapped around her shoulders like armor.
She unlocks it. Faye stands there in an oversized dark hoodie, hair pulled back, hands full, a small grocery bag in one and a thermos in the other. She looks calm. She looks unimpressed.
“You’re unbelievable,” Faye says gently, stepping inside without waiting for permission. “You could’ve fainted on set.”
“I wouldn't have,” Atom mutters, shutting the door and leaning against it for a second longer than necessary. “I had it under control.”
“You were swaying.”
“I was acting.”
Faye turns slowly. Atom almost regrets that. There’s no dramatic reaction, just that steady, assessing look that makes Atom feels transparent. Faye sets the thermos down on the kitchen counter and begins pulling containers from the bag with quiet efficiency.
“Sit.”
Atom crosses her arms.
“You don’t live here.”
“Sit.” Faye repeats, her taller frame blocking the hallway like an immovable wall.
Even sick, Atom has to tilt her head back to meet her eyes. She huffs dramatically, for form’s sake but obeys dropping back onto the couch with exaggerated annoyance. The movement costs more energy than she expects. Faye moves around the small kitchen like she’s done it a hundred times. She pours soup into a bowl. Steam curls between them, fragrant and warm.
“You made soup?” Atom asks, trying very hard not to sound touched.
“I bought ingredients. I made soup. Yes.” Faye walks over and presses the back of her hand to Atom’s forehead again. Her brows knit instantly. “You have a fever.”
“I’ll take medicine later.”
“You’ll take it now.”
“You’re bossy.”
“And you’re impossible.”
Atom scoffs, but when Faye holds out the spoon, she opens her mouth obediently. The soup is warm, comforting and salty in exactly the right way. It spreads heat through her chest that doesn’t feel sharp and overwhelming like the fever, just steady and grounding. She hates how much she likes this. Faye watches her carefully, not hovering, just present. Making sure each spoonful actually goes down. By the time the bowl is half empty, Atom’s eyelids are drooping.
“Bed.” Faye says standing.
Atom blinks up at her.
“Excuse me?”
“You need rest.”
“I can rest here.”
“You’ll wake up with a sore neck.”
“That’s future me’s problem.”
Faye just stares at her. Not annoyed, not amused, just patient. Atom sighs dramatically.
“You’re not my manager.”
“No,” Faye agrees softly. “I’m not.”
There’s something in her voice, something quieter, deeper, that makes Atom look away first. Eventually. Faye steps closer and slides an arm carefully around Atom’s waist. Atom pretends she isn’t leaning into her for balance. Pretends she isn’t grateful for how solid Faye feels steady and warm and real.
The hallway seems longer than usual. When they reach the bedroom, Faye pulls back the covers and helps Atom settle in. She adjusts the pillow. Tucks the blanket up to her shoulders with careful hands.
“You’re staying home tomorrow.” Faye says
“We have scenes.”
“We’ll reschedule.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do. I’m in charge, remember? Fable is my company.”
Faye brushes damp hair off Atom’s forehead again, slower now, softer than on set. No cameras and no pretending.
“Sleep,” she murmurs.
She turns off the lamp. The room dims into soft shadows. For a few minutes, there’s only the quiet hum of the air conditioner and Atom’s uneven breathing. Faye stands there longer than she needs to, watching the rise and fall of her chest. Then she shifts, stepping toward the door.
“I’ll text you in the morning,” she says quietly.
Her fingers barely touch the doorknob when something tugs at her sleeve. She looks down. Atom’s hand is fisted tightly in the fabric of Faye’s hoodie. Her eyes are half closed. Cheeks flushed. Expression stubborn even in feverish exhaustion.
“I’m not a child,” Atom mumbles.
“I know.”
“You don’t have to stay.”
Faye doesn’t respond immediately. Atom’s grip tightens but she still doesn't open her eyes.
“Okay,” she murmurs, voice warm.
She slips off her shoes and walks back to the bed. Carefully, she sits on the edge first, giving Atom a chance to protest. She doesn’t. Instead, Atom shifts closer without looking at her. Pretending, always pretending. Faye lies down on top of the covers at first. Then Atom shivers. Just once, small, involuntary. Faye doesn’t hesitate this time. She lifts the blanket and slides in beside her, careful, mindful of space.
Atom makes a small, satisfied sound and immediately curls towards her warmth. Even in sleep, she gravitates closer, forehead brushing lightly against Faye’s shoulder. Her hand never releases the sleeve. Faye watches her for a long moment in the dim light, tracing the outline of her flushed cheek with her eyes, memorizing the way she softens when she’s too tired to fight.
“You’re impossible,” she whispers fondly.
Atom stirs slightly, burrowing closer. Faye doesn’t try to leave again.