Chapter Text
The thing about interviews is that they’re never really about the questions.
They’re about control.
Lighting, angles, posture, tone—Off has mastered all of it. Years in the industry teach you how to say something without saying anything, how to give just enough truth to feel real while keeping the rest locked safely behind your teeth.
So when he sits down across from the host, legs crossed, fingers loosely intertwined on his lap, he’s not nervous.
He’s prepared.
“Welcome back,” the host smiles warmly, cue cards resting against her knee. “It’s always a pleasure having you here.”
Off dips his head slightly. “Thank you for having me again.”
The conversation starts easy—projects, co-stars, funny behind-the-scenes moments. He laughs at the right places, leans in when needed, keeps his tone light.
Familiar.
Safe.
Until it isn’t.
“So,” the host says, shifting just slightly, “you’ve been in the industry for so long now. Fans are always curious about this—what’s your ideal type?”
There it is.
The question.
It’s not new. It never is.
Off has answered this a hundred different ways over the years. Sometimes playful, sometimes vague, sometimes deflecting entirely.
He knows what the expected answer looks like.
Kind. Funny. Supportive.
A woman—implied, even when not stated.
But today—
Something feels off.
Or maybe… something feels clearer.
He leans back slightly, eyes drifting upward for a second as if he’s thinking, but really, he’s just… deciding.
How honest do I want to be?
There’s a beat too long.
The host tilts her head. “No type?”
Off smiles, smaller this time. Less practiced.
“I don’t really have one.”
A pause.
The air shifts—barely noticeable, but it’s there.
“No type at all?” she presses, still smiling, but more curious now.
Off exhales softly through his nose.
And then—
“I love everyone.”
The words come out easy.
Too easy.
Like they’ve been sitting there for a while, waiting.
“I think…” he continues, gaze steady now, “I can love anyone.”
Silence.
Not awkward.
Just… full.
The host blinks once, processing, then smiles again—this time a little different.
“That’s… a very open answer.”
Off shrugs lightly. “It’s honest.”
And just like that—
The moment passes.
They move on. More questions. More laughter.
But something has already shifted.
The clip goes viral within hours.
Not the entire interview.
Just that part.
I just love people.
I can love anyone.
Looped. Cropped. Subtitled in multiple languages within minutes.
Fans dissect it frame by frame.
The tone. The expression. The lack of hesitation.
It doesn’t feel like a joke.
It doesn’t feel like deflection.
It feels like—
Truth.
Off is halfway through a late dinner when his phone starts buzzing non-stop.
He ignores it at first.
Then it keeps going.
And going.
And going.
“…what did I do?” he mutters, finally grabbing it.
Notifications flood his screen.
Mentions. Tags. Messages.
Clips.
Edits.
Headlines.
He taps one.
The video plays.
His own voice echoes back at him.
I just love people.
I can love anyone.
Off leans back in his chair slowly.
“…oh.”
From across the table, Gun watches him.
Gun has always been observant—quietly so. He notices things before people say them, reads between lines that most don’t even realize exist.
So when Off goes unusually still—
Gun notices.
“What happened?” he asks.
Off doesn’t answer right away.
Instead, he turns the phone around, sliding it across the table.
Gun picks it up.
Watches.
Once.
Then again.
And again.
His expression doesn’t change much—but there’s a flicker. Something small and sharp behind his eyes.
When the video ends, Gun locks the phone.
Sets it down.
Looks at Off.
“You said that on purpose,” he says.
Off huffs out a small laugh. “I mean… yeah?”
“You’ve never said it like that before.”
Off leans back, running a hand through his hair. “Maybe I was tired of not saying it.”
Gun hums.
Not disagreeing.
Not agreeing either.
Just… thinking.
That night, the internet refuses to calm down.
Fans celebrate.
Speculate.
Debate labels that Off never even mentioned.
Some people call it brave.
Others call it vague.
Most call it something important.
By midnight, Off is sprawled across his couch, scrolling through reactions.
It’s overwhelming.
Not in a bad way—just… a lot.
He wasn’t expecting it to hit this hard.
A notification pops up.
Then another.
Then—
A DM.
He frowns.
Opens it.
Blue check.
Another actor.
“Hey. Saw your interview. That was really cool. Would love to catch up sometime.”
Off blinks.
“…what?”
Another DM.
Another blue check.
Another message.
“Didn’t know you were like that. We should talk.”
Off sits up slightly.
“Okay, that’s—”
His phone buzzes again.
And again.
And again.
More messages.
More “catch ups.”
More interest.
Off stares at the growing list.
“…this is new.”
Across the room, Gun is lying on his side, scrolling through his own phone.
He’s quieter than usual.
Too quiet.
Off glances at him. “Hey.”
Gun hums.
“I think people are… flirting with me.”
Gun doesn’t look up. “Oh?”
Off squints at his screen. “Like. A lot.”
“…oh.”
That gets Gun’s attention.
He pushes himself up slightly. “Let me see.”
Off hesitates.
“…it’s kind of embarrassing.”
Gun holds out his hand anyway.
Off sighs.
Hands it over.
Gun scrolls.
Stops.
Scrolls again.
His expression shifts slowly.
Subtle.
But unmistakable.
“Oh,” he says.
It’s soft.
But there’s something under it now.
Something sharper.
Off watches him carefully. “What?”
Gun doesn’t answer.
He just keeps scrolling.
Reading.
Processing.
And then—
He locks the phone.
Places it down.
Very deliberately.
And picks up his own.
The first post goes up at 12:47 a.m.
No warning.
No buildup.
Just—
A photo.
Off, earlier that night, laughing mid-sentence, completely unaware of the camera. His head tilted slightly toward Gun, eyes warm, unguarded.
It’s not a new photo.
But it’s never been posted before.
Caption:
I know.
The internet pauses.
Then detonates.
Off’s phone buzzes violently.
He frowns, opening Instagram—
And freezes.
“…Gun.”
No response.
“Gun.”
Still nothing.
Off looks up slowly.
Gun is sitting across from him, completely calm, scrolling like nothing happened.
“You posted that.”
Gun hums. “Yeah.”
Off blinks. “That’s—people are going to—”
“Good,” Gun cuts in lightly.
Off stares at him.
“You’re not even being subtle.”
Gun finally looks up.
Meets his eyes.
“I’m not trying to be.”
And just like that—
Something new begins.
Something louder.
Something impossible to ignore.