Page 22 of Flipping the Script
The bedroom door was slightly ajar, and she could hear the rhythmic clicking of laptop keys from somewhere deeper in the apartment. Quinn, probably already caffeinated and analyzing their overnight success with the same methodical precision she applied to script revisions.
Solen pulled on the borrowed pajamas Quinn had left folded on the dresser—soft cotton pants and a faded Northwestern University t-shirt that smelled faintly of lavender detergent. The domestic intimacy of wearing Quinn's clothes felt more vulnerable than any of their public displays had.
She found Quinn at the kitchen table, laptop open beside a steaming mug, wire-rimmed glasses perched on her nose as she scrolled through what appeared to be an endless spreadsheet of media mentions. Her dark hair was twisted into its usual precise bun, but she was still in her own pajamas—navy pants and a white tank top that revealed surprisingly toned shoulders.
"Good morning, sunshine." Quinn glanced up without lifting her head. "Coffee's fresh. Mugs are in the cabinet above the machine."
"You've been awake long enough to make coffee and create a spreadsheet about last night?" Solen padded toward the kitchen, noting how Quinn's analytical brain had apparently kicked into overdrive. "What time did you get up?"
"Six-thirty. Same as always." Quinn's fingers never paused their typing. "Entertainment Tonight posted a twelve-photo gallery of us. Variety called our chemistry 'surprisingly authentic.' Oh, and we're trending on Twitter under the hashtag Quinn-and-Solen. Someone smooshed our names together into 'Quilen,' which sounds like a prescription medication."
Solen poured coffee into a mug shaped like a tiny typewriter—unexpectedly whimsical for Quinn's usually minimalist aesthetic. "You've catalogued every mention already?"
"Most of them. There are more being posted every few minutes." Quinn finally looked up, and something flickered across her expression when she saw Solen in her clothes. "Your phone must be exploding."
"Understatement of the year." Solen settled into the chair across from her, cradling the warm mug. "My agent used the phrase 'holy shit' in a text message, which is basically equivalent to him taking out a full-page ad in The Hollywood Reporter."
Quinn turned her laptop screen toward Solen, revealing a photo gallery from the red carpet. There they were—Quinn's hand resting naturally on Solen's lower back, both of them laughing at something just outside the frame. Solen's fingers traced along Quinn's jawline in another shot, the gesture looking intimate rather than performed.
"We photograph well together," Quinn said carefully.
"We do." Solen studied the images, remembering how Quinn's genuine surprise had made her want to lean closer, to protect whatever vulnerable thing she'd glimpsed behind those sharp green eyes. "Look at this one."
She pointed to a photo taken during their Entertainment Weekly interview. Quinn was listening intently as Solen answered a question, her expression unguarded in a way that made Solen's chest tighten with something that felt decidedly unscripted.
"I look like I'm—" Quinn stopped herself.
"Like you're what?"
"Nothing. Just analyzing our performance." But Quinn's cheeks flushed pink in a way that suggested her analysis had ventured into dangerous territory.
Solen scrolled through the comments beneath the photos, her eyebrows rising. "'Relationship goals.' 'The way Quinn looks at her though.' 'Finally, two women who actually seem to likeeach other.' Someone here thinks you're 'obviously smitten' and I'm 'playing hard to get.'"
"The internet has opinions about everything." Quinn retrieved her laptop, but not before Solen caught her reading over her shoulder, standing close enough that Solen could smell her shampoo—something clean and understated, probably from the expensive organic store down the street.
"They're not wrong though." The words slipped out before Solen could stop them.
Quinn stilled. "About what?"
"You did look smitten. At least, that's what the cameras caught." Solen kept her tone light, but she was watching Quinn's reaction carefully. "Your face is apparently very expressive when you're not trying to control it."
"I don't—" Quinn sat back down, wrapping her hands around her mug like it might anchor her. "I'm not used to performing intimacy. My relationships have always been private affairs."
"Last night didn't feel like performing." Solen touched her compass necklace, the familiar weight of it grounding her as she ventured into honesty. "At least, not all of it."
The admission hung between them, loaded with implications neither seemed ready to fully examine. Quinn's phone rang, breaking the tension.
"Iris." Quinn answered immediately. "Good morning to you too."
Even from across the table, Solen could hear Iris's excited voice rattling off numbers and opportunities. Quinn grabbed a notebook—because of course she had a notebook specifically for phone conversations—and started taking notes.
"Three interview requests... photo spread for Vanity Fair... yes, we can discuss exclusive access..." Quinn's pen moved across the page in neat, efficient lines. "Wait, slow down. Carmen wants what kind of shoot?"
Solen watched Quinn field the call with professional competence, but she noticed the small things—how Quinn's free hand fidgeted with her glasses, how she glanced toward Solen every few seconds as if checking that she was still there.
"We'll call you back in an hour," Quinn finally said. "Solen just woke up, and we need to discuss logistics."
She hung up and immediately looked apologetic. "I should have asked if you were okay with me including you in that conversation. This is all new territory for me."
