Page 29 of Flipping the Script
"That wasn't intentional." Quinn loosened her blazer completely, letting it slide down her arms as she moved toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. The city sprawled below them in ribbons of light, but she found herself watching Solen's reflection in the glass instead. "Though I'll admit there's something satisfying about catching a seasoned cynic off guard."
Solen appeared beside her reflection, champagne bottle already uncorked with the efficiency of someone comfortable with luxury. "To catching cynics off guard, then." She pressed aflute into Quinn's hands, their fingers brushing in the exchange. "Though I'm starting to think you might be the biggest cynic of all."
"Former cynic." Quinn accepted the glass but didn't drink immediately, too focused on the way Solen's auburn hair caught the ambient lighting. "Present company has been... unexpectedly persuasive."
They drifted toward the terrace doors, drawn by the cool night air and the promise of space that felt less manufactured than the penthouse's calculated opulence. Outside, jasmine competed with car exhaust and the distant hum of late-night traffic, creating a uniquely Los Angeles cocktail of beauty and chaos.
Solen curled into the corner of the outdoor sofa, tucking her legs beneath her with the unconscious grace that had first caught Quinn's attention on set. Her fingers found her compass necklace, turning it over in her palm while she studied Quinn with an expression that seemed to be solving a particularly complex equation.
"You realize we completely threw out Iris's talking points tonight." Solen's thumb traced the compass's worn edges. "That whole bit about our creative process being like a dance—that wasn't in any of our prep sessions."
Quinn settled beside her, close enough to catch the faint scent of Solen's perfume but far enough to maintain the illusion of professional distance. "No, it wasn't. But it also wasn't inaccurate." She paused, champagne forgotten. "When did that happen? When did we stop following the script?"
"Maybe around the time you stopped looking like you wanted to strangle me when I suggested a line change." Solen's smile carried a hint of uncertainty that made Quinn's chest tighten. "Or possibly when you started trusting me enough to let me see your actual writing process instead of just the final product."
The observation hit closer to home than Quinn expected. She set down her champagne glass with more care than necessary, buying herself time to sort through the tangle of realizations that had been building for weeks. "I've spent so many years protecting my work from outside influence that I forgot collaboration could enhance rather than diminish it."
"Is that what we're calling it? Collaboration?" Solen's voice carried a note of something deeper, more vulnerable than her usual confident delivery.
Quinn turned to face her fully, noting how the city lights cast shifting patterns across Solen's features. "What would you call it?"
"Honestly?" Solen's hand stilled on her necklace. "Somewhere in the past two weeks, I stopped being able to tell where the performance ends and I begin. Tonight felt real in ways that terrify me."
The admission hung between them like a challenge, daring Quinn to match her transparency. Quinn's analytical mind catalogued the risks—career implications, contract complications, the potential for spectacular failure—then promptly discarded them all in favor of something that felt suspiciously like hope.
"I've built my entire professional identity around control." Quinn's voice came out steadier than she felt. "Every word planned, every outcome anticipated, every variable accounted for. But you..." She gestured helplessly. "You've made me question whether my need for certainty has been protecting me or limiting me."
Solen shifted closer, her movement subtle but unmistakable. "And what conclusion have you reached?"
"That maybe the best stories—the ones worth telling—require a certain amount of improvisation." Quinn's pulse quickened as Solen's knee brushed against hers. "That maybeI've been so focused on avoiding failure that I've missed opportunities for something extraordinary."
The space between them seemed to contract without either moving, charged with the weight of everything they hadn't said during three weeks of carefully orchestrated public appearances. Solen's free hand found Quinn's where it rested on the sofa cushion, her touch light but deliberate.
"You want to know something?" Solen's voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "Every foster home I lived in, every relationship I've had—I've always been performing some version of myself that I thought would make people want to keep me around. But with you, even when we're literally performing for cameras, I feel more like myself than I have in years."
Quinn's breath caught at the raw honesty in Solen's confession. Her thumb traced across Solen's knuckles, marveling at how such a simple touch could feel both foreign and familiar. "That's terrifying."
"Completely." Solen's smile was soft and slightly crooked. "Want to be terrified together?"
The question held layers of meaning that Quinn's writer's brain immediately began cataloguing, but for once she silenced her analytical impulses in favor of something more instinctual. They were leaning toward each other now with an inevitability that felt both natural and momentous, like the final piece of a puzzle clicking into place.
Quinn could see the flecks of gold in Solen's brown eyes, could count the individual freckles scattered across her nose, could feel the warmth of her breath against her lips. Another inch and they would cross a line that would transform their carefully constructed fiction into something irreversibly real.
Quinn's phone erupted in a symphony of notifications—texts, emails, social media alerts all competing for attention with increasing urgency. The spell shattered like glass, leaving themblinking at each other in surprise while the device continued its electronic tantrum from Quinn's discarded blazer pocket.
"Ignore it." Solen's voice carried a note of desperation that matched the clutch of her fingers around Quinn's hand.
But the damage was done. Quinn's practical mind reasserted itself with the efficiency of a computer rebooting, flooding her with awareness of contracts and consequences and the hundred ways this moment could complicate everything they'd worked toward.
"I should—" Quinn started to rise, but Solen's grip tightened.
"Please don't." Solen's eyes searched her face. "Don't let them pull you back into your head when you were finally in your heart."
The words stopped Quinn mid-movement, their accuracy both startling and undeniable. She settled back onto the sofa but reached for her silent phone, scrolling through the flood of congratulatory messages from Iris, enthusiastic texts from Marcus, and social media notifications showing their interview climbing trending charts.
"Look at this." Quinn turned the screen toward Solen, showing her a particularly effusive text from a studio executive. "They're calling tonight a 'breakthrough moment for the campaign.' Apparently our chemistry is testing off the charts."
Solen read the messages over Quinn's shoulder, her proximity sending distracting waves of awareness through Quinn's nervous system. "They're not wrong about the chemistry."
