At 6:58 p.m., the doorbell's crisp chime echoed through the twilight of the Hollywood Hills.
Leon stood outside the ornate iron gate, catching faint sounds from within: the scratch of a needle hitting vinyl, the soft clink of glasses, and the gentle patter of bare feet on hardwood.
When the door opened, Scarlett was tweaking the volume knob on a record player. Her cream-colored sweater hung loosely over denim shorts, revealing a sun-kissed strip of waist. No crutches—she wore a fluffy bunny slipper on her bandaged ankle, the other foot bare, its toenails painted a retro burgundy, like freshly opened bourbon.
"Two minutes early," she said, her eyes crinkling into crescent moons, her hair carrying the citrusy scent of shampoo. "Guess Fox's big shot keeps his appointments."
A silvery laugh spilled out.
Leon held up a paper bag, the amber liquid of a Maker's Mark bourbon bottle rippling inside. "Didn't want to keep you waiting."
His gaze flicked to her ankle, where the bandage edges gave off a faint medicinal smell. "You getting around okay?"
"Decent enough." Scarlett stepped aside to let him in, her fingers brushing his wrist lightly. "Doc says keep it dry, but since you're here…" She rose on her toes, her warm breath grazing his earlobe. "Can't exactly greet you on crutches."
The apartment smelled of bourbon and vanilla. A black leather jacket was tossed on the living room's leather couch, and a coffee table held two crystal glasses and a half-empty box of Cohiba cigars. A Godfather poster glowed retro under the warm yellow of a floor lamp. Most striking was the double-door fridge behind the bar, plastered with movie ticket stubs—Leon spotted a few from Midnight Scream's premiere.
"Homemade Old Fashioned," Scarlett said, pulling an iced glass from a bucket. The sizzle of sugar dissolving in bitters was sharp in the quiet. Her sweater's neckline slipped, baring a delicate collarbone. As she poured, her wrist flicked, the liquor rippling in the glass. "Way better than the soda-water junk at bars."
Leon took the glass, noticing a faint scar on her wrist—a scratch from a splinter during an audition. On the Texas Chainsaw Massacre set, this girl had gripped prop debris so tightly her knuckles whitened, her eyes burning through the lens. Now, her cocktail-mixing was fluid, focused, the ice clinking against the glass like a silent performance.
The living room's lights were dim, the floor lamp's glow pooling around the couch. Scarlett curled into a corner, a plaid blanket over her knees, her cheeks flushing after a few sips. "I don't usually have people over."
"Yeah?" Leon slid closer, the couch creaking softly. "Guess I'm honored."
"You're different." Scarlett turned, her lashes casting shadows in the light. "First time I saw you at the audition, your look… it wasn't like the others."
Leon's fingers traced the glass's rim, condensation beading under his touch. "How so?"
"Others see me as a newbie or a tool to use." Her voice softened, like she was afraid to disturb something. "You looked at me like… someone who could catch your ideas."
The bourbon's bite mixed with her caramel scent, brewing a sticky sweetness in the air. Leon reached over, pulling the slipping blanket back over her knees. Their skin brushed, warm, and they both paused.
"Ankle still hurt?" he asked quietly, eyeing the bandage.
"A little," Scarlett said, a nasal twinge in her voice. "But when you walked in, it kinda stopped."
She smiled, grabbing the cigar box. The brass cutter spun in her fingers. "Want one?" She pulled out a Cohiba, snipping the cap a quarter-inch down with a clean "click." The lighter's flame lit her face, liquor staining her lips. Leon lit it for her, the ember flickering in the dim room. She took a drag, exhaling a smoke ring that drifted across her cheek, warm with her breath.
"I'm not great at this," she admitted, coughing and stubbing the cigar out. "Just thought it suited you."
Leon put out his own cigarette and leaned closer. Their distance vanished—he could count her lashes, smell the citrus in her hair. "What kind of guy am I?"
"Hmm…" Scarlett's finger traced circles on the couch, her eyes locked on his. "You seem cold, but you're more thoughtful than anyone."
Leon kissed her, soft, the bourbon's heat and sugar's sweetness like long-awaited rain on parched earth. Scarlett's hand froze, then slid to his shoulders, fingers digging into his hair with urgency. Her sweater's neckline tugged lower, revealing the delicate skin of her neck. Leon's hand cradled her uninjured ankle, pulling her closer. She melted onto the couch, the blanket pooling on the rug.
"Watch your foot," he whispered, his breath hot against her ear.
Scarlett's response was to wrap her arms around his neck, lips pressing his throat. "Forget it."
The floor lamp's glow bathed their tangled shadows, softening the night like a filter. Her nails grazed his back, leaving faint red lines. He kissed her collarbone, savoring it like a ripe cherry.
"Leon…" Her voice trembled, blending with the occasional car horn outside, the sweetest note in the room.
When he lifted her, she wrapped her legs around his waist, cheek pressed to his chest, his heartbeat loud and steady. In the bedroom, a warm yellow bedside lamp lit faded sheets. As Scarlett settled on the bed, her ankle brushed the edge, and she hissed. Leon leaned down. "Hurt it?"
"No." She guided his hand to her chest. "Feel that—my heart's racing."
His palm felt her warm skin, her pulse pounding like it might burst free. He kissed her again, this time fierce, undeniable. Her response was just as intense, as if they could melt into the night.
Her sweater slipped to her shoulders, revealing the faint outline of her shoulder blades. Scarlett's fingers undid his shirt buttons, tracing his ribs, each touch electric. Moonlight filtered through sheer curtains, painting his bare back with dappled shadows, like a hazy sketch.
"Scarlett…" His voice was hoarse.
She answered with kisses, trailing from his jaw to his chest to his stomach, each one tender, deliberate. The sheets fell, exposing her bandaged ankle against her smooth skin. Leon kissed the bandage's edge, gentle as if handling fragile treasure. "No more injuries."
She nodded, smiling, her finger circling his chest. "Then you better keep an eye on me."
The night deepened, their breaths weaving together like an unwritten song. A stray breeze slipped through the curtains, cool but quickly warmed by their heat.
Eventually, Scarlett nestled into Leon's arm, her face glowing with joy and contentment. Her fingers traced a scar on his chest. "How'd you get this?"
"Prop accident on a shoot," he said, stroking her soft, golden hair. "Not as bad as your ankle."
"No way." She kissed his jaw. "I want the story behind every scar."
Under the lamp's glow, her skin shimmered like pearl, her lashes damp. To Leon, the life-and-death dramas of his scripts paled against the warmth in his arms. He shed his past-life producer's arrogance, wanting only to savor this endless, youthful moment.
"I'll tell you slowly," he said, kissing her forehead. "For now, sleep."
Scarlett curled closer, her breathing steadying. Leon stared at the ceiling, her caramel scent, the bourbon's tang, and her essence blending into a gentle trap he willingly fell into.
Outside, the moon shifted, its light glinting off the bourbon bottle on the nightstand, the label glowing faintly, as if guarding the night's secrets.
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