“I couldn’t sleep.”
“Why couldn’t you sleep?” Dev asks. It’s a dangerous question. Dev’s hands are still on his legs. “Are you stressed about the show?”
“Oh. Yes. The show. Definitely. I can’t sleep because I’m stressed about the show.”
Dev nods in understanding. “It seems like you’re connecting more with the women. Don’t you think?”
He considers it. In some ways, yes. He enjoys talking about tech stuff with Delilah when she’s not provoking drama with Megan, and he enjoys Sabrina’s stories about her travels, when she’s not intimidating the shit out of him. He likes spending time with Angie, who is smart and clever and makes him laugh, and he likes spending time with Daphne, who is patient and kind and understanding. But it’s like he told Parisa—he likes the women, but he doesn’t like them. He isn’t here for that.
“Sort of,” he says carefully.
“Do you see yourself developing real feelings for anyone?”
“I… uh…”
“Come on, Charlie. You can talk to me about this stuff. Not just as your producer, but as your friend.”
He falters. “Are… are we friends?”
“I’m pretty sure I’m your only friend.”
“I have other friends.”
“Besides your publicist?”
“I have one friend,” he corrects. Dev laughs, and the combination of Dev’s laughter and his sleep deprivation makes Charlie feel drunk.
Dev leans even closer. “I’m going to say this as your friend. I think you’ve gotten really good at talking yourself out of your feelings.”
Dev places his hand across Charlie’s chest, and a trapdoor appears just south of his sternum. Charlie’s heart falls through, crashing into his stomach. One Mississippi. Dev talks quickly like he’s afraid Charlie is going to pull away.
（Charlie isn’t going to pull away. Dev’s hand is on his chest, and he’s not about to pull away.）
“Try listening to your heart. You have some amazing women left on this show, and you deserve happiness.”
Dev’s still got his hand pressed to Charlie’s chest, burning him through the thin layer of his T-shirt. Two Mississippi. Dev swallows, and his Adam’s apple hitches. Three… Charlie follows the swallow down the elegant column of Dev’s throat, imagines following it all the way down the length of Dev’s torso, to the patch of hair on his stomach visible in the place where his T-shirt has bunched at the waist. He’s not sure why he’s thinking about Dev’s stomach, or how he knows Dev’s shirt has crept up in the corner.
Except.
Except he does know. He knew as soon as he read Dev’s script. A slow, sinking realization that only became clear when he saw it mirrored back to him on the page.
The way he feels when Dev touches his hair, the way he feels when Dev touches his hand, the way he feels every single time this man touches him. Those feelings didn’t make sense because he’s never felt them before. Now they make perfect sense, and God—he wishes he could go back to his ignorance.
He wishes he could stop thinking about all of this, wishes he could stop thinking about tracing the imaginary line from Dev’s slightly parted lips down the length of his body, and he wishes just picturing doing so didn’t bring the pressure back to his lower stomach in a way he now understands too well. He leaps off the bed, positioning his body away from Dev’s view.
“I should let you sleep.”
“It’s fine, Charlie.”
It’s definitely not fine.