A/N: After two different people asked me about it, I just want to say that this title comes from the David Guetta song. I decided to mention it at the beginning because this song has been playing in my head nonstop for the whole time I spent with this file open, and trust me, the Cascada song would ruin the whole thing. There are other pop culture references throughout the fic that I'll explain at the end.

I'd also like to than murmelinchen, who not only challenged me to write this, but also was my "alpha" reader. I hope you enjoy the official ending, dear!

Everytime we touch

.

What's in a name? that which we call a rose

By any other name would smell as sweet.

(William Shakespeare – Romeo and Juliet)

.

I wake up to nearly constant buzzing coming from my nightstand. It takes my sleep-deprived, hungover brain a few seconds to figure out that the source of the sound is my cell phone. Which is vibrating almost non-stop. On the marble surface of my bedside table. Which is right by my ear.

Because, obviously, the pounding in my head wasn't bad enough on its own.

Groaning, I grab my phone and check my notifications. There's a new e-mail from Hannah, the PR who's been working on the Fatal Impact press tour, titled 'NY premiere schedule (final)'. Alexis Burke has mentioned me in a comment on Facebook. And I've been added to a WhatsApp group chat named 'The Sisterhood of the Traveling Actors', which has 53 unread messages – and counting.

I open it up, scanning the first couple of messages to decide if it's safe to mute it forever.

Marlene Keane: THREE DAYS GUYS!

Marlene Keane: camera emoji

Marlene Keane: airplane emoji

Marlene Keane: red apple emoji, yellow cab emoji

Marlene Keane: applause emoji, dancing woman emoji, high-five emoji

The next sixty messages don't seem to stray too far from even more annoying strings of celebratory emojis and incredibly lame attempts at making plans for whatever free time we'll have. I'm about to mute the chat and put my phone down when a new message pops up.

Uriah Pedrad: Doesn't Eric know NY, though?

I can't help laughing. My best friend has lived in the Big Apple for the past eight years and, while I do try to visit her at least once a year, I wouldn't go so far as to say I know the city. That would require leaving her bed for long enough to go out and, to put it nicely, that doesn't happen too often.

The first time I've ever been to Coney Island was last summer, for fuck's sake.

I type out a straightforward 'nope', add a smiley-face emoji to make it look a little friendlier, and send the message before muting the chat and throwing the phone on the bed with the screen facing down. The pounding in my head has escalated into what I imagine having a battle axe lodged in your skull would feel like, so I crawl out of my bed, looking for some Advil and water.

When the pain subdues enough that I don't feel like dying for staring at my phone, I open Hannah's e-mail. The PDF file attached to it has the individual schedules for all of the cast members who are going to New York, and I'm not sure if my favourite part is the amount of interviews Lene and I are scheduled to attend together or the fact that there's nothing scheduled for Thursday night and most of Saturday morning.

Hopefully, that means I'll have a lot of Tris time.

I open our conversation, smiling stupidly at her last message – 'good luck, babe', followed by a kiss emoji. I can't remember the last time we bothered greeting each other; much like our relationship, our texting history looks like a huge, never-ending conversation that gets interrupted by our separate lives every now and then.

Eric Coulter: Are you free this weekend?

She doesn't answer me right away, which hopefully means she's at rehearsal. I know she's got an opening night coming up, and she's mentioned something about barely having time to eat in the past few weeks.

I assume it means she hasn't had much time for dating, either.

Sometimes our arrangement sounds a little weird, even to myself. Tris and I have known each other for nearly twelve years, and we've been friends for the vast majority of those. In hindsight, I think I've always been attracted to her, but back then, she only had eyes for Tobias Eaton – the Captain Boomerang to my Flash. I was all but invisible to her until the day our Drama teacher decided she would be, quite literally, the Juliet to my Romeo.

We bonded over Nirvana and Friends, through rides home in my car and climbing into each other's bedrooms through the fire escape. After I finally graduated high school and moved to California, I did everything I could to keep in touch with her.

Those were the good, old days of MSN Messenger and no smartphones, which is, in itself, a testament to my determination.

She went on to study Drama at Juilliard, which led Tobias to break up with her within her first month in New York. The first time we had sex was a little over a month later, when we both went back home for Thanksgiving.

We've been sleeping together ever since, finding excuses to endure the five-hour flight that connects Broadway to Hollywood, sneaking into each other's beds when we're both in Chicago, meeting up in Nebraska because some website said it's the halfway point between LA and NY. Things like sexting, phone sex, and Skype video calls that escalate into full nudity have become commonplace for us, and it's been years since the last time I've felt anything remotely similar to awkwardness about it.

But she isn't my girlfriend. In fact, what we have could be more accurately described as 'what happens between relationships'. Over the past eight years, I've had my fair share of one-night stands, countless disastrous first dates, a few godawful second dates, and two girls who lasted long enough to be called my girlfriends. As for Tris, her dating history is, in her own words, uncannily similar to Taylor Swift's.

My phone chimes from the nightstand, Tris' notification tone snapping me out of my trip down Memory Lane.

Tris Prior: I'm kinda busy all weekend, babe. You know how opening weekends are.

Shit. I knew her opening night was happening in the near future, because we haven't had much time to talk due to her early mornings and late nights, but I'd completely forgotten it'd be this weekend.

I start writing a message apologizing for my lack of memory, but I decide against sending it because I don't want her to feel like I don't care about something that's so important to her. Starting off with 'well, break your leg' sounds too dismissive, even with a smiley face at the end, and I also can't say anything along the lines of 'bummer... I was hoping I'd get to watch it' because according to The Pact I'm not allowed to watch her plays. And as honest as it may be, 'bummer... I was hoping you'd be my date to the premiere' is also completely off the table.

I can almost picture her, biting her lower lip, staring at the screen, holding her breath, as I type out my fifth attempt at an answer.

Eric Coulter: Yeah, I know. I'll be in NY for the Fatal Impact premiere and some press bullshit, so I should be busy for most of the weekend too, tbh. But maybe we could try to spend a night together or something.

Right after I press send, I realize how awful that could sound. Tris knows me better than anyone else, so I doubt she'll think I'm a self-centred asshole, but I know she's probably thinking of polite ways to tell me to go to hell for making it look like I'm only interested in fucking her – which couldn't be further from the truth.

Eric Coulter: I miss you.

The little check marks beside my message turn blue immediately and the three little dots under her name let me know she's typing her reply, and it's my turn to hold my breath, hoping she's smiling at her phone, instead of unconsciously muttering all the expletives she knows.

Tris Prior: Well, I wouldn't kick you out if you were to, idk, show up at my door after your super fancy premiere.

I can't help smiling as I write my reply, typing so fast that it'd be barely understandable without autocorrect.

Eric Coulter: Oh, honey, I never thought you would. I know how you feel about suits.

It takes her almost a whole minute to send her reply, and I must admit I'm a bit disappointed when all it says is, 'guess we have a date, then' – honestly, I was half-expecting something involving liking suits better when they're on her floor.

I sigh, sending her a passive-aggressive 'k then' – real mature, Eric - and throw the phone on the bed, reaching for the pack of cigarettes on my nightstand. I lean my head back, savouring the high of the nicotine, and that's when it hits me that it's around five PM in New York. She was likely talking to me during a break in rehearsal, which must be coming to an end, because it's been nearly fifteen minutes since her first text.

She wasn't mad at me when she sent that message, but I'm pretty sure she is now.

I grab the phone again, my message once more being saved by a combination of swipe and autocorrect.

Eric Coulter: I'm sorry, I know how much you hate it when I do that. What I meant to say is, I can't wait for the weekend.

Someone, somewhere, decided that a red-eye flight was the perfect way to kick off the four days of red carpet, interviews, and photo shoots that waited for us in New York. As a result, a considerable part of my Wednesday night was spent at LAX, waiting until my ten-thirty PM flight finally got called for boarding.

Luckily, I got assigned to an aisle seat next to Will and Lene, who are the two best people to travel with. Will may be unable to sleep in planes – to the point that he slept for only two hours during the 15-hour flight to Sydney – but he's the definition of laid-back, and he really doesn't seem to mind spending the whole flight listening to music on his phone, reading, and watching movies. Lene, on the other hand, is the kind of person who can't shut up for a second, but her approach to flying can be summed up as 'Ambien is a girl's best friend'.

I grab my phone as soon as Lene allows me to take my seat. It's one AM in New York, but I want to use the last few minutes before departure to send Tris a text letting her know how excited I am about finally getting to see her after nine months apart. I open our conversation on WhatsApp to find two new pictures from her.

The first one is a billboard with the full-cast poster for Fatal Impact, captioned, 'This is Times Square, btw'. And the second is Tris, wearing a black demi bra and jeans, followed up by, 'What do you think of my new bra, love?'.

I shift on my seat, taking a deep breath and thinking about dead puppies for good measure, and write something about how I'd like it even more if it came with matching lace panties. I turn my phone off before she has a chance to send me any follow-up pictures.

"You look like the cat that just ate the canary," Lene says, in the same tone you'd use to talk about the weather. I look at her, and she looks up from her phone. "I didn't see whatever it was, if that's what you're wondering."

"Tris sent me a picture, that's all," I say, my tone flawlessly matching hers. "Apparently, we're in Times Square."

"Tris? So, the mysterious friend from New York has a name now?"

"I'm sure I've mentioned it before." I give her an annoyed look, although I know arguing with her is a lost battle.

"Nuh-uh. I'd know her name if you had."

I'm about to protest when I feel the back of my seat being pushed back and, next thing I know, Uriah is wrapping his arms around it and standing up as best he can with the overhead compartment on his way.

"Whose name?" He asks, sounding awfully interested. The death glare he receives from Lene almost makes me fear for my own life.

"Eric's friend from New York," she replies, in an icy tone that doesn't suit her at all. Gossip about Uriah and Lene having hooked up has been making the rounds since we first started filming, to the point that Hannah has explicitly instructed us not to answer any questions about it during the interviews. I honestly never cared enough to wonder if the rumours were true, but she looks positively jealous right now, which is confirmation enough in my book.

Just as I'd expected, though, Uriah remains completely oblivious of her reaction, looking greedily at me as he asks, "Are we finally going to meet her? What is she like?"

I hesitate, my brain happily supplying me with images of Tris – her blonde hair sparkling in the sun, the way she blushes when she receives a compliment, the look of determination on her face when she can't nail a dance move, her gorgeous body lying on the sand, the way she smiles when we meet for the first time in months.

I turn on my seat as best I can, facing Uriah. I can feel everyone looking at me, waiting for the answer to the question they've all wanted to ask me at some point. As much as I'd like to spend the whole flight telling them all about her, though, the possessive side of me takes over, insisting that I have every right to be jealous, considering Lene's apparent feelings about the whole thing, and it takes me a whole lot of effort to sound playful as I say, "Mine."

Our morning starts officially at ten, barely giving us time to drop our stuff in our rooms, shower and eat before we get attacked by the make-up crew, which miraculously manages to make us all look like normal people, as opposed to the 'Walking Dead extras' look we'd been rocking thus far.

We all gather at one of the hotel conference rooms, and Hannah reminds us to 'act natural and friendly' before she drags us to our assigned seats for the press conference scheduled for the morning.

For the next two hours, we sit through dozens of generic questions about the movie and all kinds of backstage stuff. We get asked about the most dramatic injury on set – which we all agree is the two broken ribs Will got when he fell down some stairs on our first week filming –, the month we spent in Oz – which spawned a thirty-minute, off-the-record segment on getting drunk, playing strip poker, and skinny dipping -, and the overall experience of working with each other and with Josh – our director, who is known for his fairly unorthodox approach to 'getting us there'. We all politely decline to answer any questions about hooking up with each other, but all inquiries about physical prep are met with incredibly detailed descriptions. Finally, Uriah gets voted the life of the party, Lene is crowned 'the glue that's kept us together' and, much to my surprise, more than half of the cast agrees with Will when he says I'm a 'natural-born leader'.

In the afternoon, we're divided in smaller groups, so we can record interviews with specific reporters. For the most part, it's a dull process, repeating some of the questions of the press conference – and then starting all over again with the next group. It seems to last for a thousand hours, and the only sign that time is actually passing is the ever-growing pyramid of Red Bull cans at the corner of the room.

By the time we finally make it to the last interview for the day, I've come to the conclusion that press junket is the most exhausting part of my job, and that 'act approachable' is the most difficult direction I've ever been given. Then, Hannah declares that 'that's a wrap, folks', and Uriah, staying true to his title, tells us to meet him at the lobby in two hours, because 'we need to celebrate, fuckers'.

"You coming with us, Eric?" Lene asks, looking at me in a way that suggests that she's expecting me to say no. I have no problem with the huge amounts of social interaction that happen during a regular day of filming, but aside from the parties back in Australia – which I couldn't avoid even if I wanted to, because we were all living together, in one of Josh's Big Brother/boot camp experiments - I've been notably absent in most of the after-work nights out.

"I don't know yet." I give her an apologetic look, as we all make our way to the elevators. "It's Tris' opening night and I was thinking about swinging by."

"Oh! That's so cute!" She gushes. "Are you gonna watch her play?"

"I can't." The elevator doors open with a loud ding and we all walk in. They're all giving me confused looks, and I can tell it's going to be a long ride. "We have this agreement; we can't watch each other."

"Why?" She looks outraged, and it almost makes me laugh.

"Because she thinks action movies are shit and I think musicals are torture." I shrug. My nonchalance is far from intentional; I've had this conversation a few times over the past twelve years, and it always seems to stick to a script – the other person will say I'm an awful friend and that I should be more supportive, and I'll just smile and wave until they give up.

Seriously, I can almost hear a director yelling, 'take 1025, action!', as she puts her hands on my shoulders, forcing me to look at her.

"Do you like her, Eric?"

"Yeah, but there are other ways to-"

"I know there are other ways to let her know that, dumbass." She rolls her eyes. "What I'm saying is, if it was my opening night, I'd like my best friend to be there to remind me that I'd still look hot as fuck even if I was painted green and singing Defying Gravity."

The crowd surrounding Tris and her cast-mates has dwindled to a couple dozens of people by the time I arrive at the theatre, half an hour after the time Christina told me the play was supposed to end.

I quickly find Tris, posing for a picture with two girls, still dressed in her costume. Deciding not to disturb the natural order of things, I choose to stand at the back of the crowd, leaning against a lamppost and lighting a cigarette. Her eyes snap up almost in synch with the flickering of my lighter and she smiles when she sees me – that smile, the one that makes my heart flutter against my will. Then, she turns her attention back to the girl who'd just approached her, and I know that, as far as she's concerned, I'll be as good as invisible for the night.

I decide to take this rare opportunity to watch her interact with the public, her effortlessly approachable demeanour making me feel something between envy and awe. I can tell she's tired, but her smile never falters for more than a second, and she receives compliment after compliment with the grace I'd expect from a Disney princess.

As the crowd reaches the final dozen, it occurs to me that, while The Pact forbids me to watch her perform, we can still fangirl over each other – her words, not mine. We usually take it to mean 'gushing about each other's work on social media', but she's just a few feet away from me, signing some guy's t-shirt, and it makes me realise that we've been friends for over a decade and we've never exchanged autographs, and I'll be damned if I let this opportunity go away.

"Uh, hi," I say, channelling my inner fangirl – or rather, trying my best to mimic the girls who approached Lene all the time when we were out of the studio. "Could you please sign my... uh...-" I hesitate, searching my pockets for anything she could sign. Out of the corner of my eye, I see one of her cast-mates sign a girl's shoulder, and I can almost see a cartoon-style light bulb over my head as I stick my arm out towards her. "Forearm." I clear my throat. "Would you sign my forearm? Please?"

Tris has teased me countless times, saying that the difference between Hollywood and the Broadway is that 'the real pros know better than to break character', and her reaction doesn't disappoint: she smiles at me and wraps her fingers around my wrist, her expression barely showing any signs of confusion.

"Sure, love." She uncaps her Sharpie with her free hand and looks up at me. "What's your name, hun?"

"Eric." I instinctively wrap my free arm around her waist, pulling her closer to me – and accidentally proving her right in the process. If we were on a movie set, the director would be biting my head off for ruining a perfectly good take. But all I care about is how good it feels to finally have her in my arms again, after nine months apart. "I'm a big fan," I add, hoping she'll notice how much I actually mean that.

"A big fan, huh?" She asked, her voice sounding just a little too playful. "You gonna get that tattooed over, Eric?"

"I might."

I'm pretty sure she wasn't being serious, but I can't say I don't like the idea. I'm not one for major statements of affection - and we already have our 'sorta matching' tattoos for that, anyway. But getting her autograph imprinted on my skin forever sounds like a good way to remind her that my support is unconditional – and I know how much she needs that sometimes, considering her parents have never hesitated in telling her how much they disapprove of her career choice.

She steps back, finally allowing me to see what she's written on my arm.

Eric, darling,

Margaritas any time.

Love you, Tris

I laugh, pulling her close to me again and kissing her temple. "Hannah's gonna kill me," I whisper against her hair, thinking about the interview with some female-targeted magazine I have scheduled for tomorrow morning – 'because every woman wants to be Lene and fuck you', according to my favourite PR.

Tris looks at me, her smile making it clear she won't apologize because I'm the one who should have thought it through.

"Come on, let's meet my friends."

I'd never thought I'd feel excited about getting to introduce Tris to people I've worked with, but that was before I met the guys. For the first time in my career, I've come to consider some of my cast-mates as my friends, and as a result, I find myself almost unable to wait until Tris has paid the cabbie before I'm dragging her into the bar, towards the area with the pool tables.

Much to my surprise, no one makes any embarrassing comments about having heard 'all about you'. They're all acting way too nicely, in the exact same way I'd expect my closest friends to act when introduced to a new girlfriend – which sounds absurd to me, considering how long it's been since Tris first walked into my life.

As for her, I can tell she's feeling a little overwhelmed, and I'm not sure if it's because she's surrounded by the kind of people who are on the cover of gossip magazines on an almost weekly basis, or because I introduced them to her like they're normal people.

I know that feeling, I really do – it's how I feel when I'm casually introduced to one of my own idols at a party at a mutual friend's house, or when I find out I'll get to work with someone I've spent my life looking up to.

I squeeze her hand, making her look at me, and tell her I'm going to get us a drink. She looks at me like she has no idea what to do with this information, which prompts me to ask, "Will you be okay?"

Instead of Tris, my question is answered by Uriah and his lack of understanding of basic human interactions. "Geez, Eric. We don't bite."

I roll my eyes at him and look at Tris again. This time, she gives me a reassuring smile and glances at my arm, and I know what she'll say before she answers my question.

"If you bring me a margarita, I will be."

"So, you and Eric, huh?" I hear Lene ask, from somewhere behind me. She and Tris have been sitting at a table nearby, chatting like old friends, ever since Will and Christina disappeared and I took his place on the pool table.

I must say, I'm shocked that it took Lene almost a whole hour to ask Tris about me.

"He spent the whole flight telling all about you to anyone who would listen," Lene adds, and I roll my eyes at her blatant lie. I may have told her a few things about Tris over the past year, but our conversation on the plane died before take-off. "But he never told us how you met."

I frown, trying to pretend I'm still paying attention to the game. So, that's what she's trying to find out? I could have betted her number one priority would be finding out if I'm good in bed.

"We went to the same school," Tris says, almost dismissively, and Lene squeals in delight, in spite of Tris' tone.

"Oh, so you were high school sweethearts?"

I can't help laughing at her assumption, and that's when I decide to join their conversation.

"Fuck, no." I turn to face them. The guys look just as curious as Lene, so I doubt they'll complain that I abandoned the game. "She had a boyfriend back then. The guy was a total jerk."

I see Tris roll her eyes, but thankfully she doesn't protest. Four's been a recurring subject over the years, both in deep, existential conversations and some pretty nasty fights, most of which happened back when she still tried to defend him.

We both said things we regret, but if there's one moment I wish I could go back in time so it never happened, it's the fight we had on New Year's, eight years ago. I was so drunk that I don't remember some parts of the night, but I do remember yelling that he was a pussy who never loved her, because if he did, he'd think she was worth the effort.

That statement comes back to bite me in the ass almost on a daily basis.

"Then how?" Lene asks, and I laugh at her confusion.

"We were in Drama Club together. She was my... romantic interest, so to speak, and that's how she was my first on-stage kiss." I squeeze Tris' shoulder, almost expecting her to add a snarky comment about how she was my only on-stage kiss – which would probably make Lene explode, to be honest.

"That's so cute," Lene gushes. "What play did you do?"

Tris doesn't even give me the chance to stop her before she says, "Romeo and Juliet".

Lene's jaw literally drops, and I brace myself for a comment along the lines of, 'that's so romantic'. I'm already trying to convince myself not to get into an argument about how Romeo and Juliet is the opposite of romantic, when Lene finally gets over her shock for long enough to yell, "Shakespeare?"

I swear to god, the whole bar looks at her.

"I can't imagine Eric doing Shakespeare," she adds, in a slightly more appropriate tone.

It isn't much of a surprise that everyone around us agrees with her. Shakespeare – especially the leading role in a Shakespeare play – is way out of what anyone would consider my league to be, and if I'm being honest, I can't imagine a director casting me for a role that involves any emotions aside from maybe anger.

Still, their reaction says a lot about what they think of my acting abilities, and it's hard not to find their lack of faith a bit insulting.

"Wow, guys," I say, putting my hand over my heart in a dramatic gesture. "You wound me."

"You know I love you, E," Lene says, and I narrow my eyes at her hideous nickname. "But until tonight I didn't even think you had feelings."

Books often describe a tall, muscular guy walking through crowded places as the parting of the Red Sea or some shit like that. In my experience, it only happens like that if you're determined to bulldoze your way through the crowd; otherwise, you'll probably find yourself elbowing hundreds of people as you try to walk a few feet, while your five-foot-seven, stick-thin female best friend waltzes past the same distance in a second.

Proof of that lies in the fact that I had to battle my way to the bar, only to feel Tris wrapping her arms around my waist two seconds after I finally got to order my drink.

"And what about my margarita?" She asks, in a whiny voice that would be completely unattractive coming from anyone else.

I chuckle and turn to face her, brushing my lips against hers and trying to ignore how much I just want to take her home and rip those ridiculously tiny shorts off of her body.

Her arms travel up my body, resting around my neck, her nails gently scratching the back of my neck. It feels so good that I don't know how I find it in me to sound sarcastic as I whisper, "Sorry". I don't resist the urge to nibble on her earlobe, though, and she looks at me like she's plotting a rather painful revenge when I move away.

Before she gets to do anything, the bartender taps me on the shoulder, giving us a sour look before walking away, leaving my drink on the bar. I try to turn around and grab it, but Tris is faster than me. She gives me an innocent look as she sips at my Jack and Coke, her message loud and clear.

"You little bitch," I mutter, playfully.

"You know you love me," she replies, in a cheerful tone. Her touch feels like electricity coursing through my veins as her fingers travel down my chest and abdomen, staring longingly into my eyes as she tugs on the waist of my jeans like she's trying to pull me closer in the most arousing way she can think of. Then, she gives me a wide smile and walks away, taking my drink with her.

"Yeah, I do," I say to myself.

The lack of sarcasm in my voice is a little surprising, even for myself.

The night seems to fly by, especially after the point when I stop counting how many drinks I've had. I've been pretty much avoiding Tris for the past hour, ever since I decided I couldn't handle any more teasing. Truth be told, the only reason why I haven't taken her home yet is because I know our disappearance won't go unnoticed, and she is the kind of girl who spent the night feeling uncomfortable on Christina's behalf because of the jokes about how she and Will fell off the face of Earth thirty minutes after they were first introduced.

Not that I'm complaining – at least that gave me time to sober up a bit.

Tris is perched on one of the bar stools that surround our pool table, listening to Lene's monologue with rapt attention, and I find myself watching her, my eyes following her toned legs all the way up to the hem of her minuscule shorts. She seems to have given up on keeping her shirt in place, and even in the dim light I swear I can see the freckles on her shoulder – the result of a nasty sunburn that almost ruined one of our spring breaks, back when she was still in college. The black straps of her bra keep reminding me of the picture she sent me last night, making me wonder if I'll be lucky enough to see it tonight. Her waist-long hair is still up in a knot, some parts of it looking almost golden where it catches the light.

She's breathtaking. And the best part is, I know for a fact she'll still look exactly like that when she wakes up tomorrow.

Well, except for her clothes. Those will have to go.

That thought is nearly enough to make me hard, and I decide I'm tired of pointlessly waiting – it's not like they won't assume we'll spend the night fucking, anyway. I tell Uriah I'm tired of playing - he can barely hide his delight, because that means he's finally won a game against me – and make my way over to her.

I'm only a few feet away when I decide I might as well have some fun before we leave.

"Have I told you how hot you look tonight?" I ask, slurring the words in all the right places. Wrapping my arms around her waist and pulling her not-so-gently towards me.

"Wow, how smooth." Her voice is dripping with sarcasm, but I know, from the way her body tenses against mine, that she's mortified.

"But it's true!" I brush her hair away from her neck and kiss that spot behind her ear that always makes her melt in my hands. She instantly relaxes, and it takes me a lot of will power to keep from laughing. "You are the most... stunning girl in this whole bar." My right hand, moving almost out of its own volition, snakes under her shirt, my thumb drawing small circles over the soft skin of her stomach. "Fuck, you're the most stunning girl in the city!" I make a wide gesture with my free hand, and Uriah looks like he's seen his whole life flash before his eyes when my fingers come mere inches away from his nose.

"Oh, am I?" She asks, condescendingly. "Do I shine as bright as Times Square, too?"

"Fuck, no." I hesitate, trying to come up with a good comeback. For some reason, the only thing that comes to my mind is my conversation with Lene back at the hotel, when we talked about The Pact. "You're brighter. You'd look hot even if you were painted green and singing Defying Gravity."

I don't know who has the better reaction – Tris, who finally looks at me, the confusion on her face better suited for an announcement along the lines of, 'oh, by the way, I'm married to Four', or Lene, who's choked on her drink and is looking like she's trying her best not to spit it out on us.

Tris regains her composure faster, though, all those years in Juilliard paying off as she nonchalantly declares that, "I bet you say that to all those bartenders-slash-actresses you've been banging in LA."

"Only when I'm trying to get in their pants."

I regret the words the second they come out of my mouth. Tris and I may be pretty open about our hookups, but the last thing I want is for her to feel like that's all she is to me.

"But why would I lie to you to get in your pants, babe?" I ask, hoping it'll soften the blow. Her expression becomes a bit less annoyed and, taking her reaction as a green light, I slide my hand down the side of her body. "God, I fucking love your legs." My hand stops a few inches below the hem of her shorts, my fingers skimming her inner thigh. "Especially when they're wrapped around my-"

She gives me a horrified look and covers my mouth with her hand before I can finish my sentence. I loose myself in thoughts of all the possible endings for it – my waist as I fuck her against the wall, my head as I eat her out, my hips as she rides me into oblivion - until Lene chimes in, encouraging Tris to take me home.

"I'd love that!" I reply, in a tone that would probably sound more appropriate if I was a child being invited to go to the zoo.

"I'm sure you would, sweetie," Lene says, patronizingly, before looking at Tris. "I lived with him for a month in Australia, and I know he's like, two shots away from being completely wasted. And we don't want him completely wasted, do we?"

Tris sighs, grabbing my wrists and tugging my hands away from her body. "Come on, babe." She gets up and laces her fingers through mine. "Let's get you home before you end up puking on my shoes, again."

The door to the bar opens, letting out a group of girls, all of them dressed in tight skirts and sounding abso-fucking-lutely drunk. I almost laugh when one of them announces that there aren't any cabs in sight.

Tris and I have been standing outside for the past five minutes for that exact reason, and so far, my night isn't very promising – all I've accomplished so far was getting her upset because she thinks I lied to get her to leave with me.

I see her purse her lips, staring at the girls with a displeased expression. A second later, I hear the distinct sound of heels on concrete, and I find myself praying to an unknown entity that whoever's approaching me isn't a girl hoping to flirt with me right under Tris' nose.

"Excuse me," the girl says. I look back at her, noticing her red hair and green eyes, and I curse the unknown entity for sending my way the kind of girl I'd kill to take home. "Are you Eric Coulter?"

Just like that, my annoyance at the universe dissipates, and I give her a wide smile, unable to pretend her question doesn't make me feel beyond flattered. I've heard that question before, but always when I was in full costume or in the vicinity of a place where people knew I should be – sets, venues, red carpets, you name it.

But this girl seems to know exactly who I am and, judging by the way she's nearly bouncing on the balls of her feet, I'd say she's spent quite a lot of time daydreaming about this moment.

"Ohmygod I'm a huge fan!" She says it almost like it's a single word, and I barely have time to process what she's just said before she adds, "I loved you in Masters of Honour and I've watched everything you've done ever since."

It's my turn to look embarrassingly elated. Masters of Honour was my first movie, in which I had a minor-minor-minor part with just a little over ten minutes of screen time, spread throughout the whole two-hour film – even my mother said that 'you miss it if you blink'.

"I can't wait to see you in Booster Gold," the girl says, before I can compose myself enough to say anything.

Tris laughs, and I know exactly what she's thinking. To be honest, even I am not sure if the girl is talking about watching my performance or literally seeing me – I know that a shirtless scene has made it onto one of the trailers, and my popularity skyrocketed as a result.

"I'm sure you won't be disappointed," I reply, trying not to sound flirty. Tris seems to think my answer is hilarious, which I decide to take as a good thing, because at least she isn't offended.

The girl, on the other hand, frowns at my best friend, before giving me an unmistakable 'oh, you have a girlfriend' look.

"Anyway, I'm sorry to interrupt your night, I just really needed to say that I love you." She blushes a bit, and I can tell she's chastising herself. "I mean, you're my... You're kinda my role model," she blurts out.

I feel like telling her I'm far from being a good role model, but she starts talking about how much she admires my discipline and my ability to keep my head high even when no one has anything positive to say about me, and I must admit, there's something fascinating in seeing myself in someone else's eyes.

I know how many nights I've spent thinking of giving up because I felt like my ego couldn't take another blow, and I'm suddenly glad I never did.

The girl – who eventually introduces herself as Holly – goes on to talk about my other movies, asking me questions that I've never seen a journalist ask – some of the details she brings up are so obscure that I barely remember what she's talking about. I do my best to act as approachable as Tris did when dealing with her audience, and although I'm not sure if I'm being any good at it, Holly seems to think I'm the most charming human being alive.

Which might as well mean she's just a regular fangirl.

We take a selfie before she walks back to join her friends, and I see her open her Instagram the second she turns her back at me. I'm sure the picture's posted before she reaches the other girls.

I turn back to look at Tris, ready to apologise for ignoring her for so long. She's leaning against the wall, staring at the floor like she's trying really hard not to cry. I have the feeling there's a lot more going on than her simply feeling neglected, but I can't begin to imagine what else could be wrong.

"Are you okay?" I wrap my arms around her, resting her head on my shoulder as I go over my entire conversation with Holly in my head, trying to find out if I did anything that could be considered flirtatious. Tris nods against my chest, and I roll my eyes before I make her look at me. "Babe. We'll never be good at acting enough to lie to each other, remember?"

She was the one who told me that, years ago, and it's hard not to feel a little insulted when she looks at me with that 'I went to Juilliard, you uneducated swine' look. Then, she closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and looks at me again.

"I'm fine, love." She gives me a bright smile that doesn't reach her eyes enough to convince me, and I force myself to bite back the remark about how years of formal education didn't do for her what having a camera on my face did for me. "Let's go home."

Having Tris' body wrapped around mine is one of those things that will always feel right, especially when we're both naked and struggling to stay awake – because neither of us wants to waste a single second of our limited time together.

Still, after spending so much time with her head on my shoulder, my arm is starting to feel a little numb, so I roll to the side, trying to apologise for making her move when she was looking so comfortable. She instinctively curls up against me again, her fingers moving from my ribs to my hip before she resumes the lazy circles she'd been drawing on my skin.

"Eric?" Her hand suddenly stills, and she moves a few inches away from me.

"Yeah?" I groan, sleepily, opening my eyes and looking at her.

The only thing my brain registers is that she looks scared, and I'm so focused on thinking of ways to make her look okay again that it takes me a few seconds to process that her lips are moving and that she's asking me in a small voice, like she's regretting the words already, if I'd like to move in with her.

"You mean when I'm not filming?" I ask, ignoring the side of my brain that's telling me that this was a stupid question.

She nods, and I look away from her, knowing full well that I'd never be able to say no to the happiness and hope that have replaced the fear in her eyes. It's not that I don't want to say yes, because I desperately do, but this is the opposite of a decision I should be making on a whim.

In many ways, moving in with Tris wouldn't change anything – she'd still be my best friend, I'd still spend most of the year out of the city, we'd still have the endless texting and Skype calls and maybe the occasional care package. But at the same time, I'd be going home to the other side of the country when filming is done, and I'd need to spend even more time away because pre-production shit usually happens in LA.

But the true changes – the ones that matter, the ones that make her ask me to do this – won't involve my personal life or my career. I can't even tell when I fell in love with Tris or when I realized I could spend the rest of my life with her, and moving in together – and finally getting to call her my girlfriend, for that matter – would only make all those things official.

The problem is, the whole 'a rose by any other name' thing is bullshit – no matter how sweet they smell, roses wouldn't be the universal symbol for love if they were called corpse flowers instead. Likewise, admitting there's a real, boyfriend-girlfriend relationship between Tris and I would mean acknowledging eight years of feelings, eight years of being irresistibly drawn to each other despite the circumstances, eight years of being in a long-distance – albeit open – relationship.

And if I do, I know it won't be long before I come back to New York with a diamond ring in my pocket.

But I'm not sure we're on the same page about that, and this is not a conversation we should be having while naked and trying not to fall asleep.

"I'll think about it," I promise. "That's the best I can give you right now."

She smiles at me and curls up against my body again. I kiss her forehead and close my eyes, burying my nose in her hair and thinking that I wouldn't mind falling asleep like this every day for the rest of my life.

Not in the slightest.

A/N: That's all, folks! I promise I'll come back with a new chapter for Dissident and an actual sequel for this story - but again, I can't make promises about when it'll happen. I hope it at least answered all your questions about what Eric's answer will be.

Pop culture references (abridged version):

. The name of the group chat from the beginning is a reference to the title of the book/movie "The sisterhood of the traveling pants". The 'I went to Juilliard, you uneducated swine' thing is a reference both to an interview with Viola Davis (something about mourning a piece of wood?) and the "you uncultured swine" line from Toy Story.

. Speaking of interviews, I watched about two hours worth of press junket for Suicide Squad during the making of this fic. Most of the things Eric mentions when talking about his interviews came from actual interviews with the cast of Suicide Squad, particularly a press conference I found on Youtube. If you want the link, feel free to ask me on Tumblr (arobotunicorn).

. According to my sister, if you've ever seen a rom-com that's set in NY, you've seen a scene in Coney Island – it's the place with the "shoot the cans and get your girl a huge bear" types of games, not to mention a few amusement parks and a beach. In other words, it's super romantic, and if I lived in NY, that's the first place where I'd take my best-friend-slash-fwb-slash-love-of-my-life.

. Finally, The Boyfriend pointed out that Eric's autocorrect is better than average. That lead us to an epic autocorrect battle - which I won, proving that Eric's autocorrect is just better trained than the average.

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