Killian sighed into the hard press of his fingers against his tired eyes, listening to the soft hum of the elevator as it climbed to his floor. He'd look like a drunken raccoon by the time he got into the apartment, but he couldn't find it in him to care. An early morning shoot that had dragged late into the day left him feeling more dead than alive, and he hadn't bothered with his normal clean up on set. The time saved getting back to his bed was the bright side—the downside was a few fans had recognized him when he jumped out of his uber, his trademark eyeliner and messily styled hair a giveaway. He'd managed a few weak smiles as they snapped pictures and hurried on his way, taking a few strange turns and slipping a spare beanie he kept in his pocket over his head. That, a popped collar, and hunched shoulders normally did the trick. Being famous certainly had its perks, but crazed fans knowing where he lived certainly wasn't one of them.
It was usually simpler to drive to set, but lately he'd been to worn out to trust himself behind the wheel. The past two weeks had been a nightmare of last minute reshoots and publicity, and he couldn't wait for it to all be over.
The elevator doors slid open, Killian staring at them for a moment before he realized her was staring at the familiar artwork that spanned the hall outside his condo. Desperately trying to blink away sleep, he trudged down the hall, leaning his forehead against the cool metal door for a brief second before unlocking it and heading in.
God, he hoped Milah was content to have a quiet night in.
Everything was blessedly dark and quiet when he stepped into the entryway, shrugging his leather jacket off and hanging it on the waiting hook, his boots next as he eased them off his aching feet and lined them up neatly below the jacket. He rolled his neck and stretched, wrinkling his nose as he realized a fifteen-hour day filming had left him less than fresh.
A hot shower and bed—that was the plan. With any luck, and the darkened apartment seemed to be on his side, Milah would already be stretched beneath the covers and he could slip in behind her and fall asleep pressed to her warmth. It would be the perfect start to a weekend otherwise free of engagements and obligations.
"Milah?" he whispered, not wanting to startle her if she was relaxing in the living area.
There was always the chance she'd gone out with friends earlier and wouldn't be home until late. It was a Friday, after all.
His back ached as he stretched his shirt over his head, balling it up and launching it toward the hamper as he walked into the bedroom. A glaring light greeted him from around the corner and he realized that Milah was indeed home, but not where he'd hoped. It looked as if a tornado had blown through the walk-in closet—every pair of heels she owned were tossed onto the floor and the chaise was covered with a haphazard pile of glittering dresses. Milah was standing in front of the mirrored wall, a sequined, black strapless number pulled over her body but left unzipped as she adjusted a pair of large earrings, her brow furrowed.
"Oh, thank god your home," she huffed, flashing an annoyed smile over her shoulder as she slid her second earring in. "This zipper is absolutely impossible."
He smiled and stepped into the closet, taking care to avoid the dresses that had sloughed onto the carpeting.
"I'm happy to help, darling," he assured, catching the nearly invisibly zipper and easing it up her back. There were certainly nights he would have coaxed her into agreement that off was the far better option, but tonight he was more than happy to get her dressed and out the door if that was what she so desired. "Headed anywhere special?"
"It's that opening of the new club—you know, the one with the glass ceiling that everyone has been going on about. I mentioned it the other night—good lord, Killian, you positively reek."
Killian flashed a tired smile in the mirror, but her frown only deepened.
"Honestly, Killian, you can't go out like that. You'll need to have a quick shower."
Killian's brows echoed her own displeasure as he realized what she was implying.
"Did you want my company, as well?"
"Do you even listen when I speak? Sometimes I wonder. I told you two nights ago that Lara and William were expecting us. They've barely seen you."
Killian couldn't remember a Lara, but he seemed to recall a bright, friendly man with reddish-blond hair who may have been a William. No matter who they were, he had no interest in spending the evening with them, and even less in spending the evening on his feet in an obnoxious club.
"It's been a long day, Milah—every day for the past couple weeks has, and I'm exhausted—"
"You're absolutely right, Killian, it has been a long day, a long few weeks, and I'm sorry that I thought I might get to spend some time with you at the end of all of it. How foolish of me," she snapped, and Killian felt the words like a slap to his face.
"No, you're right. It's—I'm sorry. I'll have a quick rinse and get dressed."
Milah beamed at him, adjusting her hair and checking that everything was just as she wanted it to be in the mirror. Killian pressed a soft kiss to her bare shoulder, the warmth of her smile washing away a bit of his exhaustion.
He wanted her to be happy, and perhaps the past few weeks had been more difficult for her than she let on.
"It will be a lovely night, I promise," she said, shoving him gently toward the bathroom as she turned to reappraise the pile of heels.
Despite Milah's initial enthusiasm that he'd agreed to join her and two people he most definitely did not remember—apparently William had brown hair and was quite pretentious—it was not a lovely night. The hot shower and the warmth of Milah's arm in his had been enough to fool him into think it might be the tiniest bit enjoyable—after all, it had been some time since he'd been to a club—but he'd been wrong, very wrong.
Everything from the moving lights to the music to the stench of hot bodies pressed against one another was giving him a pounding headache, and he slid down further into his chair, nursing a rum and casting about for Milah, wherever she'd gone. He'd wanted to give her a nice evening at his side, but he hadn't been able to find it in him to join her on the dance floor—probably because his feet had blisters from filming in his costume boots all day—and she hadn't been able to find it in her to forgive him.
He'd been able to keep track of her at first, but soon she was lost in the crush of bodies and he was lost in his rum—at least it helped dull the sounds a bit.
He didn't know if it was the insane schedule he was booked to finish shooting for his latest movie, or just the lack of free time, but nothing felt quite right lately, and he was worried a change was needed. Milah was clearly unhappy with his schedule, with how much distance it put between them. He found himself wondering if perhaps it wouldn't be a bad time to step back a bit, to get away and really dedicate some time to the two of them.
It was a question he'd come back to more than once in the past few months, and as much as he wanted to feel that doing so was the right answer, his gut kept telling him it wasn't.
He loved her, he certainly didn't want her to be miserable, but the thought of missing out on opportunities at the high point of his career, it did worry him. Liam had worked more than any person should have to help put him through school, and he'd only ever wanted happiness for his little brother. Liam was a big enough man to know that for Killian that meant acting, even if it was a hard path. If Killian were to step back now, would that be doing justice to his brother's sacrifice. What if he started turning down offers and never bounced back from it?
He searched the dance floor once more, but there was no sign of his Milah. Knowing she was probably hurt enough to ignore him for the rest of the night, he whipped out his phone and started scrolling through emails, most of them simply things his manager had already spoken with him about over the phone. It wasn't until he scrolled farther back, nearly hypnotized by the small boxes flying along the screen, that a flagged email came to his attention and he stopped. The details were familiar, and he only just remembered the conversation he'd had with Cora.
It had been an offer for the lead role in a new series, but he'd turned it down due to the filming location. He'd been worried about having to uproot Milah, but scanning through everything once more, he found himself second-guessing his first decision. Perhaps it would be the answer they needed, and the more he thought about it, the more it appealed to him personally.
Maine was certainly quiet and would allow for more quality time together—and the pay was bloody obscene, which never hurt. According to Cora, the role had been written specifically for him. He wondered how the showrunners had taken it when he declined.
His finger hovered over reply.
He should probably discuss it will Milah first, but then thoughts of Liam tugged at his tired mind and he reread the arc for the lead role, each sentence making him more inclined to see if taking it on was still a possibility.
He'd earned his name and place in Hollywood by becoming the face of playboys and scoundrels, all of his characters well-known for their rakish appeal, but to be honest, he was starting to become concerned he may not be offered anything more diverse if he didn't branch out soon. This role—this would be something different, something Liam would be proud of. The series treaded water somewhere between a fantasy show and a piece that examined the very fabric of what is real, the main character a man who suffered great personal tragedy and loss only to have his independence and health rocked.
The more Killian looked at it, the more he knew it was for him, the words swimming with possibility...or rum. He didn't know what about his previous roles had drawn the showrunners to him of all their choices, but for the first time in a while, he really wanted something.
He really wanted this.
A feeling of certainty settled in his gut and he shot off a reply to Cora.
K: I want this, do what you need to do.
The message sent and he almost expected to look up and see Milah hovering over him, a flushed smile on her cheeks from dancing, her hair falling in tendrils around her face, but his table is still empty and the dance floor is still a writhing mass of faceless people.
Raising his glass in a lonely toast, he took another drag of rum and closed his eyes.
He wants to dream that she'll be as happy as he is, that's all he wants for her.