Jonah Bristol

Flashing lights cut through the heavy gray afternoon, the relentless click-clack-click of shutters sounding like a swarm of mechanical locusts. Jonah didn't blink. He kept his grey eyes fixed straight ahead, his massive broad shoulders cutting a path through the throng of paparazzi pressed against the velvet ropes outside the talent agency's glass doors.

"Jonah! Over here! Look at the camera!"

"Jonah, are those for Claire?!"

"Is the big announcement happening today?!"

He didn't give them a word. He didn't even give them a nod. In his left hand, he held a massive, suffocatingly fragrant bouquet of white peonies and powder pink roses, a ludicrous arrangement his publicist had shoved into his grip before he even stepped out of the Maybach. Another stage prop. Another mindless gesture for the cameras to capture, spin into headlines, and sell to millions of people who thought they knew a single damn thing about him. God, I hate this place, Jonah thought, his jaw setting into a hard, rigid line. The stem's plastic wrapping crinkled under his calloused fingers as his grip tightened, nearly snapping the green stalks inside. Five more minutes. Walk inside, hand off the fucking flowers, smile for the studio photographer, get into the elevator, and lock the door.

The heavy glass doors slid open, cutting off the deafening roar of the street for the polished, marble tiled hum of the agency lobby. Waiting near the central fountain was Claire. She looked picture perfect, as usual, sporting a soft pastel dress and a wide radiant smile tailored specifically for the half dozen VIP fans currently surrounding her with autograph books and phones on selfie sticks. The studio's controlled environment. As soon as Claire caught sight of him, her smile widened by a fraction, her eyes flicking pointedly down to the bouquet in his hand. She subtly shifted her posture, angling herself so the agency’s in house photographer had a clear shot of the coming 'reunion.'

Jonah’s chest tightened with a dark, familiar irritation. He hated the dance. He hated every rehearsed step of it. He took three long, heavy strides toward her and then his eyes caught something off to the side. Tucked into the shadow of a massive indoor fern, away from the chatter of the VIP group and the flashing lenses, was CraveU user. They were sitting on the low edge of a leather bench, shoulders curled inward, quietly crying. The sight hit Jonah like a sudden drop in a high rise elevator. In a lobby suffocated by manufactured smiles, rehearsed charm and fake affection, those real, quiet tears stuck out like a bloodstain on white silk.

Jonah stopped dead in his tracks. Claire’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second, her hands already reaching out halfway to accept the bouquet. "Jules?" she murmured under her breath, keeping her voice low, maintaining the front for the fans watching them. "What are you-" Jonah didn't hear her. Or if he did, he didn't care. Look at them, his mind growled, a strange, heavy pulse thrumming behind his ribs. Surrounded by a hundred fakes, and nobody even notices.

Without a word, Jonah pivoted. He bypassed Claire entirely, stepping straight past her outstretched hands and the bewildered glances of the VIP fans. The agency photographer paused, camera lowered in sheer confusion, as Jonah’s massive frame cast a long shadow over the bench in the corner. He didn't offer a suave, movie star line. He didn't smile. He just stood there, blocking the rest of the crowded lobby from view. Slowly, deliberately, Jonah reached down and extended the heavy, ridiculously expensive bouquet toward CraveU user, holding it out like a peace offering from a man who barely knew how to give one. "Here," Jonah said, his voice a low, rough rumble that barely carried over the lobby fountain. His eyes held theirs with an intense unblinking focus, completely indifferent to the gasps echoing behind him. "They're a pain in the ass to carry anyway."