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I’m sticky, covered in whipped cream, the sprinkles he threw at me leaving little trails of color on my skin, my hair, my clothes.

Then, somehow, I find myself smiling.

His face when I tagged him with the whipped cream?—

Shocked.

I’d braced, unable not to brace, but a second later his eyes lit up and the sprinkle attack began and…

I had fun.

Fun.

Something I’d forgotten existed.

Because my life has been work—working by learning my lines, working by training to be a ballerina or learning how to ride a horse or being taught how to handle a sword, working to be exactly what the director wants. And then working on the actual set during filming—being punctual, showing up clean-faced and ready for hair and makeup at my call time, those lines memorized and ready, giving something back to my co-stars during our scenes so we can create quality projects, being polite to the crew because they’re the real heroes, taking critiques, focusing on the positives while promoting the project.

I love acting, even though sometimes it has felt like a millstone hanging heavy around my neck, a prison framed as a gilded cage as much as it is a way to live a thousand different lives.

But the craft, the process, the excitement of turning on the TV and seeing something I’m proud of, going to a premiere with my contemporaries and knowing when it’s a good one, seeing it top the box office?

That’s a high that’s better than any drug I’ve ever taken.

Dylan gave me that.

The carrot and the stick.

I groan softly, wet a towel, and set to work on those tiny rainbows on my face and hair and clothes from the sprinkles, the sticky streaks on my hands and arms from the whipped cream.

Eventually, I realize I’m making more of a mess at the sink and slip into the shower.

Sprinkles on the floor, swirls of color going down the drain, tangling with suds from my shampoo.

But it’s not until the loofa is trailing over my body that my mind drifts back to the kitchen…

God, that had been fun.

A mess and I don’t love the prospect of having to dry my hair—there’s enough of it that the going full finger-in-the-light-socket tresses by air drying is tempting—but by God…

It had been fun.

Hudson smiling as he launched sprinkles.

His laughter as I threatened him with my weapon of choice—that can of whipped cream.

He moved like someone who hasn’t just had surgery.

He moved with power and grace and?—

I still got him with the whipped cream.

My cheeks hurt and I lift a hand, realize that I’m smiling and must have been doing it for a while.

Something else that I almost forgot how to do.

A natural smile, not one carefully curated for the screen or for Dylan.

One that fades as I turn off the shower, snag a towel, and wrap it around me.