Page 14 of Flipping the Script

MORNING AFTER

S unlight filtered through unfamiliar blinds, casting geometric patterns across cream-colored walls that definitely weren't Solen's.

She blinked awake in Quinn's guest room, momentarily disoriented by the pristine surroundings—matching nightstand, carefully arranged throw pillows, not a single item out of place. Even Quinn's guest space felt curated.

Her phone buzzed insistently from the nightstand. Then again. And again.

"What the hell?" She grabbed the device, squinting at the screen. Seventeen missed calls. Forty-three text messages. Her Instagram notifications had maxed out at ninety-nine-plus.

The first text from her agent made her sit up straighter: *Holy shit, Solen. You two are EVERYWHERE. Call me.*

She scrolled through message after message—friends, colleagues, her old foster sister in Portland, even her barista from that coffee shop in Silver Lake. Everyone had seen something. Her thumb hesitated over a notification from Tasha before swiping it away without reading.

The bedroom door was slightly ajar, and she could hear the rhythmic clicking of laptop keys from somewhere deeper in the apartment. Quinn, probably already caffeinated and analyzing their overnight success with the same methodical precision she applied to script revisions.

Solen pulled on the borrowed pajamas Quinn had left folded on the dresser—soft cotton pants and a faded Northwestern University t-shirt that smelled faintly of lavender detergent. The domestic intimacy of wearing Quinn's clothes felt more vulnerable than any of their public displays had.

She found Quinn at the kitchen table, laptop open beside a steaming mug, wire-rimmed glasses perched on her nose as she scrolled through what appeared to be an endless spreadsheet of media mentions.

Her dark hair was twisted into its usual precise bun, but she was still in her own pajamas—navy pants and a white tank top that revealed surprisingly toned shoulders.

"Good morning, sunshine." Quinn glanced up without lifting her head. "Coffee's fresh. Mugs are in the cabinet above the machine."

"You've been awake long enough to make coffee and create a spreadsheet about last night?" Solen padded toward the kitchen, noting how Quinn's analytical brain had apparently kicked into overdrive. "What time did you get up?"

"Six-thirty. Same as always." Quinn's fingers never paused their typing.

"Entertainment Tonight posted a twelve-photo gallery of us.

Variety called our chemistry 'surprisingly authentic.

' Oh, and we're trending on Twitter under the hashtag Quinn-and-Solen.

Someone smooshed our names together into 'Quilen,' which sounds like a prescription medication. "

Solen poured coffee into a mug shaped like a tiny typewriter—unexpectedly whimsical for Quinn's usually minimalist aesthetic. "You've catalogued every mention already?"

"Most of them. There are more being posted every few minutes." Quinn finally looked up, and something flickered across her expression when she saw Solen in her clothes. "Your phone must be exploding."

"Understatement of the year." Solen settled into the chair across from her, cradling the warm mug. "My agent used the phrase 'holy shit' in a text message, which is basically equivalent to him taking out a full-page ad in The Hollywood Reporter."

Quinn turned her laptop screen toward Solen, revealing a photo gallery from the red carpet.

There they were—Quinn's hand resting naturally on Solen's lower back, both of them laughing at something just outside the frame.

Solen's fingers traced along Quinn's jawline in another shot, the gesture looking intimate rather than performed.

"We photograph well together," Quinn said carefully.

"We do." Solen studied the images, remembering how Quinn's genuine surprise had made her want to lean closer, to protect whatever vulnerable thing she'd glimpsed behind those sharp green eyes. "Look at this one."

She pointed to a photo taken during their Entertainment Weekly interview. Quinn was listening intently as Solen answered a question, her expression unguarded in a way that made Solen's chest tighten with something that felt decidedly unscripted.

"I look like I'm—" Quinn stopped herself.

"Like you're what?"

"Nothing. Just analyzing our performance." But Quinn's cheeks flushed pink in a way that suggested her analysis had ventured into dangerous territory.

Solen scrolled through the comments beneath the photos, her eyebrows rising. "'Relationship goals.' 'The way Quinn looks at her though.' 'Finally, two women who actually seem to like each other.' Someone here thinks you're 'obviously smitten' and I'm 'playing hard to get.'"

"The internet has opinions about everything." Quinn retrieved her laptop, but not before Solen caught her reading over her shoulder, standing close enough that Solen could smell her shampoo—something clean and understated, probably from the expensive organic store down the street.

"They're not wrong though." The words slipped out before Solen could stop them.

Quinn stilled. "About what?"

"You did look smitten. At least, that's what the cameras caught." Solen kept her tone light, but she was watching Quinn's reaction carefully. "Your face is apparently very expressive when you're not trying to control it."

"I don't—" Quinn sat back down, wrapping her hands around her mug like it might anchor her. "I'm not used to performing intimacy. My relationships have always been private affairs."

"Last night didn't feel like performing." Solen touched her compass necklace, the familiar weight of it grounding her as she ventured into honesty. "At least, not all of it."

The admission hung between them, loaded with implications neither seemed ready to fully examine. Quinn's phone rang, breaking the tension.

"Iris." Quinn answered immediately. "Good morning to you too."

Even from across the table, Solen could hear Iris's excited voice rattling off numbers and opportunities. Quinn grabbed a notebook—because of course she had a notebook specifically for phone conversations—and started taking notes.

"Three interview requests... photo spread for Vanity Fair... yes, we can discuss exclusive access..." Quinn's pen moved across the page in neat, efficient lines. "Wait, slow down. Carmen wants what kind of shoot?"

Solen watched Quinn field the call with professional competence, but she noticed the small things—how Quinn's free hand fidgeted with her glasses, how she glanced toward Solen every few seconds as if checking that she was still there.

"We'll call you back in an hour," Quinn finally said. "Solen just woke up, and we need to discuss logistics."

She hung up and immediately looked apologetic. "I should have asked if you were okay with me including you in that conversation. This is all new territory for me."

"What did Iris want?"

"Everything." Quinn flipped through her notes. "Apparently we're the hot topic this morning, and everyone wants follow-up content. Carmen has an idea for a 'morning after' photo series—supposedly candid shots of us having breakfast together, very domestic and intimate."

"In your apartment?"

"That's what she suggested. Iris thinks it would reinforce the narrative that we're comfortable enough for sleepovers." Quinn's cheeks reddened again. "I told them we'd discuss it."

Solen looked around Quinn's pristine kitchen, imagining how it would look through Carmen's lens—the warm morning light, Quinn's careful domestic touches, the two of them sharing coffee in borrowed pajamas. It would be intimate in a way that felt almost too real.

"There's just one problem," Solen said slowly.

"Which is?"

"When I looked out your bedroom window this morning, there were photographers across the street. Three of them, with very large cameras."

Quinn's mug hit the table harder than intended. "What?"

"They're probably hoping to catch me leaving in last night's dress, or maybe get shots of us through the windows." Solen couldn't help grinning at Quinn's horrified expression. "I'm essentially trapped here until they get bored or Iris figures out how to manage them."

"Trapped." Quinn repeated the word like she was testing its weight.

"Is that a problem? I can call a car service, try to sneak out through your building's back entrance?—"

"No." The response came faster than Quinn seemed to expect. "I mean, it's not a problem. We should probably strategize our next moves anyway, and it's safer to do that here."

Solen studied Quinn's face, looking for signs of panic or annoyance, but found neither. If anything, Quinn looked almost relieved at the prospect of extended proximity.

"Besides," Quinn continued, "we should probably practice being comfortable with casual physical contact. Last night was... easier than I expected, but we'll need to maintain that chemistry for future appearances."

The suggestion created instant tension. Both women became hyper-aware of the space between them, the way Solen's fingers curved around her mug, how Quinn's t-shirt had slipped slightly off one shoulder.

"Practice," Solen repeated.

"Professional development."

"Right. Very methodical."

But neither of them moved, and the air between them felt charged with something that had nothing to do with career advancement.

Quinn's phone buzzed with a text. She glanced at it and frowned. "Diego Rivera wants to schedule a follow-up interview. He says our red carpet appearance 'raised interesting questions about authenticity in public relationships' and he'd like to explore that theme."

"Shit." Solen set down her mug. "He's smart. If anyone's going to figure out we're performing, it's him."

"Maybe that's not entirely bad." Quinn was looking at her notebook again, but her pen wasn't moving. "I've been thinking about what you said last night. About authenticity being more convincing than perfect performance."

"What about it?"

"I wrote something in my notebook after we got home. Something that's been bothering me." Quinn flipped back a few pages, her handwriting neat even in the dark. "I wrote that I might have 'fundamentally misunderstood the assignment.'"

Solen leaned forward. "What assignment?"

"Love. Relationships. All of it." Quinn's laugh held no humor. "I've always approached dating like screenwriting. Character motivation, clear plot progression, predictable emotional beats. But last night felt improvisational in ways that terrified me."

"Improvisation isn't scary if you trust your scene partner."

"That's the problem. I don't know how to trust something I can't control or predict." Quinn met Solen's eyes directly. "But when you touched my face during that interview, when you looked at me like I was someone worth protecting... I forgot we were performing."

The confession hung between them, more intimate than any of their public displays. Solen felt her heart rate accelerate, recognizing the courage it took for Quinn to admit uncertainty.

"Quinn."

"I know it complicates things. I know we have professional obligations and this whole thirty-day timeline, but I need you to know that whatever I felt last night was real. Even if I don't understand it yet."

Solen reached across the table, covering Quinn's hand with her own. Quinn's fingers were warm and slightly trembling, and she didn't pull away.

"I felt it too," Solen said quietly. "And it scared the hell out of me, because I'm very good at performing attraction, but I'm apparently terrible at recognizing when it stops being an act."

Quinn turned her hand palm-up, threading their fingers together. "So what do we do?"

"I have no idea." Solen smiled, surprised by how liberating the admission felt. "But maybe that's okay. Maybe the best improvisations happen when both people stop trying to control the scene."

Quinn's phone rang again—Iris, probably with more opportunities and strategic considerations. But neither woman moved to answer it, too caught up in the strange intimacy of sitting in Quinn's kitchen in borrowed pajamas, holding hands over a table scattered with laptop cables and breakfast crumbs.

"We should probably take that call," Quinn said eventually.

"Probably."

But they stayed exactly where they were, fingers intertwined, morning light casting everything in soft focus through the windows.

Outside, photographers waited for a story worth telling.

Inside, something entirely unscripted was beginning to unfold, and for once, Quinn wasn't reaching for her notebook to document every beat.

The performance was becoming real, and neither of them was quite ready to examine what that meant for their carefully constructed thirty-day timeline.