Forbidden - Pedro Pascal

Chapter 2: "that's a wrap"

6 months later

I stepped out of the cab, feeling the fresh autumn air brush my bare legs as I swung them out onto this cosy back street of New York; littered with dive bars, the cast and crew had decided it would be the perfect place to have a night of drinking to celebrate end of filming, without getting bombarded with paparazzi. The air was chilly, and I'd made the mistake of wearing just a black slip dress and a thinning leather jacket, which I pulled tighter around myself.

Dad rubbed my arms, and a gust of wind blew down the side street.

"Allons," he murmured, leading the way to the chosen bar.

He liked to practice his French with me, as I had an apartment in Paris. After Dad's book series blew up, he moved there and no doubt he'll be moving somewhere bigger if this film, based on those books, does well. He always dreamed of a townhouse with a view of the Eiffel Tower.

The air was thick with the smell of burgers and cigarettes, and the rhythmic thumping of music as we ducked into the first bar.

Immediately I spotted our friends; almost every major person involved in filming had agreed to come tonight, including Pedro, his co star Oscar Isaac, Timothée Chalamet, Ana de Armas, Florence Pugh and about ten other actors. From the crew was the director, producer, and a few friendly makeup artists and camera men. Not to mention of course me and the writer, my dad.

I slid into a free seat at the bar, next to Oscar. He was already pretty drunk, cheering loudly when he noticed us, giving me an overly tight squeeze on the shoulders and shaking me side to side with affection. I giggled and sighed, ordering me and my dad some drinks.

As the night grew older, everyone became drunker to the point of delirium. After three rounds of ring of fire, we could barely read the cards anymore, let alone drink on cue or remember the rules. Pedro and Oscar unfortunately noticed the old rickety dance machines, which delighted them as they staggered around trying to follow the steps on the light up floor underneath their feet.

Interrupting what felt like a deep conversation between me and Florence (but likely sounded like gibberish), Pedro tugged at the bottom of my dress like a child trying to get attention.

"Lilyyyyy, come with me on the machines, Oscar is soo bad," he slurred, tipping his drink slightly so it splattered on the sticky floor. His brown eyes were pleading like a puppy. I rolled my eyes a little and attempted to stand in the most dignified way possible.

I was better than Pedro, but not by far this late into the night. Song after song we jumped and shuffled to the beat, laughing until entirely silent breathless laughs could no longer escape our lungs. I stumbled backwards, unsteady in my heels, and he shot out his hand on my back to steady me, impressively quickly for his level of intoxication. We caught eyes for a moment, his eyes bathed in a blue light from the dance machines, seemed almost longing- it took me by surprise.

Saoirse Ronan caught me lightly by the arm, signalling for a cigarette, so we headed outside for a smoke and to sober up a little; the cool breeze was relieving on my pounding head.

"I'll see you back in there," she winked, strolling back inside. I took a long draw of my cigarette. Did I like Pedro? He's so much older than me. Maybe this is how everyone feels around him, I mean he's so handsome, it's impossible not to. But then again, I'd worked with hundreds of film stars and no one made me feel like this.

Stirring behind me, I felt a presence on the quieting street, and a brush against my shoulder; it was Pedro, drink in hand, rubbing the back of his neck as he opened his mouth to tell me something.