As Ben stepped out of Helen's office, he exhaled deeply, a quiet smile curling on his lips. His mind was still replaying the earlier conversation—the repayment, the plans for the next film, the quiet encouragement. It felt like the end of one chapter and the start of something new.
Just outside the office, he nearly collided with a tall, middle-aged man in a tailored gray suit. The man was holding the hand of a young blonde girl—no older than five—who clutched a stuffed rabbit to her chest.
"Ah, sorry about that," Ben said quickly, taking a step back.
The man gave him a polite nod, but his eyes lingered a moment longer, as if something about Ben felt familiar. The little girl peered up at him curiously, then offered a tiny wave.
Ben waved back, smiling warmly. There was something oddly familiar about her, but before he could dwell on it, the pair disappeared into Helen's office.
Shaking the thought, Ben made his way toward the front desk, where Donna, the ever-efficient receptionist, was typing away.
"Hey, Donna," Ben said, leaning casually against the counter. "Mind if I borrow the phone for a quick call?"
Donna looked up and smiled. "Sure thing, Mr. Gosling. Line one's free."
Ben picked up the receiver and dialed a number he now knew by heart.
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Naomi was on her feet, weaving between tables at a cozy little restaurant in Santa Monica, her apron tied snugly around her waist and a notepad in hand.
"Hello, this is Naomi speaking—oh, wait—Ben?" she paused, stepping away from the kitchen's bustle.
"Hey," Ben said, his voice lighter than she'd heard in weeks. "How fast can you ditch your apron?"
Naomi chuckled. "Depends. Are you calling just to flirt or is there a mission?"
"Both," Ben grinned. "I need help picking out clothes—I figured I should start dressing like someone who just signed a million-dollar deal. And if you help me not look like a disaster, I promise you dinner. Your pick."
"You're lucky I like shopping," she teased. "And food. Okay. Give me twenty to clock out and change."
-------
An hour later, they met in front of a boutique-filled strip along Melrose Avenue. Naomi had swapped her waitress uniform for a casual black dress and denim jacket, her hair tied in a playful ponytail.
"You really need help," she said as she eyed Ben's outfit—a rumpled jacket over an old Star Wars tee. "You look like someone who wandered out of Comic-Con in '89."
"Exactly why I called you," Ben laughed. "Save me."
They moved from store to store. Naomi handed him shirts, jackets, shoes, and belts with the efficiency of a stylist and the flair of someone who knew what worked. Ben tried on everything from sleek black jeans to tailored button-downs, laughing every time she wrinkled her nose in judgment.
By the end of the spree, Ben had a full wardrobe and two large bags slung over his shoulder.
"Your turn," he said, guiding her into a boutique she had been eyeing earlier.
"I don't need anything."
"You didn't need to help me either," he replied. "Pick something."
Reluctantly, Naomi picked a couple of simple outfits. As they walked past a jewelry counter, her gaze lingered—just for a second—on a delicate silver necklace with a sapphire pendant.
Ben noticed. Without a word, he doubled back while she was distracted. Minutes later, he slipped a small velvet box into his coat pocket.
-------
They stopped by Ben's apartment to drop off the clothes. It was still barebones, but noticeably cleaner than before, with a hint of life starting to fill the space.
Then came dinner.
Ben took her to The Royal Peacock again—his new favorite Indian restaurant. The lights were soft, the music gentle. The aroma of saffron and spice wrapped around them as they settled into their booth.
As they waited for their orders, Ben reached into his pocket and slid the velvet box across the table. "For you."
Naomi blinked. "What is this?"
He simply nodded toward it. She opened it slowly—inside was the necklace she'd admired, its sapphire glinting like moonlight.
"Ben… it's beautiful. You didn't have to—"
"I know," he said quietly. "But I wanted to."
There was a pause. Something unspoken passed between them. Gratitude. Affection. Possibility.
Dinner was perfect. They shared biryani and chicken tikka, laughed over mango lassi, and traded stories about their past lives—hers filled with auditions and gigs, his with wild memories he still sometimes had trouble believing.
Ben leaned back and watched her smile, the restaurant lights dancing in her eyes.
"You know," he said after a pause, "I really enjoy this. Us."
Naomi met his gaze. "So do I."
"I'm not really into flings," he added, voice softening. "Not anymore. I've been thinking… maybe something serious. If you're open to it."
Naomi's smile deepened, slower now. "I think… I'd like that."
They left the restaurant hand-in-hand, the night air crisp and quiet around them.
For the first time in a long time, Ben felt something beyond ambition, beyond strategy—something real.
And it felt good.
Ben slowed the car to a gentle stop in front of Naomi's apartment. The street was quiet, bathed in the golden haze of the late Los Angeles evening. Their laughter had only just died down from a conversation about an over-the-top coat he'd tried on during their shopping spree.
Naomi glanced at him, fingers laced lightly in her lap. Her eyes sparkled, the necklace he'd bought for her catching the light with every turn of her head. She smiled. It wasn't the big kind of smile she gave when cracking jokes or teasing him—it was a quiet, private one. The kind that said something real had changed between them.
"Well," Ben said, unbuckling his seatbelt. "End of the line."
Naomi didn't move right away. She looked at him for a beat too long, her thumb brushing over the necklace. Then, she turned and opened her door.
"Come up for coffee?" she asked, voice casual, almost careless—but her eyes said otherwise.
Ben raised a brow and smirked slightly, pretending to consider it. "Coffee, huh?"
Naomi stepped out and leaned down to look at him through the open door. "The fancy kind. Imported. You know. Australian style," she added with a wink.
Ben didn't need a second invitation.
—
Her apartment was small but cozy. A few scripts were scattered across her dining table, and a corkboard with handwritten notes and photos sat above a modest desk. She kicked off her heels by the door and poured them both glasses of water instead of coffee—neither of them really expected to make any.
They stood close by the kitchen counter, the mood changing, softening. Naomi leaned against the edge of the sink, arms folded.
"So," she said after a moment, "Mister Millionaire. What happens now? Where do you go from here?"
Ben looked at her, half-amused, half-serious. He wasn't used to the question being asked like that. Not by someone who meant it.
"I'm writing something new," he said. "A horror thriller. Real one this time. Tight. Psychological. Gritty. There's blood, yes, but also a mind behind it. A message. It's going to be sharp."
Naomi's interest perked up. "So, any female roles in your film?"
Ben tilted his head, grinning. "Yes, weird masks, cryptic riddles, twisted punishments, it has a bit of all that."
"There's also a disciple of a forgotten god. A judge of the wicked. And she's beautiful. Dangerous. Wears a bone-and-silk cloak, carries an hourglass pendant, and leaves her victims with choices."
Naomi raised an eyebrow. "Sounds like a franchise."
"That's the idea," Ben said, stepping a little closer. "And I already know who I want to play her."
Naomi looked up, half-smiling, knowing exactly what he meant. "I'm flattered."
"You'll wear the cloak better than anyone."
There was a pause—something heavy and comfortable. She stepped forward, brushing his hand with hers.
"Still want that coffee?" she murmured.
Ben smiled. "I think I'd rather stay for something stronger."
She didn't respond. She just took his hand and led him toward the living room, the hallway light dimming behind them.
—
The necklace glimmered faintly on her collarbone as she slipped out of view.