Chapter 3: The Paul Wesley Interruption
The lavender-scented steam from the hot towel wrapped around Paul Wesley’s face fogged the lower half of the mirror. Dee smoothed a section of his damp hair between her fingers, squinting at the growth pattern.
“So you’re telling me,” Paul said, his voice muffled by the linen, “the secret to surviving a vampire wardrobe in Georgia humidity is just… more pomade?”
“It’s a specialized paste, Paul. Show some respect.” Dee dabbed a dot of the citrus-scented product behind her ear. “And yes. It’s about creating a barrier between your scalp and the apocalyptic sweat.”
“Noted.” He peeked one eye open. “This feels suspiciously like a sponsored segment.”
“It’s not. I just have opinions.” She removed the towel with a flourish. “Your pores are officially grateful.”
The tutorial flowed easily. Paul was a good sport, his dry, self-deprecating humor a perfect foil for Dee’s practiced, bubbly commentary. They talked about terrible on-set haircuts, the horror of helmet hair, and his new rescue dog. The golden light of the studio bounced off the chrome of her vintage dryer, casting a warm glow. She laughed at his jokes, her hands moving with assured precision through his hair. It was good content. Fun. Uncomplicated.
Two hours later, with Paul gone and the studio tidied, she posted the edited reel. The caption was pure Dee: A public service announcement for werewolves and other hairy creatures, featuring the eternally patient @paulwesley. Swipe for the paste that survives a supernatural crisis.
She poured herself a glass of wine and sat in the cracked leather chair, spinning slowly, waiting for the usual tide of praise and emojis.
The notifications began as a trickle, then a flood. The first ten comments were predictable: ICONIC COLLAB, Paul 😍, Your hair is everything Dee!
Then the shift started.
WHERE IS MATT?
Okay but where’s Matt though?
It was like a single voice had broken a dam. The comment section, that strange digital town square, swerved violently off topic.
You look at Paul the way you look at Matt? No. The vibes are completely different.
Matt’s gonna be jealous lol.
Did you two have a fight? This feels like a rebuke.
We’ve been spoiled. Nothing compares to the Matt sessions.
Is this a replacement? I’m not accepting a replacement.
Dee’s smile, the relaxed one from the wine and the successful shoot, froze on her face. She stopped spinning the chair. Her thumb moved faster, scrolling, the screen a blur of words that seemed to pulse with a strange, collective anxiety.
You were more relaxed with Paul. More guarded. With Matt you’re… open. It’s obvious.
The tension in the last live video was everything. This is nice but it’s just nice.
Bring back the emotional damage haircuts!
She put the phone down on the vanity, screen up, as if it were something that might bite. The hum of the studio’s fridge seemed suddenly loud. She looked at the empty silver chair. It wasn’t empty. It was full of him. Full of every clipped silence, every shared glance in the mirror, every piece of banter that felt like a private language. The midnight confession hanging between them like a ghost.
Her professional content—her livelihood—had just been hijacked. Dissected not for technique or style, but for clues about a relationship that wasn’t even real. Or wasn’t defined. The contract, she thought bitterly. The reliable, unspoken contract was now being debated by a million strangers in real-time.
Her phone buzzed. A direct message. Her heart did a stupid, hopeful lurch before she saw the name.
It was Liza, her manager. Babe, the engagement is through the ROOF. Comments are wild. Whatever you’re doing, keep doing it. The algorithm is feasting.
Dee typed back, her fingers cold. They’re not talking about the hair.
Three dots pulsed. They’re talking. That’s all that matters.
She tossed the phone into her leather tote, silencing it. The studio felt different now. The posters of Marilyn and James Dean looked like artifacts from a simpler time, when mystery was still possible. The vintage dryer was just a relic. The warmth felt staged.
She needed air that wasn’t scented with product and expectation. Grabbing her jacket, she killed the lights and stepped out into the alley behind the studio. The cool, damp night air hit her, smelling of city and rain. She leaned against the brick wall, the roughness tangible through her thin shirt.
From her bag, a different buzz. A specific, crystalline tone she’d assigned to only one person.
She pulled the phone out. A notification from Instagram. Matt Bomer had liked your post.
Her breath caught. That was all. No comment. No DM. Just a like, hitting hours after the post went live, after the comment frenzy had already metastasized. A tiny, digital heartbeat.
Was it support? Was it a acknowledgment? Was it him seeing the same comments, reading that same public dissection, and pressing a button just to say I’m here?
Or was it just a like?
The ambiguity was a physical ache. This was the new terrain. Every public action, every private notification, would be a minefield to be navigated, a sentence to be parsed for hidden meaning. The simplicity of their friendship was gone, eroded by a moment of truth in a live video and a phone call in the dark.
She looked up at the narrow strip of night sky between the buildings. She had a choice. She could lean into it—let the speculation fuel her brand, let the “will-they-won’t-they” become her signature product. Liza would love that. The numbers certainly would.
Or she could try to shut it down. Post a stern clarification. Make content that was so aggressively about haircuts it bored the speculation into silence.
Both options felt like a performance. Both felt like a lie.
The third option—the real one—was waiting in the silence of a non-existent text thread. It involved speaking a truth without an audience. It meant figuring out what they were outside of the studio, outside of the comments, outside of the contract.
She pushed off from the wall. The weight of her phone in her hand felt immense. She opened a new message. His name glowed at the top.
She typed three words. Deleted them. Typed five more.
Saw you liked the post. Too accusatory.
The comments are unhinged. Too weak.
We need to talk. Too final, too terrifying.
In the end, she sent nothing. The momentum wasn’t in a text. It was in the unresolved space between a public like and a private confession, in the golden studio light that now felt like a spotlight, in the unbearable clarity that the story was no longer just theirs to write. It was being written for them, and if they didn’t claim the next chapter, someone else would.
It was being written for them, and if they didn’t claim the next chapter, someone else would.
The brick was cold and rough against her palm. She stared at her phone, the screen a rectangle of potential humiliation or defiant control. With a sharp exhale, she opened the Instagram camera.
She flipped her hair, forced a conspiratorial grin, and aimed the lens at her own face, the alley’s dim light casting dramatic shadows. She poured every ounce of her performed, platform personality into her expression.
“Okay, internet detectives,” she said, her voice a playful, edited clip for the Story. She rolled her eyes, the gesture exaggerated for the camera. “I’ve seen the notes. I’ve read the briefs.”
She paused, letting the faint city sounds fill the beat. “Guys I feel offended, starting to feel like you are here for Bomer’s eyes and your stylist, gonna be in the need to rename the page soon.” She laughed, a bright, hollow sound that echoed slightly off the alley walls. “Dee & The Distractions, maybe. Something catchy.”
She flashed a peace sign, stuck out her tongue, and ended the recording. She posted it without watching it back. The act felt like slamming a door, a decisive noise in the quiet.
Inside the studio, she poured another glass of wine, the pour sloppy. She watched the views tick up instantly. The replies to her Story started flooding in, a new, simultaneous conversation.
Dee nooo we love you! It’s just the CHEMISTRY.
You ARE the distraction, queen.
Don’t change the name, we’re here for the whole messy vibe!
This is damage control and I respect it.
Her manager Liza heart-reacted to the Story. Of course she did. It was perfect engagement bait, acknowledging the elephant in the room while carefully not defining it. It was exactly what Dee was supposed to do. It felt like ash in her mouth.
The studio door creaked open. Her assistant, Chloe, peeked in, her keys jangling. “Forgot my charger. You okay? That was a spicy Story.”
“I’m a spicy meatball,” Dee said flatly, not looking up from her phone.
“Right.” Chloe hovered, the silence awkward. “The Paul video was great. Seriously. Your blending technique on his fade was chef’s kiss.”
“Thanks, Chlo.” The professional praise was a lifeline, a reminder of her actual skill. She clung to it.
“But also,” Chloe said, grabbing her charger from under the reception desk. “Matt’s eyes are objectively a national treasure. The people aren’t wrong.” She gave a little shrug and slipped back out. “Just saying!”
The door clicked shut. Dee was alone again with the hum and the ghosts and the flashing notifications. She was a puppet, and her own audience was pulling the strings, delighting in every jerk and twitch. She drained her glass.
Her phone buzzed, not with a notification from the app, but with a direct text message. The screen lit up with his name.
Her heart, which had been sinking into a numb, resigned rhythm, kicked hard against her ribs.
The text was simple. It was just his response to the spectacle, to her public deflection, to everything.
Matt: Distractions, huh?
She stared at the two words. They were neither light nor heavy. They were a door, slightly ajar. She could walk past it with a joke. She could shove it open.
The momentum was no longer in the comments or the likes or the algorithm. It was here, in this quiet, private pane of glass. It was in her choice.
Her thumbs were cold. She typed her reply slowly, each letter a decision.
Dee: It’s a working title. Open to suggestions.
She sent it. The three dots appeared almost instantly, pulsing in the gray bubble. They vanished. Then reappeared. A cycle that lasted a full minute, a silent conversation in itself.