Chapter Text
Nate & Rue
It starts the way her worst dreams always do: with motion.
Rue is running — not fast, not heroic, just that exhausted, stumbling run of someone who’s been awake too long and scared even longer. The sky is too bright, the air too hot, and she’s carrying a backpack that feels heavier every second.
She’s in Mexico. She knows it without knowing how. The streets blur, the colors smear, and every doorway looks like a threat. Laurie’s voice follows her like a shadow she can’t outrun.
“Keep moving, Rue. Don’t mess this up.”
She’s peddling drugs for Laurie again — except this time it’s bigger, colder, more organized. People she doesn’t recognize shove packages into her hands. She doesn’t speak the language, but she understands the fear.
Then the dream shifts — the way nightmares do, without warning.
She’s suddenly working for a man named Alamo.
He’s faceless in that dreamlike way, more presence than person. A silhouette with a gold watch and a voice that sounds like gravel dragged across concrete. He gives orders she can’t refuse. He calls her chica like it’s a brand he stamped on her.
Rue tries to say no, but her voice won’t work. She tries to walk away, but her feet stay planted. She feels sixteen again — small, trapped, powerless.
Every time she looks down, the backpack is bigger. Heavier. Full of something she doesn’t want to name.
Rue tries to scream, but the sound gets swallowed by the heat.
She wakes up gasping.
Nate scooped her up the moment her breath hitched into that sharp, panicked rhythm he recognized too well. She didn’t fight him — just clung to his shirt, shaking, eyes unfocused like she was still half inside the nightmare.
He carried her into the bathroom, the light softer there, the space smaller and easier to breathe in. He set her down on the closed toilet lid and knelt in front of her, hands warm on her knees, grounding her.
Nate kissed the top of her head, slow and steady, like he was trying to remind her where she was — here, not there. His hands stayed warm on her arms, guiding her breathing without forcing anything.
“Baby, it’s okay,” he murmured again, softer this time. “Laurie’s gone. She can’t hurt you. Not now, not ever.”
Rue’s breath hitched, but it wasn’t as sharp as before. She leaned into him, forehead pressed to his shoulder, trying to let the nightmare drain out of her body.
Nate kept his voice low, the way he only spoke when she was scared. “You’ve been sober since Lexi’s play,” he whispered, brushing a thumb across her cheek. “I’m proud of you. So is the little girl growing inside you.”
Rue let out a shaky exhale, her hand instinctively moving to her stomach. The fear was still there, but it wasn’t swallowing her whole anymore. Nate’s presence — solid, warm, patient — pulled her back inch by inch.
Trying to lighten the air, Nate gave her a crooked, sleepy grin. “Was it like that dream you had of me and Cassie getting married, and I got my ass beaten by those guys I owed money to?”
Rue blinked at him — then laughed, the sound small but real. “Oh my god,” she said, wiping her face. “Nate, you ruined our wedding.” She pitched her voice high and dramatic, imitating Cassie’s meltdown. “Nate, how could you do this to me on our special day?”
Nate huffed a soft laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, well… I guess I had it coming in that one.”
He lowered himself to one knee in front of her again, steady and gentle. Then he leaned forward and pressed a slow kiss to her bump — not rushed, not performative, just soft and grounding.
Rue’s breath finally settled. Her shoulders dropped. The nightmare loosened its grip.
Nate looked up at her, eyes warm. “You’re okay,” he murmured. “Both of you.”
He stayed kneeling there, still catching his own breath from the panic of waking up to her fear. Then, trying to nudge her fully back into the present, he tilted his head and asked, “How much did Cassie want me to pay for flowers?”
Rue gave him that look — the one that said boy, don’t start — the exact look wives give their husbands when they know he’s being ridiculous on purpose.
Nate grinned, because he loved that look on her.
Rue leaned forward and playfully tackled him with a flurry of soft kisses, her laughter finally sounding like herself again. The tension in the room cracked open into something lighter, safer.
“That’s the Ruby I married in Vegas,” Nate said, breathless and smiling up at her from the bathroom floor.
Rue rested her cheek against Nate’s shoulder, the cold tile under them making everything feel sharper, clearer. And then, like a slow wave, the memory hit her — not the nightmare this time, but the day everything started to shift.
“God… I keep thinking about Lexi’s play,” Rue murmured, voice soft but steady.
Nate let out a breathy laugh. “Yeah. That night was… something.”
Rue nodded, eyes unfocused as the memory unfolded. “The big fight. Maddy and Cassie going at it like WWE in front of the whole school. Everyone screaming. Suze trying to break it up with a shoe.” She shook her head. “It was chaos.”
Nate smirked. “Maddy almost killed her.”
“Almost?” Rue snorted. “Cassie’s lucky she still has a face.”
But then Rue’s expression softened, turning inward.
“And you…” she said quietly. “You apologized to me that night. For being a misogynistic asshole. For everything you did. I didn’t expect that.”
Nate’s jaw flexed, not defensive — just remembering. “I meant it.”
“I know,” Rue whispered.
She thought of Suze next — Suze Howard, mascara smudged, voice shaking, realizing her daughter had humiliated her in front of the entire town. “That was the day Suze got sober,” Rue said. “She told me later she saw herself in Cassie’s meltdown. Like… the worst version of herself. And she didn’t want to be that anymore.”
Rue rolled onto her back on the cold tile, wiping her eyes. “Oh yeah… what is she on now, like her third boob job?”
Nate snorted. “At least. And don’t forget the lip injections.”
Rue raised a brow. “The ones that make her look like she’s allergic to her own reflection?”
Nate shook his head, grinning. “No, no — the ones that make her look like that black‑haired chick from t.A.T.u.”
Rue cackled. “Oh my god, Nate!”
He shrugged, deadpan. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
Rue covered her face, still laughing. “You’re so wrong for that.”
Nate checked his watch, eyebrows lifting. “We’ve got, what… an hour before we’re supposed to be up for work.”
He gave her that look — the mischievous one he only ever used when he was trying to pull her out of her head and back into the moment. Then he glanced toward the shower and winked.
Rue stood, stretching her back, the last of the nightmare finally gone. She caught his expression and gave him a slow, knowing look — the kind that said I see you and don’t push your luck at the same time.
“Oh, I know what you’re thinking,” she said, smirking.
Nate grinned up at her from the floor. “Do you?”
Rue shook her head, amused. “Let’s just hope little lady decides to stay calm this morning. She’s been doing gymnastics in there.”
Nate placed a hand gently on her stomach, his expression softening instantly. “She’s already got opinions.”
Rue laughed. “Wonder where she gets that from.”
ue nudged him with her foot, smiling. “Come on, or I’m gonna go entertain myself.”
Nate blinked, then laughed — that low, surprised laugh he only ever made when Rue caught him off guard.
“Oh, so that’s how it is?” he said, sitting up and brushing tile dust off his arm. “Threatening me before sunrise.”
Rue crossed her arms, chin lifted in that playful challenge he knew too well. “I’m just saying… you better move before I find other ways to pass the time.”
Nate stood, shaking his head with a grin. “You’re impossible.”
“And you love it,” Rue shot back.
He leaned down, kissed her forehead, and helped her up from the floor. “Yeah,” he said softly. “I really do.”
Rue smirked, bumping her shoulder into his as they headed toward the sink. “Good. Then hurry up.”
Nate glanced at her, eyes warm. “Yes, ma’am.”
Lexi & Rue
The studio lights were already warming up, casting that soft golden haze across the fake auditorium. Rue walked in with her script tucked under her arm, still laughing at the title.
“The play’s not really the thing,” she read again. “Lex… you’re not rehashing your old play for a children’s show.”
Lexi pushed her glasses up, defensive in the most Lexi way. “It’s not a rehash. It’s a… thematic echo.”
Rue snorted. “Girl, this is literally the high school auditorium.”
Lexi gestured around proudly. “Kids love nostalgia.”
“For a school they never went to?”
“Exactly.”
They walked deeper onto the set — the painted lockers, the cardboard stage lights, the tiny prop chairs that looked like they’d collapse under a strong breeze. Rue shook her head, amused.
“So how are we ending the two‑parter?” she asked.
Lexi sighed dramatically. “That’s the problem. I wrote myself into a corner. Again.”
Before Rue could answer, a small voice echoed across the set.
“Hey, Ruby!”
One of the kid actors — a little girl with pigtails and a sparkly backpack — waved at her like she was a celebrity. Rue’s face softened instantly.
“Hey, superstar,” Rue called back, giving her a warm smile.
The girl beamed and ran off toward wardrobe.
Lexi nudged Rue with her elbow. “They adore you, you know.”
Rue shrugged, but her smile lingered. “Yeah, well… I adore them too.”
Lexi looked at her for a moment — really looked — and her expression softened into something proud and a little emotional.
“You’re good at this,” she said quietly. “Like… really good.”
Rue glanced down at her script, then at the set, then at her best friend. “Yeah,” she said softly. “I think I am.”
It still surprised her sometimes — this version of her life. This version of her. She never planned on being good at this. She never even knew she could be. But somewhere between getting sober and helping Lexi punch up a joke one afternoon, she realized she had a talent she’d never given herself permission to explore.
Rue Bennett, accidental comedy writer.
Basically the Matt Stone to Lexi’s Trey Parker — except Rue didn’t realize she had that in her until she got clean enough to hear her own voice again.
Lexi nudged her with her elbow. “You know, you’re the reason half these episodes even make sense.”
Rue smirked, flipping through her script. “I know. Nate reminds me every day and every night when he’s hyping me up.”
Lexi froze mid‑step.
“Rue,” she said, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Please. I’m begging you. It is eight in the morning. There are children here.”
Rue shrugged. “I didn’t say anything inappropriate.”
“You implied everything inappropriate.”
Rue grinned. “That’s on you for having a dirty mind.”
Lexi groaned, but she was smiling. “I swear, you’re gonna get me fired from my own show.”
The staff writer jogged up to them, frazzled and clutching a clipboard.
“Ugh, we’ve got a block. Like… a big one. How do we end the episode? The girls are in the bathroom after their fight. What do we do?”
Lexi and Rue exchanged a look — the same look they’d shared four years ago when the real bathroom fight went down.
Rue raised her eyebrows. “Well… in real life, Cassie’s face looked like she lost a boxing match she didn’t train for.”
Lexi winced. “And Maddy reminded her that—”
Rue finished it for her, lowering her voice into Maddy’s exact tone. “‘You’re lucky I stopped when I did.’”
Lexi snorted. “She really said that.”
“She really meant it,” Rue added.
“Yeah, but they haven’t been in a room together since that day,” Lexi reminded her, shuddering a little at the memory of Maddy vs. Cassie: The Sequel That Never Happened.
Rue opened her mouth to respond — and then froze.
Not in fear. Not in panic. But in that oh wait, I’m actually brilliant way she got sometimes now.
Her hand drifted to her baby bump like it was a literal antenna picking up inspiration.
“I got it!” Rue said, eyes widening.
Lexi blinked. “Oh no. Or oh yes? I can’t tell yet.”
Rue held up a finger. “Picture this: the girls are in the bathroom, right? They’re mad, they’re dramatic, they’re doing the whole ‘I’m never talking to you again’ thing—”
“But then,” Rue continued, pacing now, “they realize they’re both avoiding the same thing. Like… they’re scared to go back out there. Scared of what everyone thinks. Scared of being embarrassed.”
Lexi’s eyes widened. “So instead of fighting each other—”
“They team up,” Rue finished. “Not because they’re best friends again, but because they’re both terrified and don’t want to face it alone.”
The staff writer’s pen was already flying.
Lexi stared at Rue like she’d just watched her best friend turn water into Capri Suns. “Rue… that’s actually perfect.”
Rue shrugged, trying to play it cool. “Sobriety unlocked the DLC pack.”
Lexi laughed. “No, seriously. That’s the emotional core. That’s the ending.”
Rue tapped her bump. “Baby girl approved.”
Lexi rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you love it,” Rue said, bumping her shoulder.
Lexi sighed dramatically. “Unfortunately, yes.”
By the time Nate came to the studio to pick up Rue, the ending had gone off without a hitch.
The bathroom scene — the kid‑friendly, PG‑13, emotionally‑honest version of the Maddy‑Cassie apocalypse — wrapped with the whole crew clapping. The two little actresses bowed dramatically, Lexi wiped a proud tear, and Rue stood off to the side with her script tucked under her arm, smiling like she’d just watched her younger self get a second chance.
The set lights dimmed as the crew reset for the next day. Rue was still talking to one of the kid actors about their lines when she heard a familiar voice echo across the soundstage.
Ruby!”
Nate’s voice carried across the studio — warm, bright, way too loud for a soundstage, but nobody minded. He had his suit jacket slung over one arm, tie loosened from work, looking like he’d sprinted straight from the parking lot just to see her.
Rue barely had time to smile before he reached her and kissed her — quick, soft, familiar. A couple of the kid actors and a few crew members immediately erupted into cheers.
“Get it, bossy!” one of the kids yelled.
Nate froze mid‑kiss, then slowly turned toward the group of tiny humans staring at him like he was a Marvel character.
He pointed at them dramatically.
The kids giggled.
Nate continued, “Y’all ever heard of what happens when adults get too weird on kids’ sets?”
Before he could finish the joke, Lexi smacked the back of his head with her script.
“NO. Absolutely not. We do not joke about that here,” she said, glaring at him like a disappointed kindergarten teacher.
Nate rubbed the back of his head. “Ow. I was just saying—”
“Nope,” Lexi cut in. “You were about to say something that would get me fired, and I’m not losing my job because you can’t filter your mouth.”
Rue snorted. “She’s right, babe.”
Nate sighed dramatically. “I come here to pick up my wife and get assaulted by her comedy partner.”
Lexi crossed her arms. “You deserved it.”
Nate held up both hands like he was surrendering. “Okay, okay — I’ll behave.”
Rue raised an eyebrow. “Since when?”
“Since I got hit in the head,” Nate said, rubbing the spot where Lexi smacked him. “That usually does it.”
Lexi rolled her eyes. “You’re lucky I didn’t use the script binder. That thing is basically a weapon.”
One of the kid actors gasped. “Miss Lexi, you hit people with books?”
Lexi froze. “No! No, I— I don’t— that’s not—”
Rue burst out laughing. “Congratulations, Lex. You’re corrupting the youth.”
Nate leaned down toward the kid conspiratorially. “She only hits grown‑ups who say dumb stuff.”
Lexi pointed at him. “Exactly. And you’re on thin ice.”
The kid nodded solemnly. “Makes sense.”
Rue covered her mouth to hide her laugh. “See? Even the children understand.”
Nate looked around at the tiny audience forming. “I feel ganged up on.”
“You are,” Lexi said.
“You deserve it,” Rue added.
The kid chimed in, “Yeah, Ruby’s husband!”
Nate sighed, defeated. “Okay. Fine. I’ll take the L.”
Rue looped her arm through his. “Good. Now take me home before Lexi files an HR complaint.”
Lexi waved them off. “Please leave before you teach the kids any more… Nate‑isms.”
Nate smirked. “No promises.”
Rue tugged him toward the exit. “Babe. Let’s go.”
Nate & Rue
They stepped out into the late‑afternoon air, the studio doors sliding shut behind them. Nate’s hand was warm at the small of her back, guiding her toward the car like he always did — half instinct, half habit, all love.
They were halfway across the lot when a familiar voice cut through the air.
“Yo, Nate! What you doing here!”
Chris McKay jogged over, still in his athletic‑trainer polo from whatever college gig he’d picked up. He looked healthier than he had in years — clearer eyes, steadier posture, like life had finally stopped throwing bricks at him.
Nate turned, grinning. “McKay! Man, what’s good?”
Chris pulled him into one of those half‑hug, half‑back‑slap greetings guys do when they’re happy to see each other but refuse to admit it.
Rue smiled. “Hey, Chris.”
Chris lit up. “Rue! Look at you, all Hollywood and stuff.”
Rue snorted. “It’s a children’s show, Chris. Not Skins.”
Chris laughed. “Still counts.”
He looked between them — Rue with her script tucked under her arm, Nate with his suit jacket draped over her shoulders like he’d claimed her as his personal territory — and shook his head with a grin.
“Damn. Y’all really grew up.”
Nate shrugged. “Took us long enough.”
Chris nodded, softer now. “I’m proud of you, Rue. For real.” Then he turned to Nate. “What you doing for a living now, man? While the missus is out here making kid shows.”
Nate didn’t even blink. “Entertainment manager. Wrangling influencers and wannabe Mr. Beasts.”
Chris burst out laughing. “No way. You? Managing influencers?”
Nate nodded like it was the most normal thing in the world. “Yeah. Turns out they listen to me.”
Rue snorted. “Because you scare them.”
Nate shook his head. “I haven’t had a temper since high school. I’m just… stern. There’s a difference.”
Chris raised an eyebrow. “Uh‑huh.”
Nate continued, “I got a WWE wrestler who—”
Rue cut in, eyes wide. “Babe. You can’t say names.”
“I wasn’t gonna say names,” Nate said, offended. “I’m professional now.”
Chris laughed. “Okay, so what about this wrestler?”
Nate sighed like he was carrying the weight of the entire influencer economy. “He keeps trying to do ‘prank’ videos where he jumps off his roof into a kiddie pool.”
Rue covered her face. “Oh my God.”
Chris wheezed. “And you manage that?”
“Manage it?” Nate scoffed. “I spend half my day talking him out of breaking his spine for likes.”
Rue patted his chest. “He’s basically a guidance counselor for grown children.”
Nate pointed at her. “Exactly. Thank you.”
Chris shook his head, still laughing. “Man… that’s wild. You really went from quarterback to… influencer babysitter.”
Nate shrugged. “Pays well. And I get to be home with Rue more.”
Rue leaned into him, smiling. “And he’s good at it.”
Chris nodded, impressed. “Well… good for you, man. For both of you.”
Nate slipped an arm around Rue’s waist, pulling her in a little closer. “Thanks, Mr. ESPN.”
Chris barked out a laugh. “Man, shut up. I did one internship.”
Rue grinned. “And you’ve been ‘SportsCenter Chris’ ever since.”
Chris shook his head, still smiling. “Anyway—” He pointed between them. “You get an invite to Kat and Jules’ wedding?”
Rue opened her mouth before Nate could. “We ain’t missing the party of the New Andy Warhol and her best‑selling author lady.”
Chris blinked. “That’s what they’re calling themselves now?”
Rue shrugged. “That’s what I’m calling them.”
Nate added, “Rue’s been workshopping their couple brand for weeks.”
Rue held up a finger. “They need a brand. They’re iconic. They’re chaotic. They’re… art lesbians.”
Chris laughed so hard he had to bend over. “Art lesbians. Oh my God.”
Rue nodded proudly. “Exactly.”
Nate smirked. “Rue already picked out our outfits.”
Chris raised a brow. “Matching?”
Rue answered before Nate could protest. “Coordinated. There’s a difference.”
Chris grinned. “You’ll survive.”
Rue patted Nate’s chest. “He’ll look hot.”
Nate muttered, “I always look hot.”
Chris groaned. “Okay, yeah, y’all are disgustingly married.”
Rue beamed. “Thank you.”
Nate kissed her temple. “We try.”
Chris shook his head, still smiling. “Well, I better let y’all go. Tell Kat and Jules I said congrats when you see them.”
Rue nodded. “Will do.”
Nate gave him a small wave. “Later, man.”
Chris headed toward his car, still chuckling to himself.
Wyatt Aymes — AimEmotion to his twenty‑million followers — burst through the front door like a golden retriever in human form, hoodie half‑zipped, hair sticking up like he’d sprinted the whole way.
He didn’t even say hello.
“Nate, those idiots are trying to guilt‑trip me into going to the White House with them.”
Rue blinked from the couch, mid‑sip of her iced tea. “What idiots?”
Nate didn’t even look up from his laptop. He just sighed. “The Paul brothers.”
Rue made a face like she’d tasted battery acid. “Ew. They wanted to be on the show but we said no. ‘Bad influence,’ the big boss said.”
Wyatt threw himself onto the armchair, limbs everywhere. “Exactly! And now they’re like, ‘Bro, it’ll be iconic, bro, think of the content, bro.’ I swear they said ‘bro’ eight times in one sentence.”
Nate closed his laptop with a soft thud. “I haven’t said ‘bro’ since high school.” He laughed, shaking his head.
Wyatt flopped deeper into the armchair like he was trying to sink through it. “I just—ugh. Why does it have to be them dragging me into this? Why does everything turn into some big political circus the second they open their mouths?”
Rue raised an eyebrow. “Because they’re the human equivalent of a fog machine and a fire alarm going off at the same time.”
Wyatt pointed at her. “Exactly! I’m trying to do good things. Real things. And now they’re acting like I’m betraying them if I don’t show up for whatever stunt they’re planning.”
Nate exhaled through his nose, already reaching for his phone. “Okay. Enough.”
He stepped into the hallway, hit speed‑dial, and waited.
“Byron, it’s Nate,” he said, voice shifting into that calm, managerial tone that meant business. “Yeah — quick question. Has anyone else in our client list been approached by the Paul brothers about some White House meet‑and‑greet?”
He listened. His eyebrows climbed.
“So ten out of twenty,” he repeated, rubbing his forehead. “Alright. Here’s what we’re doing. Send out a message to everyone: if anyone goes, we drop them. No exceptions. Wyatt already said no.”
From the living room, Wyatt called out, “Loud and proud!”
Nate ignored him. “This isn’t about politics, it’s about boundaries and brand safety. I’m not letting our roster get dragged into someone else’s spectacle.”
Byron said something that made Nate sigh.
“Yes, I know they’re persistent. Yes, I know they’re promising ‘historic content.’ Just send the message.”
He hung up and walked back in.
Wyatt was upside‑down again, legs over the back of the chair.
Rue stared at him. “Why are you like this.”
Wyatt shrugged. “Gravity comforts me.”
Nate dropped onto the couch beside her. “We’re officially in crisis‑management mode.”
Rue patted his knee. “You always are.”
"So what do i do?" Wyatt asked.
Rue didn’t even look up from her phone. “Put a ‘Prime is canceled’ on your stories with a burning Prime bottle.”
Wyatt gasped. “Rue! That’s savage.”
Nate turned to his wife, eyebrows raised. “You’re terrifying.”
She shrugged. “I’m helpful.”
Nate’s grin spread slow and dangerous — the grin that meant he was about to turn chaos into a coordinated PR strategy. He lifted his phone again.
“Byron, it’s me. Yeah, still here. Listen — I’ve got an idea. And it involves everyone on our roster who’s not interested in being dragged into whatever spectacle the Pauls are cooking up.”
Wyatt perked up. “Ooh, a coordinated stunt?”
Rue nodded. “A tasteful one. With fire.”
Nate paced a little as he spoke into the phone. “No, nothing defamatory. Just a unified message about staying focused on meaningful work and not getting pulled into influencer theatrics. Something visual, something funny, something that says, ‘We’re not playing that game.’”
Byron said something that made Nate smirk.
“Exactly. A brand‑safety flex. If they want attention, they can get it somewhere else.”
Wyatt clapped like a seal. “Nate, you’re my hero.”
Nate’s smile turned sly. “Speaking of hero… Kat Hernandez sent an invite for you to her wedding. She flipped when she found out I was your boss.”
Wyatt’s jaw dropped. “Kat Hernandez? Kat Hernandez?”
Rue raised an eyebrow. “Yes, Wyatt. The one with the eyeliner sharp enough to commit crimes.”
Wyatt blinked at Nate. “Is she your client too? I thought you just managed young guys screaming at their computers.”
Nate snorted. “Wyatt, half my job is keeping you from screaming at your computer.”
Wyatt gasped. “That’s slander.”
Rue didn’t look up from her phone. “You literally screamed at a loading screen yesterday.”
Wyatt pointed at her. “It was taunting me.”
Rue didn’t miss a beat. “Kat happens to be our friend from school who turned a One Direction fanfic into one of the best teen love stories in the world. And yes, Nate is her manager.”
Wyatt blinked. “So why did I get an invite?”
Nate laughed, the kind that came from deep in his chest. “Did you already forget your parody of Wuthering Heights about her new book?”
Wyatt’s ears went pink instantly. “I mean… it is a good book.”
Rue smirked. “Wyatt, you sang the chorus in a Victorian nightgown.”
Wyatt covered his face. “It was for the aesthetic.”
Nate nodded solemnly. “You committed to the bit. Kat respects that.”
Wyatt peeked between his fingers. “She… liked it?”
Rue snorted. “She reposted it with seventeen heart emojis.”
Wyatt brightened, then added casually — but with that shy little wobble in his voice — “Her lady’s a great painter, by the way. I got her to commission a cherry blossom piece for my mom for Mother’s Day.”
Rue’s eyebrows lifted. “Oh? Look at you being thoughtful.”
Wyatt shrugged, suddenly bashful. “My mom loves cherry blossoms. And Kat’s fiancée… she’s got this whole soft‑romantic‑watercolor thing going on. It felt right.”
Rue nodded, a fond smile tugging at her mouth. “Jules Vaugh has always been that chick. She treats her paintings like they’re seasonal clothing drops — every collection has a whole new mood.”
Wyatt perked up. “Right? I swear she sent me three options and each one looked like it belonged in a different museum.”
Nate chuckled. “That’s Jules. She paints like she’s designing a world she’d actually want to live in.”
Rue added, “And she never repeats herself. One month it’s dreamy pastels, next month it’s neon chaos, then suddenly she’s doing grayscale portraits that make you question your life choices.”
Wyatt’s eyes widened. “So basically… she’s the Beyoncé of paint.”
Nate pointed at him. “Don’t say that to her face.”
Rue smirked. “Actually, do. She’ll pretend to be humble and then brag to Kat for a week.”
Wyatt grinned, proud of himself again. “Okay, good. I want her to know my mom cried when she saw the painting.”
Nate softened. “She’ll love that.”
Wyatt pushed himself up from the chair, stretching like he’d just completed an emotional marathon. “Alright, I’mma get going. I’ve got a Twitch stream tonight. Playing a classic.”
Rue raised an eyebrow. “Define ‘classic.’”
Wyatt grabbed his backpack, already halfway to the door. “The kind of game that makes grown men cry and twelve‑year‑olds call me ‘old.’”
Nate smirked. “So… anything released before 2015.”
Wyatt pointed at him dramatically. “Age is a mindset, Nathaniel.”
Rue snorted. “Yours is chaos.”
Wyatt grinned. “And yet you love me.”
Nate shook his head, amused. “Go. Before you’re late.”
Wyatt saluted with two fingers. “Catch you later, parental units.”
Rue groaned. “Never say that again.”
Wyatt was already out the door. “No promises!”
The door clicked shut.
Nate exhaled. “He’s… a lot.”
Rue leaned her head on his shoulder. “He’s our lot.”
Nate & Maddy
Nate and Byron pushed through the glass doors of their office building, the morning sun catching the gold lettering on the wall:
CAROUSEL TALENT — EST. 2020
Byron adjusted his tie like he was about to walk into a board meeting with Beyoncé. “Man, every time I see that sign, I hear my dad’s voice in my head.”
Nate smirked. “The ‘don’t embarrass me in front of the legends’ speech?”
Byron laughed. “Exactly. Luther worked with Michael Jackson, Prince, and half the rock stars who invented bad decisions. He sees us managing influencers and thinks we’re wrangling toddlers with Wi‑Fi.”
Nate hit the elevator button. “To be fair… we are.”
Byron shrugged. “Yeah, but we’re good at it. And Carousel wouldn’t exist without him. He believed in us before we even knew what we were doing.”
The elevator dinged open, and they stepped inside.
Nate leaned against the wall. “I still remember him handing us that first check. ‘Don’t waste it,’ he said. ‘And don’t sign anyone who can’t look me in the eye.’”
Byron grinned. “And now we’ve got twenty clients, a waiting list, and Wyatt Aymes calling you his emotional support adult.”
Nate groaned. “Please don’t remind me.”
The doors opened to their floor — a bright, buzzing space filled with framed posters, award plaques, and a giant mural of a carousel horse painted by Jules Vaugh herself.
Byron spread his arms. “Home sweet circus.”
Nate smiled. “Let’s get to work.”
He and Byron pushed open the conference‑room doors… and immediately stopped.
The room was packed with young influencers — ring lights on the table, iced coffees everywhere, someone live‑tweeting, someone else filming a TikTok dance in the corner.
And in Nate’s chair, legs kicked up on the table like he owned the place, was Wyatt Aymes himself.
He had stolen Nate’s seat. Again.
Wyatt beamed when he saw them. “Gentlemen! Welcome to my meeting.”
Byron groaned. “Oh God. He’s nesting.”
Nate didn’t even look at Wyatt — he just turned to Byron with that “please handle this” expression.
“Byron,” Nate said, “do your locker‑room coach thing before this room turns into a livestream free‑for‑all. Get these kids quiet.”
Byron straightened like someone had just blown a whistle. “Alright, everybody! Phones down, mouths closed, eyes up front!”
Half the influencers jumped.
The other half froze mid‑TikTok.
Byron clapped his hands once — loud. “If you can hear me, raise your hand!”
Every hand shot up, even Wyatt’s.
Nate smirked. “Thank you.”
Byron nodded. “Anytime. I contain multitudes.”
Wyatt whispered, “Mostly rage.”
Byron shot him a look. Wyatt immediately sat up straight.
The room was finally quiet.
Nate stepped forward, calm and in control. “Okay. Let’s start this meeting properly.”
He clasped his hands behind his back like a patient high‑school principal. “We’re here to talk about the Paul Brothers situation.”
Every influencer in the room — except Wyatt — groaned in perfect, miserable harmony.
One kid slumped forward onto the table. Another covered her face with her hoodie. Someone in the back whispered, “I knew this was gonna be about them.”
Wyatt, meanwhile, perked up like a golden retriever hearing the treat bag. “See? I told you it was important!”
Byron shot him a look. “You caused half this panic.”
Wyatt gasped. “I caused awareness.”
Nate ignored them both. “Look, I know you’re all tired of hearing their names. I’m tired of saying them. But they’ve reached out to half our roster, and we need to be unified in how we respond.”
A chorus of exhausted groans rose again.
One influencer raised a timid hand. “Do we… have to say their names out loud?”
Byron answered dryly. “No. You can call them ‘the uninvited guests.’”
The room nodded solemnly, as if this was a sacred improvement.
Wyatt leaned toward Nate and whispered loudly, “See? Leadership.”
Nate didn’t even blink. “Wyatt, please stop narrating.”
Wyatt zipped his lips. Literally mimed it.
Nate continued, “Here’s the deal. None of you are obligated to participate in anyone else’s spectacle. Not theirs, not anyone’s. We protect your brand, your safety, and your sanity.”
A few influencers actually clapped at that — tired, grateful, relieved.
Wyatt beamed like he’d written the speech himself.
Nate stepped behind Wyatt’s chair, resting one hand on the back of it like a commander about to unveil a battle plan. His voice dropped into that smooth, dangerous calm he used when he was about to do something strategic.
“And that,” Nate said, “is where we retaliate.”
The room went still.
Not scared — interested.
Wyatt sat up straighter, eyes sparkling. “Retaliate how? Like… a coordinated vibe check?”
Byron groaned. “Please don’t call it that.”
Nate ignored them both. “Retaliate by controlling the narrative. By showing your audiences what you stand for — not what someone else tries to drag you into.”
BigMaggie raised her hand like she was in homeroom. “Like… #IHateThePauls?”
The entire room inhaled sharply.
Wyatt whispered, “Oh my God, she said it out loud.”
Byron slapped a hand over his face. “Maggie, please. We’re trying to avoid lawsuits today.”
Maggie shrugged. “What? It’s catchy.”
Nate held up a hand, calm but firm. “No. Absolutely not. We’re not doing anything hostile, negative, or targeted. This is about your message, not theirs.”
Maggie leaned back in her chair, satisfied with her contribution to the chaos.
Wyatt grinned like he’d been waiting for this moment. “Nate’s wife had a good idea.”
Instantly, the room erupted.
“Mama Rue?”
“Wait—the Rue?”
“I thought she just did comedy?” DaggerIvan piped up from the back, confused and loud. “Bro, I thought she was like… the funny one who roasts people onstage?”
Nate lifted a hand, trying not to laugh. “She is the funny one who roasts people onstage.”
Byron added, “And she’s terrifying. Respectfully.”
Wyatt nodded enthusiastically. “But she’s also the brains of this whole operation. She came up with the ‘Prime is canceled’ idea.”
Half the room gasped like they’d just heard a prophecy.
Maggie whispered, “Mama Rue is unhinged in the best way.”
Nate sighed, but he was smiling. “She’s pregnant, not unhinged.”
Wyatt pointed at him. “Those things are not mutually exclusive.”
The room nodded in agreement.
Nate continued, “Anyway, Rue suggested a unified message. Something funny, something visual, something that says we’re focused on our own work.”
“#NotInYourPrime!” BigMaggie shouted like she’d just discovered fire.
The room exploded.
Chairs scraped. People cheered. Someone actually stood up on the table. Wyatt screamed like he’d won a Grammy. Byron clapped once — loudly — the way he only did when something was actually brilliant.
Nate nearly jumped out of his seat. “Oh my God. That’s it. That’s the one.”
Byron was already pulling out his phone. “Jesus Christ. Byron, get Maddy in here!” Nate barked, voice cracking with excitement.
The room went silent.
Because everyone knew what that meant.
Maddy Perez.
PR extraordinaire.
Crisis whisperer.
The woman who once turned a cheating scandal into a book deal.
Nate’s ex‑girlfriend — which only made her more terrifying.
Wyatt whispered, “We’re calling in the nuclear option.”
Maggie fanned herself. “Oh my God, Maddy’s coming? I need lip gloss.”
DaggerIvan muttered, “Bro, she scares me more than Mama Rue.”
Byron was already texting at lightning speed. “She’s in the building. She was meeting with a skincare brand on the third floor.”
Nate straightened his shirt like he was about to be inspected by the military. “Good. Because if we’re doing this, we’re doing it right.”
The conference room door swung open.
Maddy Perez walked in like she owned the building — heels sharp, hair perfect, tablet in hand, eyes already scanning the room like she was assessing damage.
She didn’t even say hello.
She just looked at Nate and said, “What did you idiots do now?”
Wyatt whispered, “Mother.”
Nate pointed at Maggie. “She invented a hashtag.”
Maddy raised an eyebrow. “Is it good?”
The room answered in unison: “YES.”
Maddy sighed, sat down, and opened her tablet. “Alright. Show me.”
“Well, it was Rue’s idea — we just helped bring it to life,” Maggie said proudly.
Maddy smiled, softening. “When is she about to pop?”
Nate laughed. “Hopefully after Kat and Jules are married.”
Maddy giggled. “I still can’t believe she tied you down. I couldn’t believe it then, and I still can’t now. Y’all know that problematic right‑wing OnlyFans model Cassieopia?”
A few of the male influencers visibly shuddered.
Maddy waved a hand. “Okay, well, back in our day she was just plain skanky Cassie Howard who manipulated your boss into dating her.”
Lord — or Lenny, as his friends called him offline — giggled. “Really? No way.”
“Oh, yes,” Maddy said, leaning back like she was telling a ghost story. “Your calm‑ass boss used to be your stereotypical misogynist jerk. Even when he dated me.”
Nate made a strangled noise. “Okay, let’s not—”
Maddy kept going. “He was a walking red flag with a jawline.”
The influencers gasped like she’d revealed a plot twist.
Nate nervously laughed. “Yeah, then Rue decided to put me in my place. Rue used to be the school pothead until her friend made a school play about all of us.”
BigMaggie’s jaw dropped. “Wait. Was it that play Our Life?”
The room went silent.
Every influencer leaned forward like they were about to hear forbidden lore.
Nate blinked. “You… know that play?”
Maggie nodded slowly. “Dude. That play is like… legendary. It’s on YouTube. It has, like, eight million views.”
Wyatt gasped. “YOU’RE the Nate from Our Life?”
Nate buried his face in his hands.
Maddy cackled. “Oh, this is about to be good.”
“I was young, I was drunk, and I was full of anger — which I blame on my dad, who is currently serving life in prison for… some stuff he had online,” Nate said as he finally sat down, rubbing his face.
The room went quiet for a beat — not out of discomfort, but out of that oh damn, he’s being real respect.
Maddy clapped her hands once. “Okay! Trauma hour over. Back to our campaign. How do we pull this off?”
An influencer with bright red hair — RiotRex, known for his chaotic energy and questionable fashion choices — opened his mouth.
He pointed at Maggie. “First of all, #NotInYourPrime is fire. Like, Grammy‑level fire.”
The room murmured in agreement.
RiotRex continued, “Second — we need visuals. Like, a whole aesthetic. Something that says ‘I’m booked, busy, hydrated, and not participating in your nonsense.’”
Wyatt snapped his fingers. “Yes! Like a coordinated drop. Everyone posts their version of the same vibe.”
Maddy nodded, already typing. “A unified look. Clean. Minimalist. Slightly petty. Very brand‑safe.”
Hiro — the TikTok kid with too much energy and not enough impulse control — shot to his feet.
“Yo, like that ‘doing my part’ meme,” he said, waving his arms. “And then when it cuts to the ‘I didn’t do anything’ part, we cut to the Paul brothers with—”
Nate’s hand snapped up like a traffic cop. “Hiro. No real politicians. No real public figures. No real-world drama.”
Hiro blinked. “Oh. Right. Right. My bad.”
Byron sighed. “We’re not trying to get sued before lunch.”
Hiro snapped his fingers again, brain revving back up. “Okay, okay — how’s about we give back to the community? Support charities and—”
He didn’t even get to finish.
Because the entire room — every influencer, every manager, even Maddy — turned toward him like he’d just accidentally said something shockingly wholesome in a room built on chaos.
Wyatt gasped. “Wait. Hiro… did you just have a good idea?”
Hiro blinked. “I… think so?”
Maddy leaned forward, eyes narrowing like she was examining a rare species. “Say it again. Slowly.”
Hiro swallowed. “Uh… we could, like… pair the hashtag with charity spotlights? Like, instead of engaging in drama, we show what we’re actually doing. Volunteering. Donating. Promoting causes. Y’know… doing something real.”
The room went silent.
Then Maggie slapped the table. “OH MY GOD THAT’S PERFECT.”
RiotRex stood up. “Bro, that’s like… morally superior AND petty. The holy grail.”
Wyatt pointed dramatically. “It’s the ultimate flex. ‘We’re too busy helping people to deal with your nonsense.’”
Byron nodded slowly, impressed. “It’s clean. It’s positive. It’s safe. It’s… shockingly mature.”
Nate looked at Hiro like he’d just watched a toddler recite Shakespeare. “Hiro… that’s actually brilliant.”
Hiro beamed. “I contribute!”
Maddy was already typing at lightning speed. “Okay. Charity tie‑ins. Community work. Local orgs. Mental health. Food banks. Animal rescues. We can tailor each post to the influencer’s niche.”
Wyatt whispered to Maggie, “He’s gonna brag about this for a month.”
Maggie whispered back, “Let him. He earned it.”
Nate clapped his hands once, energized. “Alright. We’ve got the hashtag. We’ve got the message. We’ve got the angle. Now we build the rollout.”
Maddy smirked. “Let’s make this go viral for the right reasons.”
The room buzzed with excitement — the good kind, the productive kind, the “we’re about to do something big” kind.
And Hiro sat down, glowing like he’d just saved the world.
Nate stood up and gave Maddy a dramatic salute. “I think that wraps up our meeting!”
The influencers cheered like they’d just been dismissed from summer camp. Chairs scraped, iced coffees sloshed, someone yelled “LET’S GOOOO,” and Wyatt immediately started a slow clap that absolutely no one asked for.
Maddy rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. “Sit down, Wyatt. You didn’t win an award.”
Wyatt clutched his chest. “Not with that attitude.”
Byron closed his tablet with a satisfying snap. “Alright, everyone — you know your assignments. Charity partners, draft posts, visuals, captions. Keep it clean, keep it cute, keep it coordinated.”
RiotRex fist‑pumped. “We’re about to break the internet.”
Maggie added, “And do it ethically.”
Hiro whispered, “I’m putting that on a shirt.”
Nate clapped his hands once, the universal signal for meeting adjourned. “Go. Create. Be responsible. And for the love of God, don’t tag the Paul brothers in anything.”
Half the room groaned in disappointment.
The other half nodded like they’d just been given sacred instructions.
Maddy stood, smoothing her blazer. “I’ll send the rollout plan in an hour. And Nate?”
Nate looked up.
She smirked. “Tell Rue I said hi. And that she’s still funnier than you.”
Wyatt gasped. “Facts.”
Nate sighed, but he was smiling. “Meeting over. Everybody out.”
The influencers spilled out of the room in a chaotic, caffeinated wave — buzzing, excited, ready to launch a campaign that was equal parts wholesome and petty.
Byron leaned over to Nate. “You realize we just unleashed twenty gremlins onto the internet.”
Nate nodded. “Yeah. But they’re our gremlins.”
“That’s true. Lunch?” Byron asked, already gathering his things.
“Yeah. I’m gonna call Rue and I’ll meet you outside.”
Byron gave him a knowing look — the kind that said go check on your wife before she checks on you — and headed toward the elevators.
The conference room finally emptied, leaving Nate alone with the echo of twenty chaotic voices and the faint smell of iced coffee.
He pulled out his phone, thumb hovering over Rue’s name — Rue Bennett‑Jacobs, saved with a little star she pretended not to like.
He hit call.
It rang once.
Twice.
Then Rue picked up, sounding breathless and amused. “Please tell me you didn’t let Wyatt run the meeting.”
Nate laughed, leaning against the table. “Define ‘let.’”
Rue groaned. “Oh God.”
“He was actually helpful today,” Nate said. “Hiro too.”
Rue gasped dramatically. “Hiro? Helpful? Are you sure you’re not hallucinating from lack of food?”
Nate smiled. “I’m grabbing lunch with Byron. You want anything?”
Rue paused. “Surprise me. But not in the way you surprised me last week.”
“That was one time.”
“And it was pickled.”
Rue softened. “How’s the campaign?”
Nate glanced at the whiteboard still covered in chaotic notes. “Honestly? It’s gonna be huge.”
Rue hummed. “Good. I like when you sound proud.”
Nate’s voice dropped, warm. “I like when you’re proud of me.”
Rue exhaled, soft and fond. “Go eat, babe.”
“On it. You and Lexi’s stand‑up show still on tonight?” Nate asked as he slung his bag over his shoulder.
“You know it,” Rue said, a smile in her voice. “Tell the little gremlins to come.”
Nate laughed. “They’ll swarm the place. Wyatt alone counts as five.”
Rue snorted. “Good. We need the chaos. We’re workshopping the new stuff for our comedy special.”
Nate stopped in the hallway, eyebrows up. “Already? I thought you two were still arguing about the title.”
“Oh, we are,” Rue said. “Lexi wants something wholesome like Two Girls, One Mic. I want something unhinged like We’re Tired and Everyone’s Annoying.”
Nate laughed. “Both are accurate.”
“Exactly,” Rue said. “But tonight we’re testing the new bits. The crowd needs to be loud, messy, and easily influenced. So bring the gremlins.”
Nate shook his head, smiling. “They’re gonna treat it like the Super Bowl.”
“Perfect,” Rue said. “Lexi’s doing her bit about influencer apologies, and I’m doing the one about you trying to assemble the crib.”
Nate groaned. “Rue, that was a traumatic experience.”
Nate rubbed his forehead. “I’m hanging up now.”
“Love you,” Rue said, still laughing.
“Love you too.”
He ended the call, still smiling as he stepped into the elevator with Byron.
Byron glanced over. “Rue good?”
“She’s great,” Nate said. “And apparently we’re bringing the entire agency to her show.”
Byron winced. “Oh God. That’s gonna be a night.”
Nate grinned. “Yeah. And it’s gonna be perfect.”
Lexi, Rue, Nate & Fez
Their comedy partnership started right after the play. They called themselves Damage Control — half‑joke, half‑mission statement, fully accurate.
During their first year at UCLA, they were performing at every “College Night” they could find: tiny campus bars, open mics in dorm lounges, student union stages with flickering lights. Their sets were messy, chaotic, and way too honest — which is exactly why people loved them.
One night, after a show where Rue improvised an entire bit about losing her student ID for the third time, a man approached them after the set. He was older, wearing a faded hoodie, and carrying a notebook full of scribbles.
He introduced himself as a former animation writer who’d transitioned into teaching screenwriting at UCLA. He’d been sitting in the back grading papers when their set started… and he didn’t get any grading done after that.
He told them:
“You two have timing. Real timing. And you write like people who’ve lived things.”
Lexi nearly fainted. Rue pretended to be chill and failed.
He invited them to audit one of his comedy writing classes. Then he invited them to join the class. Then he recommended them for internships — one in a writers’ room, one in a production office — because he said they needed to “learn the business before the business learned them.”
It was the first time anyone in the industry had taken them seriously.
And it changed everything.
By the time they graduated, they weren’t just “Rue and Lexi from the play.”
They were Damage Control — the duo who turned their high‑school chaos into a career. The girls who once performed in a flickering student‑union basement were now:
-
creators of their own Nickelodeon show,
-
hosts of a podcast that somehow charted every other week,
-
and still, always, stand‑ups at heart.
No matter how big they got, they kept one ritual sacred:
Thursday nights at their favorite club.
“So everyone knows Rue’s knocked up, right?” Lexi announces into the mic.
The crowd cheers, and Nate is absolutely the loudest, practically blowing out the speakers.
Rue steps up beside her. “And Lexi’s still estranged from her… let’s call her chaotically entrepreneurial sister.”
The crowd laughs.
Lexi sighs dramatically. “She’s an online‑content model who recently caused a whole scene at a very fancy government event when a certain ginger‑haired reality‑TV‑wannabe‑celebrity kissed her in front of his wife. Please boo for that.”
The audience boos loudly, delighted.
Rue nods. “That’s actually how Lexi found out what her sister was doing for a living.”
Lexi steps forward, hand on her chest like she’s delivering a TED Talk. “Can you imagine my mom finding out? This woman’s been sober five years! Give it up for Mom!”
The crowd cheers, clapping and whooping.
Lexi waves them down. “No, seriously — she’s been sober five years, and THIS is the news she gets hit with. Not a relapse. Not a crisis. Not a car accident. No. She gets a phone call saying, ‘Hey, Suze, your oldest daughter just went viral for… entrepreneurial reasons.’”
Rue leans into the mic. “She called me first. Not Lexi. Me.”
Lexi throws her hands up. “Because apparently I can’t be trusted with my own family drama!”
Rue nods. “She said, ‘Rue, sweetie, I need you to explain something to me before I break my sobriety and my phone.’”
The audience howls.
Lexi fans herself dramatically. “Don’t worry, guys! Suze is still sober from alcohol! But CBD…”
Rue jumps in, deadpan. “CBD is her Roman Empire.”
The crowd erupts.
Lexi nods. “My mom takes one gummy and suddenly she’s reorganizing the entire house by emotional trauma category.”
Rue adds, “Last week she labeled a drawer ‘Things I Pretend Don’t Bother Me.’”
The audience screams.
Lexi: “And the drawer was EMPTY.”
The audience howls.
Rue: “Growth!”
The crowd cheers again.
Lexi wipes a fake tear. “She’s doing amazing. She’s healing. She’s thriving. So honestly? Thanks, Cassie, for keeping Mom sober with your… adult‑themed trauma.”
The audience erupts, half‑laughing, half‑groaning.
Rue leans into the mic. “Cassie’s life choices are basically Suze’s version of a nicotine patch.”
Lexi nods. “Every time Cassie does something chaotic, Mom just goes, ‘Nope. Not today. I worked too hard for this.’”
Rue: “She meditates now.”
Lexi: “She journals.”
Rue: “She has a gratitude list.”
Lexi nods. “She goes to yoga with Rue’s mom. They’ve basically been besties since we left school.”
Rue shrugs. “That’s what empty‑nesting does.”
Lexi leans into the mic. “Just wait until Gia leaves for college.”
Rue points at her bump, deadpan. “Little Miss Embryo begs to differ.”
The crowd erupts, half cheering, half laughing at the timing.
Lexi fans herself dramatically. “My mom must be so damn excited to be a grandma. Some parents go traveling after their kids leave—my mom?”
She pauses, milking it.
“My mom is about to enter her Grandma Renaissance Era.”
The audience howls.
Lexi nods. “She’s been training for this like it’s the Olympics.”
Rue jumps in. “You already have a one‑year‑old, Lexi.”
Lexi beams. “My cute little ginger chubby baby! But seriously — my mom loves being a grandma. Her daddy — my husband Fez — owns a pottery studio now. An ex pot seller making pottery… you cannot make this stuff up.”
Rue points at her. “I bought a lot of pot from him as a teen.”
Rue: “And a lot more.”
The audience howls.
Lexi grins. “Funny story! Her husband beat the crap outta my husband at a New Year’s party in high school.”
From the back of the club, Fez and Nate — sitting shoulder to shoulder — groan in unison.
Rue gestures toward them. “They hated each other. Fez thought Nate ratted on him and got his house raided.”
Lexi nods. “Only to find out it was Nate’s creepy dad.”
Lexi: “Only to find out it was Nate’s creepy dad.”
The crowd howls, and Rue and Lexi pause just long enough for the laughter to crest.
From the back, Nate cups his hands around his mouth. “HEY! In my defense, I was ALSO traumatized!”
Fez leans forward in his chair, pointing at Nate. “You still are, bro.”
The audience erupts.
Rue shields her eyes dramatically. “Oh no. They’ve started.”
Lexi sighs. “Ladies and gentlemen, our husbands — the emotional support animals of this operation.”
Nate yells, “WE’RE DOING OUR BEST!”
Fez adds, “Speak for yourself, I’m thriving.”
Rue gestures toward them. “You hear that confidence? That’s pottery‑studio energy.”
Lexi nods. “That’s a man who owns twelve aprons.”
Fez shouts, “THIRTEEN!”
The crowd screams, loving every second of the husbands’ chaos.
Rue steps back to the mic, shaking her head. “That being said, we only just got our embryo’s crib set up. A MONTH before she’s due!”
The audience howls, and Nate immediately yells from the back:
“WE TRIED OUR BEST!”
Fez adds, “Bro, that thing had, like, forty screws.”
Rue points at them. “Forty screws and two grown men crying.”
Lexi nods. “I walked in and they were sitting on the floor like they were in a support group.”
Rue: “Fez was holding the instruction manual like it had personally betrayed him.”
Fez shouts, “It DID!”
Nate: “It was in Swedish!”
Rue points at him, deadpan. “You looked like me when I first got sober.”
The crowd howls, and Nate immediately jumps up in his seat.
“We don’t even DRINK!” he yells. “Not since high school!”
Lexi steps forward, eyebrows raised like she’s about to cross‑examine him.
“Oh, we KNOW,” she says. “You two have the energy of men who got hungover once at seventeen and said, ‘Never again.’”
The audience cracks up.
Rue smirks at Nate. “Nate, keep this up. I’m bringing out the big consequences when we get home.”
The crowd howls, and Nate leans back in his chair with a grin.
“Can you still fit in that thing?” he calls out.
The audience screams, half‑laughing, half‑gasping.
Lexi nearly drops the mic. “OH, he’s bold tonight!”
Rue points at him. “You hear that confidence? That’s a man who thinks he’s safe in public.”
Fez pats Nate’s shoulder. “Bro… you ain’t.”
The crowd roars.
Rue: “He’s talking like he didn’t cry over an IKEA crib last week.”
Nate: “IT WAS A HARD WEEK!”
Lexi steps forward, eyes wide with fake innocence. “That’s not what Maddy Perez‑Hirsch told us!”
The audience explodes, half laughing, half gasping like they just witnessed a sitcom plot twist.
From the back, Maddy stands up in her seat, waving her drink.
“DON’T DRAG ME INTO THIS!” she shouts, already laughing.
Rue points at her. “Oh, we’re dragging you. You married into this circus.”
Lexi nods. “You signed the paperwork. You’re legally responsible for Nate’s emotional support.”
Nate yells, “HEY!”
Fez pats his shoulder. “Bro… she kinda is.”
The crowd howls.
Maddy cups her hands around her mouth. “I SAW HIM CRYING OVER A SCREW!”
Nate jumps up. “IT WAS A VERY IMPORTANT SCREW!”
Rue: “It was decorative.”
Lexi: “It didn’t even go to anything.”
The audience screams.
Fez leans back in his chair, shaking his head. “Man was sobbing like the crib broke up with him.”
Nate: “IT WAS A HARD WEEK!”
Rue: “You said that already.”
Lexi: “And we didn’t believe you the first time.”
The crowd roars again, louder than before.
Rue suddenly softens her voice, hand over her heart. “But in his defense… it kinda was a hard week.”
The audience quiets just a little, leaning in.
Rue sniffles dramatically. “Because Bobby Nash died on Rescue 9‑1‑1.”
She fake‑cries into the mic, shoulders shaking.
The crowd howls, realizing she’s talking about a TV character.
Lexi throws her head back. “OH MY GOD, RUE.”
Rue wipes an imaginary tear. “He was a hero! A fictional hero! But a hero!”
Nate stands up, pointing at her. “YOU MADE ME WATCH THAT EPISODE!”
Rue turns slowly, eyebrows raised, mic lifted like she’s about to deliver a sermon.
“Bitch… you been watching that show since it started.”
The audience erupts, screaming and clapping.
Lexi doubles over laughing.
Rue keeps going, pacing like she’s building a case in court. “He watched the pilot. He watched the mid‑season finale. He watched the crossover episode. He watched the behind‑the‑scenes documentary.”
Nate throws his hands up. “IT’S A GOOD SHOW!”
Rue shakes her head. “I’m gonna laugh when they finally cancel it and you have to start watching something else.”
Lexi jumps in, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Like Yellowstone. Screw it, I’m gonna spoil it!”
The audience gasps and leans forward.
Lexi throws her arms out dramatically. “Kevin Costner dies and his property gets bought by the Native families who lived on it before his!”
The crowd erupts, half laughing, half screaming at the audacity.
Rue throws her hands up. “We have been Damage Control! We gotta go back to making the kiddie show.”
Lexi immediately points at Rue’s bump. “And making kiddies.”
The audience loses it, stomping and clapping.
Rue groans, covering her face. “You’re fired.”
Lexi: “You can’t fire me, we’re co‑dependent.”
The crowd howls.
Rue waves them off dramatically. “Alright, alright — that’s our time!”
Lexi lifts her mic like she’s about to drop it. “Get outta here, little bitches!”
Rue joins in, both of them shouting it with the exact chaotic sibling‑energy their duo is famous for.
They’re still glowing from the set, still hand‑in‑hand, still half‑laughing as they head down the hallway — and Rue tosses the question out like it’s nothing, even though it’s absolutely not nothing.
“So what’s the plan for season two of Hall Pass Royalty?”
Lexi stops mid‑stride, eyes widening like Rue just asked her to solve world peace.
Lexi freezes mid‑stride like Rue just dropped the most important plot twist of her life.
Rue: “I was thinking Wyatt comes on the show as Daisy’s brother.”
Lexi gasps so loudly a stagehand down the hall flinches. “YES. Yes. Oh my god, Rue, that’s— that’s brilliant. That’s canon‑level brilliant.”
Rue grins, smug. “I know. I’m a genius sometimes.”
Lexi grabs her shoulders. “And if Wyatt’s joining the cast… we can finally— FINALLY— get Dave Foley to play the faceless principal!”
Rue blinks. “Wait. Why didn’t we think of that sooner?”
Lexi throws her hands up. “I DON’T KNOW! I DON’T KNOW! We’ve been out here casting TikTok kids and meanwhile Dave Foley is RIGHT THERE.”
Rue: “He’s literally perfect. He’s got the voice. He’s got the timing. He’s got the ‘I’m exhausted by children’ energy.”
Lexi’s eyes go huge, like Rue just handed her the Holy Grail of sitcom gags.
“Imagine the season finale when he shows his face.”
Rue stops walking. Full body stop. Her jaw drops. Her eyes widen. She looks like she just witnessed a prophecy.
“LEXI. NO. WE CAN’T. THAT’S TOO POWERFUL.”
Lexi grabs her by the arms. “Rue. RUE. Think about it. We spend two whole seasons building the myth. The legend. The man. The mystery. The Principal With No Face.”
“Kids online will be making conspiracy videos.”
“Reddit threads. Fan cams. TikToks with ominous music.”
“And then—”
“THE SEASON FINALE.”
“THE CAMERA PANS UP.”
Lexi: “THE MUSIC SWELLS.”
“THE KIDS GASP.”
“AND WE FINALLY—FINALLY—REVEAL—”
They both scream at the same time:
“DAVE FOLEY’S FACE.”
Rue doubles over laughing. “People will LOSE THEIR MINDS.”
“Parents will be like, ‘Who is that?’ and millennials will be like, ‘THAT’S DAVE FOLEY, YOU UNCULTURED SWINE.’”
“The kids won’t even know what hit them.”
“We’ll break the internet. We’ll break the network. We’ll break the children.”
Rue wipes her eyes. “It’ll be the biggest twist since they killed off the lunch lady in season one.”
“She didn’t die, Rue. She moved to Florida.”
Rue says it so casually that Lexi actually stops walking again, like she’s been hit with a divine revelation.
“Same thing.”
Rue takes a beat, then: “We cast Rosie O’Donnell as the lovable replacement.”
Lexi’s whole face lights up like someone plugged her into a generator.
“RUE. RUE. STOP. That’s— that’s PERFECT.”
Rue grins. “Right? She’s got the exact energy. Warm. Chaotic. Slightly threatening in a comforting way.”
Lexi starts pacing in a tiny circle, hands flapping. “She’d be the lunch lady slash guidance counselor slash unofficial emotional support adult. The kids would worship her.”
“She’d call them ‘sweetie’ and ‘buddy’ and also threaten to unionize the school.”
“She’d have a backstory about being a former Broadway star who left the industry because a raccoon stole her wig.”
Rue is still laughing about Rosie’s raccoon‑stole‑my‑wig backstory when two familiar voices drift in from behind them.
Nate & Fez approach like two exhausted camp counselors who’ve already broken up three food fights today.
Nate crosses his arms. “Didn’t we tell you not to plot storylines while you’re walking.”
Fez nods, dead serious. “Yeah, man. Y’all start talkin’ and suddenly we got, like… six new characters, a raccoon, and a whole union subplot.”
Lexi throws her hands up. “We’re brainstorming! It’s called being creative!”
Fez says it so casually, so sweetly, that it takes a full two seconds for Lexi and Rue to process the sentence.
Fez laughed. “He’s right, Lexi. Plus we gotta get home too. Suze called and, well… Ellie’s waiting for her mommy and daddy.”
Lexi’s whole face softens instantly — the way it always does when Ellie gets mentioned. Rue, half-asleep in Nate’s arms, smiles too, that warm, sleepy smile she only gets around family.
Lexi: “Oh my god… Ellie.”
Fez nods, already pulling out his keys like he’s late for bedtime stories. “Yeah, man. She’s been askin’ for you all night. Kept pointin’ at the door like you were gonna walk in any second.”
Lexi melts. “She did?”
Fez grins. “Yeah. Then she tried to feed the dog a crayon, so… you know. Balance.”
Rue snorts into Nate’s shoulder.
Nate adjusts his hold on Rue, steady and warm, and she looks up at him with that sleepy, mischievous glint.
“You’re no fun, Daddy,” Rue mumbles.
Nate laughs, the sound low and easy. “At least I’m a better dad than mine.”
Fez snorts. “That dude still wants you to see him?”
Nate sighs, the kind of sigh that comes from years of complicated history. “Yeah.”
Lexi jumps in immediately, because she cannot resist a good family‑drama punchline. “He still doesn’t know your mom remarried Todd the disney ceo”
Nate’s grin is instant, smug, and a little wicked. “Better dad than he is.”
Rue pats his chest. “Todd buys snacks.”
Lexi nods. “Todd remembers birthdays.”
Fez: “Todd got us those lifetime passes.”
Nate: “Todd is the only man alive who can fix my mom’s Wi‑Fi.”
Rue, half-asleep: “Todd is love. Todd is life.”
Nate laughs again, shaking his head. “See? This is why I don’t need to see my dad. I’ve got Todd.”
Then he shifts Rue a little higher in his arms, settling her against his chest like she’s the easiest thing he’s carried all day.
“Alright, I’m taking my girl home!” he announces, already turning toward the exit with that mix of pride and exhaustion only Nate manages to pull off.
Rue loops her arms around his neck, half-asleep, half-smirking. “I am your girl.”
Lexi snorts. “We know. The whole building knows.”
Nate shifts Rue a little in his arms, then turns back toward Lexi and Fez with that soft, tired, proud‑dad smile he only gets at the end of long nights like this.
He lifts one hand and gives them a lazy wave.
“Night, guys.”
Rue lifts her hand too, barely awake, fingers wiggling in a sleepy little goodbye. “Bye Lex… bye Fez… tell Ellie I love her…”
Lexi melts instantly. “We will. Go home, mama.”
Fez grins. “Get some rest, Rue. You earned it.”
Nate starts walking backward for a few steps, still waving, still holding Rue like she’s the most precious cargo on earth.