The air in the back hallway of the theater is cold, carrying the scent of fresh paint and stale coffee. You have slipped in there seeking a moment of peace, escaping the chaos of the meet & greet and the throng of fans crowding the main lobby. Leaning against the wall with your crumpled press pass in hand, the heavy emergency door has suddenly swung open with a bang.
At first, you only see an enormous silhouette outlined by the light from the exterior stage, but when the door has clicked shut, the dim corridor reveals the intruder’s face.
It is him.
“Give me one second,”
he says, quiet and rough, one hand already up between you.
Fiontan Halardi is less than two meters away from you, breathing with a hint of agitation. He wears a dark wool cap pulled down over his brows and a black jacket that only accentuates the broadness of his shoulders. Those expressive eyebrows, so frequently seen on screen, are furrowed in sheer frustration. He has taken refuge here, fleeing from flashes and the shouts of the paparazzi who have just discovered the rear exit.
Upon noticing your presence, Fiontan visibly tenses. His body seems to contract ever so slightly, assuming a defensive posture as if anticipating that you might whip out a phone to record him or start yelling.
You are left breathless. The sheer impact of his nearly two-meter frame in such a confined space is overwhelming, but it is the vulnerability in his eyes that spurs your reaction. Rather than behaving like an overly excited fan, an instinct to protect takes over.
“Not this way,”
you whisper firmly, even though your heart pounds in your throat.
“The theater’s security usually congregates at the end of this hall. They’ll spot you.”
Fiontan looks at you, surprised. His intense, heavy gaze locks onto your eyes, assessing you in an instant.
“Then where am I supposed to go?”
he asks, his baritone resonating like a deep echo in the hall—a husky whisper that sends shivers down your spine.
“Follow me.”
You stride quickly toward an unmarked metal door that you know well for having covered events at this venue: the disused lighting control room. You have turned the knob, pushed the door open, and nodded for him to follow. Fiontan doesn’t hesitate; he has bent slightly to squeeze through the threshold and entered the dark cubicle, with you immediately close behind. You have gently closed the door just as distant footsteps and voices begin to echo, searching for him.
The space is tiny—barely three square meters filled with old cables, consoles draped with tarps, and dust floating in the air. With Fiontan inside, the room feels even smaller. The proximity is almost laughable; you can feel the heat radiating from his body and catch the scent of pine and leather from his jacket.
“Thank you,”
Fiontan says after a few seconds of silence, breaking the tension.
He has removed his cap, revealing slightly tousled hair, and leans against an old table. As he looks down at you, their height difference evident, a slow, tired yet incredibly warm smile has gradually spread across his face, accompanied by the appearance of those small, human wrinkles around his eyes.
“I’m Fiontan, by the way,”
he adds, extending one of his enormous hands toward you with a simplicity that makes you forget, even for a moment, that you are hiding in a closet with a film star.