"Exhausted?"
Cassius asked softly.
"A little," Kristen murmured, eyes still closed. "Those things drain you worse than a full day on set. Everyone's running on low-power performance mode—even the smiles are calculated."
Cassius chuckled, the low rumble vibrating through his chest against her cheek. "Jennifer wasn't calculating a damn thing. She was starving when she went after that burger."
Kristen smiled at the memory of Jennifer's cheeks stuffed full while she still tried to look classy. "She's always like that. But having her there makes the whole vibe feel less fake."
The car rolled into Beverly Hills and pulled up to the familiar house. Kristen kicked off her heels the second they stepped inside, toes curling against the cool hardwood. "God, it's good to be home."
The fridge was basically empty—just a few waters and some expired yogurt. Cassius remembered the frozen potstickers he'd picked up last time he hit Chinatown. They cooked together in the small kitchen, bumping elbows, the air filling with steam and the smell of garlic and ginger. It felt normal in a way their lives rarely did.
They ate on the living room floor, backs against the couch, the TV off. Just the warm glow of a lamp and the quiet clink of chopsticks.
Cassius blew on a dumpling and told her about Guardians. "Training was brutal—worse than Fast. But the set? We had this mechanical raccoon puppet. Three guys controlling it. Thing could blink and turn its head, but the timing was always off. Felt like acting with an expensive toy at first."
Kristen leaned in, eyes bright. "How'd you fix it?"
"Told the puppeteers to stop waiting for cues. Just react to me like I was the world's most annoying pet. Once they loosened up, Rocket finally felt alive."
She reached over and brushed a finger along his jaw. "That disinfectant shower scene looked miserable."
"Water was freezing. But it was one take. Gunn loved it."
They talked late, the conversation drifting from set stories to the weight of it all—how she sometimes pictured him on her worst days, how he always seemed to find the simplest fix for the messiest problems. The old comedy they eventually put on played in the background, its canned laughs soft and distant.
The next morning Rob showed up with a thick stack of papers and a tense smile.
"Voting's open. Full academy ballots went out yesterday. Six thousand members deciding who gets the gold."
He spread the documents across the coffee table. "Best Supporting Actor is wide open. Your strengths are obvious—Hunger Games global reach, that quiet intensity as Peeta, the whole commercial-to-prestige arc you've built. A lot of the younger members, especially in the actors branch, are already leaning your way."
Cassius sipped his coffee, listening.
"But the old guard's digging in," Rob continued. "Waltz and Hoffman are the frontrunners for them. Waltz's flashy European style, Hoffman's method immersion—both feel like 'real acting' to the guys who came up in the seventies and eighties. Some of those older members aren't thrilled about a actor riding a YA blockbuster to a nomination. It's not personal. It's inertia."
He flipped through the pages. "We're setting up a couple of private screenings for the swing voters. Keep it professional. Answer questions about the role, the prep, the choices. No begging. Just show them the work."
Cassius nodded. He'd expected this. The Oscar luncheon had already shown him the split—warm smiles from the new faces, cool distance from the old ones.
Across the city, academy members were opening those crisp white envelopes. A young actress in Santa Monica checked the box next to Cassius's name without hesitation. "Peeta reminded me of my little brother. Time we saw something different."
An older actor in New York stared at the ballot, shook his head, and marked Christopher Waltz instead. "Movies are art, not popularity contests."
At a producer's lunch in Beverly Hills, the conversation was the same quiet war playing out everywhere.
"Cass got momentum," one said. "But Hoffman's got the weight."
"Kid's good," another admitted. "Just not sure he's got the depth yet."
Jennifer called later that night from some loud after-party. "Ran into one of those old fossils today. He actually asked if I thought the award should go to 'real acting' this year. I told him Peeta's silence said more than most monologues ever do. He didn't like that."
Cassius laughed. "Thanks for having my back."
"Always. Now go win this thing or at least make them squirm."
Kristen curled against him on the couch afterward, voice low. "No matter what happens with the vote, you've already changed things. People see you now. The old rules don't fit as neatly anymore."
Cassius kissed the top of her head. The ballots were out there. The fight was on. But for tonight, at least, he was exactly where he wanted to be.