"Ah!"
A terrified scream rips free, hoarse and sharp, slicing through the night like a nightmare jolt. Ronan, mid-leap in carefree celebration, freezes, startled. He scans for danger, fists clenched in a fighting stance, eyes darting around warily.
"What's wrong? What's happening!"
But there's no one—no threat, no movement. Then he spots Bruno, curled up tight against the beach chair's backrest, face still etched with fading panic. That scream? Definitely his.
Bruno, still rattled, sizes up the scene, his expression shifting—hard to read what's going on.
Ronan steps forward. "Bruno, you okay?"
His sharp eyes catch Bruno's tense muscles and frozen look. He doesn't get it at first, but a second later, it clicks. Still, he holds back, staying put—no advance, no retreat—just reining in his instincts.
"Bruno?" Ronan softens his voice, checking in with concern but keeping it brief, just gauging Bruno's state.
He says nothing more, but his stance and vibe say plenty. Bruno catches on fast—he's been found out.
"Ah…"
This time it's a groan of frustration, laced with pained struggle. Bruno yanks off his hat, burying his face in it. He leans back hard, a gurgling mess of sounds bubbling from his throat as he vents his exasperation with everything he's got.
Turns out… it's a total misunderstanding.
Bruno knows it too, but his flustered reaction? Beyond words. "Just now…" He starts, then groans again, smacking his forehead with a crisp thwack, laughing at the absurdity.
Moments ago, Ronan's big leap cast a tall, lanky shadow—like a clawed giant lunging. Bruno jumped, legit spooked, thinking it was some shadow ninja. Mostly, he'd misjudged Ronan's height big-time.
From Ronan's clean-cut face, Bruno pegged him at average—maybe 5'10" or so.
Bruno's always been touchy about his own height. Back at Motown, the label and marketing folks flat-out said his 5'5" frame—shorter than the average woman—couldn't cut it as a pop star, let alone front-stage material.
So, yeah, height's a sore spot.
Then Ronan stands up like a mini-titan, his shadow swallowing Bruno whole.
If that was it, Bruno might've just been surprised—not a full-on freakout. He's met plenty of giants, NBA players included. But Ronan's height—easily 6'1" or more—shatters his guess. In the dim light, that shadow blurs and stretches, a 6'6" monster no stretch of the imagination. The shock, amped by Ronan's sudden celebratory jump, just… hits.
"God! Where'd you come from, you giant?"
Bruno clears his throat, poking fun to play off his embarrassment, then sits up casually. After a beat, he stands.
He edges closer to Ronan, realizing his head barely reaches Ronan's chest. He shakes his head, waving it off. "Jesus Christ, you're like Gandalf crammed into Frodo's house, limbs all tangled. What's the deal?"
"Huh?" Ronan doesn't catch the reference.
Bruno's eyes widen. "'Lord of the Rings'? Hobbits? Grey wizard?" He rattles off clues. "When Gandalf first visits the Shire…" But Ronan's confusion lingers, so Bruno drops it. "Forget it. What planet are you from?"
"There's only one Mars in the galaxy, right?" Ronan deadpans.
Bruno chokes, stunned, then claps and cracks up. "You're messing with me, huh? For real, I'm hyped for your show now."
"So you mean 'earlier hype wasn't real, but now it is'?" Ronan's nitpicky jab freezes Bruno's face mid-laugh. Just as Bruno braces for a dig, Ronan flips it. "Good to know. At least now it's legit."
This…
Ronan studies Bruno's expression a moment longer, then throws up his hands, fists pumping in a mock cheer. "Oh yeah!"
"Hahaha!" Bruno can't hold it in, tipping his head back to laugh. Two chuckles in, a thick wad of phlegm surges up. He glances around, dashes to the poolside trash can, and spits it out.
Gross sight.
But Bruno's thrilled. That chest-clogging gunk's finally gone, his breathing clear. He's got a hunch—Washington's gig is gonna rock.
"Come on! Let's head back and crack a Jack Daniel's to celebrate." Bruno waves Ronan over.
Ronan's clueless about "Jack Daniel's"—probably booze, though. Americans love brand-dropping. To protect his voice, alcohol's the last thing he needs. Plus, even if it's not, he's got big stuff to wrap up.
"Sorry, uh, Bruno… I wanna head back and tell my bandmates we nabbed this gig…" Ronan's tone carries a twinge of regret. If Bruno Mars hollered at the hotel entrance, half the world would jump to drink with him.
Truth is, Ronan's super tempted. But with his voice and the upcoming show on the line, he can't risk screwing it up.
Bruno doesn't overthink it. He slaps his forehead, light dawning. "Right, of course! They're dying to hear good news—probably won't sleep a wink tonight."
He's been there—real-deal jitters. Can't eat, can't sleep, heart yo-yoing between hope and dread, no calm in sight.
How could he fault Ronan's urgency?
Plus, Bruno digs Ronan's honesty, his realness.