The next morning, sunlight spilled across Leon's face.
He woke up without the sting of a hangover, but a worse kind of ache gnawed at him: indecision.
It was like two armies were battling in his head, one waving Anne's flag—vibrant and fiery—while the other carried Scarlett's emblem, familiar yet elusive.
The tug-of-war wasn't sharp, but it was relentless, grinding him down.
He reached for his phone. The screen lit up, and Scarlett's message from last night sat at the top.
[Filming for the Paris safehouse scene done? Completely 'safe' now? (lol)]
That little "lol" in parentheses was like a gentle hook, tugging him toward her.
He stared at it for a few seconds, the memory of Anne's reckless abandon in the fire escape last night still warm and vivid.
He let out a frustrated tsk and typed a quick reply:
[Just woke up. Wrap party got a bit wild. Still kinda buzzed.]
He sent it and set the phone down, only for a warm, soft body to press against him from behind.
Anne's arms wrapped around his waist, her face nuzzling into his back, her voice husky and lazy from sleep.
"What time is it?"
"Still early," Leon said, not turning around, letting her stay pressed against him.
Her warmth seeped through his skin.
"Your heart's racing," she mumbled, her fingers absentmindedly tracing circles on his stomach.
"Holding it in," Leon shot back, grabbing her wandering hand with mock irritation.
This woman—awake, she was like a human space heater, her presence impossible to ignore.
She giggled, then tugged him around to face her.
In the morning light, her hair was a mess, her face bare, but her eyes sparkled with an intensity that didn't bother hiding.
"Good morning, Professor Leon!" she teased.
"Morning," he replied, meeting her gaze. Oddly, the nagging indecision in his head eased a bit.
At least this—her—was real, alive, and right here in front of him.
She leaned in and kissed him.
Not the wild, alcohol-fueled kisses from last night, but a soft, tentative morning kiss, like a small animal staking its claim.
Leon paused, then returned it. Brief, but clear. When they pulled apart, their breathing was a little uneven.
"What's the plan today?" she asked, twirling a strand of his hair around her finger.
"Just chilling," Leon said simply. "No plans."
The days after wrapping the shoot felt stolen, slow and indulgent.
They really did just hang out.
Like any couple fresh off a grueling job, desperate to recharge, they used laziness as a shield against the world's noise.
They sprawled in the apartment, binge-watching trashy reality shows, roasting the contestants' over-the-top acting and the judges' brain-dead decisions.
Anne's laugh was infectious—she'd lose it over the dumbest things, rolling into his lap, gasping for air.
They'd throw on big sunglasses and wander the streets, watching buskers perform. Anne would sneak a few bills into their hats, and Leon would tease her for being a softie with cash to burn.
They hunted down hole-in-the-wall diners, where Anne would obsess over calories while Leon deliberately ordered the greasiest burger, breaking off a piece to tempt her. She'd wrestle with herself before taking a tiny, defiant bite, like a cat sneaking a treat.
It was ordinary.
It was mundane.
Almost… plain.
But Leon found he didn't mind.
This kind of ease was something he hadn't felt since his rebirth.
Anne, when you stripped away her bold, all-in energy, was kind of a goofball—low laugh threshold, always hungry, a touch willful.
But she was sharp, quick to catch his jokes, and when she threw shade, it was clever and cutting, never pandering like some small-time actress.
One time, she sat cross-legged on the rug, hugging a bowl of salad, munching while glued to the TV news. Her profile in the afternoon light looked soft, almost… innocently sweet.
In that moment, the mix of her youthful freshness and lingering clumsiness hit Leon like a freight train.
The Princess Diaries.
The title flashed in his mind like a pre-programmed code, instantly activated.
Anne Hathaway. Mia Thermopolis.
The role that would launch her into the stratosphere, make her a household name, and secure her place in Hollywood.
He watched her, his chest tightening.
Right now, Anne was a wildcard, forged in the grit of B-movies, with a scrappy survival instinct and a messy, tangled connection to him that had just started to take shape.
This path… it was off course.
Shaky. Wasteful.
She was meant to be the girl with the frizzy hair and dorky glasses, tripping down stairs but dazzling everyone as a princess in the end.
She needed that role.
And that role was meant to be hers.
A crystal-clear idea crashed into his mind.
He had to make The Princess Diaries happen.
Not wait for some clueless producer to stumble across it—he, Leon, would write the script, register it, and lock down the rights himself.
Why? Hell.
Maybe a flicker of responsibility he didn't want to admit?
Maybe a hunter's instinct to mark and invest in a rare prize?
Or maybe just a producer's gut, itching to shape raw talent into something extraordinary?
Or, simplest of all—he knew it was a surefire hit.
"Why're you staring? Got salad dressing on my face?" Anne asked, turning to touch her cheek.
"You eat like a rabbit," Leon said, looking away, his tone flat, hiding the ripple of thoughts beneath.
But once the plan took shape, it consumed every spare brain cell.
It needed a computer. It needed quiet.
Making up an excuse about an urgent contract clause, he shooed Anne off to watch TV in the bedroom.
He shut himself in the study, closed the door, and the world went silent.
He opened his laptop and started a new document.
His fingers hovered for a moment.
Then they hit the keys.
The clatter of typing filled the room.
Title: The Princess Diaries
Writer: Leon (He typed it without hesitation—why waste a rebirth perk?)
Genre: Comedy/Coming-of-Age
Logline: San Francisco. An awkward, socially anxious high school girl, Mia, with frizzy hair and big glasses, discovers she's the sole heir to the throne of a small European country, Genovia. A stern but elegant queen grandmother swoops in. A disastrous princess makeover ensues. Ugly duckling to swan. Friendship, first love, and finding confidence and responsibility.
He built the structure, fleshing out the script.
Key moments, iconic scenes, memorable lines…
Thanks to his damn rebirth cheat code, it was all as clear as a hard drive in his brain.
Mia and her best friend Lilly's snarky banter.
The queen's arrival, dropping a "royal bombshell."
Grueling etiquette lessons, fashion disasters, hair catastrophes…
The high school mean girls, the crush, the jaw-dropping prom moment (and the near face-plant)…
The final choice, the growth arc.
He wrote fast, barely pausing.
Inspiration—or rather, memory—poured out.
Occasionally, Anne called out, "You done yet? This movie's boring as hell!"
"Almost. Be good," he'd reply, like he was soothing a pet.
He kept typing.
Some nights, he waited until she was asleep, then crept to the living room to keep writing.
The glow of the screen lit his face, his expression locked in focus.
One night, he was deep in a scene—Mia's first post-makeover reveal, his fingers flying—when he didn't notice a figure slip out of the bedroom, barefoot, moving like a cat.
Anne, bleary-eyed, meant to ask why he wasn't in bed. Then her eyes landed on the glowing screen.
[…Mia stares at the stranger in the mirror, radiant and unfamiliar, her trembling fingers brushing the sleek updo, the expensive gown… She barely recognizes herself…]
[Her grandmother, the queen, stands behind her, pride shining unmasked in her eyes for the first time…]
["It suits you, my dear," the queen says…]
Anne's breath caught.
Her eyes widened, sleep gone.
She read the leaping words silently, the vivid imagery hitting her like a wave.
The clumsy, lovable girl, the stern yet tender grandmother, the funny, heart-pounding details…
Leon finally sensed her presence and spun around.
Anne stood there, swimming in his T-shirt, its hem grazing her thighs, her eyes wide as saucers. She pointed at the screen, her voice trembling with excitement.
"What… what is this?"
Leon froze mid-motion, caught red-handed. "Nothing," he said with a tsk. "Just messing around with some writing."
"You're lying!" Anne lunged forward, grabbing his arm, her eyes sparkling like they held stars.
"I saw it! Mia! A princess! That grandmother… Oh my God! This story's amazing! You're writing a script?"
He raised an eyebrow. "Yeah. So?"
"Who's it for?" she pressed, shaking his arm.
Leon looked at her, silent for two seconds, then flashed a slightly smug grin, brushing his knuckles across her cheek.
"Who do you think? Can't you tell, my clueless princess?"
The air stilled for a beat.
Then—
"Ahh—!"
Anne let out a squeal, launching herself at him like a lit firecracker, wrapping her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist, clinging to him like a kid with a prize.
"For real? You wrote this for me? Leon! Leon!"
She was incoherent, shrieking in his ear, shaking with excitement.
"I love it! I love it so much! Oh my God! The Princess Diaries! That title's perfect! Mia! I'm Mia!"
Leon stumbled back a step, catching her to keep them from toppling over.
She was trembling with joy, like a kid unwrapping her dream gift.
A strange mix of satisfaction and a quiet, possessive thrill swelled in his chest.
"Shut up, you're too loud!" he grumbled, but his lips betrayed him, curving upward.
"No way!" Anne loosened her grip just enough to stare at him, eyes glittering, then grabbed his face and planted a loud, smacking kiss on him.
"You're amazing! Leon! How did you know I'd love this story? You're a genius!"
She hopped down, barefoot on the rug, spinning in circles, muttering to herself as she imagined playing Mia.
Leon watched her, nearly tearing up with joy, his feelings tangled.
Her excitement was pure, fiery, all for a future that hadn't yet arrived.
And he held the key to that future.
Leon spent a few days finishing the first draft.
The printer hummed, spitting out pages still warm with ink.
He proofread it carefully, then stuffed the thick stack of script pages, along with the necessary forms, into a large envelope.
He drove to the post office, bought the right stamps, opted for the most secure registered mail with a return receipt, and slid the envelope into the blue mailbox himself.
Watching the postal worker take it away, he leaned against his car and lit a cigarette.
The process was done, the proof in hand.
Legally, this thing had taken root, locked tight.
No one was touching his masterpiece anytime soon.
A few days later, he received confirmation from the WGA, along with two copies of the registration certificate, complete with official stamps and numbers.
He locked one copy in his room's safe.
Seeing that legally binding document, the weight in his chest finally lifted.
It was real. Set in stone.
As he pondered the next steps, the old landline phone in the room screeched, shattering the afternoon quiet.
Leon tsked and picked it up.
It was Aaron's voice:
"Leon! Wrap party! Texas Chainsaw is a hit, and we gotta celebrate big! Time and place are coming via fax—check it! You better show!"
After hanging up, Leon shuffled downstairs in his slippers to the fax machine.
Sure enough, a freshly printed fax waited.
It was an invite to the Texas Chainsaw Massacre: The Next Generation wrap party, worded formally with a touch of late-'90s flair.
Attached was a guest list, the ink still slightly damp.
His finger slid down the names, and one jumped out—Scarlett Johansson.
He held the fax, letting out a small breath, the paper crinkling faintly.
Good. Anne wasn't in this movie, so her name wasn't on the list.
That meant she wouldn't be at the party.
For now, he wouldn't have to face the nightmare scenario of both women in the same room—a situation so tense it'd take Oscar-worthy acting to navigate.
The fax felt like a temporary get-out-of-jail-free card.
He replied: [Got it. I'll be there.]
Setting the phone down, he looked up to see Anne coming in from the balcony, humming, her face still flushed with excitement from learning about "her" script.
Leon watched her, his gaze complicated.
The balcony glowed with sunlight, Anne's young, vibrant figure wrapped in a bathrobe, her damp hair catching the light, humming a melody from a Princess Diaries song he'd just written.
Inside, the computer held a freshly registered script that could change her life.
On the table, his phone carried an invite to a party tied to another world, another woman.
Anne spotted him and grinned, running over to throw herself into his arms.
"I was just thinking about that scene where Mia meets the queen for the first time…"
Leon caught her, breathing in the scent of water and sunshine in her hair.
"Yeah," he said, his arms wrapping around her. The sunlight was a bit blinding.
That nagging indecision headache crept back, faint but persistent.