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It was one of those soft, slow Friday afternoons where time seemed to stretch itself out like taffy hazy sunlight slanting through the windshield.

Amélie's voice low as she hummed along to an old Serge Gainsbourg track, the kind her mother used to play when she was little.

The gate buzzed open with a familiar whir, and she coasted up the long driveway toward the Beaumont family home — a white-brick house with ivy creeping up its sides, nestled on a hill just far enough from LA to feel like a different world.

The air was quieter here, scented faintly with eucalyptus and the citrus trees her mom swore by.

As she stepped out of the car, she could already hear the muffled chaos inside — drawers slamming, a faint "Where is my sunscreen?!" — and she smiled.

Her boots clicked on the flagstone steps as she pushed the door open.

"Amé!" her father's voice boomed from the foyer before she even crossed the threshold.

"Papa," she grinned, arms instantly open.

Johnny Beaumont had aged like good whiskey — silver at the temples, a day-old beard, and eyes still bright with mischief.

He pulled her into a bear hug, the scent of leather and cedarwood clinging to his flannel jacket.

"You're just in time to say goodbye to us," he said, ruffling her hair as if she were still five. "The boys' trip leaves in five."

"Boys' trip? With Jack?" she teased, dropping her bag by the stairs. "Does he even count as a man yet?"

"Hey!" came a shout from the kitchen.

Jack, 23 and still infuriatingly charming, appeared holding a cooler and wearing a backwards cap. "I'm carrying the beer and the fishing rods, I think I qualify."

Johnny laughed, slapping his son on the back. "You qualify as comic relief."

Vanessa appeared at the end of the hallway, barefoot, her hair twisted up in that signature undone way that still somehow looked like a Vogue shoot.

She wore high-waisted linen trousers and a sleeveless knit top that hugged her frame, and she carried a zip-up bag in one hand.

"Jack, you forgot your charger again," she called, tossing it to him before gliding over to kiss Amélie on both cheeks. "Bonjour, ma chérie. You made it just in time."

"I wouldn't miss this chaos for anything," Amélie said, sinking into her mother's hug.

There was always something grounding about Vanessa's embrace — warm, familiar, and faintly perfumed with orange blossom and sandalwood.

"I'll only be gone for two days!" Johnny called over his shoulder as he walked toward the SUV, fishing rod bumping against the doorframe.

"That's two days too many," Vanessa called back. "And no junk food this time!"

"I make no promises," Johnny said, already halfway down the drive. "Amé, take care of your mother, yeah?"

Vanessa waved as the car backed out, the tires crunching softly against the gravel.

Then the house was still again — just the hum of the fridge, the distant rustle of wind through the trees, and the soft creak of the wooden floor as Vanessa turned back toward the kitchen.

"Wine?" she asked.

"Obviously."

They settled in the sunroom, where the golden light slanted in through gauzy white curtains, painting everything with a warm glow.

Vanessa poured them each a glass of Sancerre, and they curled up on opposite ends of the couch, legs tucked beneath them.

They talked for an hour — about campaign rumors, designers behaving badly, who showed up to Cannes with someone else's wife.

Vanessa had her insider stories, her well-raised brows, and her effortlessly judgmental French sighs. Amélie laughed until her cheeks hurt.

After a while, her mom got up to start dinner, and Amélie padded upstairs to her childhood room — the one they never remodeled, just updated.

The walls were still a pale, misty rose, her old ballet slippers hung from one hook, and her bookshelf remained stacked with well-worn paperbacks and vintage fashion magazines.

She dropped her duffel bag onto the bed and flopped back dramatically, her hair spilling across the comforter.

She stretched for her laptop from the side table and opened it with a lazy flick.

The glow lit up her face as she typed in David Corenswet.

"Okay, let's see what all the fuss is about."

The Google Images tab loaded instantly, and Amélie blinked. Then blinked again.

"Oh. Fuck Superman is hot."

She clicked a few pictures — some red carpet, some stills from Pearl, and then one of him smiling in a behind-the-scenes shot that made her audibly exhale.

His eyes had that kind of old-Hollywood depth. The kind that made you look twice. Or five times.

She pulled her hoodie sleeves over her hands, brows lifting slightly as she whispered to no one, "I mean... okay."

Downstairs, she could hear the familiar clinking of her mom in the kitchen.

Somewhere in the distance, the faint call of cicadas buzzed into the coming dusk.

Amélie let herself sink into the mattress, balancing her laptop on her thighs scrolling through images of her new co-star and thinking.

Just maybe — this job was going to be more interesting than she expected.