Sweet Romance12 min read
"I Keep Getting Into Trouble" — How I Fell for Fletcher Wu
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“Sit down,” I told myself out loud as the car door clicked shut and the driver eased into traffic.
“I told you, your face is breaking the show,” Wade hissed from the front seat like he always did. He wears black and a scowl like it’s his job.
“You sounded like you were preaching the Ten Commandments,” Gwen snorted. Gwen always laughs at my jokes like they’re the best things ever.
“I’m listening!” I said, pretending to be studious while holding my tablet. The tablet was full of my funniest moments from the morning show—my mouth open, me laughing until I snorted, the one where I drooled on camera. Hot topics. Memes. The internet thought it was funny.
Wade snorted. “Three hot searches in one week, and all of them at your expense. Your brand value? Do you even want it?”
“I do,” I said, calm. “But being myself is cheaper.”
“You are cheap in the worst way,” Wade muttered. “Today you behave. Just be pretty and quiet. Okay?”
“Okay,” I said, smiling wide. “Pretty and quiet is my new brand.”
Gwen rolled her eyes. “You say that now, but you’re the one who splashed spaghetti on stage last month. Remember?”
“How dare you remind the public,” I answered, and Wade groaned like I’d committed a crime.
The van smelled like perfume and coffee. I flipped through fan pictures on my phone and paused when Gwen showed me a wallpaper.
“That’s him,” she said, eyes bright. She had set a picture of Fletcher on her phone—half-hidden profile, thick brows, and a mouth that seemed to believe whatever it wanted to. “Fletcher Wu. The film’s big star.”
“Fletcher Wu?” I said. The name slid across my lips like a secret. I’d heard of him, a few flickers—calm, tasteful, a face that reads like a classic poster.
Wade looked at me and said nothing. He doesn’t like messes with Fletcher. “Don’t poke him, don’t bait him, and for heaven’s sake, don’t post anything without my blessing.”
“Okay, okay,” I promised. But inside, my heart did a soft flip. I could feel it. It’s stupid but honest.
At the studio, someone called, “Hello, beautiful!” in a voice I knew. Jensen Rocha waved from the doorway. He’d been my co-star in a past drama. “We’re this way!” he shouted.
I walked straight over to Jensen. I didn’t see Fletcher until I heard the low, calm sound of him humming. He was across the room, head down at his phone. I froze.
Jensen tugged my sleeve. “You okay? You looked like you were about to faint.”
“Fine,” I lied.
On stage, the show wanted team games. My team got shuffled with Fletcher’s film. The host grinned, and the cameras rolled. Game one was simple: silent agreement. We had to guess who messes up more on set.
Three, two, one—boards up.
“Wow,” the host yelled. “Fletcher and Charlotte, same answer!”
My answer matched Fletcher’s. People cheered like we’d planned some secret sign. I smiled so wide my cheeks hurt.
During the next challenge we had to run and grab a ribbon. I tripped, and I fell hard—right into Fletcher’s chest.
Everybody laughed. I looked up. Fletcher’s face was calm and steady. He helped me up with a small smile that felt like a small apology.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Fine,” I said, and we both knew it wasn’t the full truth.
After the taping, we walked down a quiet corridor. Jensen teased me the whole way.
“You two are cute together,” Jensen said, nudging me.
“Stop,” I said, but my voice was small.
Fletcher watched me. For a second he looked younger, like someone I once knew. He reached out and smoothed a stray hair back from my face.
“Why do you call me ‘Fletcher’ like that?” I asked, feeling my face heat.
He smiled. “Because it fits.”
That night Wade said the usual: “No crazy. Keep it simple. Just promote the film. Be the pretty poster girl.”
“So boring,” I muttered.
Wade smirked. “Boring gets you job offers. Do you want more job offers?”
“Okay. Boring it is.”
I didn’t sleep. My mind swirled with the day. Fletcher sent me a simple message before midnight: Add me on WeChat. I stared at the screen for a long time. My thumb hovered, then tapped yes.
He wrote back an emoji and then: Good night, Charlotte.
I flushed and lay awake until 3 a.m., replaying his voice, the way he’d adjusted his shoulders, the way his eyes softened.
A few days later, Fletcher and I were on the same commercial for a car brand. It should have been a small thing. But then Delilah Bengtsson—an actress known for getting close to the producers—stormed the scene. She’d been rumored to be cozy with a brand exec. Then pictures surfaced: Delilah arm in arm with the company’s vice president.
The rumor wheel spun fast. Netizens said Delilah had used the VIP to get our slot. When the brand posted an apology and said it still wanted Charlotte, I thought my bad luck had turned lucky.
At their office, Mikhail Young, the regional president, met me. He had an even face, the kind that doesn’t give away plans.
“Charlotte,” he said, smiling. “We’d like you to be our face.”
“Thank you,” I said, stunned. It felt like the world tilting toward me.
After the shoot, gossip eased. My feed exploded. People loved the behind-the-scenes picture of me eating a messy plate of food. A director named Broderick Cordova texted Wade and asked whether I could read for a movie. He said simply: I like the way you eat. He said: You are right for the role. No audition.
“Movie?” I blurted to Wade. I had never expected a leap like that.
“Say yes,” Wade said. “Say yes now.”
So I did. The shooting started in July. I moved into a hotel, and I found Fletcher staying across the hall.
“You’re here?” I said, stunned.
“I came earlier,” he said. “I wanted to surprise you.”
He invited me to dinner later that night. He ordered local dishes I’d never tried—strange fried things, nuts I bit, and then laughed when I chewed.
“Try this,” he said, and then suddenly stopped. “Wash your hands.”
Fletcher held my wrist and led me to the sink. My heart pounded. His fingers were steady and warm. He said nothing, and that silence, soft and patient, felt like a promise.
After the meal we said good night and walked apart. I walked to my door and paused. He’d called me “smile” once—an old nickname from childhood I never used in the city. It made me dizzy.
The first week on set I tried to be small. I took a salad for lunch and sat under a tree with a plastic fork, pretending to be dainty. My assistant Gwen worried.
“Are you serious?” she whispered. “You look like you’ve been starved.”
“I have control,” I said, but my fork kept dropping tomatoes.
Fletcher appeared and frowned. “What are you doing? You can’t starve.”
“Just trying a diet,” I said weakly.
He made me come to his trailer. He ordered food—lots of it—and set it out like a feast.
“You’re thin enough,” he said. “Eat.”
I ate. I ate more than I wanted. He smiled a small secret smile and sat across, watching. That look of his made me burn.
After we wrapped, rumors attacked again. A tabloid tried to tie Fletcher to another actress, Judith Browning. It was a low fake. Fletcher posted on Weibo: I have my heart set on someone, and she slapped him on the back of his account. The public went wild.
“You nearly wrote my name,” I told him, embarrassed and secretly proud.
“Never without your say.” He smiled. “I won’t give you away.”
All the while, news kept stoking about my past—old college photos of me, childhood gossip—and someone dug up old videos. Wade paced with his phone. But then something worse happened. On the film set, a minor actress, Mariah Larsson, tried to add a slap scene to display dominance. She begged the director. The director refused. Later, during a take, Mariah suddenly slapped me so hard a mark bloomed on my cheek.
Everything froze.
“Action!” the director shouted. Then the slap echoed. My ear rang. The cameras kept rolling. I stood there, shocked. I did not flinch. I turned and slapped her back.
Silence.
Then the director yelled, “Cut!”
Mariah dropped to the ground like someone had pulled a string. Her face went pale, then furious.
“You—” she started, voice shaking. “You cheated! You made me look like the bad guy!”
“Director,” I said calmly. “She added a move that wasn’t in the script. I responded because the script is clear.”
They replayed the footage. On screen, the slap looked violent, but the angles showed Mariah had pushed first. The director sided with me, but Mariah screamed that I had attacked her. The social media storm exploded. People took sides.
Gwen stood up for me in the crew room. “She’s protecting Charlotte,” she said. “This is slander.”
Wade fired a lawyer’s email. We prepared statements. Mariah kept hissing and threatened legal action.
We fought back. Wade’s network of reliable accounts and some quiet private messages revealed that Mariah had other motives. She had close ties to a producer who liked to move actresses up under the table. A few days later, reality cracked the mask: Mariah’s claims were found false. The director replaced her with a better candidate, a fresh new face who was polite and took direction well. The net cooled down.
I learned something then: being kind makes you a target. But you can still be kind and not be weak.
A few nights later, a man burst into my apartment building. He claimed to be a big fan and wanted to meet me. His eyes were wild. Gwen called Wade. Wade called the police. Jensen tried to calm the man, but he lunged. Wade pinned him down until the officers arrived. My hands shook for hours.
Fletcher showed up. He took my face in both hands and looked right into my eyes.
“You’re safe,” he said. His voice was flat and steady, like a firm roof.
“I’m scared,” I whispered.
“Then come live next door to me,” Fletcher said.
“What?” I laughed, unsure if he meant it.
“I’m getting my neighbor’s place cleaned out. You can stay there for a while. It’s private. It’s safe.”
I thought of all the boundaries, all the rules. I thought of Wade’s voice at the back of my head. I thought of where the danger had come from. And then I agreed.
So we started living like two people who were trying a test. He lived next door. I made tea. He walked over early to make breakfast. Sometimes he’d bring a plate of things he knew I liked. Sometimes he’d walk me to set and kiss my knuckle before I went in.
“Do you plan to marry me?” he teased once while we sat on the couch.
“Not today,” I said, because it felt like too big a step. But inside I felt sure. He wanted to take steps, but I needed time.
Three months later the film premiered. The public adored it. One of the directors from a big studio—Roan Yue, a legendary cine-master—contacted me in the elevator and asked: I want you as my lead.
I nearly dropped my phone. Fletcher winked.
“He says you’re the one,” he told me, proud and clear.
We made another movie together. We trained. We fought gossip. We grew careful. We also fell, little by little.
Then came the awards season. Netizens loved shipping us. They made a supertopic: RomanceCP. Fans sliced and diced every photo, every move. At the film festival, Fletcher sat next to me on the red carpet. He draped his suit jacket over my shoulders during a cold air break and smoothed it down.
“You’re my person,” he said quietly into my ear when the cameras scanned us.
We were nominated for Best Actress. I watched the lights as if my future hung on each small glow.
Onstage, the host read names. Votes were tallied. When the announcer said my name—my heart jumped like a small animal.
“Thank you,” I said with the mic shaking. “Thank you to the directors who believed in me. Thank you to Fletcher for sharing light with me. We have known each other since we were kids. He has always been a hand at my back.”
Later, in the press room, a reporter asked Fletcher whether his family accepted me.
Fletcher turned and smiled. “My parents met her two months ago,” he said. “They like her. We grew up together. I plan to ask the official steps when Charlotte says the word.”
I squeezed his hand under the table.
Not everyone liked the match. Some said I was not from the right family. They mocked the gap, but Fletcher faced them head on.
“We met as kids,” he said in the interview. “That’s enough. My parents have always liked Charlotte. They will support us.”
That line pushed them into a corner. The press closed the story.
But trouble never rests. One night I found myself targeted again: a rich man, a celebrity predator named Broderick Cordova, turned his eyes to me. He tried to corner me outside a studio. Fletcher was with me. He did not speak fast; he acted. Security came. Broderick was put in his place. Photos went viral. Broderick’s father, Canyon Contreras, got involved. Fletcher asked his team to make sure Broderick could no longer hurt people.
“You will not touch her again,” Fletcher told him quietly.
Broderick tried to regain power, but his mother feared the fallout. His social reach dwindled. My lawyer filed a complaint. We moved past it.
Through everything I learned a rhythm. Scenes, lines, dinner, seasons of travel. Fletcher and I found ways to keep our lives simple. He kept courting me in small ways: flowers sent to my trailer, a short note that said “Stay” when I was tempted to leave the industry, a recipe he’d learned because I said I liked it.
We had our bad times. I worried about what people said. I worried about being used, about being less than he deserved. He worried that I kept secrets. We argued like two people trying not to burn the house down.
“Why won’t you call me?” he asked one morning after a long silence.
“I’m working,” I said. “I don’t want to bother you at work.”
“I’m not your project,” he said, soft and raw. “I want to be your life.”
I kissed him then, not clean or staged. We both laughed at how bad we were at words.
Our lives moved forward. I accepted more film offers. The public warmed to us because we never screamed at the press. We answered with calm.
One afternoon the scandal machine tried once more. Mariah returned and tried to vilify me with fake videos. She claimed we had done things off-camera. I had Wade and our lawyer ready. Fletcher stood with me, silent but strong. We let the law and truth do the work. Mariah was served papers. Her contract problems surfaced. Her network stopped supporting her. She left the scene.
The final blow came when a big photographer tried to stir gossip about a private kiss between Fletcher and me in a public garden. Fans cut the footage into fragments. The rumor machine churned. People shouted and cheered and chose sides.
At the next big awards, Fletcher and I walked the carpet again. He wore the same white as me; I wore a gown that felt like the right armor. He held my hand and guided me into the hall. My heart beat like a drum, but I felt steady because his hands were on mine.
During the Q&A he was asked when we started dating.
“We’ve known each other for years,” he said. “We grew up together. Around the corner from each other. It’s simple. I like her. I chose her.”
The room laughed and then clapped. The cameras flashed. We walked down the red carpet and held hands, and for once I felt like the world might stop being dangerous. For once, I believed we could last.
A year later, on a quiet evening, Fletcher and I stood on his balcony. The city lights were far below like small fires. I leaned on his chest.
“Are you ready?” he whispered.
“Ready for what?” I asked, because I loved his surprises.
“To make it official,” he said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small box. Not big. Not showy.
My hands shook as I opened it.
“Charlotte Coleman, will you marry me?” he asked.
I looked at him—at the tiny movement of his mouth, the two small lines by his eyes that only I noticed, the way his hands trembled.
“Yes,” I said, and I meant it, and my voice sounded like a bell.
We arranged a small party with our close friends and family. Wade cried and called me his trouble magnet. Gwen made a funny speech about how I always forgot to eat but never forgot to love. Jensen bragged about being the first to know. Fletcher’s parents wrote me a note with a neat, old handwriting that said: We are glad he is happy.
At the wedding, people said a lot of things. The photographers filled the room with clicks. But in the middle of the noise Fletcher whispered, “You belong to me,” like a private joke, and I answered back, “No. We belong to each other.”
In the years that followed I kept acting. I kept falling into myself and finding new stories. I kept tripping and laughing in public. I kept making mistakes.
Once, when we were both older and life had filled our house with the small marks of a lived day—scratches on the table, a chipped mug—someone asked me what changed the most.
I thought about Wade’s scold, Gwen’s laughs, Fletcher’s slow steady. I thought about the paparazzi, the slaps, the lawyers, the quiet dinners in trailers.
“I can eat on camera now,” I said, half-joking. “And he still says I’m perfect.”
Fletcher pinched my waist like he’d done for years. “You are,” he said.
That night, at dusk, we stood under the small tree in our yard and I pulled out my phone. I pressed play on an old clip—the very one where I laughed until I drooled. Fletcher watched.
“You remember that?” I asked.
He shrugged. “I remember everything.”
I set the phone down. We were both quiet. Then he lifted my chin with a finger.
“You always were loud,” he said. “You just learned how to shine.”
I laughed softly, and for the first time in my life I thought that being a mess, being loud, being myself—that was enough.
Later, when people asked us to tell the story of how it all began, Fletcher would tell a short version: “We met when we were kids. I kept her safe. She kept me smiling.” I would tell another: “I fell because he was the only person who stayed when I laughed and when I cried.”
The rest was quiet and true.
We finished our wine on the balcony. He leaned in and kissed my forehead.
“Promise me something,” he murmured.
“What?”
“Promise you’ll still eat like a pig on bad days.”
I hit him gently. “I promise. But you have to promise to always make the breakfast.”
“Deal.”
We stood with our mugs and our small, ordinary life. The city blinked below. I thought of that first van ride and Wade scowling. I thought of the meme that started everything and of the nights I cried because of a fan. I thought of Fletcher’s hand on my wrist in the sink.
“You know what?” I said.
“What?”
“I’m not perfect.”
“Neither am I,” he answered.
We smiled, not at each other but at the rare, quiet truth that we were enough.
Months later, when an interviewer asked me if this story was a fairytale, I answered: “Not a fairytale. A full life. Messy and loud and sweet. And I would do it all again.”
Fletcher nodded beside me and added, “And I would keep choosing her, loud laugh and all.”
I took a breath. I checked the small world we’d built, the table with its scratches, the chipped mug warming in my hands. It was ours. It was real. It was messy.
That’s the end of the story. Not a perfect end, but an honest one.
The End
— Thank you for reading —