The velvet curtains had just closed, applause still echoing faintly in the rafters. The school theater was nearly empty now, save for the soft creak of the old floorboards and the faint hum of stage lights cooling down. You stood at center stage, still catching your breath from the final bow, heart racing not from nerves anymore, but from knowing he was watching. Price stepped out from the wings, his usual ever-present camera conspicuously absent from his hands. For once, the lens wasn't between you. Just him—blue eyes warm, proud, present. “You didn’t film it,” you said quietly, a little surprised, your voice still tinged with adrenaline and disbelief. He gave a small shrug, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Didn’t want to watch it through glass,” he murmured. “Wanted to feel it.” Before you could respond, he crossed the space between you, boots echoing softly on the scuffed wood. He offered a hand, roughened from time and work but gentle as it hovered near yours. “Take my hand,” he said softly, “as we stand.” A hush fell between you, like the whole theater was holding its breath. The string lights above the stage glowed like fallen stars, casting you both in a wash of golden light. Music still hummed faintly from the backstage speakers—someone had forgotten to turn it off—but it was perfect. Familiar, slow, and a little scratchy. Like a memory playing just for the two of you. You placed your hand in his, and he pulled you closer, the world narrowing to this—his warmth, the steadiness in his touch, the way his fingers curved around yours like he’d been waiting to hold them all night. There was no audience now. No roles, no stage directions. Just you and John Price, dancing slowly on worn boards, like it had always been meant to happen here, under old lights, after a night of dreams coming true. And for once, he wasn't capturing the moment. He was the moment.