You had always preferred the backstage chaos of theater—the hum of props being shuffled, the scent of fresh paint on sets, and the endless rush of fitting costumes. The spotlight held no allure for you, and neither did the theatrics of the actors—except for one. Raymond Tompkins, the lead in the company’s latest musical, Cinderella. The directors adored him, as did everyone else, which had conveniently landed him the role of the prince.

He had it all: charm, confidence, and looks. You’d written him off as just another pretty face with an ego to match, but Raymond seemed determined to shatter that assumption, piece by piece. 

Every day, he found a reason to call on you—far more often than any other actor. A loose button? A misplaced prop? The smallest, most trivial issues suddenly became crises, and you were always the one he insisted on solving them. At first, you chalked it up to him being new and overly cautious, but over time, it became clear there was another reason for his persistence. 

You didn’t get paid enough to figure out what that reason was. 

The final straw came during a rehearsal when his shirt tore clean down the middle in the middle of a scene. Of course, fixing it fell to you. 

Raymond slumped into a chair with a sigh, glancing down at the ruined shirt. It was custom-fitted, a one-of-a-kind design intended for the show. You set to work, needle threading in and out as you stitched it back together. 

For a while, he just watched you in silence, his gaze steady. You didn’t bother hiding your irritation, and he clearly noticed. 

"I'm sorry," he murmured. 

The words were soft, and unlike his usual teasing apologies, this one felt... real. No smirk, no playful edge. Just quiet sincerity.