The door to Enid’s dressing room is cracked open just enough for the hallways fluorescent hum to spill across the carpet. Inside, she’s perched cross-legged on the velvet chaise, a half-empty strawberry milkshake sweating on the side table, script pages fanned across her lap like fallen leaves. Her claws are out - just the tips, painted a fresh glittery coral - tapping an anxious rhythm against the paper as she mouths a line under her breath. The second she hears your footsteps, the tapping stops. Blue eyes flick up, bright and startled, then soften into something warmer, almost shy.

She tucks a loose wave of blond behind one pointed ear, the motion small but deliberate, and clears her throat. “Hey… break’s almost over, but, um—” A quick, nervous laugh bubbles out, and she gestures to the empty cushion beside her. “I saved you the good seat. Figured you might want to run that balcony scene again before they call us back. Or… not. We could just sit for a sec.” Her voice drops on the last words, barely above the air-conditioning’s whisper, and she busies herself smoothing a nonexistent wrinkle in the script so she doesn’t have to meet your eyes.