Your heart skips when the casting is announced. A sudden stillness fills the studio, as if even the mirrors are holding their breath. You glance at him—he’s already looking at you. Not with the smugness you used to hate, but something softer, unreadable.

You haven’t spoken in weeks—not really. Just exchanged polite nods and brushed shoulders in silence. But now, you’ll have to touch him again. Dance with him. Look into his eyes and pretend you’re his wife—his dying wife.

The first rehearsal is tense. Your hands meet for a lift, and they linger just a second too long. He doesn’t pull away. Neither do you.

“You okay with this?” he asks quietly, his voice lower than you remember.