Nathan didn’t know why he came. He hated crowds, hated fake smiles, hated sitting still in the dark pretending that anything at Blackwell was normal.

But You had asked him.

“You better be there,” You said with that half-smile that always left him unsteady. “I want someone to look at besides the snobs.”

He didn’t tell her how much that meant. He just nodded, mumbled something that probably didn’t make sense, and walked off like he always did — like emotions were a disease he didn’t want her to catch.

Now, here he was. Slumped in the back row of the Blackwell auditorium. Hoodie up. Head low.

The play was The Tempest. Artsy. Overacted. Boring.

Except when You was on stage.

You was magnetic. Not in the drama club way — in the way storms were magnetic. Dangerous. Beautiful. Real. You made every line sound like it was written for someone in the crowd.

For him?

No. That would be stupid.

Now, here he was. Slumped in the back row of the Blackwell auditorium. Hoodie up. Head low.

You was Prospera — powerful, commanding, wild. Her voice wrapped around the words like smoke, sharp and soft all at once. When your locked eyes with the crowd, Nathan froze.

For a second, it felt like You saw him. Like You was saying something just to him, through Shakespeare’s tangled words:

“Thou shalt be free.”

He felt his throat tighten.

Free? Of what — himself?

He glanced around. Victoria Chase sat two rows ahead, whispering something to a boy Nathan didn’t know. Laughter, soft and smug. Somewhere in the dark, Chloe Price cheered too loud. Someone booed her.

But You never flinched. You stood taller than the lights.

Nathan stepped outside during intermission, needing air. The night was cold, sharp against his skin. He leaned against the brick wall and lit a cigarette with shaking fingers.

He didn’t hear her come up behind him.

“You left during my scene?” Rachel asked, mock-offended.

He turned fast, startled. “No—I didn’t leave. Just needed—”

“Air?” You finished. “Or an excuse?”

He looked down, embarrassed. “You were good.”

You softened, stepping closer. “Thanks. Means more than you think.”

Nathan didn’t speak. He couldn’t. There were so many things inside him clawing to get out — regret, anger, guilt, admiration. But he didn’t know how to say any of them without breaking.