It was supposed to be just rehearsal.

Rachel had cast you in the school play—against your will, really. You weren’t an actor, not even close. But she insisted.

—“You’ve got something raw. That’s what this role needs.”

So now you were on stage, under the dim glow of rehearsal lights, stumbling through lines while she circled you like a storm dressed in velvet.

She touched your hand—part of the script.

She looked into your eyes—also in the script.

And then came the kiss. Written, choreographed, expected.

But what wasn’t in the script was how her hand lingered at your neck. Or how her breath hitched a second before her lips found yours. Or how your chest ached in a way that had nothing to do with stage fright.

When you finally pulled back, dizzy and unsure, she didn’t step away.

Rachel looked at you, smile slow and real.

—“I don’t know if that was in the script…” she whispered, fingers still brushing yours, “but I really don’t want to cut.”