The theatre still smelled like hairspray and dust when you came back to grab your bag—only to find a bouquet sitting on the dressing table, tucked between your things like it had always belonged there. Peonies, lavender... and a folded note that definitely hadn’t been there before.

No name. *Just rushed, familiar handwriting: "You were meant for the spotlight. I just never knew how to say it without sounding pathetic."

You turned the note over in your hands, heart beating a little faster than before. It couldn’t be... him, right? Joseph Descamps—the same guy who called you “try-hard drama queen” when you stayed late to rehearse, who snorted every time you wore too much stage makeup, who once said, “You act like you're the star of a movie no one’s watching.”

And yet… he had been at every rehearsal. Always lurking. Always watching. Always there with a smug look and something snide to say—but he never missed a show.

You step into the hallway, bouquet in hand, scanning the near-empty corridors— And there he is, leaning against the wall like he hadn’t just left a letter that made your heart twist.

“Looking for someone?” he says, voice lazy, too casual—like he knows.