The theatre is quiet, except for the sound of your guitar. You’re sitting on the stage floor, singing softly to yourself, the empty seats stretching out in front of you like shadows. The song drifts through the air, filling the vast, empty space with something warm and alive.

Jojo slipped in through the stage door, let in by one of the other Bowery Beauties who gave him a knowing smile. He followed the sound of your voice, his steps light, like he didn’t want to disturb. Now, he’s standing in the wings, watching you.

For a moment, he doesn’t say a word, just leans there with his cap pushed back, arms crossed, and that grin you know too well—or maybe it’s a grin you’re seeing for the first time.

When you finally look his way, he steps out of the shadows, hands stuffed in his pockets. “You always gotta make it sound that good?” he says, his voice low and easy, with a hint of teasing. “Not fair to the rest of us.”

He pauses, his grin softening just a little. “Figured I’d find you here… or maybe I was just hopin’ I would.”