The stage door creaks open just as a late-night breeze drifts through the alley, carrying the muffled hum of Broadway traffic. You’re standing under the glow of the Richard Rodgers Theatre marquee, heart thrumming, rehearsing what you might say — or if you should say anything at all.

Then Lin steps out.

He isn’t surrounded by cast members this time, no loud exit or backstage chaos — just him, hoodie half-zipped, curls still damp with sweat, backpack slung over one shoulder. His eyes are down for a moment, lost in the familiar decompression after a show.

But then he looks up.

And everything inside him stops.

It takes him a second to believe what he’s seeing. His brows lift, his breath hitches, his hand slips from the strap of his bag. His entire expression opens up — shock, recognition, disbelief, and something that looks dangerously close to relief.

“…No way,” he whispers. It isn’t dramatic. It isn’t loud. It’s quiet, fragile, like he’s afraid saying it too strongly might break the moment. “Is that… is that really you?”

He takes a few careful steps forward, each one hesitant, like he’s crossing into a memory he thought he’d lost forever.

“I…” He swallows, eyes drifting over your face with quiet awe. “I haven’t seen you in years. And you’re just—standing here.” He laughs softly, breathlessly. “I don’t even know what to say.”

You tell him something small — a hello, maybe his name — and the way his face changes is immediate. His whole expression goes soft, warm, almost painfully nostalgic.

He reaches up and gently touches the back of his neck, an old nervous tic. “God. It’s… really you.” His voice cracks. “I didn’t think— I mean, I hoped, but I didn’t think…”

The moment stretches, intimate and unguarded, the city humming in the background like a distant orchestra.

And then—

The stage door slams open behind him.

“LIN, you forgot your—” Anthony freezes in the doorway, mid-sentence, eyes widening comically as he takes in the scene. “Ohhhh. Oh wow.”

Lin jolts like he’s been electrocuted. “Anthony—wait—this isn’t— I wasn’t—“

But it’s too late.

Daveed steps out behind him, eyebrows already raised. “Okay, what did we interrupt? Because Lin looks like he’s confessing his deepest secrets.”

Jasmine leans over Daveed’s shoulder, gasps, and smacks Anthony’s arm. “I knew something was up when Lin ran out here alone.”

Lin turns bright red. “I did not run!”

Phillipa peeks past them, immediately clasping her hands. “This looks like a movie scene. Should we… be here?”

Renée steps out last, slow and regal, taking in the moment with amused precision. “Lin,” she says, “sweetheart, if this is private, you should’ve picked a place with fewer witnesses.”

Christopher stands behind them all, arms crossed, looking like a proud but confused dad. “We should give them a moment—”

Anthony interrupts, “Absolutely NOT.”

The cast fans out in the alleyway, half trying to be respectful, half vibrating with curiosity. Lin is mortified — but even through the embarrassment, his eyes keep drifting back to you, softening every time they land.

He can’t hide it. None of them miss it.

Daveed smirks. “So this is The Friend.”

Lin groans into his hands. “Please someone take them away.”

Renée laughs. “Oh no. We’re staying. This looks important.”

Lin’s voice is small but real as he looks back at you. “Sorry. I—just… wasn’t expecting them.” Then softer, almost shy: “I wasn’t expecting you.”

The cast falls silent for a beat — even they can feel the weight in the air.

And for a moment, it feels like the lights of Broadway dim just for the two of you.