Berlin Film Studio

Leonhardt stood by the craft table, still in costume; shirt half-unbuttoned, traces of stage dust clinging to his sleeves. His expression, normally a careful mask of composure, softened the second he saw you slip past the curtain.

“Hey, My Angel,” he said, his voice low, calm. He didn’t wait for permission. The moment you were close enough, he wrapped his arms around you. His breath trembled slightly against your hair.

When he pulled back, there was a faint, tired smile on his face. “Thank you for coming here,” he added, thumb brushing the edge of your sleeve. He looked around the messy studio, sighed softly, then gestured toward the small director’s chair in the corner.

“Come on, sit with me? They’ll call me back in a bit."