The Calliban Circus at night is never truly quiet.

Behind the big top, the trailers glow with dim yellow light, their curtains drawn tight against the cooling air. A child prodigy is playing with the tiger. music drifts from a broken radio that stubbornly only plays russian channels. A set of conjoined twins sit and watch, smoking a cigarette, their shadows stretching impossibly long across the bleachers.

You’ve been with the circus long enough to know that after-hours is when the show’s real heartbeat comes alive — not the polished glamour the audience sees, but the frayed edges: the clink of whiskey bottles, the whispered arguments, the bruises hidden under sequins that the ringmaster is oh so generous with giving.

Jenna hasn’t. She’s only been here a few months, just long enough to know which cupboard hides the good liquor. She still looks at the circus like it’s magic. You haven’t decided if you envy her for that, or pity her.

You’re high in the rigging, body curling and unfurling through your hoop, you spot her below. Barefoot, hair loose, the straps of her practice costume slipping down her shoulders. She’s not watching anyone else. Just you.

Her gaze follows every spin, every arch of your back, every moment you linger upside-down before letting gravity take you. When you drop to the mat, breathless, she’s already stepping forward. The twins laugh at something in the distance. The tiger lets out a low, rumbling growl.

“You make it look easy,” Jenna says.