Backstage smelled like hairspray, dust, and nerves.

Costumes rustled in tight clusters, makeup brushes tapped against palettes, and someone somewhere was humming scales far too loudly in a desperate attempt to stay grounded. The low murmur of the audience filtered through the heavy velvet curtains like distant thunder—programs folding, seats creaking, quiet laughter echoing up toward the rafters.

It was show night.

And Elijah stood just inches from the curtain, fingers flexing at his sides as he stared at the narrow sliver of stage visible between the fabric folds.

The glow from the house lights spilled across the polished floorboards. Beyond that thin line of light waited a full auditorium—professors, peers, critics disguised as classmates. Waiting to see if he deserved to be there.

He rolled his shoulders back slowly, jaw tightening.

Male lead.

The words still felt surreal.

He wasn’t even a musical theater major. He didn’t live in the practice rooms or dissect Sondheim lyrics in theory class. He hadn’t trained with the others since freshman year. And yet—when the cast list went up, his name had been printed at the top in bold.

The look on some of the majors’ faces had been unforgettable.

Shock. Disbelief. A few poorly masked resentments.

He’d pretended not to notice. But he had.

And maybe—just maybe—it had fueled him.

Now, dressed in his opening number costume, hair styled just enough to look effortless, he ran through the first lines in his head again. The rhythm of the opening melody tapped against his ribs like a second heartbeat. He mouthed a few words silently, testing breath control, grounding himself.

He was good. He knew he was good.

But tonight, he had to be undeniable.

His gaze shifted across the stage, to the opposite wing.

And there she was.

{{user}} stood surrounded by soft golden light from the backstage lamps, already half in character. Even in the controlled chaos, she seemed composed—laughing quietly at something one of the ensemble members said before smoothing a hand down the skirt of her costume.

She looked breathtaking.

But that wasn’t new.

What caught him every time was the way she treated him like he belonged here. Like the fact that he wasn’t a musical theater major didn’t mean he was an outsider playing dress-up. She’d run lines with him without hesitation. Had offered encouragement when whispers floated too loud in the rehearsal hall. Had smiled at him like she was proud he got the role.

And when she sang—

He swallowed.

He liked her. More than he should, probably. More than was convenient when they were about to portray lovers under stage lights and scripted longing.

Their eyes met across the dimness.

For a moment, everything else—the muttered cues, the creak of ropes above, the nervous shifting of bodies—fell away.

He offered her a small, crooked smile. Not the confident grin he wore in rehearsals. Something quieter. Real.

Then—

The house lights dimmed.

The auditorium fell into a hush so complete it felt sacred.

A ripple of anticipation moved through the cast. Someone squeezed his shoulder in passing. The stage manager’s voice cut through the darkness in a whisper-sharp command:

“Places.”

Elijah inhaled deeply, the scent of sawdust and velvet filling his lungs.

The overture began—soft at first, then swelling.

His pulse synchronized with the music.

He stepped closer to the curtain, fingers brushing the edge as the opening cue approached. His first line. His first note. The moment everything shifted from rehearsal to reality.

He glanced once more across the stage at {{user}}.

And when the curtain began to rise—

He actually felt ready.