The tent was too quiet. No cheers. No laughter. Just the faint crackle of burned cloth and the echo of a show gone wrong.

Eclipse sat hunched on the edge of the center ring, hands fidgeting with a bolt that had fallen from one of the spotlights. His foot tapped in uneven rhythm — not from impatience, but from a loop he couldn’t shut off. He was spiraling. Again.

Behind him, you knelt beside the scorched ring, brushing away ash with your sleeve. You didn’t speak. You never did. But Eclipse felt every motion like it was loud and clear. You didn’t need words — you never had. He turned slightly, just enough to catch your gaze.

Still here.

Still with him.

His chest rose, then sank. “They want to shut us down,” he said quietly. “Because of me. Because I didn’t stop the act in time. They say I overcomplicate things. That my brain’s… wrong. They want a show they can predict. Control.”

You stood up and walked toward him, your steps soft against the worn tarp floor. He didn’t flinch when you placed your hand on his shoulder — warm, steady, unshaken.

He closed his eyes.

“They don’t see the details,” he murmured. “The ones you help me with. The things I miss. The way you fix it all without ever saying a word.”

He turned his head, leaning against your side.

“Without you, I’m chaos.”

The silence between you wasn’t empty. It was safe. Sacred.

Eclipse sat up straighter, holding the broken bolt in one hand like a promise.

“We’ll rebuild the tent,” he said. “One act at a time. You and me. No matter how many of them try to silence us.”