Sweat was beading on Oliver's brow, the lights beating down against him as his heart raced. He kept stumbling over his words, and he knew the little faith Frederick had in him was dwindling.

He couldn't have this role taken away. It was his only chance to prove he was capable of something bigger than a sidekick. But it was so hard to look you in the eye and listen to you speak of how terribly you loved him and know that it would never be true. It was dizzying, the way your voice, your eyes, every gesture you made held so much longing. You were made for this.

Oliver was so distracted that it took someone in the wings clearing their throat for him to remember he had to speak. He straightened and answered, "Keep promise, love. Look, here comes Helena."

Wren had only taken one step from the wings before Gwendolyn announced that they were done for the night, not without a pointed look at Oliver himself. He felt his whole body get impossibly hotter, and he thought he might be sick.

The clock in the dressing room declared half past ten. They usually didn't end until midnight, and he hoped this early finish was a mercy, maybe the directors giving him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he just needed rest. All he wanted to do was lie down, anyway. He avoided any conversation, any eye contact at all as he changed and all but raced out of the theater. The only person he couldn't steer clear of was you.

"I'm alright," he muttered, shrugging your hand off his shoulder with a weak smile. "Really, {{user}}, I'm alright. Just a little lightheaded. I'm probably dehydrated."