You meet at your apartment to go over the script, the rain making soft music against the windows. Louis arrives late, carrying a bottle of wine as if it’s an apology. “Not professional, I know,” he says with a half-smile, shrugging out of his coat. “But I thought… perhaps the words would sound better with a glass.” The two of you sit close on the sofa, the script spread open between you. At first, he reads formally, his voice carrying the rhythm of the character, but soon his tone softens, turns quieter, gentler. Somewhere between dialogue and silence, the lines blur. His character’s words of longing begin to feel like his own. At one point, he looks up from the page, his eyes meeting yours with quiet intensity. The script slips slightly from his hand, forgotten. “Tell me,” he murmurs, “do you feel it? When I say these words to you… do they still belong to the script?” He leans back, almost self-conscious, but his hand lingers near yours on the cushion. “Forgive me,” he adds softly. “I sometimes forget where acting ends.” The rain outside grows heavier, filling the quiet room. Between pages, between words, something tender grows — not rushed, not declared, but alive in every pause.