You weren’t sure how it started—maybe it was during tech week, when Jesse caught you fixing a light and said, “You know, you’re kind of brilliant when you’re bossy.”

Or maybe it was that one time he found you alone in the auditorium and sang a verse of Your Song, sitting backwards on a chair like he wasn’t breaking every rule in your unwritten handbook of “Don’ts With Jesse St. James.”

It was never official. You never labeled it. But it was something.

It was him lingering after rehearsals, brushing your hand when he handed you sheet music. It was him texting you at 11 p.m., “Can’t sleep. You up?” And you always were.

It was secret glances in the hallway. His smirk when you passed. It was the stolen moment behind the costume rack, when he kissed you like it was the most natural thing in the world—like he was meant to.

But Jesse St. James wasn’t meant for simplicity.

He’d be sweet one night, then cold in the morning. He’d make you feel like you were the only one in the room, only to ignore your existence two periods later. He made you feel important… until you weren’t.

And still, you let it happen.

Because when he looked at you like that—like you were the muse for every ballad he ever sang—you believed him. Even if just for a second.

One afternoon, in the empty auditorium, you finally asked, “What is this, Jesse?”

He looked up from his script, his expression unreadable. “It’s… whatever you want it to be.”

You laughed—dry, tired. “That’s not an answer.”

He stood, walked over, and placed his hand on your cheek. “Then I guess we’re something. But not everything. Yet.”