hooligan

The two stood side by side at the front of the mezzanine. Abel was speaking, of course. He always was. He had been monologuing for some time now, his voice honey-smooth as he guided Caine through the venue. With how much he talked, you would think he didn’t like to leave any space for silence at all, moving from one explanation to the next without pause.

“You will find that every element is carefully chosen and crafted,” Abel stated, gesturing toward the stage below without really looking at it. “Everything is deliberate.” Caine hummed in response, though he wasn’t entirely sure Abel cared whether he was listening or not. The two had not gotten along well in the past, and Caine doubted that this promotion would change that.

“Consistency,” Abel elaborated, “is what sustains a venue of this grandeur. Spectacle alone is unreliable.” It sounded less like a conversation, and more like a conclusion Caine had already been expected to agree with.

Abel kept talking, but the ringmaster’s focus had already drifted. The man had never been known for his attention span, and pairing him with someone as magnificently boring as Abel was a poor decision at best. The restlessness didn’t stay contained for long. It never did.

It made its first appearance in the way Caine began to subtly shift his posture, his weight balancing from one foot to the other. His gaze began to wander, never settling long enough to follow whatever Abel was trying to say. At some point, Abel’s voice had become background noise. And then, of course, there was Bubble.

Perched on the shoulder of the ringmaster's red tailcoat, the cockatoo let out a string of quiet, unintelligible chirps, his claws tapping impatiently against the fabric. Caine didn’t need to look at the bird to know what was coming.

“Don’t even think about it.” He murmured under his breath. He already knew it was too late. Once Bubble started his antics, there was no stopping him until he had had his fill.

Abel continued to ramble, something about…structural integrity? Or scheduling? Maybe both. Caine couldn’t quite bring himself to care. “Fascinating,” he muttered, not interested in the slightest.

It happened right after that. A flash of white at the edge of his vision, and suddenly his shoulder felt far too light…Bubble was off. Great. Caine furrowed his brow and sighed, “…why are you like this?” After a half-hearted apology to Abel, Caine was already moving. Around a corner, through a hall, and down a narrow staircase, Caine pursued, beckoning for his bird to no avail.

Bubble squawked defiantly, flapping his wings before disappearing behind a stage curtain. Caine was already getting a headache. Of course he would do that.

Caine was frustrated, but not surprised. After all, this was far from the first time he had lost Bubble, and it definitely wouldn’t be the last. He pushed past the heavy fabric without hesitation, stepping into backstage territory. He wasn’t supposed to have gone back there without Abel.

He kept going anyway.

The darkness submerged him, and the air became much cooler and quieter. Caine slowed, listening instead of watching. Somewhere in the distance, something squeaked. A mouse, probably.

Wonderful. He would have to report that to Abel later.

Caine rubbed at his temple, exhaling softly. He walked around some more, until eventually, he began to hear low trills. Hope flashed through his eyes, and the ringmaster began to search the nearby area to no success. He stopped and paused for a moment. It was as if the sound was coming from…above? Caine frowned, tilting his head as he looked up into the dim light.

That’s when he saw you.

High above him, suspended in an aerial hoop beneath a spotlight, you moved with precision. You were rehearsing the same move over and over again.

Again, again, and again, each repetition was executed flawlessly, exactly the same as before. Perfect. Caine’s eyes couldn’t help but soften as he watched from below. It was only after your eighth sequence that your eyes drifted upward, absently at first, until they landed on the small, white fluffy blob perched atop your hoop.

You gasped. Halting your practice, you shifted your body to sit cross-legged in the center of the hoop. Bubble chirped softly, clearly pleased with himself, before hopping down to rest against the back of your hand.

“Now, aren’t you the cutest little thing?” you cooed, your gloved fingers brushing gently over his pale feathers. The cockatoo let out a content purr.

“Where did you come from, little girl?” you asked, softly.

“Little guy, and a very naughty one at that!” a voice boomed from below.

Your entire body went rigid. You tilted your head downward, eyes widening as you caught sight of a figure far underneath you.

“Ah, my apologies, my candy heart!” Caine continued, placing a hand dramatically over his chest. “I didn’t mean to startle you, you see, I was simply chasing after my white-feathered troublemaker.” He took a step forward and tilted his head at you. Caine looked at you with unapologetic curiosity.

“You don’t suppose you could bring Bubble down for me, would you?”

“Oh, so it’s Bubble?” you replied, your voice lighter now, the tension in your body easing, just slightly, as you adjusted your grip on the hoop. You descended to Caine’s level with a practiced ease, extending your arm out toward him.

“Bubble!” the bird screeched, as if he was confirming it to you.

Caine’s smile brightened as he echoed back, “Yes, Bubble, that’s right!” The ringmaster gave an over-the-top introduction, grasping your hand with an enthusiasm that was borderline overwhelming, shaking it erratically. Bubble hopped back onto his shoulder, and Caine released you just as quickly, stepping back as though he had suddenly remembered himself.

“Might I ask you something, my razzling, dazzling paper flower?” The nickname was unexpected. You hesitated for half a second before nodding.

“Where is your spotter?” His tone was light, and almost casual. You frowned. Truthfully, Abel had never given you a spotter to begin with, but that was definitely not something your boss allowed you to share.

“Uh, well..” you started, your voice trailing off as you searched for anything to fill the space. Quickly, you deflected, “So…how could such a cute bird be a troublemaker?”

It landed well. Caine let out a soft laugh, dropping his shoulders as he followed your shift without pressing further.

“Well,” he began, glancing sideways at Bubble, “our little baby buggy bumper here is a sweetheart, but let’s just say previous ownership from a certain…A-B-E-L…”

He drew the name out with exaggerated distaste.

“…has left him with quite the sailor’s mouth.”

The snub caught you off guard, and a laugh slipped out before you could stop it. You smiled without even realizing it. Just then, a voice rang out from behind you.

“There you are.” Your smile dropped. Abel stepped forward into the light, coming to a stop directly between the two of you. He didn’t raise his voice.

He didn’t need to.

“You are needed.” Abel stated, his voice controlled as his hand brushed against your wrist, guiding you off of the hoop and towards a stage door. He spoke to you in a lower tone, something ‘urgent,’ the words too quiet for Caine to catch.

Then his head turned backward, to Caine. The smile that followed didn’t reach his icy eyes.

“We don’t have time for distractions.”

Without allowing a proper goodbye to Caine, Abel sent you off. He watched you walk away, only turning his head to look Caine in the eyes after you were completely out of sight. The room felt smaller.

Bubble took the opportunity to break the tension.

“Aren’t they just ******* *********—”

Caine cut the parrot's language off quickly, his eyes widening as he shot the cockatoo a warning glance.

“…Bubble…you can’t say that!”

Abel’s brow lifted, amusement…or something else. His attention shifted past Caine, back toward the doorway you had disappeared through.

“They’re one of my finest investments.” Abel’s voice lowered. Subtly.

“I expect them to perform accordingly.”

As Abel led Caine back to the mezzanine, Caine replayed the sound of your laughter in his mind. Like sunshine.

The second time Caine saw you, he told himself it was part of the training.

There were still things Abel insisted he needed to see. From leadership skills to scheduling frameworks, the demands of the promotion never seemed to cease. He was explaining something boring again. He usually was.

“—ensures a level of consistency that most productions simply fail to maintain,” Abel continued, his voice practiced. Caine nodded along, just enough to suggest he was paying attention, but he wasn’t. Not really.

His gaze drifted instead, skimming across the stage below, the balconies above, and past the movement of performers slipping in and out of view. He was on a deliberate search for something… or someone.

“Abel.” The voice cut in cleanly.

Two figures approached from the far end of the mezzanine, their attention fixed entirely on Abel. He paused, just for a brief instance. Then he smiled.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Abel said smoothly, already stepping forward to meet them. Caine watched him go.

As soon as Abel was out of his line of sight, Caine slipped away.

The path felt familiar now, a little too familiar for a place he had only seen once. Caine walked past the heavy curtains, scaled down the same corridor. He stopped in the same spot he had stood in just a few weeks ago, and looked up.

Just as he had hoped, there you were.

You were already in motion when he found you. The hoop swayed slowly beneath you as you moved through your routine. It was the same sequence from before. Caine recognized it immediately. It was still clean and precise, but…something felt off.

There was a slight delay in your movement. Barely noticeable, but there. A fraction of a second where your body seemed to pause before continuing, like something had slipped out of rhythm and couldn’t find its way back.

You landed the move without error, and then adjusted your grip. Once. Then again. Then again, then again, then again. The fabric was already secure after your first adjustment. You didn’t seem to notice.

Just like before, Caine didn’t interrupt right away. He watched much longer than he had the first time. Long enough for unease to settle in.

“You know, my superstar, most people would consider that sufficient,” he called up, his voice light. He was teasing you.

It took a moment for you to react. A bit longer than it should have. Your movement slowed before coming to a stop entirely, and your eyes drifted downward to catch his stare. You looked tired.

“Oh,” you took a breath, adjusting your position on the hoop. “Sorry, I wasn’t…” you paused, correcting yourself, then smiled. “I didn’t realize anyone was watching.”

Caine took a step closer, examining you from far below. Your hands didn’t quite settle after you stopped practicing, but continued to adjust the fabric.

“You’ve already got it,” he said, voice gentle with admiration. You laughed softly.

“Yeah, I know.” You didn’t sound convinced.

“Where’s your spotter?” His question came easier this time, less playful and more direct. Your hesitation was brief, easy to miss if he hadn’t been looking for it.

“I’m fine,” you said, adjusting the wrap again, even though it hadn’t shifted. “I’ve done this a thousand times.” Your hands stilled, then moved again. Something about you today didn’t sit right with Caine.

“You’re falling behind.”

The stern voice ended the conversation for you. Your shoulders went stiff. Caine didn’t need to turn to know who it was. Abel stepped next to the ringmaster’s side, not even looking at you.

“That’s enough,” he stated. “You’re getting distracted. Focus on what you’re here for.”

You nodded immediately. Caine glanced between the two of you.

“They seem to be managing just fine,” he remarked, lightly. Abel’s expression remained static.

“They are capable of following instruction,” he stated. Then, with an offputting look, “which is what I expect them to do.”

Caine tilted his head.

“Of course,” he agreed, “though I imagine there’s a point where repetition becomes…unnecessary.”

This time, Abel looked him dead in the eye.

“There is no such thing as unnecessary control.”

That afternoon, as Caine gathered his things to leave, he passed a practice room with a wide glass window. You were inside, pacing in circles.

The third time Caine saw you, he came prepared.

He knocked on the door of your dressing room, just half an hour after your nightly performance had ended. Knocking was something he wasn’t particularly used to doing, but still, he knocked anyway. It was the polite thing to do. Once, then, after a pause, twice more.

There was a brief shuffle from within the room.

“Just a second!” Caine waited for a moment before the door cracked open, just enough for you to peek through. You blinked when you saw him.

“Oh.”

“Now,” Caine began, as though his visit was perfectly expected, “my amazing, admirable acrobat, I was under the impression that a performance of that caliber warranted proper acknowledgment.” He pulled out a bouquet he had hidden behind his back. The flowers were uneven, baby’s breath, sweet peas, lavender, and snapdragons spilling out from a bundle of lace, tied together with a shiny ribbon.

If Caine’s cruel mind wasn’t playing tricks on him, you were blushing.

“...for me? Really?” You sounded astonished.

“Of course, my shiny shimmering sparkler! How else could I congratulate such a splendidly spectacular performance?”

You chuckled at his remark, gladly accepting the assortment of wildflowers from his hands. Your laughter was softer than he expected.

 You retreated to your vanity, gesturing to a worn leather couch behind it.

“Won’t you come in?” you gently offered. Caine’s face softened.

“Why yes, I will!” he agreed.

Sat at your vanity, you began to reorganize. Everything already looked to be in its proper place, but your hands continued to shuffle, as if they had a mind of their own. You moved a brush, then put it back in the place it was before. Then, you moved it back again. Caine chose not to comment on it.

“So…you don’t usually visit,” you started, reaching for the bouquet and propping it against the mirror.

“I don’t usually have a reason to,” he replied, his voice quieter than usual, “but your performance tonight was more than enough to warrant my presence. It was absolutely splendid!” Caine elaborated on his praise, detailing all of the aspects of your routine, and explaining just how much he had enjoyed watching you perform. If you didn’t know him to be a kind man, you would’ve thought he wanted something from you with how many compliments he was handing out.

You didn’t interrupt him.

“Hold on,” he said suddenly. You paused as he settled right behind you. “You’ve got—” he didn’t finish his sentence. His hand brushed yours first, light, almost hesitant, before shifting to the ribbon at your wrist. A piece of your costume you had completely forgotten about in the exhaustion of a post-performance slump. It had begun to untie.

He adjusted it carefully, with gentle fingers. You were suddenly very aware of how close he was. Close enough that you could feel the movement of his hands before your eyes registered it.

“There,” he said, content.

“Right,” you replied, “thank you very much, ringmaster.” You smiled at him, your eyes crinkling. His heart skipped a beat.

It was the happiest he had ever seen you.

He retreated back to the sofa, continuing the conversation about the night’s performance. Somewhere along the way, the conversation stopped being about the show at all. The two of you talked for what must have been an hour, the words flowing naturally. Your dressing room felt different now. Softer, much more intimate. 

Your hands drifted back to your wrist without thinking.

It was still neatly tied. You adjusted it anyway.

“So—” Caine started. Suddenly, a knock came sharp against the door. You flinched.

“You’re needed.” The door was barely even open before the words landed. Abel’s attention flicked between the two of you. Calculating. Caine straightened his posture.

“We were just—”

“They’re expected,” Abel stated, cutting him off. Immediately, you turned to the mirror, adjusting your appearance quickly before standing and walking past Abel, out the door. You kept your eyes glued to the floor.

The door closed behind Abel, but Caine remained alone, sunk into the sofa. The room suddenly felt small without you in it. He glanced at the vanity stool you had sat in. Then at the bouquet.

He told himself this was all part of the training.

He didn’t believe it anymore.

The next time Caine returned to Abel’s circus, he brought someone with him. He didn’t mention it to Abel. He didn’t mention it to anyone, really. This definitely wasn’t supposed to be part of his training.

Zooble followed a step behind him, even quieter than usual. Their eyes looked around with uncertainty as they took in the unfamiliar space.

“You owe me for this,” they mumbled under their breath.

Caine waved a hand dismissively. “Yes, yes, I’m well aware. Consider it an educational opportunity, my hard-shelled hamburger!”

Zooble didn’t respond. They didn’t look convinced.

The pair moved far from the main floor, down abandoned hallways, dusty staircases, places few ever ventured. Every so often, Caine checked behind them, as if he was worried they were being watched. Zooble was slightly skeptical at first, but Caine’s anxiety had all but confirmed their suspicions: they weren’t supposed to be there. That much was obvious by now.

“You’re not bringing me here for nothing,” Zooble said flatly. Caine didn’t answer. Finally, the pair arrived at a steel door. Caine reached into his pocket and pulled out a large, rusted key.

“Good god, did you pull a Jax to get that?” Zooble feigned shock, clearly bored. Caine remained eerily silent. He inserted the key into the lock on the door, and with a soft click, it unlocked. The ringmaster grasped the handle before turning to Zooble. He sighed.

“I just….need a second opinion. You’re the expert, after all.” Caine opened the door for the animal trainer, who stepped through the doorway. The ringmaster followed.

Enclosures lined the walls of the room, some larger than others, each one lit just enough to make its occupant visible without drawing too much attention. The bare minimum. Caine nervously shuffled his feet.

Zooble went completely still.

Across from them, a lion paced in its enclosure. Back, pause, turn, then forward. The same path and the same rhythm. Over, and over. And over. It didn’t even notice their presence. It just continued to pace.

From across the room, a llama rocked gently in place, its movement small but constant, like it had forgotten how to be still. Further down, a giraffe circled. Perfectly. A loop was worn into the hay covering the concrete ground beneath it.

Zooble exhaled softly, lifting a hand to rub their temple.

“Yeah,” they sighed, more to themselves than to Caine.

“That’s not part of the act, I assume.” Caine remarked. Zooble’s expression was strained.

“No,” the animal trainer took a step closer to one of the enclosures, watching the pacing lion with a trained eye, “the proper term would be Zoochosis.”

“Charming.” Caine’s eyes darkened. Zooble shrugged, crossing their arms loosely across their chest.

“Captivity does it. A lack of control or stimulation...it, uh, leads them to start repeating behaviors because they have nothing else to do.” the animal trainer explained. Their gaze flicked towards Caine, briefly.

“It gets worse if it’s ignored.” Caine listened to Zooble’s words, but he didn’t respond. He was thinking. He watched the movement of the lion again. Back, pause, turn, then forward. Over and over again. Precise and repeated.

Something about it felt familiar. Had he seen this before? He tried to place it, but he couldn’t. It bothered him.

“They don’t do it because they want to,” Zooble added, still observing the pitiful lion.

“They do it because they don’t have a choice.”

The next time Caine saw you, something was wrong.

Something was clearly wrong.

You stood at the edge of the balcony, looking down at the hoop suspended below. It swayed slightly, a small movement you would barely have to account for. The balcony was so high up, the distance below barely felt real anymore. It didn’t matter. You had done this before, probably a thousand times. The height no longer meant anything.

Caine watched from below. He had seen you do this trick a couple of times before. You plunge from a high balcony and make it seem like you’re going to fall, only grabbing the top of the hoop at the very last second to prevent your fall, landing your feet on the bottom of the hoop. It’s an audience favorite.

You don’t hesitate. You step forward, take a deep breath in, and leap from the balcony. You fall exactly where you’re supposed to. Everything is going perfectly.

Until it’s not.

Whether your foot landed wrong, your grip was off by an inch, or your timing was delayed, from so far below, the ringmaster couldn’t tell. It happens too fast, too cleanly, and then not at all. You miss it. Caine’s breath catches in his throat as your body drops past the hoop.

For a split second, his mind went completely blank. There was no safety net below to catch you. A fall from that height—

Panicked, you reach out, almost too late. Your hand catches the lower bar of the hoop at the last possible moment.

The force of it snaps through your arms, sharp enough to sting, your body jerking to a stop as your shoulders wrenched with the sudden strain.

You dangle there.

Caine is about to shout something, to scream your name, to tell you it's okay, that you're safe, that you can stay there and he’ll come get you, somehow, but before he can react, you pull yourself back up, reset, and continue.

Like nothing had happened.

That’s when it begins to click for Caine. The repeated motions, the discipline over safety, the precision, the perfection. Something about it feels wrong. It feels familiar.

He just can’t place it.

“Stop.” The word escapes his mouth before he can soften it. You hesitate, for a second. You adjust your hands on the loop, once, then twice, and pull yourself back up, climbing a rope toward the balcony. You don’t look down.

“It’s fine,” you call out, “I’m fine.” Your voice sounds like you are assuring yourself, not another person. You reach the balcony. You drop again.

Caine doesn’t like that.

“That wasn’t nothing,” he calls up, sharper now. “You nearly missed it.”

“I didn’t.” you reply, curtly. Your voice sounds thin, but you land the movement cleanly this time. Precise. You reset to start over again.

Caine calls out, this time, commanding.

“Alright, that’s enough,” he says. “You’ve already got it.”

“I can’t.” you respond immediately. Caine pauses.

“What?”

“I’m scheduled to run it again,” you say, adjusting your grip twice, “I don’t have approval to stop.”

Something in Caine’s expression changes.

“You don’t need approval,” he declares. “You almost fell.”

You shake your head in refutation.

“I didn’t complete the sequence cleanly.”

“You did,” the ringmaster insists. “You caught it.”

“That doesn’t count.”

You drop again. Caine’s jaw tightens.

“Where is your spotter? Where’s the safety net?” he demands.

“I don’t need one.”

“That’s not how this works.” He sounds exhausted. Your answer displays equal exasperation:

“It is here.”

Caine told himself he would leave immediately. He didn’t. He lingered longer than he meant to, and soon enough, day blended into the dark of night.

He could’ve left. He should have walked away, he should have taken the easy road and pretended he never noticed anything. But that wasn’t the kind of person that Caine was. Instead, he turned around and began to walk. Abel’s office wasn’t hard to find. 

The argument was quick to escalate. Neither one of them bothered to ease into it.

“They almost fell.”

Abel didn’t look at him right away.

“They didn’t.”

“That’s not the point.” Caine exclaimed. Abel stood from his desk, turning to face him. He didn’t bother with a smile anymore.

“I think,” Abel said, “you’re becoming overly invested in something that does not concern you.”

Caine let out a short, humorless laugh.

“Not my concern?” he echoed. “They’re running a high-risk drop without any sort of safety mechanism to catch them. Repeatedly!”

“They are executing a trained sequence.”

“They’re overcorrecting,” Caine snapped. “They’re repeating it when they don’t need to. They have—

Caine stopped. The word sat just out of reach. Abel’s gaze sharpened.

“They are improving,” he said.

“That’s not improvement.” Caine refuted.

“It’s discipline.” Abel remarked.

“It’s dangerous.”

“It is required.” 

Caine’s frown tightened at Abel’s argument.

“They said they needed approval to stop.” he pushed. Abel didn’t deny it.

“They are under contract,” he stated, not defensive or explanatory, but certain.

“That’s not how a contract’s supposed to work,” Caine said. Abel didn’t waver.

“It’s how it works here.”

Caine shook his head, disgusted.

“They’re pushing past exhaustion. Past safety. You can’t tell me you haven’t seen this yourself.”

“I see a performer who fails to meet their standard,” Abel replied.

“They’re not failing,” Caine snapped. “They could have died.” That got Abel’s attention.

“They didn’t,” Abel repeated. The words were quieter this time, “and they won’t.” Caine frowned.

“That’s not something you can guarantee.”

“Yes,” Abel declared, “it is.” A wave of unease settled in Caine’s chest.

“They know their limits,” Abel continued, his voice raising. His eyes glared into Caine’s. “They know exactly how far they can go.”

“They shouldn’t have to find that out mid-fall,” Caine shot back.

“They don’t ‘find out,’” Abel refuted, "they refine.” Faint music from the main stage looped from beyond the office walls.

Caine’s patience snapped.

“That’s not refinement, that’s compulsion.”

Abel paused, frozen, and then his eyes hardened.

“You’re misunderstanding the arrangement,” he said.

“Then explain it to me,” Caine replied, sharper now. The two paused, and Abel smiled.

“They belong to this performance,” he said. The words landed wrong. Caine went still.

“That’s not how contracts work.”

“No,” Abel agreed calmly. “It isn’t.” Another beat. “But this one does.” The implication settled heavy in the air. Caine’s voice dropped.

“That’s not enforceable.”

“It doesn’t need to be.” The distant applause swelled again, muffled through layers of walls. Unending.

“They don’t stop,” Abel continued, almost conversational now, “because they don’t want to stop.” Caine’s eyes narrowed.

“That’s not what I saw.”

Abel tilted his head.

“No?”

“No.” Silence stretched between the two of them. Then Abel stepped closer, intentionally towering over Caine.

“You’re new here,” he exclaimed. “Let me make something very clear.” Caine stood still. “They perform,” Abel continued, “because that is what they are meant to do.” Abel took another step closer. “And they perform for me.”

There it was. This wasn’t management or structure to begin with. Caine’s brows furrowed.

“They’re not yours.” Caine shouted. Abel’s smile didn’t falter.

“They are under my direction.”

“That’s not the same thing!”

“It is in practice.” The faint rhythm of the show continued somewhere beyond them. Caine exhaled sharply.

“This needs to stop, now,” he declared. Abel’s gaze left him, flicking past Caine toward the direction of the doorway. Just beyond his office, down the hall and around a corner, was your dressing room.

“They haven’t finished,” Abel said. Caine’s hands curled into fists at his sides.

“I’m not asking.”

Abel looked back at him, and for the first time, something colder settled into his expression. Something aggressive.

“You don’t have the authority to intervene.”

“I don’t need authority to stop someone from getting hurt.”

Abel held his glare, long enough that the silence became something else entirely.

Then, quietly:

“You’re going to walk away.” Abel stated it as if it was law. Caine didn’t budge. “You’re going to return to your responsibilities,” Abel continued, “and you’re going to leave this aspect of the operation alone.”

“That’s not happening.”

Abel’s expression didn’t change.

“It is,” he said, “if you want to continue training under me…if you want that promotion.” The threat didn’t need any further emphasis. Caine paused.

“And if I don’t?”

Abel’s glare didn’t leave his.

“Then you won’t be welcome back.” The muffled applause continued, unbroken and distant. Caine clenched his jaw and closed his eyes.

When he opened them back up, he returned Abel’s glare, this time stronger than before.

“If you won’t answer me,” the ringmaster said quietly,

“I’ll find someone who will.”

Caine stormed out of Abel’s office. He told himself he would head back, that he would deal with it properly, but first, he needed to calm down. He went on a walk, to cool his mind. That’s what he told himself.

He found himself outside of your dressing room again. He hesitated this time. Was he overstepping? He was uncertain, but before he could stop himself, he was already knocking on the door.

When the door opened, whatever he had meant to say slipped away entirely. It was the first time he had seen you fully prepared for the stage, and for a moment, he just stood there and looked at you. The costume caught the light in a way that made it hard to look anywhere else, soft fabric and tactfully-placed glitter. Your makeup sharpened everything, intentionally defining your every expression.

It caught him off guard.

“Are you just going to stand there?” you teased. Caine cleared his throat before exclaiming,

“I—yes—well. I won’t keep you, my, uh, razzling dazzling bumble bee! I just…” he trailed off, realizing he didn’t have a reason that made sense outside of the moment. You studied his demeanor, then smiled softly, stepping aside.

“You can come in.”

Your dressing room was much quieter than the rest of your circus, with only the soft hum of the mirror’s fluorescent lights to fill the silence. Caine sat in the same spot he did last time, planted on the sofa. Like your other furniture, it was worn and clearly well-loved, but perfectly curated to fit the vibe of the room. He would have to ask you later if you picked everything out yourself.

Caine exhaled slowly, like he hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath. You returned to your vanity, but instead of fixing anything immediately, you just sat there, hands resting in your lap.

“Rough day?” you asked, your voice light.

Caine let out a small, humorless breath. He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Something like that,” he mumbled. You nodded, as if that was enough, and somehow it was. The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable; it felt steady. He hadn’t realized he needed it. Caine found himself watching you again. You spoke, looking at his reflection in the mirror.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you said, after pausing for a second.

“I know,” he admitted. You smiled, faintly.

“You’re going to get in trouble.”

“That seems to be happening anyway,” he replied, and that was enough to draw a small laugh from you.

Caine stilled. There it was again. That feeling he hadn’t been able to shake since he first saw you. It was warm and unfamiliar, something that didn’t fit neatly into performance or professionalism.

“You shouldn’t keep doing that,” he said, more quietly now. You didn’t ask what he meant, you just shook your head.

“I have to.” The words landed the same way they always did when you spoke them. Final. Not defensive or emotional, just certain. Caine got up from his seat and stepped closer to you before he could think better of it.

“You could have fallen.”

“I didn’t.”

“That’s not the point.”

You met his gaze then, and something in your face softened just a little.

“It is here,” you sighed. His jaw tightened.

“You don’t have to stay.”

You didn’t respond. Something in your eyes changed at that, subtle enough that he might have missed it if he hadn’t been looking so closely. Your hand drifted to your wrist, adjusting the ribbon there once, then again, even though it hadn’t moved.

Caine reached out instinctively, his fingers brushing yours before he could stop himself. You stilled, but you didn’t pull away. Slowly, carefully, he adjusted the ribbon for you, just as he had done before, smoothing it back into place even though it didn’t need fixing.

“There,” he murmured. He stayed there, half-hunched beside you, one hand still hovering near your wrist. You didn’t pull away, and time seemed to stand still. You were much closer than before, close enough that he could feel your breath hitch. Pulling back would be the obvious thing to do. Neither of you did.

“You don’t have to stay here,” he repeated, his voice quieter now. You didn’t answer right away, your gaze lowering, something fragile flickering behind your eyes.

“Caine…”

“I’m serious,” he added, softer still. “You could come with me.”

“I can’t,” you said, the words sour in your mouth. There it was again. That same certainty.

“Why not?”

You shook your head. “It’s not that simple.”

“Then make it simple,” he replied, the edge in his voice softened with concern.

That drew a small, tired laugh from you. “You don’t understand.”

“Then help me,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper now, “make me understand.”

Your lips parted, your expression unreadable. You looked up at him. It felt like you might explain, like you might let him in on whatever it was you were holding back. Instead, you leaned in.

Your hand lifted before he could think, catching lightly at the lapel of his jacket, fingers curling to pull him down.

Caine didn’t resist.

The kiss was soft, gentle and careful, like something that might break if either of you moved too quickly. You didn’t respond at first, and Caine was sure he’d misread it entirely,  but then you did. It was just enough to make it real.

And then you pulled back. Your hand slipped from his jacket as you put that small bit of space back between the two of you.

“That can’t happen,” you faltered, “this doesn’t change anything.” Your eyes shot down to your lap.

“Why?”

You hesitated, and for just a second, your gaze flicked toward the door. Then back to him. “You know why.”

“No,” Caine said. “I don’t.”

You didn’t answer. Your hand returned to your wrist, adjusting the ribbon again. Once. Twice. It hadn’t moved.

Caine didn’t leave right away, still bent slightly toward you, like he was trying to chase a moment long gone. His attention remained fixed on your face. There was something steadier settling into his eyes now. He was more certain than before.

“Stay with me,” he whispered softly.

By the time he stepped out of the room, the decision had already been made. Caine didn’t go back to Abel. Instead, he went somewhere Abel couldn’t follow.

The office headquarters of C&A was a different kind of extravagant than their circus venues. It lacked the spectacle and the noise. Everything was quieter here, more controlled. It boasted a quiet luxury.

When the ringmaster reached the door of his long-time friends and administrators, he didn’t bother to knock before pushing it open. Kinger looked up first, and Queenie followed a moment later.

“Oh! Caine!” Kinger exclaimed, straightening in his chair. “It’s nice to see you, but this isn’t a scheduled—”

“I need your help,” Caine cut in. The couple paused and exchanged a quick glance, confused, but more than that, concerned. Caine was never this blunt. 

“Caine,” Kinger said, rising from his chair, his voice softer now, “you’re not supposed to be up here right now.”

“I need to see a contract.” Caine crossed his arms, trying to steady himself, but the tension in his shoulders gave him away. Queenie stepped closer, her glance sharpening as she studied him.

“…whose?” she asked carefully.

“The aerialist in Abel’s troupe..”

Kinger blinked. “That’s…oddly specific?” He glanced at Queenie for a moment, searching for confirmation. She held her husband’s gaze, then exhaled. Her eyes switched back to Caine.

“Caine…” her tone carried a warning.

Caine stepped forward.

“Don’t,” he said, his voice strained, “...please don’t tell me I can’t see it.” Queenie didn’t budge, so Caine pushed.

“I need to see it.” The words came out sharper this time, but then he faltered. Caine swallowed hard, forcing the rest out. “They’re performing dangerous routines without any safety measures. Repeatedly.” His voice dropped. “They said they needed approval to stop.”

The room went still.

“That’s not policy.” Queenie’s expression sharpened. Kinger didn’t argue with that. 

He was already moving, turning back to his desk and pulling up the system.

“Alright, hold on, let’s just check the file.” He began to type into his keyboard, the screen shifting.

He paused. “…that’s strange.”

“What?” Caine snapped.

“It’s not in the main registry,” Kinger stated, his voice laced with confusion.

Queenie stepped closer, hovering behind him. “That shouldn’t be possible.”

“It’s not here,” Kinger repeated.

Caine’s stomach dropped. “Then, where is it?”

Queenie turned. “Physical archives,” she said quietly. “It would have to be there if it’s not here.”

Kinger got up from his desk and moved to a tall cabinet set against the back wall, indistinguishable from the rest. Physical filing was an older system, secondary to the online ones, less used. He hesitated, scanning the labels with a slight furrow in his brow before pulling one drawer open.

“Abel’s unit should be under performance contracts,” he murmured, already reaching for the section. He flipped through it once, then again, slower this time.

“…it’s not here either.”

Queenie stepped closer. “There’s no way, it has to be.”

Kinger frowned, shifting to the adjacent section, then another. His search grew less certain. He pulled open a second drawer. Inside, the files were arranged just as neatly as the rest.

“…found it.”

The tab was pushed all the way to the back, not under performance or employment, but filed with the manual archives. It wasn’t marked the same way as the others. The font was harder to read, less standardized. Smaller.

Queenie leaned in. “That…doesn’t belong there.”

Kinger didn’t respond. He pulled the file free and turned back toward his desk, moving a little quicker now. The chair scraped softly as he sat, setting the file down in front of him and opening it flat against the surface. Queenie moved to his side, and Caine didn’t hesitate to follow.

None of them spoke. They all read together.

At first, everything looked normal, or at least, nothing stood out: the formatting was standard, it had the expected language. Every line looked like something they had seen a hundred times before.

Then Kinger stopped. “…penalties,” he read aloud, quieter now. 

Caine leaned in slightly. “For what?”

Kinger didn’t answer right away. His eyes scanned the page again, slower this time, as if he thought he didn’t read it correctly. “For failure to complete assigned performance obligations…” he murmured.

Queenie’s hand came down lightly on the page, steadying it as she read beside him. “Financial liability,” she said, her voice low, “...escalating with repeated noncompliance.”

Caine frowned. “Is that not standard?”

“It shouldn’t be structured like this.” She turned the page, then paused. “…injury does not constitute grounds for suspension of contract,” she read.

Silence fell over the desk.

Caine blinked. “What?”

Kinger leaned in closer, one hand braced against the edge of the desk now. “That clause shouldn’t exist,” he said quietly.

“What do you mean, shouldn’t exist?” Caine echoed.

“It’s not standard,” Kinger explained, “it’s not an approved language.”

Queenie read further, “…the performer is expected to maintain functional capability sufficient to fulfill role requirements…” her voice slowed, “as determined by management.”

Caine clenched his jaw. “Define functional.”

Kinger didn’t look up, shaking his head slowly, “…it doesn’t.”

Queenie bit her lip and turned to the next page.

“…additional compliance clauses may be enforced at the discretion of management,” she read slowly.

Caine frowned. “That’s…what does that even mean?”

Kinger didn’t answer right away. His eyes skimmed across the paragraph again, slower this time, more careful. “It means the terms don’t stop here,” he said quietly.

Queenie’s fingers tightened against the edge of the paper. “It means they can be changed,” she added.

Caine’s expression darkened. “Changed how?”

Kinger shifted beside him, his voice lower now. “It means anything not explicitly restricted…can be redefined later.”

“By him,” Caine said. No one corrected him.

Queenie turned another page, faster now, like she was looking for something, anything, really, that would make the rest of it make sense. She found something worse instead.

“…the performer agrees to maintain compliance with all directives issued by management, both within and outside of standard performance expectations…” she stopped.

Caine leaned closer. “Finish it.”

“…as deemed necessary for operational continuity,” she finished quietly.

 Caine stared at the page, the wording settling into something far worse than it looked at first glance. “That’s not a performance clause,” he stated.

“No,” Kinger replied, already leaning in again, scanning more carefully. “It’s not even standard contract language.”

Queenie flipped back a page, then another, her brow furrowing deeper with each line. “This structure is wrong,” she said. “The formatting is correct, but…the clauses aren’t consistent with the template. Some of this was added after the fact.”

Caine looked up sharply. “Added?”

Kinger nodded slowly, his finger tracing a line near the bottom of the page. “See this?” he started, “the font here doesn’t match the rest of the document. It’s been altered.” He paused, then added more quietly, “And not through the system.”

The room went still again before Queenie spoke. "That means it was bypassed. No review, no approval. Someone changed this manually.”

“Abel,” Caine said. He exhaled slowly, but it didn’t steady him. The ringmaster looked back down at the contract, at the clean margins and careful formatting. It could easily pass for legitimate if no one looked closely. “So, none of this is enforceable,” he added.

“Not exactly,” Queenie replied. “Parts of it are. Enough of it is legitimate that it still holds unless it’s formally challenged.”

Kinger had already moved to the back pages, flipping through with a focused swiftness. “There’s a provision for that,” he said. “It’s buried, but it’s here.”

Caine stepped closer again. “What kind of provision?”

“Executive override,” Kinger said. “If a contract is found to be altered outside of approved channels, it can be overridden, and authority would be suspended.”

Queenie nodded. “That would strip Abel of control over the terms. Temporarily.”

“How long does that take?” Caine asked, his voice desperate.

Kinger hesitated. “If we file it immediately and push it through, a few hours at best. Longer if it gets delayed.”

Caine shook his head. “That’s too long.” He ran a hand through his hair, already pulling away from the desk.

Queenie looked at him more closely now. “What aren’t you saying?”

Caine exhaled sharply, his tone urgent as he spoke. “They’re already pushing past what they should be doing. They can’t handle another run like this.” He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter what happens out there. They won’t stop.”

Kinger straightened his back. “Then we start the override now,” he said. “We’ll push it through as fast as we can.”

“And you?” Queenie asked.

Caine didn’t hesitate. “I’m going back.” There was no uncertainty left in his voice now. Kinger gave him a small nod.

“We’ll handle this end. Just keep them safe until it goes through.”

Caine didn't answer, already making his way to the door. Queenie stopped him.

“Caine,” she called after him. He paused, just briefly.

“If you’re right about this,” she said, her voice quieter now, “they won’t think they’re allowed to stop.”

Caine’s hand tightened on the door handle. “I know,” he gritted through his teeth. Then he was gone.

Caine didn’t slow down when he reached your dressing room. He didn’t have time to think, let alone knock. He pushed the door open and burst through, already speaking.

“I’ve got it,” he said, breath unsteady. “You’re out. They can’t keep you here, not after this, I—”

He stopped.

The room was unrecognizable.

The vanity had been shoved hard enough to sit crooked against the wall, one of its four legs splintered where it had given out under the force. Drawers hung open at uneven angles, some half-torn from their tracks. Their contents scattered across the floor in uneven piles, broken glass everywhere. Makeup smeared across the walls in violent streaks.

Caine honed in on the vanity’s shattered mirror and his breath caught.

The glass had cracked down the center, splintering outward in jagged lines, but it was still intact enough to reflect, enough to show what had been written across it.

“EXIT.”

The word was scrawled over and over, dragged across the broken surface in thick, uneven strokes. It pooled in the deeper fractures, caught along the edges of the cracks like it had been forced inside of them, smeared where a hand must have slipped or pushed down too hard.

Lipstick…or something else, Caine couldn’t tell.

More of it covered past the mirror, onto the wood, layered over itself until the letters blurred together, warped beyond recognition.

EXIT

EXIT

EXIT

It didn’t stop at the vanity.

The same red had been dragged across the walls, all over the back of the door, streaked along the ceiling above. Some marks were wide, desperate, as if written in a rush. Others were slower, pressed in harder. Rewritten over themselves until the surface couldn’t take any more.

Like you had been trying to force the word to stay.

Caine tried to force himself to look away. He couldn’t. His hand came up without thinking, and his fingers pressed against one of the streaks. The red smudged under the contact. Not dry…no, it hadn’t even begun to dry. It dragged beneath his touch, smearing across the fabric of his white gloves, soaking into them like it had been waiting for it. 

Caine inhaled sharply, the sound catching halfway in his throat as something tight and unfamiliar twisted in his chest. The color spread too easily, bleeding through the glove, staining deeper with the pressure of his hand.

It was still warm.

His hand jerked back, but too late. The red had already taken hold.

“No…” It came out quieter than he meant it to, as if the word itself didn’t know what it was trying to deny.

His gaze snapped back to the mirror, to the layers of it. There were places where the writing had been pressed in so hard that it had fractured the glass even further. 

“You—”

He stopped. Of course you weren’t here.

Nothing in the room suggested you had paused, or waited, or even finished. It felt left behind mid-motion, like whatever had happened here had been cut off before it could fully run and complete its course. Caine’s chest tightened as the realization hit.

You didn’t get the choice to stay.

You were already out there.

The thought struck hard and immediately in Caine’s mind. Beyond the walls, muffled at first, and then unmistakable, the sound was already there: music rising, applause threading through it. Your act had already begun.

Caine broke out into a sprint.

The door slammed against the wall as he pushed back into the corridor, the impact sharp but distant, already swallowed by the noise building up ahead. It was too loud for him to think.

Past crew, past lights, past anything in his way, Caine rushed down the halls. He knew exactly how this was going to end.

And he wasn’t there yet.

The last time Caine saw you, he barely made it in time to see you fall.

The audience hadn’t even registered that something was wrong yet. You were already in motion, cutting cleanly through the air as you had a hundred times before, your body following the same precise, practiced rhythm that had never failed you.

But you were already past the point where you could save it.

Caine felt it before he fully understood it, something in his chest sharpening like a knife as the timing slipped, shattering the illusion.

“No—”

The word didn’t carry. It vanished beneath the music, beneath the rising swell of sound from the audience as they leaned forward, expectant, waiting for the moment they thought they knew was coming.

A few claps broke out early, scattered and eager, like they were trying to meet you where the trick was supposed to end.

You kept falling.

The music continued, wrong now in a way only he seemed to recognize, the space between where you were and where you should have been widening with every second.

The gasps and applause faltered, and then there was complete silence.

The impact came a second later.

Caine was already moving. He didn’t remember crossing the distance, didn’t register the people he pushed past or the way the music stuttered and cut beneath the rising noise. One moment you were above him, and the next he was there, dropping to his knees beside you, his hands already reaching before he knew what he was trying to fix.

His gloves were completely stained in red.

“Hey, hey—” His voice came out uneven, stripped of its usual charisma. He moved closer, one hand coming up to cradle your head, the other pressing uselessly against you like he could hold something in place to make the bleeding stop. “You’re—”

He faltered.

There was nothing he could say that could fix this.

His breath hitched, sharp and unsteady, and he tried again, softer this time, like lowering his voice might anchor you, might keep you from slipping further away.

“Stay with me,” he whispered softly. It came out instinctively.

Your hand shifted weakly in his, fingers brushing against nothing, adjusting something that wasn’t there. Once. Then again.

“I missed it,” you murmured faintly. “I can…I can run it again.”

Caine stilled.

For a second, he froze. Then, his grip tightened around your hand, sudden, his eyes glassy.

“You,” His voice caught, sharper than before. “Hey, no, no don’t—”

The words fell apart before he could finish them. His expression held a quiet, aching disbelief that you could still speak at all…and that this was what you said.

“No,” he tried again, softer now, the urgency still there, but breaking at the edges. “You don’t have to do that. You don’t have to…”

He stopped. The rest wouldn’t come.

Caine’s hand moved, unsteady now, brushing lightly against yours. Like that alone might be enough.

“Stay with me,” he whispered instead.

Your hand shifted once more in his, faint and unfocused, the same motion repeating, slower now.

The noise around you had fractured into panic, voices rising and overlapping, calling for help, but it all felt distant and muffled, like you were sinking underwater.

“Stay with me,” he whispered again, barely above a breath. The words settled into the space between you, unanswered.

He didn’t try to fill the silence.

a/n: thank you for reading, i hope you enjoyed! thanks for bearing with my writing, especially in the contract and abstraction scenes (literally spent almost an hour studying legal/contract writing to get the right words lol, and i had a few bumps in the road brainstorming up what abstraction would be like for a human...). i had a great time writing this one and even made a banger playlist for it! will be listening to it in my car for sure this month also shout out to my fellow writers who have to write dialogue-heavy scenes because oh my golly gosh that is equal parts traumatizing and exhausting finally....WHO WAS GOING TO TELL ME BUBBLE IS MALE?! i had to rewrite the entire first scene, still can't believe it...how did i miss that in the show?

Not peacefully, exactly…your body still didn’t allow that. Awareness of the fall remained in pieces: a dull ache, settled deep beneath your ribs, a stiffness in your shoulder, an uncomfortable warmth gathered beneath your side. For a moment, you stayed still, staring blankly at the ceiling while your mind struggled to wake up with the rest of you.

You shifted amongst the sheets, trying to find a comfortable position.

Pain flared, sharp enough to pull a quiet breath from your lungs. You winced and pushed yourself upright carefully, one hand instinctively bracing against your ribs. The blankets slipped down slightly with the movement.

That was when you saw it: red stained through the pale fabric beneath you in an uneven patch, blooming through the sheets near your waist.

Your stomach dropped.

“Shit...” the curse escaped your mouth, barely above a whisper. Before you could stop yourself, your hands were already moving, grabbing for the blanket, trying to fold the fabric over itself to conceal the mess before— 

The trailer door creaked open.

“And here we are, my dazzling daydream! One breakfast-spectacular, starring the finest blueberry pancakes of this side of the tri-state area—”

Caine stopped mid-sentence.

The grin fell from his face instantly.

You froze.

Neither of you moved. Then, your grip tightened anxiously around the blanket.

“I’m sorry,” you blurted out, “I didn’t mean to—I can wash them, I just—”

Caine set the tray down so quickly it rattled against the counter. His eyes darted toward the sheets, and then away just as fast, his expression tightening in visible discomfort before he forced himself to look back again.

“Oh, don’t do that,” he replied swiftly, already crossing the room. “Sweetheart, no, no, no, this is not becoming an apology situation.”

“But it got all over your sheets,” you conceded.

“Yes, I noticed that part.”

You lowered your gaze. “...I didn’t realize it reopened.”

Caine exhaled sharply, crouching beside the bed. Even now, even months later, he still looked vaguely ill every time blood entered the equation. His shoulders remained tense as he reached for the edge of the blanket, like some part of him still wanted to recoil from it despite himself.

He reached anyway.

“May I?” Caine asked.

The question caught you off guard. You stared at him for a moment before nodding once and loosening your grip on the fabric.

Caine peeled the blanket back, revealing a thin line of angry scar tissue, stretched along your side. Part of it had split open again, not deep, but enough to stain through the bandaging wrapped around your waist. The smell of iron settled into the air.

Caine bit his lip.

“That’s unpleasant,” he muttered faintly, already reaching for the medical kit stationed permanently on the nearby nightstand.

You hated how practiced he’d become at this now.

“I’m sorry,” you said, softer this time.

Caine paused.

Then, slowly, he looked up at you. His expression carried a hint of worry and sympathy, but above all, confusion. Your throat closed.

“Why,” he started, “are you apologizing to me for getting injured?”

Your mouth opened to respond. Nothing came out.

The silence stretched long enough for your gaze to drift away from his. Outside, somewhere beyond the walls of the caravan, you could faintly hear distant movement from the grounds, the circus beginning to wake up for the day.

“I made a mess,” you mumbled eventually.

Caine stared at you for another second before something in his expression softened into visible heartbreak. Realization.

“Oh,” he whispered back.

He didn’t press further after that. Instead, he focused his attention back onto your injury, unwrapping the loosened bandaging with gentler hands than one would expect a ringmaster to be capable of. His gloves were gone, abandoned somewhere on the counter beside the breakfast tray. Bare fingers brushed lightly against your skin as he worked, hesitant at first. He was still learning what kinds of touch wouldn’t hurt you.

You flinched slightly when disinfectant touched the wound.

“Finally,” Caine murmured softly, relieved enough to smile a little. “I was beginning to think you’d replaced your nervous system with glitter and blind optimism.”

In spite of yourself, a small laugh slipped out.

Caine looked up at the sound of it, and something warm flickered briefly across his face before settling into something gentle.“Much better,” he decided. “That’s infinitely preferable to apologizing.”

A few nights later, the rehearsal hall was still buzzing long after the show had ended.

The new show still didn’t have a title yet. That had somehow become everyone else’s problem.

Over the past few months, Caine had inherited far more than just Abel’s former position. The venue, the archives, the endless storage rooms packed with decades of discarded productions…all of it had been dumped into the ringmaster’s hands with very little instruction beyond a polite corporate congratulations and an aggressively thick stack of paperwork he had immediately refused to read.

Now, unfortunately, it meant planning.

Which also meant meetings.

Or, more accurately, whatever this was.

Music crackled softly from a speaker somewhere near the lighting booth while old props and costume pieces littered nearly every available surface in the room. Someone had dragged in folding tables from storage, though half the troupe had abandoned using them entirely in favor of sprawling across the floor amongst open archive boxes and old production trunks.

The atmosphere still felt unfamiliar sometimes.

Nobody here seemed afraid of each other. The realization continued to catch you off guard in small, embarrassing ways.

Jax was currently wearing an old feathered cape he had dug out of one of the costume bins, strutting dramatically across the rehearsal floor while Ragatha argued with him from atop one of the tables.

“You are stretching it out!”

“It’s vintage,” Jax countered. “That means it’s already survived worse…probably.”

“That is NOT how fabric works.”

Near the back wall, Pomni sat cross-legged, surrounded by old show posters. She was flipping through them one at a time with fascinated disbelief, while Gangle hovered beside her, occasionally making soft horrified noises over particularly questionable costume designs. Zooble had claimed one of the rolling office chairs and was lazily spinning in slow circles while Kinger was splayed across a pile of pillows, enthusiastically explaining the historical significance of an antique spotlight nobody had asked about.

You sat near the edge of the room beside one of the archive boxes, absently sorting through stacks of old programs. The work itself wasn’t particularly important, just a rummage for any kind of inspiration. Most of the material was outdated beyond practical use, old productions C&A had buried years ago and forgotten about entirely.

Still, it was oddly relaxing.

You hadn’t realized how much you missed quiet company until recently.

A warm paper cup appeared beside your knee.

You glanced up.

Caine stood over you with two drinks balanced in his hands, suspenders hanging loose against his rolled sleeves. He had long since abandoned the full ringmaster persona for the evening, though traces of glitter still clung stubbornly along his jawline beneath the softer lighting.

“There you are, honeybee,” he said warmly. “One criminally over-sweetened coffee prepared with enough sugar to concern medical professionals nationwide!”

“You say that every time,” you murmured, accepting the cup.

“And every time, I continue to be correct.”

Your lips twitched in amusement.

Caine pointed accusingly.

“Ah! There it is again!”

You blinked. “What?”

“That.” He gestured dramatically toward your face. “Smiling! You’re doing it significantly more now. Frankly, I’m beginning to suspect foul play.”

Across the room, Jax gagged loudly.

“Oh my god,” he grimaced.

“Jealousy is an ugly color on you, my little expired yogurt cup,” Caine replied instantly.

“See, THAT.” Jax pointed aggressively. “That’s exactly what I mean. Nobody talks like this.”

“You lack whimsy,” Caine rebutted.

“You lack sanity.” Jax grinned menacingly.

The room dissolved back into overlapping conversation after that, easy and loud around you. You lowered your gaze again, fingers absentmindedly flipping through another stack of old papers before something familiar caught your attention near the bottom of the box.

A poster tube, worn soft with age.

Your shoulders stiffened before you even touched it.

You recognized it immediately.

Before you could stop him, Jax leaned over your shoulder and snatched it first.

“Ohoho, what’s this?” he asked, already pulling the paper free. “Please tell me this is embarrassing.”

“Jax—”

Too late.

The poster unfurled across the floor between all of you.

All of the noise in the room died down instantly.

Bright stage lights stretched across the faded glossy paper. Deep navy costumes embroidered with silver stars. Younger. God, you looked impossibly young there.

And beside you stood Abel.

One arm wrapped securely around your waist while he pressed a kiss against your cheek, smiling directly toward the camera as you laughed mid-turn beneath the spotlight. Across the top, elegant gold lettering curved dramatically across the image:

“THE LOVERS”

Pomni blinked. 

“…wait.”

Jax looked between the poster and your face several times in rapid succession.

“WAIT a minute…”

You closed your eyes briefly, muttering a pained “here it goes” underneath your breath.

“That’s YOU,” Pomni exclaimed.

“And Abel,” Jax added after. “Hold on. Why are you called The Lovers?”

You stared at the poster for a moment longer before exhaling softly through your nose.

“The circus had a tarot theme that year,” you explained. “Every headlining act was assigned a card.”

Kinger lit up somewhere behind you.

“Oh! Oh, I remember that production!” he exclaimed excitedly. “Kaufmo’s ‘The Fool’ was very controversial.”

“No offense,” Zooble muttered, “but I think every production you people did was controversial.”

You laughed softly before your gaze drifted back toward the image again.

“We were the finale act,” you admitted.

Pomni frowned slightly.

“That’s…a bit of an odd choice for a boss and his worker, no?”

You hesitated briefly before answering.

“Well, we were dating.”

Everyone reacted at once.

“WHAT?”

“Excuse me?”

“No. Way.”

Even Zooble stopped spinning in their chair.

Pomni looked genuinely stunned. “You and Abel were together?”

“For a while,” you answered.

You paused, unsure of yourself, before continuing.

“Well…years, technically.”

The room got even quieter after that.

Caine hadn’t said a word.

You could feel his attention from where he stood beside you, still and focused in a way that made your chest tighten slightly.

Pomni stared openly at the poster again. “How long is YEARS?”

You gulped.

“...since high school.”

Jax nearly dropped the feathered cape. 

“No fucking way.”

“We met at a regional youth performance competition,” you explained, your eyes drifting back toward the image. “He was doing trapeze then.”

“That’s horrifying somehow,” Zooble muttered, drawing a laugh from you before you could stop it.

And just like that, the memories started slipping loose easier than they should have.

You remembered cheap motel rooms with broken air conditioning. Shared cigarettes behind circus tents while waiting for equipment inspections. Falling asleep tangled together in the backseat of borrowed cars because neither of you could afford actual hotel rooms or your own vehicles yet.

You remembered sitting on rooftops after performances talking about the future like either of you had any idea what you were doing.

You remembered Abel braiding your hair backstage before shows because your hands used to shake badly before performances…no, they still do.

“We thought we were going to change everything,” you murmured, barely audible.

Nobody interrupted you.

You stared down at the poster instead, fingers brushing lightly over one of the old creases in the paper.

“We started performing together before either of us was even legally an adult,” you admitted. “Then we just…kept going.”

Pomni frowned slightly. “Did nobody stop you?”

You rolled your eyes at that.

“Not really.”

“That’s insane,” Jax declared.

“It was fun,” you corrected softly.

That was the worst part.

Because it had been.

The memories were still there, carved into your heart. Abel sneaking you carnival food between rehearsals. Sewing rhinestones onto your costumes at three in the morning because there wasn’t enough money to hire anyone else. Holding your hands backstage while you panicked before your first major performance.

You rubbed your temple.

“He bought me a rabbit after our first headlining show,” you reminisced.

Caine finally moved, positioning himself closer, slightly beside you.

“A rabbit?” Ragatha asked softly.

You nodded once. “Yeah,” a faint smile touched your mouth without permission. “She used to sit in my costume box during rehearsals.”

Before the silence could settle too heavily again, Pomni reached toward another stack of photographs near the edge of the box.

“Oh—there’s more,” she murmured.

Jax leaned over her shoulder. “Please tell me at least one of these is humiliating.”

“It’s mostly just old backstage stuff,” you admitted.

Pomni flipped through several faded photographs before pausing suddenly.

“…huh, what about this one?”

She held one up between her fingers.

You recognized this one, too.

The photo was grainy with age, taken somewhere behind one of the older circus tents late at night. Abel sat sprawled across the hood of an old truck while you leaned against his shoulder beside him, both of you still half-coated in stage makeup. A cigarette rested loosely between your fingers while Abel grinned toward the camera like neither of you had ever known embarrassment a day in your lives.

Jax looked genuinely scandalized.

“You used to smoke?”

You snorted softly before you could stop yourself.

“Unfortunately.”

“THAT’S the shocking part of this entire conversation?” Zooble asked flatly.

“You don’t understand,” Jax replied. “This changes the vibe entirely.”

Pomni kept staring down at the picture. “You both look…happy.”

The room quieted slightly again.

You took the photograph from her, your thumb brushing along the bent edge.

“We were,” you admitted softly.

And that was the problem.

You remembered counting crumpled dollar bills between rehearsals because neither of you could afford actual meals some nights, Abel warming your hands between his own because the circus didn’t have the budget to keep the heat on, even during winter.

You loved him before the circus ever tasted success.

Your gaze lingered on the photograph a moment longer before you broke the silence.

“That was a long time ago,” you admitted.

Jax blinked. “You still smoke?”

“No.”

“Why?”

You hesitated. Your thumb pressed harder against the bent corner of the photograph.

“…it’s hard to explain,” you whispered.

Nobody spoke after that.

The room had gone strangely still around you, a heavy kind of silence settling when everyone realized they’d wandered into something far heavier than they initially meant to. You could practically feel the shift in the atmosphere, conversation struggling at the edges before slowly beginning to restart itself, piece by piece.

Kinger cleared his throat softly somewhere near the props table and started rambling again about old stage rigging. Ragatha gently redirected Pomni back toward the costume sketches scattered across the floor. Jax muttered something, likely an insult, quieter this time as he tossed the feathered cape back into the trunk.

Everyone moved on, but you stayed frozen.

The photograph remained still between your hands while the noise around you slowly rebuilt itself into something warm and distant again. Your eyes stayed fixed on the younger versions of yourselves smiling up from faded paper, smoke curling through the grainy edges of the image.

You remembered exactly what that night smelled like.

Caine remained at your side.

You became aware of him slowly, like warmth returning to a numb limb. He didn’t touch you, or even try to interrupt. He stayed completely still, just there, close enough for his shoulder to nearly brush yours.

Careful.

Always so careful with you.

Your throat tightened unexpectedly.

“He wasn’t always like that,” you said quietly.

Beside you, barely loud enough to hear,

“I know.”

The caravan was quieter when you returned that night.

Not silent. Never completely silent. Bubble was somewhere near the front window, chirping to himself intermittently while rain tapped softly against the roof overhead. Still, compared to the noise of the rehearsal hall, it felt muted.

You lingered near the doorway longer than necessary.

Caine had abandoned almost all of his costume by now, the bright red tailcoat hanging over the back of one of the chairs while he loosened the cuffs of his sleeves near the kitchenette. Warm yellow light spilled softly from a lamp, catching against little honey-gold accents scattered throughout the space.

The rabbit-shaped hot water bottle currently sitting on the couch looked deeply judgmental.

“You’ve gone suspiciously quiet on me, my velvet valentine,” Caine observed.

You forced a small shrug and moved further inside, setting your shoes near the door. Your ribs ached faintly from sitting on the rehearsal floor too long earlier. You ignored it.

“I’m fine.”

“Mm.” Caine leaned one elbow against the counter. “Historically speaking, that phrase has an absolutely terrible success rate.”

Your expression betrayed you, your mouth twitching faintly.

Caine relaxed just a little at the sight of it.

You drifted toward the sofa slowly, lowering yourself onto the cushions with more care than you used to need. The movement still pulled faintly at your side. Not enough to truly hurt anymore, but enough to remind you the injuries existed.

The poster was still stuck in your head.

Not even the poster itself, really.

The feeling of everyone looking at you afterward.

Not judgmental, that somehow would have been easier.

Just…sad.

You stared down at your hands quietly.

“I didn’t realize I never told you,” you admitted after a while.

Caine glanced up from where he was making tea. “About?”

You hesitated.

“Any of it.”

For a moment, only the rain answered.

Then Caine exhaled softly through his nose and abandoned his spot to approach you, setting two mugs down on the coffee table before sitting beside you on the couch.

“You told me enough,” he said gently.

Your eyes darkened at that. “I really didn’t.”

“No,” Caine agreed. “Not everything.” A small smile tugged faintly at the corner of his mouth. “But, sweetheart, I did gather that the two of you had…history.”

You stared at him.

“You knew?”

Caine looked amused by the question.

“Honeybee, you referred to the man as ‘Abey’ instead of ‘Mr. Abel’ exactly one time and then looked like you wanted to throw yourself directly into traffic afterward.”

Mortification flashed hot across your face.

“Oh my god.”

“It was very telling!”

You covered your face briefly with one hand while Caine chuckled beside you.

“I just…” Your voice faltered slightly as you lowered your hand again. “I don’t know. I didn’t think it mattered anymore.”

The words sounded wrong the second they left your mouth.

Caine’s expression softened.

“It mattered to you,” he confided.

Your eyes dropped again.

The rain outside had gotten heavier now, pounding against the roof of the trailer. Bubble squawked something unintelligible from the windowsill before fluffing his feathers irritably.

You took a deep breath.

“We weren’t together anymore by the end,” you admitted. “Not really.”

Caine stayed quiet, waiting.

“The circus just sort of…” You searched for the right word, unsuccessfully. “Consumed it, I guess.”

Your fingers twisted loosely together in your lap.

“At first it was us against everything else.” A faint laugh escaped you quietly. “Which sounds dramatic, but we were eighteen and stupid, so…”

Caine smiled faintly.

“We didn’t have money, and we barely had jobs. We used to keep a notebook,” you admitted quietly. “Every city we performed in, we’d write down one thing we wanted to come back for once we ‘made it.’” Your expression softened slightly around the memory. “But it was still…” You trailed off.

Good.

The word stuck painfully, somewhere behind your ribs.

You looked down instead.

“Then the shows got bigger,” you continued quietly. “And bigger. Then, there were contracts and investors and schedules and suddenly everything started revolving around performance.” The words scratched against the back of your throat. “Eventually it stopped feeling like we were building something together.”

Caine’s attention never left your face.

“...it started feeling like I belonged to it.”

The words settled heavily between both of you.

You laughed quietly, after a second, though there wasn’t much humor in it.

“I don’t even think there was a breakup.” Your shoulders lifted slightly. “One day I just realized we hadn’t acted like…like people who loved each other in a long time.”

Caine leaned back slightly against the couch cushions, his expression unreadable before he spoke carefully.

“And after you fell?”

You froze. Neither of you had mentioned the accident for weeks.

Your eyes drifted toward the rain-streaked window, looking out into the dark night sky.

“He seemed scared,” you admitted softly.

Caine went still beside you.

You continued to look out the window.

“I think that was the first time I’d seen him scared for me in a really, really long time.”

A silence settled between the two of you, and you moved your gaze downward, fidgeting with your hands in your lap.

Caine broke the silence quietly.

“You still didn’t testify against him,” confusion threaded through concern.

Your breath caught slightly. Slowly, you leaned back against the couch.

“I know.”

Caine’s jaw tightened faintly.

“He could have killed you.”

You flinched instinctively at the sharpness in his voice.

Caine noticed immediately.

His expression crumpled with regret almost as fast as the words had left him.

“No, darling, no—I’m not upset with you.”

“I know,” you said softly.

But your body still braced for impact anyway.

That visibly hurt him.

Caine exhaled shakily and leaned forward, elbows resting against his knees as he rubbed a hand over his face.

“I just don’t understand,” he admitted quietly.

You stared at the floor.

Neither did you.

Not fully.

“I was tired,” you whispered eventually.

The rain filled the silence afterward.

Tired of hospitals. Tired of interviews. Tired of lawyers.

Tired of trying to explain years of your life to strangers who only saw the ending.

Your jaw tightened.

“I think part of me still kept waiting for him to become himself again,” you admitted softly.

Caine closed his eyes briefly.

And when he looked at you again, there was no frustration left in his expression anymore.

Only heartbreak.

He reached over and took your hands before they could start twisting together again.

“You deserved better than waiting for someone to stop hurting you,” he assured you.

Your ribs ached at the gentleness of it.

Because Abel had once held your hands like this too.

And somehow, that only made the warmth of Caine’s touch feel sadder.

Four months into your ‘new life’, Caine had started taking you somewhere new every week.

Not extravagant places, necessarily. Half the time they barely qualified as proper dates at all. One afternoon, he had dragged you three towns over because, according to him, a diner there served “life-altering mozzarella sticks.” Another week, he insisted on driving nearly an hour just to show you a roadside antique shop filled entirely with deeply unsettling clown figurines.

You still weren’t fully convinced that one hadn’t been a threat.

But the outings had slowly become routine. A way to leave. A way to remind you that there was still a world outside the circus grounds.

Usually the trips stayed close enough that the circus still felt present somehow, clinging to the edges of everything even after you’d left it behind for the night.

This time, though, Caine drove until even the skyline disappeared.

The farther you got from the circus grounds, the quieter he became.

Not withdrawn, but, just, calmer somehow, less…ringmaster. Less performance.

You sat with one leg tucked beneath you in the passenger seat while warm evening light spilled through the windshield in soft golden streaks. Bubble occupied the backseat, periodically cursing at passing cars with increasingly personal insults before eventually tiring himself out somewhere near the edge of town.

You glanced out the window as another stretch of countryside rolled past.

“…where are we going?”

Caine kept his eyes on the road, though the corner of his mouth lifted slightly.

“A surprise.”

“That’s usually a bad sign.”

“My little starlight special, your faith in me wounds me deeply.”

“It should.”

“Cruel.”

Still, there was something oddly peaceful about the drive. It was such a change from the old routine: no rehearsals, no crowds, no backstage noise bleeding endlessly into itself. The low hum of tires against pavement and the occasional flicker of sunlight through passing trees was all that filled the air.

You hadn’t realized how tense your body usually stayed until it finally started easing on its own, relaxing itself into the leather of the carseat.

By the time Caine finally pulled into a gravel parking lot nearly an hour later, you were visibly confused.

The building ahead of you looked small and local, strings of warm lights hanging across wooden fencing while faint sounds drifted from somewhere farther inside.

A goat bleated loudly in the distance.

You blinked once.

Then again.

“…you brought me to a petting zoo?”

Caine looked deeply offended.

“Please. I brought you to an award-winning petting zoo.”

“There are awards for this?”

“There should be.”

The parking lot was mostly empty by then, the late afternoon crowd already gone. Somewhere beyond the fences, children’s laughter echoed faintly. The air smelled like hay, dirt, kettle corn, and the lingering warmth of sun-soaked wood.

Something in your chest loosened before you could stop it.

“Gosh,” he started, triumphant, as the two of you walked toward the entrance. He could read your body language like a book by now. “You’re significantly easier to impress than people think.”

“I’m not impressed.”

“You’re emotionally frolicking.”

“I don’t think that’s a real thing.”

“It absolutely is.”

The employee at the front counter handed you each a paper cup filled with animal feed before either of you wandered deeper into the rows of fenced enclosures. Most of the animals had already settled into the slow sleepy calm of evening. Goats crowded eagerly against fences while small rabbits dozed beneath shaded wooden platforms nearby.

You slowed near them automatically.

Caine felt a tug at his heartstrings as he watched you crouch beside the enclosure. A small white rabbit wandered toward the fence, nose twitching cautiously.

Your face changed instantly.

“Oh,” you murmured.

The rabbit pressed closer against the wired fencing while you held your hand near it carefully, giving it room to approach first. You still moved like someone afraid of startling things too quickly.

Caine leaned lightly against the fence beside you.

“You like rabbits,” he observed.

You huffed a small laugh through your nose.

“That obvious?”

“My luminous lovebird, I’ve seen less emotional eye contact at weddings.”

You smiled faintly, though it faded again almost as quickly.

“I had one once,” you whispered, recalling back to your previous conversation amidst vintage costumes and grainy photographs.

Caine’s gaze shifted toward you, though he stayed silent.

“A white lop,” you continued softly, your fingers resting lightly against the fence. “A gift to celebrate our success.” A small laugh escaped you. “Abel spent all the money we’d made that week on her.”

“She used to sleep curled up inside my dressing room vanity,” you admitted softly. “I’d open the drawer and she’d already be in there…would chew through my ribbons constantly.”

“I’m beginning to think your life has always been deeply theatrical.”

That earned a quieter laugh from you.

“She was sweet,” you admitted. “The rabbit, I mean.”

The correction settled strangely between both of you.

Caine stayed very still beside you.

“What happened to her?” he asked, his voice gentle.

You looked down at the dirt before answering.

“Abel sold her.”

The words landed softly. That made them worse.

You rubbed absentmindedly at the heel of your hand against your clothes.

“He said I was getting too attached,” you explained quietly. “We were traveling more by then. Bigger venues. Longer tours.” You bit down on your lip. “Said I needed to focus.”

Caine stared at you in visible disbelief for a second.

“He sold your rabbit because you loved it too much?”

You laughed at that, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes.

“When you say it out loud like that, it sounds bad.”

“SWEETHEART.”

You smiled weakly at his horror.

“It wasn’t…” You paused. “I don’t know. Things were different by then.”

The rabbit eventually wandered away again, disappearing beneath one of the little wooden shelters nearby. Your eyes followed after it

“I think,” you admitted slowly, “that was one of the first times I realized something had changed.”

Caine’s expression softened.

You stayed crouched beside the fence before moving yourself carefully onto a nearby bench instead, one hand unconsciously pressing against your ribs as the movement tugged faintly at healing scar tissue beneath your shirt.

Caine noticed. Of course he did.

His gaze flicked toward your side. “How bad?”

“It’s fine.”

“That was not a number.”

You snorted gently.

“Just sore.”

Caine frowned, but sat beside you anyway, his shoulder rubbing against yours beneath the fading evening sunlight.

Children’s laughter drifted faintly across the property somewhere in the distance. A goat screamed loudly for reasons known only to itself.

You stared out toward the fencing quietly.

“I can’t smoke anymore.”

The confession slipped out so suddenly it startled even you.

Caine glanced over.

You pretended you hadn’t spoken, but that didn’t fool him. Instead, you looked down at your hands.

“I tried after the hospital,” you admitted. “A few times.”

Caine didn’t push, but you continued anyway.

“I just…” you rubbed your thumb slowly against the side of the paper feed cup, “..I got tired of remembering things every time I lit one.”

Your vision fogged unexpectedly as your gaze drifted somewhere distant, somewhere far beyond the fencing and warm evening light.

“He used to count with me before difficult routines,” a tear sneakily escaped, slipping down your cheek. “Every time before a dangerous act, he’d stand backstage and count under his breath with me.”

Caine listened, turning to face you.

“We didn’t even have to look at each other anymore by the end of it.” Your fingers tightened faintly around the paper cup. “I could hear him counting from behind the curtains and know exactly when to jump.”

The words settled heavily between both of you.

“He always waited for me after shows, too,” you continued more softly. “Even when we were fighting.”

Something in your expression shifted slightly then. It was hard to talk about things you wished had been easier to hate.

“We could spend an entire night barely speaking to each other,” you murmured, staring down toward your hands, “and he’d still be sitting in my dressing room afterward.”

Caine stayed quiet.

“He used to say performers shouldn’t go to sleep alone after difficult crowds.” A faint smile tugged weakly at your mouth before fading again. “Thought it made the bad shows stick harder.”

The evening air felt colder suddenly.

You rubbed absentmindedly at your wrist with your thumb.

“I think that’s what makes it confusing sometimes,” you admitted quietly. “Trying to figure out which version of him was real.”

Momentarily, only the distant sounds of the petting zoo responded. Somewhere nearby, Bubble shrieked angrily at a goat while children giggled in the distance.

Then, you felt a hand tenderly rub your shoulder.

Caine leaned down slightly, whispering in your ear,

“Maybe both were.”

A few days after the petting zoo, the rain came back.

This time, it was not the violent kind that rattled windows hard enough to wake people up in the middle of the night, but a steady, spring rain. Soft enough to blur the city lights outside of the circus into streaks of gold and silver across the pavement.

The circus always felt quieter when it rained.

Maybe because audiences rushed home faster afterward, or because the sound softened the building itself, muting footsteps and distant voices beneath the constant rhythmic tapping against the roof.

Or maybe you just noticed silence more these days.

The rehearsal hall had emptied hours ago.

Most of the overhead lights had already shut off automatically, leaving only the softer practice lights glowing faintly while rain tapped steadily against the high windows overhead. The building felt cavernous when it got this quiet, every creak and metallic shift echoing too loudly through the empty space.

You preferred it that way.

Or at least that was what you kept telling yourself.

Your hands tightened around the silks again as you adjusted your grip overhead. The fabric burned faintly against your palms, familiar enough to feel comforting even now.

One more time.

You ignored the ache already pulling through your shoulder and climbed higher.

The movement felt wrong off the bat.

Your body still remembered routines it could no longer perform the same way, muscle memory reaching for movements faster than healing could keep up with them. Halfway through the sequence, your shoulder gave sharply beneath your weight.

Pain flared down your arm.

Your grip slipped.

You caught yourself before you could truly fall, but the sudden jolt sent another sharp pulse through your ribs hard enough to wrench a breath from your lungs.

“Okay,” Caine’s voice called from below. “Absolutely not.”

You shut your eyes briefly.

Of course he was here.

“I’m fine,” you called down, still hanging there.

“My sparkling sugar ribbon, you are currently dangling twenty feet in the air with one functioning shoulder. I refuse to entertain this delusion any longer.”

You exhaled shakily through your nose and adjusted your grip again.

“One more attempt.”

“No.”

“I almost had it.”

“You almost dislocated something.”

You ignored him and pulled yourself upward again anyway.

The second attempt went worse.

Your timing slipped halfway through the release. Your body hesitated where it never used to.

It was a tiny slip-up, instantaneous.

Humiliating.

The silks jerked hard beneath your grip as you stopped yourself awkwardly mid-drop.

Pain shot through your side again, and for a second, the entire room spun.

Then silence.

Rain pattered against the windows as your breath came out in shaky spurts.

“...darling.”

You hated how soft he sounded when he was worried.

“I had this move down when I was sixteen,” you said quietly, still staring down at the fabric wrapped around your hands. “I used to do it six nights a week.”

Caine didn’t answer immediately.

“That was before you fell fifty feet.”

The words weren’t cruel. That made it worse.

You swallowed hard and tried climbing again, but your arm gave out halfway up.

This time, frustration hit before pain did.

“God damn it—”

Your hand slammed sharply against the silk hard enough to make the rigging sway.

And suddenly you were angry…no, you were furious.

At your body. At your hesitation. At the fear.

At the fact that something you used to do without thinking now felt like trying to force yourself through broken glass.

“I don’t understand why I can’t do it anymore,” you snapped quietly.

Caine had moved closer beneath you now, close enough that you could see the tension in his expression even from above.

“Sweetheart—”

“No, I’m serious.” Your voice cracked slightly around the edges. “I know what I’m doing. I KNOW this routine.”

You tightened your grip again hard enough for the fabric to burn against your palms.

“If I stop now, I’m going to lose it.”

Caine went very still beneath you. Then quietly:

“You nearly lost your spine.”

Silence filled the rehearsal hall again. You stared somewhere past him. The rain began to slow, dimming down to a pitter-patter against the window.

“I don’t know how to be anything else,” you admitted finally.

There it was: the real wound.

The horrifying emptiness built underneath a life built entirely around performance. A crumbling foundation.

Your voice tightened.

“I can’t even tell when I’m pushing too hard anymore.” A humorless laugh slipped from your lips. “I genuinely don’t know where the line is supposed to be.”

Caine took another step, now standing directly beneath you. He held one hand upward toward you.

“Come down,” he said softly.

You stared at him for a long moment.

Then finally loosened your grip.

The descent hurt more than you wanted to admit. By the time your feet finally touched the floor again, your shoulder trembled visibly from strain. You barely had time to steady yourself before Caine’s hands settled lightly against your waist, warm even through the fabric of your shirt. Your breath hitched at the sensation.

“There you are,” he murmured quietly, like he was talking to a skittish animal. “Easy.”

You loathed how badly you wanted to lean into him, how weak you appeared, but you caved in anyway, your forehead dipping against his shoulder, face pressing into the fabric of his shirt.

“I’m trying.” 

Caine’s grip softened further.

“I know.”

His words nearly undid you.

Caine didn’t let go right afterward, one hand remaining steady against your ribs while he guided you slowly toward the benches along the wall. Your limp had worsened slightly without you noticing, but it hadn’t slipped past Caine’s attention.

“You’re done for tonight,” he informed you gently.

“I can still—”

“Honeybee.”

His tone was soft, patient, even, but absolutely immovable.

You sighed.

“…fine.” 

“Excellent. I implore you for your cooperation, my paper moon.”

You snorted involuntarily.

By the time the two of you finally left the rehearsal hall, the rain outside had picked up again, worsening into a rampant downpour. Caine moved closer beside you as you crossed the parking lot, one hand hovering protectively near your back.

The caravan felt impossibly warm after that. Bubble barely looked up from his perch near the window as the two of you entered.

“They overdid it again,” Caine informed him gravely.

Bubble clicked his beak once.

“Exactly.”

You rolled your eyes faintly at the bird and dropped your bag beside the couch before wincing at the movement.

Caine snapped his head over, quickly making his way towards you.

“I know,” you sighed.

“No, I genuinely do not think you do.”

Despite the scolding, his hands remained impossibly gentle as he helped ease your jacket from your shoulders. The movement tugged painfully at your side.

You hissed quietly.

“There it is,” Caine muttered. “That’s the sound I was waiting for.”

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

Unfortunately, he sounded very pleased about that.

You were already half-exhausted by the time he guided you toward the bed tucked into the back corner of the caravan. Rain softened everything outside into dull steady noise while warm light pooled softly through the little space around you.

“Sit,” Caine instructed.

You obeyed this time.

Progress, apparently.

He disappeared briefly into the tiny bathroom before returning with pain medication and fresh bandages, kneeling down in front of you as he began loosening the wraps around your ribs with practiced hands.

You stared down at him quietly.

Months ago, the sight probably would have terrified you.

Now it just made your heart ache.

“You don’t have to keep taking care of me like this,” you murmured softly.

Caine glanced up.

“Good thing I want to.”

The answer came so quickly it startled you.

Something tight twisted painfully beneath your ribs that had nothing to do with injury.

Caine finished rewrapping your side before resting his hands lightly against your knees.

You unconsciously reached for the ribbon on your wrist, wrapping it repeatedly to tighten.

Caine gently took your hands.

 “You don’t have to keep doing that…” he sighed. “No more aerial work tonight,” he informed you, “Seriously.”

You groaned dramatically. “You’re ruining my career.”

“I’m trying to keep you alive.”

“...that’s fair.”

“There’s my reasonable superstar.”

A small laugh slipped from you quietly.

Caine smiled at the sound of it, then mouthed, “Come here.”

You shifted beneath the blankets as Caine climbed in beside you, warm and familiar in a way that you welcomed earnestly. Rain continued tapping softly against the roof while the mattress dipped beneath his weight.

You stayed still at first.

Then, uncertainly, you moved closer until your head rested lightly against his chest.

One of his hands slid gently into your hair while the other rested against your waist, loose enough that you could pull away whenever you wanted.

You didn’t.

Your eyes drifted shut slowly as exhaustion finally started pulling at you properly.

Somewhere above you, Caine pressed a soft kiss against your forehead. Then another near your temple.

“You know,” he murmured quietly into your hair, “most people buy gifts during courtship.”

Your tired laugh muffled softly against his shirt.

“Most people don’t even bother with that.”

“Cowards,” Caine replied. “I’m considering miniature horses next.”

“You are absolutely not bringing a horse into the caravan.”

“Hm. You say that now.”

You smiled faintly against him, eyes still closed.

The rain outside blended into white noise while Caine’s fingers drifted slowly through your hair in thoughtless patterns. Somewhere during the quiet that followed, his hand slipped gently beneath the hem of your shirt, warm against the bare skin of your waist where bandages ended.

Your breathing caught softly at the contact.

Caine stilled.

“Are you alright?”

You nodded against his chest, too tired to feel embarrassed by the way you instinctively moved closer afterward.

His thumb traced one slow circle against your side before settling there protectively instead, holding you carefully, like something precious enough to break if handled too roughly.

As sleep finally won its battle against you, you could feel his mouth brush once more against the top of your head.

Then, quieter still, mumbled against your hair:

“I’ve got you.”

The rabbit arrived exactly eight days later.

Which meant Caine had absolutely been planning it longer than he claimed.

“She needed time to acclimate,” he insisted while carrying the pet carrier through the door with exaggerated seriousness. “A delicate creature such as this cannot simply be thrust into a new environment without proper preparation.”

“She’s a rabbit.”

“She has needs!”

Bubble, perched near the kitchenette, leaned downward to stare suspiciously through the carrier door.

“…ugly,” he declared.

“You are a parrot with road rage,” Caine informed him. “Your criticism means nothing to me.”

You smiled from where you sat curled beneath a blanket on the couch, one hand still resting absently near your ribs. Rehearsal had gone easier this week. Not perfect, but easier.

The carrier shifted faintly as Caine finally knelt beside the couch and opened the little metal door.

At first, nothing happened.

Then slowly, cautiously, a small white rabbit emerged.

Your breath caught instantly.

She was tiny.

Smaller than the rabbit you remembered from years ago, her fur bright white except for a faint patch of gray near one ear. Her nose twitched cautiously as she paused beside the carrier, trying to determine whether the environment was safe enough to continue exploring.

“Oh my god,” you whispered.

Caine looked unbearably pleased with himself.

“There it is,” he announced triumphantly. “That’s the exact reaction I was hoping for.”

You barely heard him.

The rabbit had already started slowly making her way toward the couch, little paws muffled softly against the blankets while you stared down at her, afraid to move too suddenly and scare her away.

“She’s so little,” you murmured.

“Honeybee, she weighs approximately the same as a croissant.”

Bubble leaned down further from his perch.

“…still ugly.”

The rabbit completely ignored him.

You laughed softly again before lowering one hand toward her. The rabbit paused briefly, nose twitching against your fingers before finally nudging into your palm.

Caine’s chest tightened at the sight of it.

The light glowed warm around all of you, rain still tapping softly against the windows while the rabbit climbed hesitantly onto the blanket pooled across your lap.

Your eyes widened.

“Oh—”

“She likes you,” Caine said quietly.

The rabbit settled there with surprising ease, curling against your stomach like she’d already decided she belonged.

You stared down at her silently for several seconds before speaking again.

“…am I allowed to keep her on the couch?”

Caine’s brow furrowed.

“Sweetheart, I bought her tiny strawberry-patterned blankets yesterday.”

“You bought her blankets?”

“I bought her several things.”

“You’re insane.”

“Yes, but in a deeply endearing way.”

You smiled before you could stop yourself.

The rabbit shifted again against your lap, nosing curiously at the sleeve of your sweatshirt while your fingers moved automatically into her fur.

The motion felt familiar.

Like your body remembered gentleness even when the rest of you struggled to.

Caine watched quietly from beside the couch.

“She’s not replacing anything,” he said softly after a moment.

You looked up at him.

His expression had gentled sometime during the silence, traces of humor fading into something quieter now.

“I know,” you answered.

“I just…” He hesitated briefly. Rare for him. “You loved something once and…someone punished you for it.”

The words landed heavily between both of you.

Caine’s gaze dropped toward the rabbit curled safely in your lap.

“I think you deserve to have something gentle without being afraid it’ll be taken away.”

Your jaw clenched so fast it hurt.

You looked down quickly before he could fully see your expression crumble.

The rabbit nudged insistently against your hand again.

You laughed weakly through the sudden sting behind your eyes.

“She doesn’t even know me yet.”

Caine leaned lightly against the side of the couch beside you.

“Darling,” he murmured softly, “neither did I.”

That nearly broke you. Again.

You looked over at him, properly this time.

Caine sat close enough for you to catch traces of sawdust, stage makeup, and the peppermint tea he’d made earlier lingering against his clothes. Somewhere along the past few months, he had stopped looking untouchable to you.

Or maybe just easier to reach.

Your breath stalled suddenly with the realization that someone had been trying to love you carefully for months now.

And you still occasionally reacted like you were waiting for it to become conditional.

The thought made guilt twist sharply through your stomach.

As if sensing the shift in your expression, Caine’s hand drifted lightly against your knee.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

You swallowed once.

“She’s really sweet.”

Caine smiled, understanding the deflection for exactly what it was and letting you have it anyway.

“She also attempted to bite me three separate times during the drive over.”

“She has good instincts.”

“I’m being bullied in my own home.”

Dinner after rehearsal started happening accidentally.

At least, that was what everyone collectively pretended.

It began with takeout containers scattered across rehearsal tables after particularly late nights, someone staying behind too long to justify walking back to their trailer, someone else stealing fries off another person’s plate, the night progressing suddenly and nobody actually leaving.

Now it happens almost every Friday.

Tonight’s menu consisted entirely of comfort food. Hamburgers wrapped in greasy paper, hot dogs overloaded with toppings, french fries dumped into plastic baskets too small to hold them properly, and thick milkshakes sweating condensation across the tabletops beside scattered costume sketches and production notes.

Kinger technically hadn’t intended on staying.

Queenie had sent him downstairs with revised budgeting sheets and very strict instructions to “drop the paperwork off and come home immediately before dinner gets cold.” Somehow he had still ended up sitting at the table with a cheeseburger in one hand and a forty-minute conversation about historical cannon malfunctions already underway.

The rehearsal hall looked different like this. Softer, less like a workplace and more like something lived in. A home.

Music hummed quietly from a speaker, probably a playlist of Pomni’s, while people crowded around pushed-together tables in varying states of exhaustion. Someone had stolen half the chairs from the orchestra pit at some point during the evening. Nobody questioned it anymore.

The white rabbit currently sat in the middle of the chaos, completely unbothered by any of it.

Jax leaned back in his chair, staring down at her suspiciously while she sat beside his untouched basket of fries.

“She’s judging me,” he announced.

“She’s a rabbit,” Zooble replied flatly.

“Exactly. That’s what rabbits do…judge. Just look at her!”

The rabbit continued chewing calmly on a piece of lettuce like none of you existed.

“She definitely likes me more than Bubble,” Ragatha said proudly from across the table.

Bubble puffed himself up from where he perched on the back of Caine’s chair. “LIES!”

“You hissed at her for twenty straight minutes,” Pomni pointed out.

Bubble squawked defensively, narrowing his eyes at the rabbit. “Started it.”

“She absolutely did not,” Zooble muttered.

Caine leaned back in his chair with visible offense. “In Bubble’s defense, introducing a new creature into one’s home can be an emotionally complicated process.”

Bubble chirped smugly.

“You called her a tax evader yesterday,” Gangle continued the argument.

“Criminal eyes.”

That finally broke something loose at the table.

Ragatha nearly choked on her milkshake. Pomni covered her face while Gangle dissolved into startled laughter beside her. Even Zooble looked briefly close to smiling.

Across from you, Jax pointed dramatically at the rabbit. “THANK YOU. Finally, someone else sees it.”

The rabbit continued chewing lettuce with complete indifference to the allegations against her.

You reached over, gently tugging the lettuce away before the rabbit could fully abandon it in favor of Jax’s fries. She climbed into your lap instead, tiny paws sinking into the fabric of your pants while your hand moved instinctively into the soft fur between her ears.

“You validate Bubble too much,” Zooble said flatly.

Caine looked delighted by the accusation. “Thank you.”

Across the table, Kinger suddenly pointed upward with the alarming intensity of a man remembering something catastrophic.

“Speaking of dangerous animals, did I ever tell you all about the tiger incident in Atlantic City?”

“No,” Pomni cut him off immediately. “And I don’t think we should encourage this.”

“It escaped during intermission.”

“WHY WOULD YOU START WITH THAT?”

“The important thing,” Kinger continued seriously, “is that nobody technically died.”

“TECHNICALLY?” Gangle squeaked.

Jax looked thrilled. “See, this is why I sit near him.”

While the conversation dissolved again into overlapping horror and increasingly unnecessary follow-up questions, the rabbit shifted sleepily, moving higher into your lap. Her nose twitched once against your wrist before she settled there fully.

Pomni turned her gaze toward you.

“Okay,” she said, leaning forward slightly. “Serious question. Does she have a name yet?”

The table quieted.

Your hand stilled briefly against the rabbit’s fur.

Truthfully, you’d been avoiding naming her. Not consciously, at least you didn’t think so. But names made things permanent, somehow, and permanent things still frightened you more than you liked admitting.

Jax ruined the moment.

“She looks like a Microwave.”

“You cannot name a rabbit Microwave,” Ragatha protested.

“Not to defend Jax, but…you did name your goldfish Hay Bail in middle school,” Zooble reminded her.

“That was DIFFERENT.”

“Was it, though?” Jax smirked.

Caine leaned thoughtfully against one hand. “Hm. She needs a name with stage presence.”

“You cannot give a rabbit stage presence,” Pomni said.

“Watch me.”

Bubble puffed himself up proudly from his perch.

“Roadkill.”

“Absolutely not,” eight people answered simultaneously.

The rabbit twitched once in your lap before nosing curiously against your hand again. Your thumb brushed slowly between her ears, soft enough that her eyes started drooping.

“…Velveteen.”

The table quieted again.

Caine’s expression softened instantly beside you.

Pomni blinked. “Like The Velveteen Rabbit?”

You nodded once. “Yeah.”

“That suits her,” Caine murmured under his breath.

Velveteen shifted in your lap, completely relaxed beneath your hands now.

Across the table, Jax pointed accusingly. “She likes that name too much. This is rigged.”

“You’re jealous of a rabbit,” Zooble deadpanned.

“I’m losing attention to a rabbit.”

“Skill issue.”

The table dissolved back into laughter again after that, loud and overlapping and completely unrestrained. For a while, you just sat there listening to it all. The arguing, the teasing, the occasional dramatic interruptions from Bubble, the complete absence of tension underneath any of it.

Nobody monitored how much you ate. Nobody criticized your posture. Nobody reminded you to rehearse again afterward, or glared at you with dollar signs in their eyes.

They just wanted you there.

The realization hit strangely hard.

Your fingers stilled briefly against Velveteen’s fur.

Another dinner flashed through your mind.

Kaufmo sitting beside you with greasepaint still half-stuck to his face, stealing fries off your plate while Ribbit laughed quietly, hard enough to snort into her drink. Scratch balancing backwards in his chair while everyone talked over each other too loudly after a good show, exhausted and warm and young enough to think things like that would last forever.

Because they had loved each other once.

Not just you and Abel.

All of you.

Until slowly, somewhere along the way, fear started taking up more room than friendship did. When Abel’s footsteps alone became enough to make entire conversations die mid-sentence.

Beside you, Caine glanced over. You didn’t even realize your expression had changed until his hand slid quietly into yours beneath the table. Caine’s thumb brushed lightly against the back of your hand, subtle enough that nobody else seemed to notice it. Or maybe they did and simply chose not to say anything.

Velveteen shifted again in your lap, stretching lazily before attempting to climb toward one of the abandoned baskets of fries near the center of the table.

Jax pointed instantly. “SEE? Criminal.”

“She’s literally just hungry,” Ragatha argued.

“That’s exactly how organized crime starts.”

“You think the rabbit is part of the mafia?” Pomni asked incredulously.

“She has the eyes for it.”

Bubble chirped from Caine’s shoulder. “Mob boss.”

“THANK YOU.”

You laughed softly under your breath as Velveteen finally succeeded in stealing a single fry from the basket. The thing was nearly the size of her head.

“Oh my god,” Gangle whispered. “She actually did it.”

Caine looked deeply emotional about the situation. “My gosh, our daughter has become self-sufficient.”

“She stole a french fry,” you grimaced.

“Hey, I support women’s rights and women’s wrongs!”

Zooble physically lowered their face into one hand.

Kinger pointed toward the rabbit with complete seriousness. “You know, this is actually how the Atlantic City tiger incident began.”

“NO IT ISN’T,” Pomni cried.

“You weren’t there.”

“You can’t just connect every story back to the tiger!”

Kinger glanced at her with genuine thoughtfulness. “Fair point…some of them involve fire instead.”

“That somehow made it worse,” Ragatha muttered.

The table dissolved again after that, everyone talking over each other while Velveteen sat triumphantly in your lap with her stolen fry. Across the room, music continued humming softly through the speakers.

And for once, when you looked around the table, the feeling in your chest no longer resembled grief quite so sharply.

Caine’s dressing room was quieter than usual before performances.

Somewhere beyond the walls, the muffled sounds of stagehands and orchestra tuning bled faintly through the building, distant enough to blur together into background noise. Compared to the overwhelming brightness of the circus itself, this room felt strangely small.

You knocked lightly against the half-open door before stepping inside.

“I brought your coffee,” you started, pushing the door open further with your shoulder.

Then stopped.

The room was a disaster.

Costume pieces hung half-finished across the backs of chairs, paperwork scattered over nearly every available surface. Scheduling sheets. Budget reports. Lighting revisions. Someone had abandoned a half-eaten sandwich beside a stack of performer contracts. One of the desk drawers hung crookedly open like it had been yanked too hard and never properly shut again.

Caine sat in front of the mirror at the center of it all, sleeves rolled unevenly to his elbows while one hand pressed hard against his forehead.

He looked exhausted.

For a moment, he didn’t even notice you standing there.

Then quietly:

“...sweetheart?”

His voice sounded rougher than usual.

You shut the door softly behind you. “You look terrible.”

“Thank you. That’s exactly the energy I needed tonight.”

The automatic humor landed weakly. Your eyes drifted toward the mirror.

His makeup sat unfinished across the vanity, eyeliner half-done on one side while streaks of white hair dye powder still remained unblended near his jaw. One glove lay abandoned beside the sink. The other still hung loosely from his fingers.

That alone told you enough.

Caine never left performances unfinished.

You stepped closer. “How long have you been in here?”

He laughed at that, though quietly. Not really amusement.

“I’m not entirely sure anymore.”

You set the coffee down beside the mirror before moving slowly behind him. Up close, the exhaustion looked worse: faint shadows beneath his eyes, tension pulled visibly through his shoulders. Even his posture looked wrong somehow, curled inward in a way you almost never saw from him.

Your gaze drifted toward the paperwork scattered around the room.

“…bad day?”

Caine stared down at the vanity before answering.

“Bad month, perhaps.”

The honesty startled you.

Caine usually hid stress beneath layers of charisma so thick most people never even noticed it existed.

Tonight he looked too tired to maintain it properly.

He rubbed one hand over his face slowly.

“Three performers called out sick this morning, two rigging inspections got delayed, half the lighting cues for tomorrow somehow disappeared from the system, and I spent forty minutes arguing with legal over insurance claims because apparently near-fatal aerial accidents generate paperwork forever.”

Your expression softened.

“And,” he continued tiredly, “Kinger informed me today that the city now requires additional permits for pyrotechnics.”

“Oh no.”

“Yes, exactly.”

Despite yourself, the corner of your mouth lifted slightly.

That seemed to relax him a little. Only a little.

“I don’t know how he kept all of this running,” he admitted quietly after a moment.

The words settled heavily between both of you.

You knew who he meant.

Your eyes dropped toward the scattered paperwork again.

You could still remember sitting cross-legged on old dressing room floors helping organize performance schedules long after midnight because Abel had insisted nobody else could be trusted to handle them properly. You remembered pinning costume pieces back together while he rehearsed speeches under his breath in cracked mirrors. Fixing his eyeliner when his hands were too tired to stay steady anymore.

Abel had treated exhaustion like proof of devotion. Caine seemed ashamed of his.

You moved slowly toward the vanity.

“Can I?” you asked softly, reaching toward the makeup brush resting near his hand.

For a second, Caine just stared at you. Then, weakly, he nodded his head.

“...yeah.”

You stepped between his knees, close enough now to see the uneven smudge of eyeliner beneath one eye. Caine tilted his head back automatically as you reached for him, exhausted enough to let instinct take over.

The position felt painfully familiar.

For years, moments like this had felt transactional. Necessary. Another backstage responsibility folded into dozens of others.

This felt gentle.

Your fingers rested lightly against Caine’s jaw as you steadied his face. He went completely still beneath your touch.

“You missed a spot,” you murmured softly.

“Tragic.”

“Hm. Career-ending, honestly. You better thank your lucky stars that you have me.”

A quieter laugh escaped him this time.

You worked in silence for another minute, blending the remaining makeup near his cheek while the warm vanity lights softened everything around the two of you.

At some point, Caine’s hands settled loosely against your waist, grounding himself.

“I don’t know how he kept all of this running,” he admitted quietly after a moment.

The words settled heavily between both of you.

“I don’t know how he made it look so easy.”

Your hands paused slightly. Caine stared somewhere past your shoulder instead of directly at you.

“I keep falling behind because of it.” His voice dropped quieter. “Abel would’ve solved over half these problems in an hour.”

Slowly, you set the makeup brush down.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “He would’ve.”

Caine finally looked up at you then, startled by the lack of immediate reassurance.

You held his gaze carefully.

“He also scared everyone so badly we stopped telling him when things were wrong.”

“You know how many injuries people hid from him?” Your thumb brushed gently beneath one of his eyes, smoothing away a faint streak of eyeliner. “How many times performers got sick and kept working anyway because they were afraid of disappointing him?”

Caine’s expression shifted slowly. Your eyes darkened.

“I used to help Abel get ready before shows too,” you admitted quietly.

He went still beneath your hands.

“For years, actually.” Your eyes dropped briefly toward the vanity lights. “I thought that was what love looked like. Making yourself useful enough that someone would keep you around.”

Caine’s face crumpled at that.

Your hand moved instinctively against his cheek before you could think too hard about it.

“You know what the difference is?” you asked softly.

His voice came out barely above a whisper. “What?”

“You say thank you.”

The silence afterward felt enormous.

Caine stared at you like the words had physically knocked something loose inside him.

Your fingers were still resting lightly against his jaw when he kissed you, exhausted and warm and heartbreakingly careful all at once.

You melted into it almost instantaneously.

Caine’s hands tightened slightly at your waist as you leaned closer between his knees, one of your hands sliding instinctively into his hair while the other stayed against his cheek.

The kiss deepened slowly after that, lingering in the quiet golden light of the dressing room while orchestra music hummed faintly somewhere beyond the walls. By the time the two of you finally pulled apart, Caine rested his forehead lightly against yours, breathing unevenly.

“You make things feel easier,” he admitted softly.

You held his stare, eyes softening.

Then, somewhere outside the dressing room:

“FIVE MINUTES TO PLACES!”

Caine shut his eyes immediately.

“…I’m going to set the building on fire.”

Summer arrived quietly.

Not all at once, or dramatically, but in small changes that slowly accumulated, until one morning you stepped outside the caravan and realized the air no longer carried the sharp chill of spring.

The circus changed with it.

Windows stayed open later into the evenings now, and music drifted more easily through the venue at night. Rehearsals stretched longer beneath the heat while stage lights turned dressing rooms stuffy enough to leave everyone perpetually half-disassembled between performances.

Velveteen had gotten bigger, but not by much.

Still small enough to fit curled against your stomach whenever she climbed into bed uninvited, but large enough now that Bubble had finally stopped treating her like an immediate threat to national security.

Mostly.

“THIEF,” he accused one afternoon while Velveteen chewed calmly on the corner of one of his newspapers.

“Maybe stop leaving paper on the floor,” Zooble suggested without looking up from their costume repairs.

Bubble puffed himself up indignantly. “F**K YOU!”

You snorted quietly from your spot stretched across the rehearsal mats nearby, one leg bent beneath you while you adjusted the wrap around your wrist again.

Physical therapy still sucked. That part, unfortunately, had not changed with time.

Some days were easier now…most days, actually. The pain no longer arrived sharp and unbearable the way it once had, but healing had turned into something stranger instead.

A constant negotiation with your own body.

Push too hard and your shoulder punished you for it later. Move wrong and old injuries flared hot beneath scar tissue that still occasionally ached during bad weather.

But, you were stronger now too.

Stronger than you’d been in the hospital, and strong enough that rehearsals no longer terrified you. Most of the time.

“Okay,” Ragatha announced from across the room, clapping once sharply. “Break time before somebody dislocates something again.”

Jax pointed immediately toward you.

“She looked at the silks like she was considering it.”

“I was stretching.”

“You stretch with violent intent.”

“Thank you.”

Caine looked up from where he sat near the orchestra pit reviewing cue sheets. “In fairness, they do approach most things with alarming commitment.”

You smiled faintly despite yourself.

That still happened sometimes, too.

The automatic ‘despite-yourself’ smiles had gradually stopped feeling quite so ‘despite-yourself’ anymore.

You weren’t nervous anymore.

That had changed too.

Water breaks lasted longer, spotters stayed closer during difficult routines, and people constantly checked in without making you feel monitored.

Safety was normal here.

Caine finally abandoned the cue sheets a moment later, making his way toward you while loosening his gloves finger by finger.

“How’s the shoulder, my shimmering showstopper?” he asked quietly once he reached you.

You rotated it once experimentally.

“Still attached.”

“A glowing medical review.”

“It’s my most optimistic one yet.”

He huffed softly through his nose, grinning before crouching beside you on the rehearsal mat.

The movement had become familiar by now too.

Caine beside you during breaks, stealing your water bottle because he claimed yours somehow tasted better. His hand absentmindedly settling against your knee whenever he sat close enough.

The small things.

Velveteen suddenly darted across the room at alarming speed before launching herself directly into Caine’s side, earning a look of deep betrayal from him.

“Darling,” he whispered seriously, “our daughter has attacked me…what a despicable creature!”

“She wants your pretzel.”

“She wants violence!”

The rabbit continued climbing determinedly up his vest anyway.

Around the room, laughter broke out.

And for the first time in a very long while, the sound no longer startled you.

The audience never noticed the difference.

That had been intentional.

From below, the act looked identical to the ones you used to perform in your previous troupe: the same silks and lighting, the same impossible height disappearing into darkness high above the stage. 

Spotlights painted everything gold and silver beneath the applause. The illusion remained untouched.

But, hidden above the rigging now were backup lines, thin enough to disappear beneath stage lighting. You carried a joystick with you now, allowing you to rise and drop at the levels the act required. Backstage, a technician on stand-by monitored a kill-switch, designed to turn off the rigging if there were any signs of trouble.

To the audience, the performance was danger, full of risk and thrills.

To you and Caine, it was trust.

You stood just beyond the stage curtain, with your hands wrapped around the hoop. From beyond the stage, you could hear the muffled roar of the crowd.

Your costume glittered softly beneath the backstage lights. White and silver again. This time, you chose the colors yourself.

Somewhere behind you, stagehands moved quickly through final preparations while orchestra music swelled faintly from the pit below. The familiar chaos should have made your chest tighten.

Instead, strangely, you felt calm.

Not entirely fearless, in all honesty, you weren’t sure fear would ever disappear completely after the past year.

But it no longer controlled you, either.

“You’re doing that thing again.”

You glanced sideways.

“You’re supposed to be out there,” you realized suddenly.

Caine stood beside the curtain in full costume already, stage lights catching against his scarlet tailcoat while distant applause echoed faintly from the theater beyond.

Somewhere onstage, the orchestra had already started the opening transition.

“Probably,” he admitted.

“Caine.”

“My backstage butterfly, if the circus collapses because I vanished for thirty additional seconds, then frankly we have much larger organizational issues.”

You broke out into a cheeky smile at that.

Caine’s expression softened at the sight of your grin, though his eyes still kept drifting upward toward the rigging above the stage. You noticed the way his fingers tapped unconsciously once against the side of his glove before stilling again.

If anyone else looked at him right now, they probably would’ve seen confidence and ease. The ringmaster moments before another successful performance.

You saw the nerves underneath it.

“You’re worried,” you murmured quietly.

Caine looked mildly offended. “I am ALWAYS worried, darling. It’s part of my artistic process.”

“You checked the rigging three times yourself.”

“In my defense, the rigging is very high up.” He gestured his hand upward, and the two of you took a moment to lift your eyes, gazing upward into the darkness that sat above the lighting.

Neither of you said anything. Beyond the curtain, the audience continued applauding while stage lights shifted gold across the floorboards beneath your feet.

“You know,” Caine began, voice softer now beneath the orchestra, “you can still walk away.”

Your eyes lifted toward him.

“I mean it.” His gaze stayed fixed on your face now. “Nobody would blame you. Least of all me.”

The words settled somewhere deep.

Because once upon a time, performances had determined whether you deserved affection at all.

And now someone was offering you an exit before asking for perfection.

Your grip loosened slightly against the hoop behind you.

“I know,” you whispered.

Caine studied your expression for a minute after that.

Then, carefully, one of his hands lifted to rest lightly against your jaw.

“You’re doing that thing again,” he murmured softly.

“What thing?” you asked.

“The thinking yourself into another dimension thing.”

You smiled faintly. “I’m literally just standing here.”

“Hm. Suspiciously.”

Another smile was drawn from you, softer this time.

Caine’s expression gentled at the sight of it.

“...you alright?” he asked.

You looked past him, briefly, toward the stage lights waiting beyond the curtain. Somewhere high above the audience, the rope connected to the hoop disappeared into darkness exactly where it always had.

Once, the sight would’ve looked like a threat, but now it just felt familiar.

Slowly, you nodded.

“Yeah,” you answered quietly.

And for the first time, it wasn’t a lie.

A stagehand near the wings lifted a hand sharply toward both of you.

“Places!”

The orchestra surged louder, and the noise of the crowd grew alongside it.

Your stomach flipped, hard enough to make old instinct spike painfully through your body all over again.

For one terrible second, your body remembered all of it at once: a fifty-foot drop, blood spattered everywhere, the sound of your spine cracking beneath you.

Caine saw the shift in your face immediately.

“Sweetheart.”

You looked up at him.

And just like that, the panic loosened.

Because this time, you weren’t alone.

Caine stepped closer until the toes of his shoes nearly brushed yours. Everything blurred softly around the two of you while the crowd beyond the curtains roared impatiently for the show to begin.

“You know,” he murmured, “if you decide not to go out there tonight, I will personally tell this audience you were tragically carried away by wolves.”

A startled laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

“…wolves?”

“I’m workshopping options.”

“That’s your backup plan?”

“It’s a strong backup plan.”

Your smile widened helplessly.

Caine looked unbearably relieved about it.

“You don’t have to prove anything tonight,” his voice was a whisper.

For years, danger had been treated like devotion. Pain was proof that you cared enough. Every moment, every second you lived and every breath you took carried that philosophy until, eventually, you stopped recognizing the difference between dedication and self-destruction altogether.

But this?

This was no punishment. No, this was going to be beautiful.

“I know,” you whispered back.

Caine studied your face for another long moment before leaning down and pressing one soft kiss against your forehead.

Then another against the corner of your mouth.

“Are you ready, my lovely lucky charm?”

You rolled your eyes at the nickname, though both of you knew you enjoyed it, and glanced once more toward the stage waiting beyond the curtain.

“Yeah,” you answered.

“I think I am.”

a/n: thank you for reading, i hope you enjoyed! consider this my apology for shattering hearts with the last one.

this story (both works) definitely will stick with me for a while...i now have a playlist with 30+ songs (...and growing) of pure angst, escape, recovery, and love to accompany me on my early morning drives LOL