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OSCAR PIASTRI #81

▸ kind of type of way ୭ with just one look, he knew he'd love you forever, childhood friends to lovers, fluff, 13.2k ▸ he loves me yeah! (the sequel) 𝄞 ℘ what will it take to keep loving each other through everything? established relationship, fluff/suggestive, 14.5k ▸ in a lifetime (the finale) you and oscar finally live the life you promised each other, established relationship, fluff, domestic life, 1.6k ▸ too little way too late you and oscar look back on three years of wasted opportunities, angst, 13.8k

LANDO NORRIS #4

▸ if it's meant to be, then it will be you kept waiting for him to choose you, but he never did, angst, hurt/no comfort, ft. piastri, 12.1k ▸ god bless, even the mean girls she was all sharp edges and lipgloss, he was all chaos and charm, fluff, 6.4k

KIMI ANTONELLI #12

▸ like real people do when the freedom wall page announces you have a crush on your seatmate, you're the last one to know, highschool!au, f2l, fluff, smau, ongoing

ALEX ALBON #23

▸ couples therapy ୭ you take a stranger to couples therapy, fluff, crack, 4.2k ▸ where you are held alex brings you back after you pushed yourself beyond your limits, fluff, 7.4k

MAX VERSTAPPEN #33

▸ but i am flesh and blood (and this flesh has needs) ℘ you fight your way up to his tongue so you can die up on it, smut, 3.4k

CHARLES LECLERC #16

▸ price of the music decades later, the world rediscovers your ghosts, and so does he, angst, 6.3k

GEORGE RUSSELL #63

▸ secret door (fools on parade) george finds himself falling more and more in love with his team principal's daughter, fluff, 11.3k

⟢ — note proceed with caution when reading explicit material, i am not responsible for the media you consume.

Between greetings that came a second too late. Between laughter that didn’t quite reach the right people anymore. Between conversations that ended just a little too quickly, like someone had cut the thread before it could unravel naturally.

Morning in C-302 unfolded like it always did. The scrape of chairs, the low hum of overlapping voices, the soft shuffle of papers being passed forward. Sunlight spilled through the windows in long, pale streaks, catching on dust that drifted lazily through the air.

You slid into your seat beside Kimi.

“Morning,” you said, setting your bag down.

“Morning,” he replied, glancing up from his notebook.

His voice was steady. Normal. But his eyes lingered on your face for just a second longer than usual, like he was checking for something.

You didn’t think much of it.

Not yet.

You pulled out your book, flipping to the page you’d marked the night before. Your fingers traced the edge of the paper absentmindedly, grounding yourself in something familiar. The routine helped. It always did.

Across the room, Isack was already talking.

That wasn’t unusual; what was unusual was how quickly he stopped when you looked over.

He had been mid-sentence—something animated, judging by the way his hands were moving—but the moment your eyes met his, his voice cut off. Franco frowned. “Bro, what?”

Isack blinked like he’d just forgotten what he was saying. “Nothing.”

Franco stared at him. “You were literally in the middle of—”

“I said nothing,” Isack repeated, sharper this time.

The table went quiet for a second.

You frowned slightly, then looked away. Beside you, Kimi had noticed it too.

He didn’t say anything, but his pencil paused mid-note, hovering just above the paper. His gaze flickered briefly toward Isack, then back to his notebook.

The teacher walked in, and the moment passed.

Or at least, it tried to.

The lecture began. Chalk against the board, words filled the air. You took notes, your handwriting precise, lines neat and evenly spaced.

It should’ve felt normal, but it didn’t. You could feel it like an annoying itch on your nape. That slight shift.

Halfway through the lesson, the teacher asked a question. You raised your hand out of habit, answering easily when called on. A few heads turned toward you. Some nodded.

When you sat back down, you caught Ollie’s eye for a second.

You stared at the back of his head for a second longer than necessary.

You shifted slightly in your seat, trying to shake the feeling. Maybe you were overthinking. Maybe everyone was just tired. It had been a long week. Rehearsals were intense. People got weird when they were stressed.

That had to be it, right?

“You okay?” Kimi murmured, low enough that only you could hear.

You blinked, turning to him. “Yeah. Why?”

“You look…” He hesitated, searching for the right word. “Distracted.”

You let out a small breath, almost a laugh. “Do I?”

He nodded slightly.

You leaned back in your chair, crossing your arms loosely. “Just tired, I guess.”

He studied your face for a moment, like he was deciding whether to push further.

“Okay,” he said quietly.

And that was that.

That was what you appreciated about Kimi.

He noticed.

But he didn’t press.

The bell rang, signaling the end of the period. Chairs scraped back all at once, the room filling with movement and noise again. Conversations picked up mid-thought, laughter returning like it had never left.

You stood, slinging your bag over your shoulder.

“Rehearsal after class,” you reminded Kimi.

He nodded. “I’ll be there early.”

“You’re always early.”

A faint smile touched his lips. “Habit.”

You smiled back, small but real.

And for a second, everything felt normal again, until you turned toward the door.

Ollie was already there, talking to Isack.

They were close—too close for casual conversation. Their heads bent slightly toward each other, voices low. Isack’s arms were crossed, his posture tense. Ollie looked off.

You approached without thinking.

“Ollie—”

Both of them froze.

Isack straightened, taking a step back like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t. Ollie’s expression shifted so quickly it was almost impressive—whatever had been there before was replaced by something lighter.

“Hey!” Ollie said, turning to you with a grin.

It didn’t reach his eyes.

You slowed slightly.

“I was just going to ask about the updated prop list,” you said, watching him carefully. “For rehearsal later.”

“Oh—yeah,” he replied quickly. “All good. I’ll handle it.”

“You said yesterday—”

“I remember,” he cut in, still smiling. “It’s under control.”

You felt something in your chest tighten.

Isack didn’t say anything.

He just stood there, gaze fixed somewhere over your shoulder, jaw set like he was actively avoiding looking at you.

That, more than anything, made your stomach drop.

“Okay,” you said slowly.

Ollie nodded. “Yeah. Don’t worry about it.”

You looked at Isack, “Are you okay?”

His eyes flickered toward you for the briefest second.

Then away.

“Yeah,” he said. You felt it now, something was wrong.

And it had something to do with you.

“I’ll see you guys later,” you said finally, your voice lighter than you felt.

“Yeah,” Ollie replied quickly. “See you.”

You turned and walked out into the hallway.

The noise hit you immediately—voices, footsteps, lockers slamming—but it felt distant, like it was happening behind glass.

Behind you, the classroom door stayed open.

Inside, Ollie’s smile dropped the second you were out of sight.

Isack ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply.

“I hate this,” he muttered.

Ollie didn’t answer right away, he just stared at the doorway you’d walked through.

“…We just have to get through it,” he said quietly.

Isack shook his head. “She noticed.”

“I know.”

“And you’re just going to keep acting like—”

“What do you want me to do?” Ollie snapped, voice low but sharp. “Walk up to her and say, ‘Hey, sorry we ruined your life a little bit, hope that’s cool?’”

Isack flinched.

“Keep your voice down, and, ruined?” he muttered.

Ollie laughed, but there was no humor in it.

“This was your idea.”

“I know,” Isack said again, softer now. “I know.”

Silence settled between them.

Across the room, Kimi lingered by his desk.

He hadn’t left with you, but he saw.

Not everything, not the full picture yet. But enough to know that something wasn’t right.

By the time rehearsal started, the feeling hadn’t gone away.

If anything, it had settled deeper. The auditorium was already half-lit when you stepped inside. The familiar scent of wood, dust, and old curtains wrapped around you instantly. It should’ve felt grounding. It always did.

Today, it didn’t.

People were scattered across the space: some onstage, some in the seats, some near the wings adjusting props or running lines under their breath. The low hum of overlapping voices filled the room, but it felt disjointed.

You dropped your bag at the control booth and scanned the space.

Ollie was near the prop table, laughing.

Franco had said something, and Ollie doubled over slightly, shaking his head as he tried to respond. Isack stood nearby, grinning, adding something under his breath that made Franco shove him lightly.

For a moment, you just stood there, watching.

That was the version of them you knew.

You exhaled quietly and stepped forward.

“Alright,” you called, clapping your hands once. “Places. Let’s run Act Two from the top.”

The room shifted immediately.

Conversations died down. Scripts were picked up. People moved into position. The structure of rehearsal took over, steady and familiar.

You climbed up onto the stage, script in hand, scanning the setup.

“Lights?” you called.

“Ready,” someone answered from the booth.

“Sound?”

“Good.”

You nodded once. “Let’s go.”

The scene began.

Lines flowed. Movement followed. The rhythm you had built over weeks of rehearsal settled into place like muscle memory.

You watched everything.

Every misplaced step. Every hesitation. Every line that landed too early or too late. Your eyes moved constantly, tracking, adjusting, recalibrating.

It was easier to focus on that.

On the work.

Because the moment you let your attention drift, you notice.

Ollie crossed from stage left to right, carrying a prop tray. His timing was perfect. But when he passed you, he didn’t even give you a quick glance.

You felt it like a small drop in your stomach.

It was such a tiny thing, but it wasn’t normal.

Ollie always checked in with you. Even mid-scene. Even silently. A glance, a nod, something.

Today, nothing.

You forced your focus back onto the actors.

“Hold,” you called suddenly.

The scene froze.

“Lara, your cue is a beat late. Give it half a second more after Sophia’s line,” you instructed.

“Got it,” Lara nodded.

“Again from that mark.”

The scene reset.

You stepped back slightly, crossing your arms loosely.

From the corner of your eye, you saw Isack near the wings.

He was watching you. Your jaw tightened slightly.

“Focus,” you murmured under your breath.

The scene resumed.

This time, your attention is split. Half on the performance, half on the edges of the room.

Trying to piece together something that didn’t want to be seen.

Midway through the run, you moved offstage to check the prop table.

“Gloves,” you said, flipping through the items. “Where are the replacements?”

Ollie stepped forward immediately.

“They’re here,” he said, placing them down.

Your fingers brushed the fabric briefly.

“These aren’t the ones we picked,” you said.

He nodded quickly. “Temporary. I’ll switch them out tomorrow.”

You looked up at him.

He met your eyes this time.

But only for a second.

“Okay,” you said slowly.

There was a pause.

You waited for him to say something else. To elaborate. To joke. To explain more than necessary, like he usually did. But he didn’t.

He just nodded and stepped back.

“Fine,” you said, turning away.

Behind you, Isack shifted his weight.

By the time you called for a short break, your patience had worn thin.

“Ten minutes,” you said, stepping offstage.

You grabbed your water bottle from the control booth, taking a long sip as you leaned against the railing.

Your eyes scanned the room again. Ollie and Isack were near the back.

You pushed yourself off the railing and walked toward them.

They didn’t notice you at first.

“…we can’t keep doing this,” Isack was saying, voice low.

“I know,” Ollie replied. “Just—give it time.”

“Time for what?”

“For things to settle.”

Isack let out a quiet, frustrated breath. “It’s not settling. It’s getting worse.”

Your steps slowed.

You were close enough now, close enough to hear.

“…she’s already noticing,” Isack added.

Your stomach dropped.

Ollie ran a hand through his hair. “I know.”

“Then what are we—”

You stepped forward fully.

“Hello?”

They both froze, their heads snapping towards you like they had just been caught. Your gaze moved between them.

“What are you guys talking about?” you asked, your voice calm.

Too calm.

Ollie blinked. “Nothing.”

Isack didn’t say anything.

You tilted your head slightly. “You keep saying that.”

Silence.

“Is there something I should know?” you asked.

Ollie shook his head quickly. “No. Of course not.”

Isack’s jaw tightened, and you felt it again. Something cold settled in your chest.

“Okay,” you said slowly.

You nodded once.

Then stepped back.

“Break’s almost over,” you added, your tone returning to neutral. “Get ready.”

You turned before either of them could respond. And as you walked away, the silence between them stretched.

Isack exhaled sharply. “This is bad.”

Rehearsal didn’t fall apart.

That was what made everything worse.

From a distance, it looked fine—better than fine, even. Lines were remembered, cues were hit, transitions were smoother than they had been the day before. If someone had walked in without context, they would’ve assumed everything was running exactly as it should. But you felt it immediately, the same way you’d felt it all morning: something was off, and no one was saying it out loud.

You stood near the front row with your script tucked against your side, eyes moving between the stage and the wings. The actors ran through Act Two again, their voices steady, their movements practiced. You corrected small things where necessary, but nothing major. There was nothing obvious to fix.

That didn’t make it feel right.

Gabi delivered his lines cleanly, grounded in a way that usually made the rest of the scene easier to shape around him. He didn’t overdo anything, didn’t rush, didn’t hesitate. He just… did it right. And yet, even that felt different today. Not worse, just more contained. Like he was holding something back, keeping himself carefully within the lines of the script instead of letting anything spill over.

More than once, you caught yourself waiting for him to glance at you the way he usually did—quick, instinctive, like he was checking whether something landed the way you wanted it to.

He never did.

You forced your attention elsewhere.

Near the prop table, Kimi moved quietly, adjusting placements between scene changes. He handled everything the way he always did—efficient, precise, without needing to be told twice. If anything, he seemed more focused than usual. Every object was placed exactly where it needed to be, every reset done faster than expected.

But you noticed the small things.

The way he checked the same item twice before stepping back. The way his shoulders stayed slightly tense, even when he wasn’t actively doing anything. The way his gaze flicked toward you every now and then, not lingering, just enough to register where you were before returning to whatever he was doing.

It wasn’t obvious unless you were looking for it.

You were.

“Hold,” you called, cutting through the scene.

Everyone froze mid-position. A few actors shifted their weight, waiting.

“The transition’s dragging,” you said, stepping a little closer to the stage. “You’re taking too long to reset. Keep it tighter.”

A few nods. A couple of quiet “okay’s”.

You glanced briefly toward the wings. Kimi was already moving, adjusting a chair that had been placed half an inch off its mark. He didn’t look at you this time, but you could tell he’d heard.

“Again from the last cue,” you added.

The scene reset quickly. This time, the movement was sharper, more deliberate. It flowed better.

Technically, it was what you wanted.

It still didn’t feel right.

You stepped back, crossing your arms loosely, and let the scene continue. Your attention drifted again—not away from the performance, but around it, catching everything happening at the edges.

Isack was leaning against the wall near the wings, quieter than you’d ever seen him during rehearsal. He wasn’t interrupting, wasn’t making comments under his breath, wasn’t even reacting much. He just watched.

And every time your eyes moved in his direction, he looked somewhere else. Too quickly for it to be a coincidence.

Once could’ve been nothing. Twice, maybe. But it kept happening, and it was starting to feel intentional.

You exhaled slowly and stepped away from your spot, heading toward the prop table under the excuse of checking something. Your fingers adjusted a glass that didn’t need adjusting, straightened a folded cloth that was already aligned.

You didn’t turn when you heard footsteps behind you.

“You’re being harder on them than usual.”

Kimi’s voice was low, careful, like he wasn’t sure how much space he was allowed to take in the conversation.

You glanced at him, then back at the table. “They’re off.”

“They’re distracted,” he said.

You let out a quiet breath. “That’s not an excuse.”

He didn’t argue. He rarely did.

For a second, neither of you said anything. The sounds of the scene continued behind you—voices rising and falling, footsteps crossing the stage—but it felt distant, like it was happening in another room.

Then you looked at him again.

“Do you know what’s going on?” you asked.

The question wasn’t sharp, but it wasn’t casual either.

Kimi paused, just slightly. It wasn’t dramatic, not the kind of hesitation that would stand out to anyone else, but you caught it.

“No,” he said.

You held his gaze a second longer than necessary, searching for something—anything that would tell you he meant it completely.

There was something there.

Not a lie, exactly. But not the full truth either.

You nodded once. “Okay.”

You stepped away before the silence could stretch any further. “Back to work,” you said, more to yourself than to him.

When you returned your attention to the stage, the scene was nearing its end. The pacing had improved. The actors hit their marks cleanly, the dialogue landing the way it was supposed to. By all accounts, it was a solid run.

When the final line was delivered, there was a brief pause—the kind that usually led into chatter or someone breaking character first.

You didn’t wait for it.

“Good,” you said, your tone even. “That’s enough for today. We’ll run it again tomorrow.”

Relief moved through the room almost instantly. People relaxed, shoulders dropping, conversations picking up again in low, overlapping voices. Scripts were set aside, props returned to their places, the structure of rehearsal dissolving into something looser.

You didn’t stay in it.

You moved quickly, stepping offstage and heading straight for the control booth. Your bag was exactly where you’d left it. You grabbed it without hesitation, slinging it over your shoulder in one smooth motion.

You didn’t look around.

Didn’t call anyone over.

Didn’t wait.

“Hey, y/n—”

You heard it, faintly, from somewhere behind you. You couldn’t tell who it was.

You didn’t stop.

The auditorium doors creaked as you pushed them open, the cooler evening air hitting your face as you stepped out into the hallway. The noise from inside dulled immediately, replaced by the distant echo of footsteps and voices from other parts of the building.

Only then did your expression shift.

Not dramatically. Not enough for anyone passing by to notice.

But your jaw tightened slightly, and your brows pulled together just enough to betray the thought you’d been trying to ignore all day.

This wasn’t nothing.

And it wasn’t just in your head.

Something had changed.

Behind you, inside the auditorium, the shift didn’t go unnoticed either.

Kimi was the first to glance toward the door you’d just walked through, his movements pausing for a fraction of a second before he forced himself to continue packing up the props. Gabi followed a moment later, his gaze lingering a little longer, his expression unreadable but quieter than usual.

Ollie stood near the middle of the room, watching the same door, his usual energy nowhere to be found.

Isack didn’t move at all.

He stayed where he was, leaning against the wall, staring at the exit like he already knew what the rest of them were only starting to realize that whatever they had tried to keep contained was slipping, and it wasn’t going to stay quiet for much longer.

You didn’t expect anyone to follow you.

By the time you reached the front gates, the sky had already dimmed into that soft blue-gray that came just before night fully settled. Students were filtering out in small groups, voices overlapping, laughter rising and falling as people made their way home. It was normal. Familiar. It should’ve helped.

It didn’t.

You adjusted your bag on your shoulder and stepped onto the sidewalk, already bracing yourself for the quiet walk ahead—just you and your thoughts, which you weren’t entirely sure you wanted to sit with right now.

“Hey.”

You paused.

You didn’t have to turn to know who it was.

Gabi caught up to you in a few quick steps, falling into pace beside you like it was the most natural thing in the world. For a second, neither of you said anything. The rhythm of your footsteps synced easily, the kind of silence that had always been comfortable between you.

That hadn’t changed.

Not yet.

“You left pretty fast,” he said after a moment.

You let out a small breath, eyes fixed ahead. “Rehearsal was done.”

“Yeah,” he replied, glancing at you briefly. “Still.”

You shrugged slightly. “I had stuff to do.”

It wasn’t convincing, and you both knew it.

He didn’t call you out on it.

They passed a small convenience store, its lights already on, casting a warm glow onto the sidewalk. A few students lingered near the entrance, talking over snacks and drinks. The sound of a motorbike passed behind you, loud for a second before fading into the distance.

“You okay?” he asked.

The question was simple.

You exhaled slowly, shifting your grip on your bag strap. “Do I not look okay?”

“You look like you’re thinking too much,” he said.

You huffed a quiet laugh. “That’s not new.”

“No,” he agreed. “But it’s different today.”

That made you glance at him.

He wasn’t looking at you. His gaze stayed forward, expression calm, like he was just stating something obvious instead of asking a loaded question.

You hesitated.

Then looked away again.

“They’re acting weird,” you said.

He didn’t ask who.

He already knew.

You continued, the words coming a little easier now that you’d started. “Ollie. Isack. Even earlier in class, it felt like—” You stopped, trying to find the right way to explain it without sounding like you were overthinking. “Like they were filtering everything they said around me.”

Gabi nodded slightly, like he’d expected that answer.

“You noticed it too?” you asked.

“Yeah,” he said simply.

That made something in your chest tighten.

Because if it wasn’t just you, then it wasn’t in your head.

“Did something happen?” you asked, turning to him again. “Like, something I don’t know about?”

He hesitated, just briefly.

“No,” he said.

It sounded more certain than Kimi’s earlier answer.

Still, you studied him for a second, then looked forward again.

“I don’t like it,” you admitted quietly. “I’d rather they just say whatever it is.”

“They probably think they’re helping,” he said.

You frowned slightly. “Helping what?”

He didn’t answer right away.

The sidewalk stretched ahead, dimly lit by streetlights that flickered on one by one. A stray dog wandered past on the opposite side of the street, pausing briefly before continuing on. The night felt still in that way it sometimes did, like everything had slowed just enough for thoughts to catch up.

“Sometimes people think giving space is better than saying the wrong thing,” he said finally.

You considered that.

“Yeah,” you said after a moment. “But this doesn’t feel like space. It feels like… avoidance.”

He glanced at you then, something quieter settling in his expression.

“That’s because it is,” he said.

You blinked slightly. “Then why?”

He didn’t answer that either.

Instead, he shifted slightly, his shoulder brushing yours for half a second before he adjusted his pace again.

“You don’t have to figure it out tonight,” he added.

You let out a small breath. “I know.”

But you were going to try anyway.

Silence settled again, but this time it felt a little easier to sit in. Not because anything had been solved, but because you’d said it out loud now. It wasn’t just stuck in your head anymore.

After a minute, you spoke again.

“Kimi asked me the same thing earlier.”

Gabi’s expression didn’t change, but his attention sharpened slightly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. He said I looked distracted.” You smiled faintly, the memory softening your tone a little. “Which is ironic, considering everyone else is the one acting weird.”

Gabi huffed quietly. “He notices things.”

“He does,” you agreed.

There was no hesitation in your voice.

No second-guessing.

Just a simple truth.

You adjusted your bag again, glancing down at the sidewalk as you spoke. “He’s been helping a lot, too. With the props, I mean. More than I expected.” You shrugged lightly. “Not that I expected him not to, but I don’t know. He’s just really consistent.”

Gabi nodded once.

“He’s reliable,” he said.

“Yeah,” you said, a little more quietly this time. “He is.”

There was something in the way you said it that lingered.

Gabi felt it.

You kept going, almost like you hadn’t realized you were saying more than usual. “And he doesn’t make things complicated,” you added. “If something’s wrong, he just… waits. He doesn’t push. He doesn’t assume.”

Your steps slowed slightly as you spoke, your thoughts lining up in a way they hadn’t earlier.

“I like that,” you said.

The words landed softly.

Gabi’s gaze dropped briefly to the ground, then lifted again.

“Yeah,” he said.

That was all.

Just one word.

But something about it felt heavier than the rest of the conversation.

You didn’t notice.

You were too busy thinking, piecing things together, trying to make sense of a day that had felt slightly off from the moment it started.

By the time you reached your street, the houses were quieter, lights glowing warmly behind windows. The air felt cooler here, less crowded, more still.

You stopped near your gate.

“Thanks for walking me,” you said, turning to him.

“Yeah,” he replied. “Of course.”

There was a pause.

You hesitated, then added, “And… thanks. For listening.”

He gave a small nod. “Anytime.”

You smiled faintly, pushing your gate open. “See you tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” he said.

You stepped inside, the gate clicking shut behind you.

Gabi stayed where he was for a second longer than necessary.

Watching the space you had occupied a moment ago.

Then he exhaled slowly and turned away, hands slipping into his pockets as he started walking back the way he came.

The conversation replayed in his head, not all of it, just certain parts.

The way you said Kimi’s name, the way your tone shifted when you did, and the way you described him.

Things Gabi knew he wasn’t, not in the same way at least.

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

It wasn’t just something he’d been ignoring or pushing aside.

It was clear how you saw Kimi.

And that meant something, something Gabi couldn’t ignore anymore.

By the time he reached the corner where he’d have to turn, he already knew what he was going to do.

He was going to go straight to the only person who mattered in this, and he wasn’t going to dance around it.

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Sunlight streamed through the tall windows on the left side of the room, landing in soft rectangles across the desks. Dust particles floated in the beams, drifting lazily as if they had nowhere else to be.

Most of the class had already settled into their lunch routines. Franco and Liam were at the back, hunched over Franco’s phone, watching some video that made Liam burst into loud, uncontrollable laughter every few seconds. Megan sat across from them, legs tucked under her chair, chewing slowly while scrolling through her feed. Every now and then, she’d look up just long enough to toss in a comment that made the boys groan or protest.

Near the front, by the windows, you and Kimi sat side by side, your chairs pushed slightly closer together than the rest, the way they always were.

It had started as something practical. Somewhere along the way, the gap between your desks had disappeared, until it felt strange when there was even a few inches of space between them.

Now, the closeness felt different, like the air between your shoulders carried something unsaid.

Your eyes hovered over the page, but they weren’t really reading. Every few seconds, your gaze would drift toward the window, toward the door, toward nothing in particular. Then you’d blink and refocus, tracing the same paragraph again like you were trying to memorize it through sheer persistence.

Beside you, Kimi’s notebook lay open. His pencil rested lightly in his fingers, the tip touching the margin of the page. He looked like he was deep in thought, brows slightly drawn, posture bent forward just enough to look engaged.

But the page was still blank.

He tapped the pencil once. Twice. Then again, in a quiet, steady rhythm. Not loud enough to be annoying—just enough to give his hands something to do.

Every now and then, he’d glance sideways. Not fully turning his head. Just a small shift of his eyes, like he was checking the time.

Each time, he’d find you reading. Or pretending to.

And each time, he’d look back down at his notebook.

The air between you wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t stiff or hostile. It just felt… careful. Like both of you were walking across a floor you weren’t sure would hold your weight.

From across the room, Isack noticed.

He had just dropped into the seat beside Ollie near the door, his lunch barely touched. His eyes moved around the classroom, taking in the usual chaos of lunch period until they landed on you and Kimi.

He watched for a moment.

You reached for your water bottle, twisting the cap open. Your elbow brushed lightly against Kimi’s arm. It was nothing. Barely even contact.

Still, you pulled your arm back, muttering a soft, “Sorry.”

Kimi shook his head quickly. “It’s okay.”

Then silence again.

Isack exhaled through his nose. “Fuck, man, look at them,” he murmured.

Ollie followed his gaze.

He didn’t need long to understand what Isack meant. The tension wasn’t dramatic or obvious. It was quiet. Subtle. The kind of thing you’d only notice if you were looking for it.

But once you saw it, it was impossible to ignore.

“They’re trying too hard to act normal,” Isack continued under his breath. “It’s painful.”

Ollie didn’t answer right away. His fingers tightened slightly around the edge of his sandwich.

Across the room, you turned a page in your book. The movement was slow, deliberate, like you were making sure the paper didn’t crinkle too loudly.

Kimi adjusted his notebook, aligning it with the edge of the desk. Then he adjusted it again, even though it was already straight.

Ollie swallowed. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I know.”

Isack leaned back in his chair, letting it tilt onto its back legs. The movement made it creak faintly.

“I hate this,” he muttered.

“Then you shouldn’t have posted that confession,” Ollie said.

Isack winced. “I know, okay? I know.”

He ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it until it stuck up unevenly. For someone usually so loud and carefree, he looked strangely restless.

“I thought it’d just… nudge things,” he said. “Push them to talk. Maybe get Kimi to finally say something. I didn’t think it’d spiral into this whole—” he gestured vaguely toward the room “—fucking emotional disaster.”

Ollie kept his eyes on you and Kimi.

Kimi had finally written something down. Just one line. Then he stopped again, staring at the words like he wasn’t sure they belonged there.

You closed your book and rested your chin lightly on your palm, eyes drifting toward the window. The sunlight caught in your hair, softening the edges of your profile.

For a second, you looked peaceful.

Then your expression shifted, and the tiredness underneath showed again.

Ollie sighed. “We can’t undo it,” he said. “What’s done is done.”

“Yeah,” Isack muttered. “But we can fix what happens next.”

Ollie glanced at him. “And how exactly do you plan to do that?”

Isack’s eyes flicked to you and Kimi again. He studied the space between your shoulders. The way your chairs were close, but your bodies were angled slightly away from each other.

“By getting them alone,” he said.

Ollie immediately shook his head. “No.”

“Just listen—”

“No,” Ollie repeated. “Every time someone gets ‘alone’ with someone lately, it turns into some emotional breakdown or almost-kiss situation. I’m not adding fuel to that fire.”

Isack frowned, thinking. Then he leaned closer.

“What if it’s not dramatic?” he said. “What if it’s just… normal? Something small like running an errand together.”

Ollie didn’t respond.

Isack’s eyes lit up like a switch had flipped in his brain. “Wait. You and Y/N are supposed to go prop shopping after school, right?”

Ollie’s expression changed. “Isack.”

“You’re the props lead,” Isack continued, ignoring the warning tone. “And Kimi’s your assistant.”

Ollie stared at him.

“You’re not seriously suggesting what I think you’re suggesting,” he said.

Isack spread his hands. “I’m just saying. If something suddenly came up—something very important—and you couldn’t go…”

Ollie groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You want me to send Kimi in my place.”

“Delegate,” Isack corrected.

“That is the same thing.”

Isack shrugged. “But it works.”

Ollie stayed quiet. Across the room, you stretched your arms above your head, shoulders rolling back. The movement was slow, almost sleepy. Kimi noticed immediately, his eyes flicking toward you before he forced them back down again.

You caught the movement anyway.

For a second, your eyes met.

You looked away first, reaching for your lunchbox to close it.

Ollie watched the exchange, something heavy settling in his chest.

“They look miserable,” Isack said quietly.

Ollie nodded. “All of them.”

“Exactly,” Isack said. “So we got to do this.”

Ollie hesitated.

He thought about you, trying so hard to stay composed. About Kimi, who looked like he was constantly choosing his words even when he wasn’t speaking. About Gabriel, who had been quieter than usual these past few days.

“What if it makes things worse?” Ollie asked.

Isack didn’t answer right away. He just watched you and Kimi for a moment.

“Then we stop,” he said finally. “But right now? They’re stuck. And nothing’s changing. Come on, Ollie, you know Y/N likes him and not—you know!”

Ollie sighed.

Across the room, you stood up, brushing imaginary crumbs off your skirt. Megan waved you over, saying something about rehearsal schedules. You nodded and started walking toward the door.

As you passed by your shared desk, you paused beside Kimi.

“Hey,” you said softly. “Don’t forget—after class, we’re meeting about the new props list.”

Kimi looked up, startled. “Oh. Right. Yeah. I remember.”

You gave a small nod. “Good.”

It was a simple exchange. Normal. Casual.

But when you left, the space beside him suddenly felt too empty.

Kimi stared at your chair for a second before looking back down at his notebook.

Still just one line written.

From near the door, Isack leaned toward Ollie again.

“See?” he whispered. “They just need time.”

Ollie exhaled slowly.

He hated the idea of meddling. Hated the thought of pushing people where they weren’t ready to go.

But he also hated watching his friends slowly drift into silence.

“…I’ll think about it,” he muttered.

Isack’s mouth curled into a small, satisfied grin. “That’s basically a yes.”

“It’s not,” Ollie said. “It’s a maybe.”

Isack leaned back in his chair, looking far too pleased with himself.

The classroom felt smaller than usual after lunch. You sat beside Kimi, as always.

The arrangement had become instinctive. Your chair angled slightly toward his, your shared table bearing the quiet evidence of collaboration: a notebook with your precise handwriting stacked atop his messier scrawl, a ruler, three different highlighters, and the folded prop list Ollie had revised twice already. Your elbows almost touched whenever you leaned forward. Sometimes they did.

You told yourself you didn’t notice.

Across the room, Ollie had been watching.

He wasn’t obvious about it. He rarely was. But he leaned back in his chair more than usual, fingers drumming absentmindedly against the edge of his desk while his gaze flickered between you and Kimi in calculated intervals. Isack sat beside him, unusually quiet, eyes forward, pretending to be deeply invested in the teacher’s explanation of post-war political transitions.

The truth was, neither of them were listening.

Because Ollie had already set something in motion.

The idea had formed that morning—half born out of guilt, half out of something softer. Watching you carry yourself with such measured calm lately, watching how careful Kimi had become around you, how his shoulders subtly straightened whenever you spoke, how his attention sharpened like a compass aligning north—Ollie had decided he needed to interfere.

The teacher dismissed the class ten minutes early for independent study. The room erupted into the low hum of shifting chairs and half-conversations. Some students stood to stretch. Others stayed seated, phones immediately appearing from pockets like reflex.

You flipped a page in your book—an annotated copy of the script, margins dense with notes in different ink colors. Your handwriting was neat, deliberate, and angled slightly right. Kimi leaned closer without meaning to, his forearm brushing yours.

He didn’t move away.

Instead, he followed the direction of your pen as you underlined a line in Act Two.

“I think this beat needs a pause,” you murmured, more to yourself than to him. “Half a second longer.”

Kimi nodded immediately. “Yeah. It’ll land better.”

His voice was soft but sure. He didn’t overstep. He never did. He waited for your cues, responded when invited, watched carefully but never intrusively. There was something grounding about it.

Across the room, Ollie straightened.

He stood abruptly, stretching his arms overhead in an exaggerated yawn. “Director!” he called lightly.

You glanced up, blinking.

“Yes?”

He walked over, sliding into the empty seat in front of your desk backward so his arms rested over the backrest. He gave you a sheepish grin.

“So. About the additional props list.”

You frowned slightly. “What about it?”

“Well.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I double-checked storage inventory. We’re still short on a few small things.”

You instinctively reached for your notebook. “Which ones?”

“Vintage pocket watch. Two extra silk gloves. Replacement lace fabric for Martha’s dress.” He listed them too smoothly.

You nodded, already making notes. “We can check the supply room.”

Ollie shook his head quickly. “Checked. Nothing usable. We’ll have to buy them.”

You paused.

“That’s fine,” you said. “We have budget clearance.”

“Right,” Ollie agreed, nodding. “So you should go.”

You blinked. “I should?”

“Yeah.” He gestured vaguely. “Director approval and all that.”

You narrowed your eyes slightly. “You’re the props lead.”

He coughed. “Technically.”

Kimi shifted beside you, glancing between the two of you.

You folded your arms. “Ollie.”

He held up his hands defensively. “Okay, okay. I have—” He hesitated for half a second too long. “—a council document thing. After class.”

You stared at him.

“I wasn’t aware.”

“Yeah, well, I actually just heard it from Sophia, and I wanted to help,” he said quickly.

“With what?”

“Paperwork.”

You continued staring.

From across the room, Isack looked like he might actually burst from the effort of not laughing.

Kimi, meanwhile, was quietly observing.

Your expression softened into something unimpressed but not confrontational. “Fine,” you said finally. “When?”

“After school,” Ollie replied immediately, relief flooding his voice. “Before rehearsal.”

You nodded once. “I’ll go.”

“And take—” Ollie glanced at Kimi deliberately. “—the assistant props lead.”

Kimi straightened instinctively.

You looked at him, then back at Ollie. “Kimi?”

“Yeah,” Ollie said casually. “He knows the dimensions and measurements better than anyone.”

That part wasn’t even a lie. You considered it for a moment. It made sense. “Okay,” you agreed.

Kimi blinked. “Oh.” You turned to him. “Is that fine?”

His throat felt oddly dry. “Yeah. Of course.” Ollie beamed. Perfect.

The bell rang, signaling the end of the free period. Students began filing out for their next class. You gathered your things neatly, sliding your script into your bag.

Kimi did the same, though less gracefully—his pencil rolled off the table and you caught it before it hit the floor.

Your fingers brushed when you handed it back.

“Thanks,” he said quietly.

You nodded once.

The hallway outside C-302 was crowded, footsteps echoing against tiled floors. Lockers slammed. Someone laughed too loudly near the staircase. The late afternoon light cast long shadows across the corridor, stretching silhouettes thin and gold. You walked side by side.

“Do you have a specific store in mind?” Kimi asked after a few steps.

“There’s a fabric shop near the corner bookstore,” you replied. “And a vintage stall beside it.”

He nodded. “I know it.” Of course he did. Behind you, Ollie slowed his pace deliberately so you and Kimi would move ahead first. Isack fell into step beside him. “You’re unbelievable,” Isack muttered under his breath. Ollie grinned. “Trust the process.”

“You don’t even have a process.”

“I absolutely do.” Isack rolled his eyes, but there was something softer in his expression now. Something almost hopeful. Ahead, you adjusted the strap of your bag on your shoulder.

Kimi noticed the small crease forming between your brows. “You okay?” he asked quietly.

You blinked, surprised. “Yeah.”

“You looked… distracted.” You hesitated for half a second. Then shook your head gently. “Just thinking about rehearsal pacing.” He nodded slowly. He didn’t push. That was what you appreciated most, though you might not have consciously realized it.

The afternoon passed quickly. Lectures blurred into one another. Notes were taken. Assignments assigned. The usual rhythm of weekday routine.

But beneath it, something else hummed quietly: anticipation.

When the final bell rang, you packed your bag methodically. Outside the classroom windows, the sky had shifted into early evening hues—soft orange bleeding into pale blue. The air would be cooler now. The streets are busier.

You glanced at him once. “Ready?”

The late afternoon air felt different outside the school gates.

The campus always held a kind of structured tension. But once you stepped beyond the gates, the noise dissolved into something softer. You adjusted your bag strap again, scanning the street before stepping off the curb.

Kimi stayed half a step behind you. When a motorcycle sped past too close to the pedestrian lane, his hand instinctively hovered near your elbow. He didn’t touch you. He just stayed close enough to steady you if needed.

The fabric shop was three blocks down, tucked between a narrow bookstore and a photocopy center with peeling signage. The bell above the shop door chimed softly when you pushed it open.

The inside smelled like new cloth and faint perfume. Bolts of fabric lined the walls in towering columns, colors stacked in gradients like carefully arranged paint swatches. Warm yellow lighting cast everything in a gentle glow.

You exhaled slowly.

“I love this place,” you murmured.

Kimi stepped in behind you, letting the door swing shut. “It’s quiet.” You hummed softly, already scanning the shelves. He watched you instead.

There was something about the way you entered spaces, as if you absorbed the room before allowing yourself to fully exist in it.

You pulled the folded prop list from your bag, smoothing it out on the counter near the entrance.

“Lace fabric first,” you said. “Off-white. Not too bright.”

Kimi nodded and moved toward the left wall, where lighter fabrics were displayed. His fingers brushed gently over different textures, assessing thickness and flexibility without pulling anything down yet.

You followed, stepping closer to inspect a roll of delicate ivory lace.

“This might work,” you said, holding the edge between your fingers. The fabric was soft, patterned with intricate floral designs. Under the warm lights, it almost shimmered. “It’s thinner than the current one,” he observed quietly. “Might tear easier during quick changes.”

You paused, considering. “True.”

Your fingers brushed when you both reached to test the stretch at the same time.

Neither of you pulled away immediately.

It was subtle; the contact was barely there, just the side of your hand against his. But something about it felt louder than the street outside. You cleared your throat softly and stepped back first.

“We’ll compare it with something slightly thicker,” you said, voice steady.

Kimi nodded, though his pulse hadn’t quite settled yet.

The shop owner approached with a polite smile, offering assistance. You explained what you needed in concise detail. Your tone shifted naturally into leadership mode: confident, articulate, precise. Kimi watched with quiet admiration.

He’d seen you stressed. Seen you quiet. Seen you withdrawn lately. But this version of you—focused and steady—felt like home.

After selecting two possible lace options, you moved toward the accessories section for the silk gloves.

The display rack was near the back corner, half-hidden behind a rotating stand of ribbons. You crouched slightly to inspect a lower shelf.

“They need to look vintage,” you murmured. “Not costume-y.”

Kimi crouched beside you.

“Maybe cream instead of pure white,” he suggested, picking up a pair carefully.

You glanced at them. “Too modern.”

He nodded and put them back immediately.

You reached for another pair, this one softer, slightly worn at the edges in a way that looked authentic rather than damaged.

“These,” you said.

He studied them. “Yeah.”

Your shoulders brushed lightly as you both leaned closer to check the stitching.

There it was again, that quiet awareness, the kind that made small spaces feel smaller.

You stood almost at the same time, hands full of selected items.

“One more stop,” you said. “The vintage stall.”

Outside, the sky had deepened into gold-tinged blue. Streetlights flickered on one by one. The bookstore next door was playing soft music through open windows—faint enough to blend into the evening noise but present enough to shape the atmosphere.

The vintage stall sat under a striped canvas awning. Old clocks, trinkets, jewelry, and small antiques filled the wooden tables in carefully arranged clutter.

You approached slowly, scanning. “The pocket watch,” you said softly.

Kimi stepped closer to the center table. “There,” he pointed.

An old brass pocket watch lay among a cluster of mismatched keys and brooches. It wasn’t overly polished. The metal had dulled slightly with age.

You picked it up carefully, flipping it open. The hinge creaked faintly. The inside face was simple, Roman numerals slightly faded but still legible.

“It works,” Kimi said after a moment, noticing the second hand ticking steadily.

You nodded. “It’s perfect.”

The vendor quoted a price. You negotiated gently, firmly enough to shave a small amount off.

Kimi watched you again, noticing how you balanced kindness with confidence.

You paid from the allocated budget envelope and tucked the watch securely into your bag.

For a moment, neither of you moved. The evening breeze lifted a few strands of your hair across your face. You brushed them back absentmindedly.

“Thank you for coming,” you said quietly.

Kimi blinked. “It’s my job.”

You shook your head slightly. “I mean… you didn’t have to.”

There was something softer in your tone now. He hesitated.

“I wanted to,” he admitted.

The words hung between you. The streetlight above flickered once before steadying.

“You’re easy to work with,” you said after a moment. His breath caught almost imperceptibly.

“Is that… a compliment?” A faint smile touched your lips. “Yes.”

He smiled back, the kind that reached his eyes, and for the first time in days, the tension between you didn’t feel like something fragile or strained. It felt like a possibility.

From across the street, unnoticed by either of you, Ollie stood half-hidden behind a parked jeepney. Isack beside him.

They had not planned to follow you. But they had anyway. Isack lowered the phone he’d pretended to be checking. “They’re just… standing there,” he whispered.

Ollie squinted slightly. You and Kimi were still near the stall, shoulders almost touching, talking quietly.

“They look okay,” Isack said. Ollie exhaled slowly.

“Yeah.”

Back on the sidewalk, you adjusted your grip on the bag strap again.

“We should head back,” you said. “Rehearsal starts soon.”

Kimi nodded.

You began walking side by side once more, steps falling naturally into rhythm.

This time, when your hands brushed briefly as you walked, neither of you pulled away immediately.

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The sun isn’t up yet when Ollie pulls out of his driveway.

The streetlights cast long, tired shadows over empty roads, the world washed in that strange blue-gray that only exists before morning. He drives with one hand on the wheel, and the other clenched in his lap, jaw tight, thoughts racing faster than the car.

He keeps seeing Y/N’s face in his head. Calm. Composed. The way she smiles when she’s holding something together with sheer willpower. The way Gabriel looked yesterday—too quiet, too careful. The way Kimi watches everything without saying a word.

And Isack. Loud, impulsive, well-meaning Isack, who never thinks before jumping and is always shocked when he hits the water too hard.

“Idiot,” Ollie mutters, though there’s no real heat in it. Just worry.

He pulls up outside Isack’s house and honks once, short and sharp.

The front door flies open almost immediately.

Isack comes out looking like he hasn’t slept at all. Hoodie half-zipped, hair a mess, eyes rimmed red—not like he’s been crying, but like he’s been staring at the ceiling replaying every bad decision he’s ever made.

He gets into the passenger seat and slams the door shut.

For a second, neither of them speaks.

Then Isack blurts, “I’m so sorry.”

Ollie starts the car.

“Seatbelt,” he says automatically.

Isack fumbles with it, clicks it in, then immediately launches into a frantic stream of words.

“I didn’t mean for any of this to happen, okay? I swear. I thought it’d just… nudge things along. Like, you know, a little push. Kimi needed it, and Y/N—”

Ollie pulls out of the driveway, maybe a little too fast.

“Slow down,” he says. “Start from the beginning.”

Isack laughs, sharp and humorless. “The beginning is I’m an idiot.”

“That part I know,” Ollie replies, eyes fixed on the road. “Details. Now.”

Isack drags a hand through his hair. “I wrote it because Kimi would never. He just—he looks at her like she’s a miracle and a math problem at the same time, and he does nothing. Ever. So I thought if she made a move, maybe he’d finally open his eyes. Maybe he’d feel brave enough to say something.”

“And Gabriel?” Ollie asks quietly.

Isack’s mouth opens. Closes.

“I didn’t think about him,” he admits. “Not really. I mean, yeah, he flirts, whatever, but I didn’t think it was serious. I didn’t know he liked her like that. I mean, dude, Franco flirts too, but you can literally tell that guy fawns over Sophia!”

Ollie grips the steering wheel tighter.

“That’s the problem, Isack,” he says. “You don’t think.”

“I know!” Isack’s voice cracks, the panic finally breaking through the bravado. “I know, okay? I see it now. I see all of it. I saw them yesterday, and I just—my stomach dropped. Because that wasn’t nothing. Something happened between the two of them.”

The car approaches an intersection, the light already yellow.

Ollie should slow down, but he doesn’t.

They pass through just as it turns red, the thump of adrenaline loud in Ollie’s ears.

“Jesus,” Isack breathes, grabbing the door handle. “Ollie—”

“I’m fine,” Ollie snaps, then immediately softens. “Sorry. I’m just—this is bad.”

“Bad doesn’t even cover it,” Isack says. “I might’ve wrecked something before it even started. Or made it worse. Or—God, what if Y/N finds out it was me?”

Ollie says nothing.

That silence is worse than yelling.

Isack turns to him, eyes wide. “She can’t find out, right? Please tell me she can’t find out.”

Ollie swallows.

“No—we’ll figure it out,” he says finally. “But first, you’re going to tell me everything. No jokes. No shortcuts. Because right now, people are hurting, and whether you meant to or not, you’re part of why.”

Isack nods, small and frantic.

“I know,” he says again, voice barely above a whisper. “I really do.”

The car speeds on toward the school, the sky just beginning to lighten, morning creeping in whether they’re ready for it or not.

The road stretches out in front of them, long and pale beneath the early morning sky, and Ollie can’t shake the feeling that they’re driving straight through the aftermath of something that already exploded.

Isack keeps talking and apologizing, explaining, circling the same points, but Ollie only half-hears him now. His mind keeps drifting backward, replaying the last few days like a highlight reel he didn’t ask to watch.

Isack was laughing too loud at breakfast. Isack cannonballing into the pool. Isack teasing Y/N like always, light and harmless, never cruel. He was normal. Too normal.

That’s what gets to Ollie the most.

He tightens his grip on the wheel, jaw set. “You know what I don’t get?” he says suddenly.

Isack stops mid-sentence. “What?”

“You.” Ollie exhales through his nose. “You acted fine. The whole time. Even when things started getting… weird.”

Isack shifts in his seat. “I didn’t think anyone noticed.”

“That’s my point,” Ollie replies. “Y/N was holding herself together, Gabriel went quiet, Kimi looked like he was thinking himself into a hole, and you were cracking jokes as if nothing happened.”

The words aren’t accusatory. They’re confused. That somehow makes them worse.

Isack stares down at his hands. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

Ollie glances at him briefly before returning his eyes to the road. “So you just… didn’t do anything?”

“I thought if I stayed normal, it wouldn’t get worse,” Isack says weakly. “Like if I didn’t acknowledge it, it would blow over.”

“Right, and now it did.”

Isack swallows. “Yes. And I panicked.”

That lands heavier than Ollie expects.

He thinks about yesterday. About the way Y/N smiled through rehearsals, calm to the point of looking unreal. About how Gabriel didn’t walk her home. About Kimi watching from the sidelines like he always does, eyes sharp, expression unreadable.

Ollie doesn’t respond right away.

He lets the silence stretch, filled only by the low hum of the engine and the faint sound of wind rushing past barely-open windows. The sun is higher now, light spilling over the edges of buildings, exposing everything it touches.

“You know,” Ollie says slowly, “being the funny one doesn’t mean you get to opt out when things get hard.”

Isack winces. “I know.”

“No, I don’t think you do,” Ollie continues. “Because Y/N doesn’t get that choice. Gabriel doesn’t. Kimi definitely doesn’t. They sit with it. They carry it. You—” He shakes his head. “You waited until it scared you.”

Isack’s shoulders slump. “I was scared the whole time.”

“Then why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because if I said it out loud,” Isack whispers, “it would make all this shit ten times worse than it already is. And I thought that if Kimi and Y/N worked out, I wouldn’t have to tell anyone, I could just forget about it, and I was going to be okay with that.”

Ollie exhales, long and tired.

He understands that instinct more than he wants to admit.

There’s a red light ahead this time, and Ollie slows properly, stopping at the line. He drums his fingers against the steering wheel, lost in thought.

“I keep wondering,” he says, “if you were trying to help… or if you just wanted to feel useful.”

Isack looks up sharply. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?”

Isack opens his mouth, then closes it. His eyes burn, but he doesn’t let the tears fall.

“I wanted to help Kimi,” he says after a moment. “I really did. He’s my friend. He’s been stuck on Y/N forever, and watching him do nothing was driving me insane. I thought if something pushed him, he’d finally move.”

“And Y/N?” Ollie asks.

Isack hesitates. “She deserves to be loved.”

“She already is.”

Isack sighs. “You know what I mean.”

“She knows people care, she knows we’re here.” Ollie clarifies. “What she doesn’t need is to be turned into a crossroads.”

The light turns green. Ollie pulls forward.

“Do you know what the worst part is?” Ollie adds. “You didn’t give anyone a choice. Not Y/N. Not Kimi. Not Gabriel.”

Isack’s voice drops to almost nothing. “I didn’t think Gabriel liked her.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Ollie says. “Feelings don’t need permission to exist.”

The words hang between them, heavy and undeniable.

They pass the school gates now, still closed, the building looming quiet and indifferent. Ollie parks along the curb instead of pulling in, engine idling as if neither of them is quite ready to step out and face the day.

Isack stares straight ahead. “Do you hate me?”

Ollie blinks, surprised by the question.

“No,” he says honestly. “But I’m disappointed.”

That hurts worse. Isack nods, accepting it like a sentence.

“I’ll fix it,” he says quickly. “I’ll tell them. Or—I don’t know—I’ll delete the account or—”

“No,” Ollie interrupts. “You’re not doing anything without thinking this through.”

Isack lets out a weak huff. “You sound like Y/N.”

Ollie’s lips twitch despite himself. “Yeah. And look how well that’s worked out for her.”

That sobers them both.

Ollie turns the engine off. The sudden quiet feels loud.

“You don’t get to choose when consequences catch up to you,” Ollie says, turning to face Isack fully now. “They just… do.”

Isack nods, eyes glassy. “I know.”

“And when this comes out,” Ollie continues, “because it probably will—you don’t get to hide behind ‘I meant well.’ You own it.”

Isack squeezes his eyes shut. “Okay.”

They sit there for a moment longer, the weight of everything pressing down, the day just beginning to breathe around them.

Ollie finally opens the car door. “Come on.”

Isack hesitates. “Where are we going?”

“Inside,” Ollie replies. “Because pretending nothing happened is how we got here in the first place.”

As they step out into the morning light, Ollie can’t help the thought that lingers, stubborn and unresolved:

Isack didn’t break when things got hard for Y/N.

He broke when he realized he couldn’t outrun what he’d done.

And Ollie isn’t sure yet whether that makes it better or worse.

The school gates loom ahead like nothing’s changed.

That’s what hits Isack first, the normalcy of it. The faded blue paint on the railings, the security guard sipping coffee by the entrance, the scattered groups of students trickling in with backpacks slung over one shoulder, half-asleep and half-alive. Morning light stretches thin and pale across the concrete, too gentle for how violently his chest is pounding.

Ollie slows the car to a stop near the curb.

For a moment, neither of them moves.

The engine idles. A pop song hums low from the speakers, suddenly inappropriate. Ollie reaches over and turns it off.

“You okay?” Ollie asks, quieter now.

Isack swallows. His throat feels tight, like he’s been holding his breath since 4 a.m. “Yeah,” he lies. Then, after a beat, corrects himself. “No. But—yeah.”

Ollie nods once, accepting that answer for what it is. “Text me later.”

“I will,” Isack says quickly. “I promise.”

He hesitates with his hand on the door handle, then looks back. “Hey. Thanks. For not… I don’t know, leaving me.”

Ollie exhales through his nose, a tired half-smile tugging at his mouth. “Don’t make me regret it.”

Isack gives a weak laugh, then steps out of the car.

The door shuts with a dull thud that sounds louder than it should.

As Ollie gets out of the car and starts walking inside, Isack stands there for a second longer than necessary, grounding himself. He adjusts his backpack straps. Straightens his shoulders. Puts on the version of himself everyone expects to see.

The composed one. The joking one. The one who didn’t write a confession that cracked something open and then pretended it wasn’t bleeding.

He shoves it all down and starts walking.

The hallways smell like floor cleaner and cheap perfume. Lockers slam. Voices echo. Somewhere down the corridor, someone’s already laughing too loudly.

Then he sees them.

C-301 is down the hall to the left, its door wide open. Inside, Gabriel is leaning against a desk, sleeves rolled up, posture relaxed in a way that feels earned. He’s laughing, head tipped back slightly as Sophia says something animated with her hands. Jack snorts at whatever Oscar adds, and Gabriel shakes his head, smiling like the world hasn’t shifted under his feet at all.

The sight of it punches Isack straight in the gut.

Guilt flares hot and immediate.

Because Gabriel looks happy. Or at least lighter than he should, considering everything. Like someone who hasn’t spent the night unraveling the consequences of his own actions. Like someone who didn’t almost cross a line in a locked stock room and then choose restraint instead.

Isack looks away before Gabriel can notice him staring.

He doesn’t deserve to insert himself into that space. Not right now.

He turns and heads toward C-302.

The classroom door is already open. Morning sunlight pours in through the windows, dust motes floating lazily in the air. The room hums with a softer energy.

And then he sees Kimi.

Kimi is slumped over his desk, cheek pressed against his folded arms, curls a little messy in that unguarded way he never allows himself in public. There’s a faint crease between his brows even in sleep, like his thoughts don’t ever fully turn off.

Next to him sits Y/N.

She’s upright, back straight but not stiff, one leg crossed over the other. A book rests open in her hands, fingers lightly holding the edges of the pages like she’s careful not to crease them. Her expression is calm, absorbed. Peaceful, even. Too peaceful.

Isack’s chest tightens.

She looks fine. Put together. Exactly the way she always does when something inside her is fraying.

As if sensing movement, Y/N glances up.

Their eyes meet.

There’s no shock. No accusation. Just recognition and something softer, unreadable, passing through her gaze before it smooths over. She gives him a small smile. Polite, familiar, normal.

It almost breaks him.

“Morning,” Franco calls from behind him, clapping a hand on Isack’s shoulder. “You look like death, dude.”

Megan peeks over Franco’s shoulder. “Pull an all-nighter or something?”

Liam waves lazily from his seat. “He always looks like that before quizzes.”

Isack forces a grin onto his face, the muscle memory kicking in. “Wow. Love the concern. Truly.”

His voice sounds right. Light. Easy.

No one suspects a thing.

He slides into his seat, a row behind Kimi, backpack thudding softly against the desk. He can feel it, the weight of the secret pressing against his ribs, the knowledge that he’s sitting in the same room as the two people most affected by what he did.

Kimi shifts in his sleep, murmuring something unintelligible.

Y/N glances at him again, just briefly, before turning back to her book.

She doesn’t say anything, and Isack thinks that might be worse.

Isack leans back in his chair, staring at the ceiling as the bell rings, its shrill sound cutting through the room.

Class begins like nothing’s wrong. A teacher walks in. Attendance is called. Notes are written on the board.

Isack copies them down, hand steady despite the storm inside him. He laughs at Franco’s whisper. Nods along when Megan complains about the homework. Plays his part perfectly.

But every now and then, his eyes drift forward.

To Kimi, now awake, rubbing sleep from his eyes, posture slowly straightening as he re-enters the world.

To Y/N, calm and composed, turning pages with practiced ease.

And all Isack can think is—I did this. And sooner or later, the truth is going to catch up to him.

The bell rings again, and the day keeps going.

The bell cuts through the room, sharp and familiar, and chairs scrape back as everyone exhales at once.

You close your book and slip it into your bag, stretching your fingers like you’ve been holding tension there without realizing it. Around you, the classroom loosens, voices rise, someone laughs too loudly, and Franco immediately starts complaining about how the lesson made zero sense.

You stand, sling your bag over your shoulder, and head toward the door.

That’s when you see Ollie.

He’s standing just outside the classroom, hands in his jacket pockets, weight shifted onto one foot like he’s been waiting a while. His hair’s messier than usual, eyes a little tired, but when he spots you, his face brightens instinctively.

You smile automatically. “Oh—hey, Oll—”

You don’t even finish the word.

Isack bolts past you.

It’s sudden enough that you flinch, his shoulder narrowly missing yours as he bursts through the doorway, eyes locked straight ahead. “Ollie,” he says, urgent and low, grabbing Ollie’s sleeve before he can react. “Come here. Now.”

Ollie blinks, startled. “What—Isack, wait—”

But Isack is already pulling him down the hall, fast, like he’s afraid if he slows down, he’ll lose his nerve. Ollie stumbles once, shoots you a confused look over his shoulder, mouth opening like he’s about to apologize—

And then they’re gone.

You stand there for a second longer than necessary, your hand still half-raised in a wave that never landed.

Your stomach tightens. Something about the way Isack moved, the way Ollie didn’t argue, sticks in your head.

You glance down the hallway, but they’ve already disappeared around the corner.

Franco nudges your arm. “You coming or are you gonna stare at nothing and keep blocking the door?”

You blink, then laugh softly. “Sorry. Yeah. Coming.”

You let it go.

Or at least, you tell yourself you do.

The group migrates toward the courtyard in a loose cluster—Franco, Liam, Megan, Sophia, and Gabriel falling into step beside you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. The air outside is warmer, the noise softer in a way that feels earned.

You sit on the low concrete wall, legs swinging slightly as Megan launches into a story about a professor mispronouncing her name so badly it sounded like a different language altogether.

Gabriel stands close. It’s subtle, the way he positions himself. Slightly angled toward you. Close enough that if someone bumped into you, he’d be the first thing you’d hit. When Franco gestures wildly, Gabriel shifts half a step, making space without making a show of it.

“Are you okay?” Gabriel asks quietly, not cutting into the conversation, just threading the question into a pause like it belongs there.

You look at him, surprised—not because he asked, but because his voice is softer than usual. Less teasing. More careful.

“Yeah,” you say honestly. “I’m good.”

He studies your face for a brief second longer than necessary, then nods. “Okay.”

The stock room doesn’t come up. Not once.

Not in the way his gaze lingers a fraction longer when you laugh, not in the way his tone shifts when he talks to you, like he’s learned something fragile and is determined not to mishandle it. He doesn’t avoid you. He doesn’t act strangely. He’s just him.

Like he’s decided something on his own and doesn’t need you to carry it with him.

Sophia leans against your shoulder dramatically. “If we fail the next quiz, I’m blaming all of you for emotionally distracting me.”

“You emotionally distract yourself,” Liam says.

“Rude,” she replies, unbothered.

You laugh, the sound coming easily. Your chest feels lighter than it has in days. No buzzing anxiety, no constant replaying of moments you wish you could edit. Just warmth, sunlight, the hum of voices you care about.

You glance back through the classroom windows. Kimi is still inside.

He’s seated at his desk, notebook open, pen moving steadily across the page. His brow is slightly furrowed, lips pressed together in concentration. He doesn’t look up, not even when someone passes by the door. The bright rays of the sun shine through the window next to him, coloring his hair a lighter brown with gold tints. If you looked hard enough, you could see the dust particles on his black hoodie, his messy curls moving with the wind, and how he slightly squints and tilts his head when he’s confused. What the hell are you even doing?

When you turn back to the group, Gabriel catches your eye again, offering you a small smile, one that doesn’t ask for anything. You return it with no hesitation.

The bell rings soon after, and everyone groans in unison, but you stand easily, brushing dust from your hands. Whatever Isack and Ollie are dealing with—whatever that was—you tell yourself it’s not yours to carry right now.

It’s sometime in the early afternoon—right as you’re packing your things for the next class—that a knock sounds at the classroom door. Not the casual tap of a late student, but something firmer. Intentional.

The teacher pauses mid-sentence. “Yes?”

A council member steps in, it’s FASC Secretary Manon Bannerman, with a clipboard hugged to her chest. Her eyes scan the room until they land on you. “Y/N Y/L/N?”

You straighten instinctively. “Yes?”

“We need you for a quick meeting. Now, if possible.”

A few heads turn. Franco lifts an eyebrow. Megan mouths what?

You blink once. “Uh—okay.”

You feel everyone’s eyes on you. You feel it on your skin as you walk out—curiosity, whispers already forming—but you push it away, following Manon into the hallway.

“What’s this about?” you ask quietly.

“Sudden meeting,” she replies, already walking. “Council stuff. We need Ollie, too.”

You pause mid-step. “Ollie?”

She nods. “Could you grab him from three-oh-one?”

“Yeah,” you say automatically. “Of course.”

You turn down the hall toward C-301, your steps quick but unhurried. As you near the doorway, you knock on the door, three precise taps before opening the door, slowly peeking inside.

That’s when you see Gabriel.

He’s leaning back in his chair, his attention focused on the lecture. For a split second, his gaze lifts and finds yours.

The smile doesn’t fade, but it softens. You look away quickly, remembering what you were in their classroom for.

You don’t wave. You don’t linger. You don’t step fully into the room, instead opening the door more, scanning for Ollie instead. You notice Sophia and Jack aren’t in the room, probably waiting for the two of you, and sent Manon to come and get you.

The professor looks up. “Everything alright?”

“Good morning, Sir Sainz, may I excuse Ollie for a minute?” you call quietly.

He looks up like he’s been jolted. For half a second, panic flashes across his face before he schools it into something resembling his usual easy grin.

“Hey! Uh—what’s up?”

“Sorry,” you say, already feeling a little bad. “Manon needs us for a council meeting for the play. She asked if you could step out for a moment.”

Ollie swallows. You notice it this time, the way his shoulders tense, the way his hands curl into the edge of his notebook like he needs something solid.

“Yeah. Yeah, of course,” he says quickly, standing a little too fast. His chair screeches against the floor.

He gives Sir Sainz a thin smile on his way out, mouthing, “Council thing.”

The professor waves him off, and Ollie grabs his bag like he might need it for emotional support. As you turn to leave, you feel it again, that brief awareness. Gabriel’s eyes on your back. But you don’t turn around.

The hallway feels quieter as the door shuts behind you.

You walk side by side toward the council room, your footsteps echoing faintly. Ollie’s usually chatty in these in-between moments, filling silence with jokes, observations, and nonsense.

Today, he’s quiet.

You glance at him. His jaw is tight, eyes fixed straight ahead. There’s a stiffness to his posture that doesn’t belong to him.

“Hey,” you say gently. “You good?”

He blinks, like he forgot you were there. “Huh? Yeah—yeah, I’m fine.”

You tilt your head, unconvinced. “You sure? You’re acting… weird.”

He lets out a breath that’s almost a laugh. “Weird? Me? Never.”

The joke lands flat. You slow slightly, studying him. “Ollie.”

He stops walking.

For a second, you think he might actually say something. His mouth opens, closes. Guilt churns behind his eyes, thick, heavy, unmistakable if you know what to look for.

You don’t.

Or maybe you do, just not enough to name it.

“Sorry,” he says finally. “Just tired. Long week.”

You nod, accepting it easily. Too easily. “Yeah. Same. This play is stressing me out, too.”

He exhales, relieved, and starts walking again. You follow, brushing the moment aside like you always do, with trust.

The council room door looms ahead, and whatever knot was forming between your brows loosens just a little. This is familiar ground. Rules, logistics, problems you can solve.

As you reach for the handle, Ollie glances at you again.

Guilt washes over him so hard it’s almost physical.

You’re still unaware, still kind, still assuming the best, and that makes his chest ache worse than if you were angry.

Inside, the other council members look up. Sophia smiles, standing up, “Great. You’re both here.”

You step in, ready to focus, ready to lead, ready to compartmentalize everything else.

Behind you, Ollie hesitates for half a second before following.

By the time you and Ollie stepped fully into the council room, it was already clear you weren’t early.

Sophia sat at the head of the long table, posture straight, tablet propped neatly in front of her. She looked like she’d been there a while, hair smoothed down, expression calm but focused in that way she only ever wore during official matters. To her right was Oscar, leaning back in his chair with his blazer half-off, pen spinning lazily between his fingers. Lara sat closer to the window, legs crossed, notebook already open on her lap, eyes flicking up the moment you entered. Jack stood near the whiteboard, arms folded, quietly listening to something Sophia had just finished saying.

The room felt settled. Like the meeting had already started and you’d just joined midway through.

“Okay,” Sophia said, glancing up with a small nod. “Director’s here. Props lead too.”

You smiled apologetically. “Sorry if we’re late.”

“You’re not,” Oscar said easily. “We just got called in early. Coordinator wanted a head start.”

That explained it. Sophia being called first made sense, president duties and all that. The rest of them being here already felt inevitable in hindsight.

You slid into the empty chair beside Lara, Ollie taking the one across from you. As soon as he sat, he straightened his back like he was bracing for impact.

Sophia clasped her hands together. “Alright. I’ll keep this efficient. The department coordinator asked for a formal checkpoint on the play’s progress. Nothing punitive, just documentation. Since rehearsals are well underway, they want to know where we stand. I already know most of what happens anyway, since I am—well—Veronica, but this is necessary, so,” she looked at you first. “Y/N. Directing.”

You nodded. “We’re on schedule. Blocking for all major scenes is done, including transitions. Ensemble timing still needs polishing, but that’s expected at this stage. Tech-wise, we’re pacing well. No major setbacks.”

Jack tilted his head. “Any concerns about pacing overall?”

“Only minor ones,” you said. “Second act emotional beats need breathing room, but that’s more performance refinement than structural.”

Sophia typed something quickly. “Noted.”

Oscar leaned forward. “Attendance issues? Burnout? Any cast members falling behind?”

You shook your head. “Surprisingly, no. People are tired, but they’re committed. Morale’s been steady.”

Lara glanced up from her notes. “That tracks. From an acting standpoint, the environment’s been intense, but productive.”

You offered her a small smile in agreement.

Sophia turned to Ollie next. “Props.”

Ollie cleared his throat. “Uh—right. Inventory’s complete. All primary props are finished and labeled. We’re still testing durability on a few handhelds, but nothing critical. Storage is organized, and we’re not exceeding budget.”

Oscar raised a brow. “Any delays?”

“No,” Ollie said quickly. “Everything’s on track. If anything, we’re ahead.”

Jack gave a low whistle. “Ahead? That’s rare.”

Ollie shrugged, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “Good team.”

Sophia nodded approvingly. “Good. That’s exactly what they wanted to hear.”

There was a brief lull as she reviewed her notes, the sound of tapping filling the room. You leaned back slightly, hands folded in your lap, letting the tension ease out of your shoulders. This was familiar territory, administrative, structured, and safe.

“The coordinator also asked about communication between departments,” Sophia continued. “Any friction we should be aware of?”

You exchanged a glance with Ollie.

“No,” you said honestly. “Coordination’s been one of our strengths. Props, lighting, sound—we’re aligned.”

Ollie nodded along. “Yeah. No issues.”

Oscar smiled. “Look at that. Functional leadership.”

You rolled your eyes lightly. “Don’t jinx it.”

That earned a small laugh from around the table, even Sophia’s lips curving just slightly before she smoothed them back into professionalism.

“Alright,” she said. “Last thing. They wanted reassurance that leadership is handling pressure appropriately.”

Jack snorted. “That’s a polite way to say ‘no breakdowns,’ right?”

“Essentially,” Sophia said dryly.

You let out a breath. “If you’re asking whether we’re managing—yes. It’s stressful, but nothing unmanageable.”

Sophia looked at you for a moment longer than necessary, like she was assessing something beyond your words. Then she nodded. “Good.”

The meeting didn’t last much longer after that. A few more clarifying questions, a reminder about documentation deadlines, Oscar cracking a joke about bureaucracy before Sophia shut him down with a look.

When it wrapped up, chairs scraped softly against the floor as everyone stood.

“Thanks for coming on short notice,” Sophia said. “I’ll relay everything.”

“No problem,” you replied. “Thanks for looping us in.”

Lara packed up her notebook. “See you at rehearsal later.”

Jack gave a quick two-finger salute before heading out with Oscar.

As the room slowly emptied, you turned to Ollie. “You survived.”

He huffed out a laugh. “Barely.”

You studied him again—still a little tense, still not quite himself—but he met your eyes and smiled, softer this time.

“Thanks,” he said. “For, uh. Covering.”

You frowned slightly. “Covering what?”

He waved it off. “Nothing. Just—thanks.”

You let it go, because that’s what you did. You always did.

As you stepped back into the hallway together, the bell rang in the distance, signaling the end of the period. The day rolled on, indifferent to the undercurrents moving quietly beneath it.

For now, at least, everything looked exactly as it was supposed to.

i hope this isnt too boring guys sowwy

“Yes, Director,” Franco called from the back, overly formal, earning him a light glare from you and a laugh from Megan.

“Props team, don’t forget we’re reblocking Act Two after,” you added, already flipping through your notes. “And Gabriel—”

You glanced up instinctively, because you always did when you said his name.

Gabriel was already looking at you.

“Yeah?” he asked, easy, calm, like he always was. Like he hadn’t noticed the way the room seemed to tilt slightly whenever the two of you locked eyes.

“If you have time after lunch,” you said, measured, professional, “I want to go over that transition into your solo again. The pacing felt off.”

He nodded once. “Sure.”

Then, after a beat so small most people wouldn’t catch it. He added, “I can stay now, too, if you want. Just to run it once.”

You hesitated.

It wasn’t unusual for people to stay behind. You stayed behind all the time. But something about the way the rest of the cast was already filtering out, with Isack loudly arguing with Ollie about cafeteria food, Megan corralling people like a second director, Franco and Lara laughing near the exit, made the auditorium feel like it was emptying faster than it should.

Still.

You swallowed the thought and nodded.

“That’d be helpful,” you said. “Thanks.”

The doors banged shut one by one as people left, voices fading into the hallway until the space settled into something quieter. The air felt heavier without the constant movement, dust motes visible in the shafts of light cutting down from the rigging above.

Gabriel stepped closer to the stage, script tucked under his arm. You stayed near the front row, flipping to the page you needed, pen tapping absently against the margin.

“From the line before the pause,” you said. “I think if you let it breathe just half a second longer—”

He climbed the steps onto the stage with ease, movements familiar, comfortable in the space. “Like this?”

He read, voice steady, filling the empty auditorium with practiced clarity. You listened closely. Gabriel always understood tone instinctively. He didn’t overthink the emotions; he let them sit where they were meant to.

When he finished, you nodded slowly. “Better. Still—hold the silence a bit longer. The audience needs time to feel it.”

“Got it.” He smiled faintly. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true.”

You didn’t realize you were smiling back until he noticed, and then you immediately looked down at your notes, heat creeping up your neck.

There was a brief pause. The kind that lingered a second too long.

“Hey,” Gabriel said gently, not pushing. “You okay?”

You looked up again. “Yeah. Just busy.”

He accepted that answer the way he always did. Didn’t press. Didn’t demand. Just nodded, easy.

“Do you need help with anything else before lunch?” he asked.

You hesitated again, then glanced toward the side door leading to the stock room. The props inventory had been a mess all week, items pulled and returned without notes, shelves half-organized from the rush of rehearsals.

“Actually,” you said, “yeah. Could you help me grab the extra mic stand? I think it’s back there.”

“Sure.”

You grabbed your keys and headed toward the side of the auditorium, footsteps echoing softly. The stock room door was tucked just past the curtains, a narrow hallway barely wide enough for two people to pass comfortably.

Gabriel followed, unhurried.

The stock room smelled faintly of dust and metal and old wood—like every storage space ever. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead as you stepped inside, shelves stacked high with labeled bins, costume racks shoved against the far wall, stray props leaning wherever they’d fit.

You set your notebook down on a crate and scanned the shelves. “It should be somewhere near the back. I think.”

Gabriel stepped in fully behind you, the door swinging closed with a soft click.

You didn’t think anything of it.

You moved deeper into the room, weaving between shelves, fingers brushing labels as you searched. “I swear I saw it here yesterday.”

“I’ll check the other side,” he offered, already moving, voice calm in the enclosed space.

The room felt smaller than it had a moment ago.

You bent to peer behind a stack of folded backdrops, hair falling into your face. As you straightened, you glanced back toward the door and noticed, distantly, that the handle didn’t have a lock on your side.

You frowned. That was odd.

Still, you pushed the thought away. Someone would be back soon. Lunch was an hour. People were always late returning.

Right?

“Found something,” Gabriel said from behind a shelf.

You turned. “Is it the stand?”

“Not exactly,” he said, holding up a tangled mess of cables. “But it might explain why the sound team’s been annoyed.”

You laughed softly despite yourself. “Add it to the list.”

As you reached for the cables, your elbow brushed his arm.

The stock room seemed to quiet further. The door closing behind Gabriel hadn’t registered as anything more than background noise.

You were too focused on the shelves, on the way the labels had been rearranged again, on the familiar frustration that came with trying to keep a production running with limited time and too many moving parts. Your mind stayed where it was safest: logistics, structure, lists.

Still, something about the stock room felt altered.

Maybe it was the way sound carried differently in here. How every small movement seemed amplified—the soft scrape of a shoe against concrete, the rustle of paper as Gabriel flipped through the stack of loose cue sheets someone had shoved into a bin.

Or maybe it was the silence between those sounds.

You stepped back, holding the cables he’d handed you, and bumped lightly into a crate. “Okay, we can deal with this after lunch,” you said, more to yourself than to him. “Let’s just grab the mic stand and go before someone steals it.”

Gabriel hummed in acknowledgment, already scanning the back shelves. “You’re assuming it hasn’t already vanished.”

“Nothing ever truly vanishes,” you said. “It just ends up somewhere it shouldn’t be.”

“That feels like a metaphor,” he said mildly.

You snorted. “For this entire play? Absolutely.”

He smiled at that, brief and soft, before turning back to the shelves. The fluorescent lights overhead flickered once, then steadied, casting a pale glow over the cramped room.

You moved toward the far wall, crouching to peer behind a stack of prop boxes labeled ACT I — MISC. Dust clung to your fingers as you pushed one aside.

“Found it?” Gabriel asked.

“Not yet.”

You reached further, arm stretching, and felt your sleeve catch on something. You tugged gently, then harder, until—

“Careful,” Gabriel said, stepping closer. “You’re gonna pull the whole thing down.”

He reached past you, bracing the stack with one hand. For a second, his arm hovered just beside your shoulder, close enough that you could feel the warmth through the thin fabric of your shirt.

You froze.

“Sorry,” you said, quietly.

“For what?”

You swallowed. “I don’t know.”

He didn’t laugh. Didn’t tease. Just held the boxes steady until you managed to free your sleeve, then stepped back, giving you space again.

Too much space.

You straightened, exhaling slowly, and finally spotted the metal base of the mic stand tucked behind a rack of costumes. “There,” you said, relief creeping into your voice. “I see it.”

You both reached for it at the same time.

Your fingers brushed.

This time, neither of you pulled away immediately.

It was ridiculous. A fraction of a second, really, and yet your pulse spiked so suddenly it made you dizzy.

Gabriel cleared his throat first. “I’ve got it.”

“Yeah,” you said quickly. “Yeah, okay.”

He lifted the stand carefully, angling it so it wouldn’t knock into anything else. You stepped aside to make room, back pressing lightly against the opposite shelf.

For a moment, he was right in front of you. Too close for the narrow aisle to be comfortable, close enough that you could see the faint crease between his brows when he concentrated.

You forced yourself to breathe normally.

“Thanks for helping,” you said, because silence felt dangerous. “I know you probably wanted to eat.”

He glanced at you, expression unreadable. “It’s fine. You’ve been… quiet lately.”

You looked up sharply. “Have I?”

He nodded. “A little.”

You considered deflecting. Turning it back to the play, it would’ve been easy.

Instead, you shrugged, the movement small. “Just tired.”

Gabriel studied you for a moment longer than necessary. Not in a way that felt invasive, like he was filing the answer away, even if he didn’t fully believe it.

“You don’t have to carry everything yourself,” he said, gently.

You laughed, breathless. “Someone has to.”

“Not always you.”

You looked away, focusing on the mic stand now leaning against the shelf beside you. “If I don’t do it, it doesn’t get done.”

“That’s not true,” he said.

You met his gaze again, and for a second, the room felt unbearably small.

Before either of you could say anything else, you shifted, turning toward the door. “We should head back,” you said. “Lunch is ticking.”

You reached for the handle and pulled.

Nothing happened.

You frowned, trying again, this time with more force. The handle didn’t budge.

A strange, hollow feeling settled in your chest.

“Uh,” you said. “That’s weird.”

Gabriel set the mic stand down carefully. “What?”

“The door,” you said, stepping aside so he could see. “It’s not opening.”

He tried next, grip firm, pulling once, then again. The door stayed stubbornly shut.

He paused, then checked the latch. “It locks from the outside,” he said slowly.

Your stomach dropped.

“You’re kidding.”

“I wish I was.”

You stared at the door, heart starting to race. “Why would it—who would—”

“Probably someone closing it without realizing,” Gabriel said, calm despite the situation. “It’s lunch. People rush.”

“But no one else is here,” you said, the words tumbling out faster now. “Everyone left.”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

The silence that followed was different from before—thicker, heavier, charged with something you couldn’t quite name.

You folded your arms, suddenly aware of how enclosed the room felt. “Okay,” you said, forcing steadiness into your voice. “It’s fine. Maybe a ghost pushed it. Someone will come back. They never actually eat for a full hour.”

That earned a small smile from Gabriel. “Right.”

He glanced around the room, then back at you. “We can wait.”

You nodded. You could do that. Waiting was something you were good at.

After the initial spike of panic faded, the room settled into something eerily calm.

It wasn’t immediate. At first, you paced—two steps forward, two steps back—checking the door again like it might magically change its mind. Gabriel stayed closer to the shelves, hands in his pockets, eyes following you without crowding your space. Neither of you spoke much. You didn’t need to. The situation spoke loudly enough on its own.

Eventually, you stopped trying.

You slid down the side of a crate and sat on the concrete floor, back resting against cold metal. The chill seeped through your clothes, grounding you. Gabriel hesitated only a second before sitting a short distance away, mirroring your posture, knees bent, shoulders relaxed but alert.

“Well,” you said finally, voice echoing softly, “this is… not how I planned lunch.”

He let out a quiet huff of laughter. “I’ve had worse.”

You glanced at him. “That’s concerning.”

“Occupational hazard,” he replied lightly, then, after a beat, added, “I mean that metaphorically.”

You smiled despite yourself. The tension loosened a notch.

Minutes passed. Maybe ten. Maybe fifteen. Time felt slippery in the stock room, unmoored without windows or noise from outside. The hum of the lights became background static. Your breathing slowed.

“I’m sorry,” you said suddenly.

Gabriel turned his head toward you. “For what?”

“For dragging you into this,” you said. “You could’ve been eating. Or anywhere else.”

He shrugged. “I stayed because I wanted to.”

The words landed heavier than you expected.

You stared at your hands. “Still.”

“You know,” Gabriel said eventually, voice quieter, more careful, “I don’t mind small spaces.”

You looked up. “Really?”

He nodded. “They make things… honest. Harder to pretend you’re not feeling something.”

Your throat tightened. “That’s one way to put it.”

He leaned his head back against the shelf behind him, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “When I was younger, my mom used to lock herself in her room when things got bad. Not in a scary way, just to breathe, I think. I’d sit outside the door and talk. Didn’t matter if she answered. I just wanted her to know I was there.”

You stayed quiet, instinctively sensing this wasn’t something to interrupt.

“I learned early that silence doesn’t mean nothing’s happening,” he continued. “Sometimes it’s just where the truth waits.”

You swallowed. “Is that what this is?”

“Maybe.”

He turned his head, finally meeting your gaze. There was no teasing in his expression now. No easy charm. Just something bare.

“I don’t talk about this much,” he said. “Not because it’s a secret. Just because people don’t usually ask.”

“I’m listening,” you said softly.

He exhaled, slow and steady. “I grew up knowing exactly what was expected of me. Be calm. Be capable. Don’t cause trouble. I was good at it, too good. People think that means things don’t get to you.”

You shook your head faintly. “I never thought that.”

He smiled, small and grateful. “Still. Sometimes it feels like I’m only allowed to exist when I’m useful. When I’m steady. When I don’t need anything.”

Your chest ached. “That’s not fair.”

“No,” he agreed. “But it’s familiar.”

He shifted slightly, closer now, and you felt the warmth of him. “Being around you, it’s different. You don’t need me to be anything specific. You just see me.”

Your breath caught.

“I see you,” you said. “But I also worry I ask too much. I don’t want anyone to feel like they have to hold me up.”

He looked at you then. “You don’t,” he said. “You just let people choose.”

The silence stretched again, thick with words that didn’t quite make it out.

Gabriel’s hand rested on the floor between you, palm up, fingers relaxed. You noticed without meaning to. Noticed how close it was to your knee. How easy it would be to bridge the gap.

He noticed you noticing.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moved.

Then slowly, he leaned in. Not all the way. Just enough that the air shifted, that your breath mingled, that the moment sharpened into something fragile and bright and terrifying.

Your eyes flicked to his mouth.

His breath stuttered.

And then he stopped.

He pulled back just a fraction, enough to break the spell without shattering it entirely.

“I won’t,” he said quietly. “Not like this.”

You nodded, relief and disappointment tangling in your chest. “Thank you.”

He smiled, sad and kind. “We’ll get out eventually.”

You leaned your head back against the crate, closing your eyes. “Yeah.”

The stock room hummed on around you, holding the secret of the almost between its narrow walls—patient, unjudging, waiting for whatever came next.

After the almost, the room felt different.

Not awkward, like something had been carefully set down between you and neither of you wanted to step on it. The air no longer buzzed with panic or uncertainty, but with a quiet awareness that made every movement feel deliberate.

You shifted first, stretching your legs out in front of you. “We should probably… sit like normal people,” you said, attempting lightness.

Gabriel let out a soft breath that might’ve been a laugh. “Define normal.”

You angled yourself against a crate so you weren’t directly facing him, the closeness still there but dulled enough to breathe through. He followed suit, leaning back against the opposite shelf. The mic stand lay forgotten on the floor between you like a neutral third party.

Minutes passed.

You checked your phone: no signal bars, no notifications. Of course.

“Figures,” you muttered.

“Nothing?” Gabriel asked.

“Nothing.”

He nodded, unsurprised. “We’re in a concrete box.”

“Ah, romantic.”

That got a real laugh out of him, low and quiet. The sound eased something tight in your chest.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been this still with someone,” you admitted suddenly. “Without feeling like I should be doing something.”

He glanced at you. “You’re always doing something.”

“I know.” You sighed. “That’s the problem.”

You picked at a loose thread on your sleeve. “Sometimes I think if I stop moving, everything I’ve been avoiding will catch up to me.”

Gabriel considered that. “Does it ever?”

“Not yet,” you said. “But it feels close.”

He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “You don’t have to outrun everything.”

“I don’t know how not to.”

Another pause. The kind that invited honesty.

“When people talk about ambition,” you continued, voice softer, “they always frame it like this clean, admirable thing. But for me, it’s loud. Demanding. It doesn’t let me rest.”

Gabriel nodded slowly. “I think ambition gets lonely when you don’t let anyone walk beside you.”

You looked at him then. “Is that what you think I’m doing?”

“I think you’re trying to protect everyone, including yourself.”

Your throat tightened. “I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“I know,” he said gently. “But you can’t keep shrinking your own needs to keep the peace.”

The words settled into you, heavy but true.

You stared at the floor, tracing cracks in the concrete with your gaze. “You’re very good at saying the right thing.”

He smiled faintly. “Only because I’ve said the wrong ones enough times.”

You huffed. “I doubt that.”

“Believe it,” he said. “I just learned when to stop talking.”

The fluorescent lights flickered again, briefly dimming the room. You both looked up instinctively.

“Still alive,” you said.

“For now.”

You shifted again, this time turning fully toward him. “Can I ask you something?”

“Always.”

“Why do you stay?” The question slipped out before you could overthink it. “With the play. With… all of this.”

He didn’t answer right away.

“Because I like being part of something that matters,” he said finally. “And because—” He hesitated, then shrugged. “Because you care. That makes people want to care too.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “That’s dangerous logic.”

“Maybe,” he said. “But it’s honest.”

The word lingered between you.

You leaned your head back, eyes closing again. “I don’t regret this,” you said quietly.

“The lock-in?” he asked.

“No,” you said. “The talking.”

He smiled to himself. “Me neither.”

The stock room remained still, time stretching and folding in on itself. Outside, the rest of the world continued on—lunch trays clattering, footsteps echoing in halls—but in here, you existed in a pocket of calm, suspended between what was and what might be.

Neither of you knew how long it would last.

Neither of you tried to end it.

Time inside the stock room didn’t pass so much as it softened.

It lost its edges. Minutes no longer announced themselves; they blurred together, stitched by the steady hum of the fluorescent lights and the faint smell of dust and old paint. Somewhere above you, a pipe clicked as it cooled. The sound echoed, then vanished, leaving behind the awareness of how quiet everything else had become.

You shifted again, because staying still felt unfamiliar. Your back pressed into the crate behind you, wood rough even through your shirt. When you adjusted, the crate creaked softly, the sound too loud in the enclosed space.

“Sorry,” you murmured instinctively.

Gabriel glanced over, confused. “For what?”

“Making noise,” you said, then laughed under your breath. “That’s not normal, is it?”

He smiled a little. “You’re allowed to exist.”

The words settled slowly, like dust drifting down after something’s been disturbed.

You let your head fall back, eyes tracing the faint cracks in the ceiling paint. Someone had written a number up there in marker—maybe an old inventory code, maybe nothing at all. You wondered how long it had been there, how many people had stood in this room without ever looking up.

“I forget sometimes,” you said. “That I don’t have to be… useful every second.”

Gabriel adjusted his position, stretching his legs out, shoes scuffing lightly against the concrete. “You don’t act like you forget,” he said gently. “You act like you don’t believe it.”

You turned your head to look at him. His profile was softer in this lighting, shadows smoothing out the sharp lines of his features. He wasn’t looking at you—his gaze was fixed on a point somewhere ahead, thoughtful, distant.

“That’s worse, isn’t it?” you said.

He didn’t deny it.

You sat up slightly, hugging one knee to your chest. The movement made the room feel even smaller, your awareness sharpening: the way your shoulder brushed a hanging costume sleeve, the faint smell of fabric cleaner, the cold seeping through the soles of your shoes.

“Do you ever get tired of being steady?” you asked quietly.

Gabriel’s fingers flexed where they rested on the floor. “Sometimes.”

The honesty in the single word made your chest tighten.

“I think people assume I don’t need help,” he continued. “That if I don’t ask, I’m fine. But it’s not that I don’t need it. I just don’t want to burden anyone.”

You frowned. “You’re not a burden.”

He smiled, small and rueful. “I know that logically. Emotionally is harder.”

You nodded. You understood that too well.

Silence fell again, but it wasn’t empty. It was layered with unsaid thoughts, with the shared understanding that came from recognizing pieces of yourself in someone else.

Your phone vibrated suddenly against your thigh.

You both startled.

“Oh—” You fumbled for it, heart jumping, only to see the screen light up with nothing but a low battery warning. No messages. No signal. Just the quiet reminder that the outside world still existed.

“False alarm,” you said, setting it down beside you.

Gabriel let out a breath. “For a second, I thought that was our rescue.”

“Not yet,” you said. “Guess we’re stuck with each other a little longer.”

He glanced at you, something warm flickering in his eyes. “I don’t mind.”

The words weren’t dramatic. He didn’t dress them up. That made them land harder.

You swallowed, suddenly aware again of how close he was. Close enough that the space between you felt intentional, charged.

You noticed things you hadn’t before. The way his sleeve was rolled just enough to reveal his wrist, faint tan lines from a watch he must wear often. The quiet way he breathed, steady and grounding, like he was anchoring himself.

“You know,” you said, trying to keep your voice light, “this is probably violating some safety protocol.”

He huffed. “Yeah. I don’t think ‘locked in a storage room during lunch’ is in the handbook.”

“Add it under ‘things not to repeat.’”

“Or,” he said, “things to remember.”

You smiled, slow and unguarded.

The lights flickered again, and you felt a flicker of nerves stir in your chest. You hugged your knee tighter, grounding yourself in the physical sensation of being there. Of being present.

“If someone comes back and opens the door,” you said, “this will all feel… smaller.”

Gabriel tilted his head. “Smaller how?”

“Like it was just a weird accident,” you said. “Instead of this.”

“This,” he echoed.

You didn’t define it. You didn’t need to.

Another stretch of quiet passed. You could almost forget the rest of the cast existed. Almost forget the noise, the expectations, the careful balancing act you performed every day.

In here, you were just a person sitting on the floor, talking to another person who saw you.

And for now, that was enough.

You didn’t plan to talk about your family. It wasn’t something you ever consciously decided to share. It just surfaced, the way things do when there’s nowhere to rush off to, no task to hide behind.

You exhaled slowly, eyes still fixed on the floor. “Can I say something kind of… heavy?”

Gabriel didn’t move, didn’t rush to reassure. He just nodded once. “You can say anything.”

That did it. That simple permission.

“My dad,” you began, then stopped. Restarted. “My dad lives abroad. Has for years.”

Gabriel stayed quiet.

“He’s not a bad person,” you said quickly, reflexively, like you’d rehearsed that sentence a thousand times. “He’s just… very firm about priorities. School first, always. Stability. Everything else comes after.”

You traced a small circle on the concrete with your finger. “When he left, someone had to step up. So I did.”

Gabriel’s gaze softened, but he didn’t interrupt.

“I help my mom with bills. With schedules. With my brother.” You smiled faintly at the mention of him. “He’s still young. Smart, but sensitive. He needs someone steady. And I guess that became me. I learned early that if I stayed organized and calm, things didn’t fall apart. So I made myself necessary. Straight A’s. No scandals. No distractions. Be the good daughter. The reliable one.”

The words echoed softly in the stock room.

Gabriel leaned back against the shelf, listening like this mattered—because it did.

“Sometimes it feels like I’m holding everything together with my bare hands. Like if I loosen my grip even a little, something will break.”

He spoke carefully. “And who holds you together?”

The question landed right where it hurt.

You opened your mouth, then closed it again. Your shoulders slumped just a fraction. “That’s the thing,” you said softly. “I don’t know. I love my family, I really do. But loving them doesn’t make it lighter. It just makes it harder to admit when I’m tired.”

Gabriel nodded slowly. “You shouldn’t have had to grow up that fast.”

You laughed quietly, shaking your head. “Tell that to life.”

You shifted, hugging both knees now, making yourself smaller without realizing it. “Sometimes I feel guilty even wanting things. Like if I want more than what I already have, I’m being ungrateful.”

Gabriel leaned forward slightly.  “Wanting more doesn’t mean you don’t appreciate what you have,” he said. “It means you’re human.”

You looked at him then, eyes bright. “You’re very good at saying the right thing.”

He smiled gently. “I’m just saying what you deserve to hear.”

Your throat tightened. You looked away, blinking hard. “I don’t know how to stop being… the responsible one.”

“Maybe you don’t have to stop,” he said. “Maybe you just don’t have to be the only one anymore.”

The idea scared you more than you wanted to admit.

You leaned your head back against the crate, eyes closing. “If my dad knew about half the things that happen in my life now,” you murmured, “he’d be disappointed.”

Gabriel’s voice was steady. “Or he’d be surprised by how strong you are.”

You let out a shaky breath. “I don’t know which is worse.”

The fluorescent lights hummed on, indifferent to the quiet unraveling happening beneath them. Somewhere outside, lunch was still ticking away, but in here, you felt like time had paused long enough for the truth to surface. The room seemed to hold the weight with you.

The stock room felt warmer now, a place sure does after something important has been said aloud. The fluorescent lights no longer grated as much. Even the smell of dust and old fabric softened into something familiar, almost comforting.

You didn’t speak again right away.

Instead, you let your gaze wander, really looking this time. The shelves were unevenly stocked, some bins carefully labeled in your handwriting, others scribbled over by people who didn’t expect to be remembered. A chipped crown from Act One leaned against a box of coiled wires. Fake flowers wilted in their plastic wrap. All the remnants of other scenes, other stories, waiting patiently to be used again.

Gabriel sat next to you, shoulders relaxed but posture attentive, like he was always quietly bracing himself for responsibility. You’d noticed that about him long before today: the way he never slouched fully, never let himself completely unwind in public spaces. Even at ease, there was a readiness to him, as if he’d learned early that being prepared was safer than being surprised.

You thought about how often he stayed late to help without being asked. How he listened more than he spoke.

The realization settled slowly, reshaping your understanding of him. Gabriel wasn’t steady because life had been kind to him; he was steady because he’d chosen to be. Again and again.

You wondered, briefly, how much of yourself you’d recognized in him before today, and how much you’d been avoiding.

Your eyes drifted back to the door, the unmoving handle. Locked from the outside. Out of your control. Normally, that would’ve made you restless, counting minutes, building contingency plans in your head. But now, the stillness forced you to sit with thoughts you usually kept moving past.

Memories surfaced uninvited.

You remembered being younger, sitting at the kitchen table long after homework was done, waiting for your mom to come home, listening for the click of the door. Remembered packing your brother’s lunch while reminding him gently not to forget his jacket. Remembered your father’s voice over the phone, measured and distant, asking about grades before asking how you were.

You’d learned early that being capable made people feel safe.

You’d learned early that safety often came at the cost of softness.

Gabriel shifted slightly, resting his head back against the shelf, eyes closed. He looked younger like this.

You wondered what he’d learned early.

The room felt suspended, like a photograph taken between moments. You were aware of the sound of your own breathing, slow and even. Of the way the concrete pressed cool against your palms. Of how, for once, you weren’t performing a role. Not director, not daughter, not the dependable one. Just you.

You thought about how strange it was that being locked in here had brought more clarity than any long conversation ever had. How, stripped of distractions, you’d been forced to look inward and outward, at someone you’d known for a long time without truly seeing.

Gabriel wasn’t trying to fix you. He wasn’t trying to claim anything. He was simply present. That, you realized, was rare.

The lights flickered once more, briefly dimming the room, then steadied again.

You barely reacted this time; you don’t even know how long you’ve been sitting like this.

Time has loosened its grip completely now. There’s no bell, no voices in the hallway, no reminder that the world outside is still moving. Just this room. Just the two of you. Just the feeling that something is waiting to be acknowledged.

You open your eyes without realizing you’d closed them.

Gabriel is already looking at you.

His gaze is steady, unguarded in a way you’ve never quite seen before. Whatever composure he usually carries has softened at the edges, worn thin by the quiet and the honesty and the way the walls have closed you into something more intimate than either of you planned for.

For a moment, neither of you move.

Then you shift. Enough that your knee brushes the mic stand on the floor, enough that the small metallic sound feels thunderous in the stillness. Gabriel’s eyes flick down at the noise, then back up to your face.

Your heart stutters.

This is the point where, normally, you’d look away. Where you’d make a joke or stand up or find something productive to do. Where you’d remind yourself of everything you’re supposed to be.

You don’t. Instead, you hold his gaze.

The air between you feels charged now, taut like a wire pulled too tight. You’re suddenly hyperaware of every detail: the way his lashes cast shadows under his eyes, the faint crease at the corner of his mouth when he’s thinking, the way his hand rests on the floor between you, palm open, fingers relaxed.

You realize, distantly, that you’re leaning toward him.

The movement is small. Barely there. But it’s yours.

Your breath catches from the sheer weight of choice. From the knowledge that this time, no one else is moving first.

Gabriel’s breath hitches too. You see it. Feel it, almost, like a ripple through the space between you.

He doesn’t pull away.

So you close the distance. Not all at once, though, you lean in slowly, giving him every chance to stop it, to shift back, to break the moment if he wants to. Your hand presses into the concrete to steady yourself, the cold grounding you even as your pulse pounds in your ears.

You’re close enough now that you can feel his warmth. Close enough that the world seems to narrow to this single, fragile point.

You pause.

Waiting.

Gabriel leans in too.

The movement is instinctive, unguarded. His eyes flick to your mouth, then back to your eyes, like he’s checking, asking without words. His hand lifts slightly from the floor, hovering near your knee, not touching.

Your breath mingles.

And just before it happens, just before the space between you disappears entirely, he stops.

It’s subtle. A hesitation more than a withdrawal. But it’s enough.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice low, steady despite everything. “Is this what you really want?”

The question lands gently, but it lands.

Reality rushes back in all at once.

Your chest tightens. The moment fractures. It cracks, fine and sharp. All the thoughts you’d pushed aside surge forward: the play, the rumors, the expectations, the careful lines you’ve been walking for so long. The way you always choose responsibility first. The way wanting feels like a risk you can’t afford.

You pull back, just a little.

“I—” Your voice falters. You swallow. “I’m sorry.”

The word feels small. It’s insufficient, but it’s the only one you have.

Gabriel doesn’t look upset. If anything, his expression softens further, concern replacing the intensity that had been there a moment ago. He doesn’t ask you to explain. Doesn’t push. Doesn’t fill the space with reassurance you didn’t ask for.

Instead, slowly, deliberately, he reaches out.

His hand closes around yours.

The contact is gentle. Grounding. His fingers are warm, steady, curling around your hand like it belongs there. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

“It’s okay,” he says quietly. “You don’t have to decide anything right now.”

Your throat tightens. You nod, unable to trust your voice.

He gives your hand a small squeeze. A silent reminder that you’re not alone in this space, in this moment, in this confusion.

You sit like that for a while, hands linked, shoulders almost touching. The stock room hums on around you, unchanged and indifferent, holding the echo of what almost happened without judgment.

The almost doesn’t haunt you the way you thought it might.

Instead, it settles into something gentler. Something that feels like understanding.

And as you sit there, your hand is still in Gabriel’s, fingers loosely laced, palms warm where they touch. Neither of you has said anything since. You don’t need to.

The stock room hums on, indifferent to the fact that something important just almost happened inside it.

Time slips again. The edges blur.

You’re aware of details in a strange, distant way. You lean back slightly, shoulder brushing the shelves behind you, but your hand stays where it is.

Gabriel doesn’t let go.

He isn’t gripping tightly, just enough to remind you he’s there. That he’s present. That he meant what he said earlier, about not needing to decide anything right now.

You stare at the floor, tracing the cracks in the concrete with your eyes. Somewhere in the building, a clock is ticking toward the end of lunch. Somewhere else, people are laughing, eating, existing like the world hasn’t narrowed down to this room.

You wonder how long it’s been.

“Do you think—” you start, then trail off.

Gabriel hums softly, encouraging but not pushing.

You shake your head. “Never mind.”

He doesn’t press. Just shifts slightly closer, his knee brushing yours. The contact sends a small spark up your leg, but it’s muted now, gentler than before, less overwhelming. Safe.

It occurs to you, suddenly, that you don’t feel trapped anymore.

Not by the locked door. Not by the silence. Not even by your own thoughts.

The realization is almost startling.

You’re about to say something when it happens.

The door opens.

There’s no warning. No footsteps you hear first. No voice calling out.

Just the sudden, jarring click of the lock turning from the outside, followed by the creak of the heavy door swinging inward.

Light spills into the stock room all at once, harsh and blinding after so long under fluorescent hum. You flinch instinctively, heart leaping into your throat.

Gabriel does too.

Neither of you lets go.

The door opens fully, and there stands Isack.

He freezes.

One hand still on the door handle, backpack slung over one shoulder, lunch half-finished and peeking out of a crumpled paper bag in his other hand. His eyes flick from the room to the overturned crate, to the scattered equipment, and then to you. Specifically, to your hands. Intertwined.

There’s a full second of silence.

Then Isack’s eyebrows shoot up so high they nearly disappear into his hairline.

“Oh,” he says.

You swear the word echoes.

Gabriel stiffens beside you, finally realizing what Isack is seeing. He starts to pull his hand away—but the damage is already done, and the movement just makes it more obvious.

Isack’s mouth curls slowly, dangerously, into something feral.

“Oh wow,” he says, already grinning. “So this is what happens when I skip the last twenty minutes of lunch—”

“Don’t start.”

The words leave your mouth sharp and immediate.

You look up at him with a stare that could cut glass.

Isack pauses mid-sentence.

You don’t blink.

Your expression is calm, but there’s steel under it. The kind that says you are not in the mood, that whatever joke he’s winding up is about to die a swift and painful death.

For once, Isack reads the room.

He lifts both hands in surrender. “Okay. Okay. Not starting. I see the vibe. Respecting the vibe.”

Gabriel exhales beside you, something like relief slipping into his posture. You finally untangle your hand from his—not abruptly, but with care—and rest it in your lap.

The room feels different now. Wider. Louder. Real again.

Isack clears his throat. “Uh. So. You guys good?”

You nod quickly. “The door was locked from the outside.”

“Yeah, figures,” he mutters. “This place is basically a safety violation waiting to happen.”

He steps fully inside and nudges the door open wider, letting more light spill in. The stock room looks smaller now, stripped of its intimacy under the glare of reality.

Isack glances between you and Gabriel again, curiosity practically vibrating off him. “I came back early to grab my water bottle. Heard nothing from you guys and figured—”

“We’re fine,” you repeat, firmer this time.

Another look. Another raised brow.

Then Isack smirks. “Right. Cool. Totally normal. Just two people… hanging out… in a locked stock room.”

Gabriel finally speaks, rubbing the back of his neck. “Isack.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, already reaching for the door. “I’ll shut up. Promise.”

He pushes the door fully open and gestures grandly. “After you, lovebirds—”

You shoot him another look.

He zips his lips.

You stand, legs stiff from sitting so long, and Gabriel follows. As you step past Isack into the hallway, the noise of the school rushes back in: distant chatter, lockers slamming, footsteps echoing. Lunch is ending. Life is resuming.

Isack lingers behind for a moment, glancing back into the stock room like he’s filing the image away for later.

Then he jogs to catch up with you, lowering his voice. “For the record,” he says, “I’m very glad I didn’t take the full hour. You’d probably still be in there having a very intense staring contest.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re insufferable.”

He grins. “And yet, indispensable.”

Rehearsal resumes the way it always does: with the scrape of chairs against the auditorium floor, the shuffle of scripts being picked up again, the low hum of voices settling into place. The lights warm slowly, casting their familiar glow across the stage, and the moment from earlier folds itself neatly into the background, packed away, labeled, and left untouched.

You step back into your role with practiced ease.

Your voice, when you give directions, is steady. Measured. Calm in a way that feels almost exaggerated, like you’re performing a version of yourself that knows exactly where to stand and how to move. You call cues, remind people of blocking, and redirect attention when it drifts. The rhythm of it all comes back naturally, muscle memory taking over where emotions might have slipped through.

From the outside, nothing is wrong.

Gabriel returns to his place without comment. He listens when you speak, nods when instructions are given, and adjusts his stance when asked. There’s a subtle distance to him now, like he’s chosen a step back and committed to it fully.

There is no lingering eye contact.

No quiet check-in. No reference, however small, to what almost happened behind a locked door. Time moves forward anyway.

Scenes run. Mistakes happen and are corrected. Laughter breaks out briefly when someone misses a cue or stumbles over a line, then fades just as quickly when focus is called back. The cast settles into the productive tiredness that comes after a long day: shoulders loosen, energy dulled but determined.

You remain composed through all of it. Too composed. And of course, Kimi notices. He always does.

From where he sits near the side of the stage, script resting loosely in his hands, he watches you in the way he watches everything else: quietly, attentively, without demanding to be seen. His gaze lingers longer than usual when you speak, when you gesture, when you move across the stage with clipped precision. There’s something different in the way you hold yourself, your posture a touch straighter, your expressions carefully neutral.

You are calm in a way that feels intentional.

Controlled.

Kimi doesn’t interrupt. He never does unless necessary. He follows directions when they’re given, adjusts his pacing, and projects when reminded. When his turn comes to perform, he does so with the same thoughtful clarity he always brings: words enunciated carefully, tone deliberate, presence quietly compelling.

But his eyes flick back to you often.

He notices how your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes when someone jokes with you between scenes. How you keep your hands busy adjusting papers, smoothing fabric, checking notes you don’t really need to check. How you don’t linger near Gabriel, even by accident.

The distance between you and Gabriel is subtle but unmistakable.

It’s in the way you pass each other without pausing. In the way your attention shifts smoothly elsewhere when he’s nearby. In the way he listens intently when you speak, yet never seeks you out once rehearsal pauses again.

When the day finally winds down, exhaustion settles in fully.

The auditorium empties slowly. People pack up bags, gather jackets, and complain lightly about sore feet and long hours. The energy thins out, leaving behind echoes and the faint smell of dust and stage lights.

You dismiss everyone with the same even tone you’ve used all afternoon, reminding them of the next rehearsal time, the expectations, the deadlines. It’s efficient. Professional. Familiar.

Kimi lingers for a moment after most have gone.

Not close enough to start a conversation. Just long enough to observe.

He watches as Gabriel approaches you briefly near the exit. There’s no tension in the exchange, only a genuine softness. Gabriel smiles at you in a way that’s smaller than usual, more careful, and offers a quiet goodbye. You return it, matching his energy exactly. There’s warmth there, but also finality.

Then he turns and leaves on his own; he doesn’t wait for you.

The sight lands differently than it might have earlier that day. It doesn’t hurt; it simply settles, like something acknowledged and accepted.

You gather your things methodically, checking the stage one last time before turning off the lights. When you step out into the evening air, the sky has darkened fully, the campus lit by scattered lamps and distant streetlights. The day feels long behind you, stretched thin and finally complete.

Kimi walks a few steps behind you. He doesn’t rush to catch up. Doesn’t slow you down either. The distance feels intentional, respectful. You walk the same path as always, footsteps falling into an easy rhythm side by side but not quite together.

You look calm.

Still, Kimi glances at your reflection in a darkened window as you pass, noting the familiar set of your shoulders, the way you carry yourself like someone who refuses to let anything spill over. He wonders, briefly, what it would look like if you didn’t hold it all in so carefully.

But he doesn’t ask, he never asks questions you’re not ready to answer.

When you reach the point where your paths diverge, you exchange a brief glance. A nod. The usual quiet acknowledgment that has always existed between you. It’s enough.

He watches you walk away, your figure gradually swallowed by shadow and light alike.

You don’t look back, life will move forward with the same relentless steadiness it always has.

And what happened, or what almost happened, will remain exactly where you left it.

meiy0k isack baldjar

riotgrrl FRANCO CHEATED IN UNO BTW. ⤷ colapinto KEEP MY NAME OUT YO FUCKING MOUTH

colapinto proof that ollie should never be allowed to drive again ⤷ olliebearman I GOT US THERE SAFELY???? ⤷ gbortoleto debatable ⤷ hadj6r heavy on debatable ⤷ antonellis we survived ⤷ olliebearman see? kimi agrees with me

user kimi was there??!?!?!?

user KIMIYN CRUMBS!!!

user thank you ollie bearman for giving us smiley y/n · ♥︎ by author

user omg kimi and y/n on the balcony!!!

antonellis thanks for letting me finish the pizza ⤷ meiy0k fattie ⤷ riotgrrl it was like 9 in the morning too...

user kimi and y/n in the third slide oh im sick

user no yngabi pic? ollie is team kimi confirmed comment unavailable.

seglaforteza cuties!!! · ♥︎ by author

riotgrrl

liked by piastri, jdoohan, and 674 others riotgrrl one month of rehearsals! few more weeks to go and it's lights out. so so incredibly proud of my cast and crew :)

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user I LOVE YOU Y/N Y/L/N

seglaforteza that's my director!!!! ⤷ riotgrrl veronica!!!!

nzlawson doing homework while you guys get to be theater kids after school life is so unfair ⤷ riotgrrl hey so i actually told you to audition and you said no ⤷ nzlawson let me have my moment

user y/n blink twice if you want to choke the life out of franco ⤷ meiy0k franco catching strays im crine

user y/n is winning the idgaf war

user queen do not open twitter it's a total mess ⤷ riotgrrl it's ok i stay winning