There's a strange calm to him now.
Not lighter… not freer… just steadier, like something heavy has finally been set down instead of carried from hand to hand.
It unsettles me more than tension ever did.
We sit side by side in an empty rehearsal room long after most of the crew has gone. The lights are dimmed, the air cool and still, the city murmuring faintly through the windows. He hasn't touched me yet. He hasn't looked away either.
Peace always makes me wait for the other shoe to drop.
I trace the edge of my script with my finger, then glance at him.
"You seem… different," I say carefully.
He exhales. A slow, thoughtful breath.
"I feel different," he admits.
The silence that follows isn't heavy. It's attentive. Like the room itself is listening.
I tilt my head, studying him.
"Can I ask you something," I say.
He nods immediately. "Anything."
I consider the words before letting them go.
"When did it stop being about survival for you?"
That gets him.
He doesn't answer right away. His gaze drifts to the far wall, unfocused, like he's scrolling through memories that don't have labels.
"I don't know if it ever stopped," he says finally. "It just… changed shape."
I wait.
He glances at me, then back down at his hands.
"There were years where I didn't think about what I wanted," he continues. "Only what was needed."
I feel something tighten in my chest.
He tells me about work. Not the glamorous kind. The kind you take because it pays. The kind that leaves your body tired and your pride quiet. Late nights. Early mornings. Always calculating how much he could give without letting anyone see how close to the edge it sometimes felt.
"I wasn't dreaming," he says softly. "I was maintaining."
The word lands heavier than it should.
Maintaining.
As if joy was a luxury item.
"One of those jobs," he adds, almost casually, "is how I ended up here."
I look at him.
"Here… as in," I gesture vaguely at everything he is now, "this?"
He nods once.
"It wasn't planned," he says. "Someone needed help. Someone else asked if I wanted to try something. I said yes because saying no felt like waste."
Waste.
Not fear. Not hope.
Just… practicality.
"It wasn't courage," he says. "It was habit."
I swallow.
"So you didn't chase it," I murmur.
"No," he says. "It caught me while I was busy."
That does something to me.
Because suddenly, everything about him makes sense.
Why he never treats success like it's guaranteed. Why he never assumes he belongs more than anyone else in a room. Why he listens more than he speaks. Why he handles people like they're not disposable.
"This is why you're like this," I say before I can stop myself.
He turns toward me.
"Like what?"
"Careful," I say. "Present. Like you're always paying attention."
His mouth curves slightly.
"I learned early that attention can be dangerous," he says. "But it can also be protective."
I nod slowly.
That tracks. Every pause. Every measured step. Every moment he waited for permission instead of taking.
He shifts, leaning back slightly, shoulders loosening.
"I never took any of it for granted," he continues. "Not work. Not recognition. Not people."
I meet his eyes.
"And love," I say.
His gaze sharpens. Honest. Exposed.
"Yes," he admits. "Especially love."
The word sits between us, fragile and powerful all at once.
"I knew how to endure hunger," he says quietly. "And exhaustion. And uncertainty."
He pauses.
"But love felt like the one thing I couldn't afford to lose."
Something inside me cracks open.
Because I recognize that fear.
The fear of wanting something so badly it could ruin you if it disappears.
"You built yourself," I say slowly, "without ever assuming someone would catch you."
He goes still.
Then he lets out a breath that sounds like relief and ache combined.
"I didn't know how else to do it," he says.
"I know," I reply.
And I do.
We sit there for a while. No rush. No need to fill the space.
Eventually, he glances down, almost sheepish.
"There's something else," he says.
I smile faintly. "There's always something else."
He chuckles softly.
"You know how I mentioned my name," he says. "How people teased me about it."
"Yes," I say. "You said you never changed it."
"I couldn't," he replies. "My mother chose it because she thought it sounded gentle and pretty."
Gentle.
I laugh quietly.
"That explains a lot," I tease.
He smiles, real and warm.
"It was the first thing I was ever given that didn't feel heavy," he says. "So I kept it."
I let that settle.
Names. Survival. Gentleness as rebellion.
"You don't make yourself smaller here," I tell him softly. "You don't have to."
His expression shifts. Something vulnerable loosening.
"I'm not scared of knowing you," I add.
The words feel important. Grounding.
He studies me for a long moment, then reaches out.
Slowly.
Carefully.
His hand finds mine where it rests on the bench between us. He doesn't grip. Just rests his fingers against my skin, like he's checking if this is real.
I don't pull away.
My thumb brushes his once, without thinking.
Internal monologue:
This isn't romance.
This is trust learning where to sit.
He exhales. A real one. Like something inside him finally unclenches.
"I don't know how to want things loudly," he admits.
I smile.
"Then want them quietly," I say.
His lips curve into something soft and unguarded.
We sit like that as the city hums outside. Two lives overlapping. Not rushing. Not retreating.
Just… staying.
And for the first time, peace doesn't feel like something waiting to be taken away.
It feels like something we're allowed to keep.