The theater's atmosphere was different with only the two of us in it. Smaller somehow. The Christmas lights we'd strung along the balcony rail glowed soft gold, and outside, the snow had picked up, blurring the streetlights into halos.
"I couldn't sleep," Alex admitted. "Too much choreography running through my head. And I kept thinking about..." He gestured vaguely. "Everything."
"Yeah." I knew what he meant. So many things. The narrowing physical gap between us yesterday. Our almost-kiss. How the garland had bloomed where our hands touched, like the valley itself was casting a vote.
He stepped closer, studying the trim pieces I'd been working on. "This detail work is incredible. The proportions are perfect for the period."
"You know Victorian architecture?"
"I've seen enough theater restorations to recognize quality craftsmanship." He traced one finger along the scrollwork. "This must take forever."
"The good things usually do." I watched his careful exploration of the wood. "Want to see how it's done? This piece still needs its match."
He hesitated. "I'd probably mess it up."
"Can't mess up wood by touching it. That takes a blade and bad judgment." I handed him a spare piece of oak, narrower than mine but from the same board. "Here. Feel the grain direction first. That's what tells you where each cut wants to go."
His fingers moved over the surface, learning its texture. They were elegant hands, a performer's hands, but they had strength in them, too. "It's like... reading Braille almost. Is that the wood's language?"
"Yes." He learned quickly. "Most people try to force their vision onto the material. It's a lot easier if you listen to what it wants to become."
"My grandmother used to say something similar about acting. She said, 'Listen to what the story needs, not what your ego wants.'"
I picked up my chisel. The blade was sharp enough to shave hair. "Watch. First, you establish the baseline..."
The chisel moved through the oak with a whispery sound that meant the alignment was perfect—grain direction, blade angle,pressure. Thin curls of wood peeled away clean. The scent of it filled the air, sweet and dry, mixing with the cinnamon from the garland and the coffee in our hands.
"You want to try?" I offered him the chisel.
Alex set his coffee down. "What if I ruin it?"
"Then we start over. I've got plenty of oak." I moved beside him, close enough to guide his hands. "Here—like this. Don't grip it like you're strangling it. Let it rest in your palm, balanced."
His fingers adjusted, and I covered his hand with mine to show him the angle. "Now feel the grain. You want to cut with it, like..." I moved his hand in a slow practice motion. "Following the natural line."
"Like choreography," he murmured. "Following the body's natural movement instead of fighting it."
"Yeah. Just like that."
He made the first cut, tentative but clean. A perfect curl of wood spiraled away from the blade.
"I did it!" Pure delight animated his voice. He looked up at me, grinning, and an electrical charge bounced between us.
"You're a natural. Try another."
I steadied his hand as he carved out the basic pattern. Snow continued to fall outside, visible through the tall windows, catching the streetlight. The ghost light cast our joined shadows across the workbench, merged into one.
"Why restoration?" Alex asked quietly, his focus still on the wood. "You could design custom furniture anywhere. Boston, New York..."
"Had offers in Boston, actually." I guided his hand through a trickier section where the grain twisted. "High-end pieces for people who'd never touch a chisel themselves. Good money, terrible soul." I nodded to the theater around us. "This place has stories. Every worn floorboard, paint layer, or nick in the woodhas a memory attached to it. Bringing that history back to life fits better than anything I could build from scratch."
Alex's chisel paused. "My grandmother never missed a show. Starting with when I was Ensemble Member Number Six." His voice caught. "She would have loved this theater. The way you've restored it."
"She did love it," I said gently. "She came to every production these past few years. Always sat front row center. Always had notes about my set designs—good ones, too."
He blinked hard. I watched him fight back tears.
"She told me once," I continued, "that she was saving the center seat next to her. Said she knew you'd come home eventually, when you were ready."
