"Alex, wait—"
He didn't touch it. Not yet. His hand hovered an inch above the wood, and I saw his performer's focus settle into place—the same concentration he brought to blocking a scene or coaching Charlie through his fears.
"The runners need to feel safe," he murmured, almost to himself. "Not only mechanically correct. They need to help the children feel steady while they move. Protected."
His fingers brushed the wood.
Nothing happened.
Then I saw it—faint at first, like breath fogging glass. A pattern emerged beneath his palm. Not appearing all at once, but unfurling slowly, spreading outward from the point of contact.
"Alex." My voice came out hoarse. "You're not using tools."
He pulled his hand back sharply. The marks remained—etched into the wood as permanently as if I'd spent hours carving them.They wove between my existing patterns, filling gaps I hadn't known were there. Spirals that spoke of motion. Curves that echoed the human body in movement.
His face had gone pale. "I didn't—I just touched it, and I was thinking about what it needed, and—" He stared at his hands like they belonged to someone else. "How did I do that?"
I carefully picked up the rocking horse. The new marks were beautiful—intricate without being busy, flowing through my healing patterns like a counter-melody finding its harmony. When I tested the runners, they moved with perfect fluidity. The catch that had plagued me for days was gone.
"You fixed it." I looked up at him. "Everything I was trying to say with my marks, but couldn't quite reach."
"But I don't know how to carve. I've never—"
"Neither did the people Thomas wrote about. The musician and the architect." I set the horse down and crossed to him, taking his hands in mine. They were trembling slightly. "They didn't learn the marks. The marks recognized something in them."
"Recognized what?"
"I don't know yet." I squeezed his fingers. "But I don't think we need to be afraid of it."
He laughed unsteadily. "Easy for you to say. You've been doing magic your whole life."
"I've been carving marks my whole life. I'm not sure that's the same thing." I lifted his hands and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. "Whatever this is, we'll figure it out together."
Alex took a shaky breath. Then another. When he spoke again, his voice was steadier.
"Last night, when I sang for Harrison." He stared into my eyes. "I told you I chose to fail the audition. But that's not exactly true."
I waited.
"I chose to sing something real instead of something impressive. And when I was singing—" He swallowed. "'All Through the Night,' my grandmother's favorite—I wasn't thinking about Broadway or my career or proving anything to anyone. I was thinking about you. About what it feels like to be in this workshop, surrounded by things you've made with your hands. About what it felt like when you showed me the craftsman's marks, and I understood for the first time that magic could be quiet. Patient. Built into things that last."
"Alex—"
"I already gave you my answer." His hands tightened on mine. "Last night, in that empty theater. I didn't say it out loud because I was scared that if I did, something would come along and take it away."
My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my temples. "Say it now."
"I'm staying." The words came out rough, like they'd been waiting too long. "Not because Broadway doesn't want me—Harrison made it clear I could have had the tour if I'd played by his rules. I'm staying because this is home. Because when I think about building something here—with you, with the theater, and with whatever magic decided I was worth claiming—I feel more like myself than I ever did hitting my marks on a New York stage."
He pulled one hand free to cup my jaw, his thumb tracing my cheekbone.
"I'm staying because I love you, Ben. And I think I've loved you since you showed me the way wood grain tells its own story, and I realized everything I thought I wanted was just a different version of what I'd been running from."
I kissed him before he could say anything else.
Not gentle. Not careful. I kissed him like I'd been holding my breath for two weeks and finally remembered how to breathe.He gripped my flannel shirt, pulling me closer, and I backed him against the workbench, scattering tools and wood shavings. He made a sound against my mouth—surprise, relief, want—and I swallowed it whole.
When we finally broke apart, we were both breathing hard.
