Me:Practice room. Fourth floor.
Dorian:Stay there.
I almost laugh. As if I could go anywhere else. As if the bonds would let me run even if I wanted to.
Five minutes later, the door opens. Not Dorian—Oakley.
He takes one look at my face and sits down beside me. Not touching, present.
"Heard you had the talk with Ben," he says quietly.
"How did you—"
"Dorian felt your distress spike through the bonds. Sent me to check on you." He leans back against the wall. "Want to talk about it?"
"Not really."
"Want to sit in silence while I make sure you don't spiral?"
Despite everything, I smile slightly. "Yeah. That sounds good."
We sit. The practice room is quiet except for the distant sound of someone running scales in another studio. The late afternoon light slants through the window, making dust motes visible in the air.
"I told him we could only be friends," I say eventually.
"And?"
"And I think I meant it." I pull my knees to my chest. "My body won't let me be anything else. The bonds won't let me. So what's the point of wanting something impossible?"
Oakley's quiet for a stretch. "Is that acceptance or defeat?"
"I don't know." And that's the truth. "Maybe both."
He shifts slightly, still not touching me but close enough that I feel his warmth. "For what it's worth? I think you're brave. Braver than any of us."
"I'm not brave. I'm out of options."
"You always have options, Vespera. You're choosing this. Maybe not freely, maybe not the way you wanted, but you're still choosing." He stands, offers me his hand. "Come on. Let's get you home."
Home. The pack house. The place I ran from, the place I was dragged to, the place that's somehow become mine whether I wanted it or not.
I take his hand and let him pull me up.
"Callback list goes up tomorrow at nine," I say as we walk to the parking lot.
"You'll get it. You know you will."
"What if I don't want it anymore?" The words surprise me. "What if I'm tired of fighting for things that might not matter?"
"Then you rest." He unlocks his car, and I slide into the passenger seat. "And when you're ready to fight again, we'll be there."
The drive back to the pack house is quiet. Comfortable. The bonds hum contentedly at proximity, at pack, at the promise of home.
When we pull up, Dorian's on the porch. Waiting. His eyes track me as I get out of the car, the question in them—are you okay?
I'm not okay. But I'm here. And maybe for right now, that's enough.
"Auditions went well," I say before he can ask. "I'll probably get callbacks."
