"Are you okay?" I moved closer, reaching for him.
He stepped back. Not dramatically. A small shift that put space between us. Put everything between us. "Fine. Just tired."
"Dorian, what happened at your parents'—"
"I need to get to class." He grabbed his coffee and left without another word. Without touching me. Without anything.
I stood there in the empty kitchen, feeling the bond ache in his wake. Corvus found me ten minutes later, still frozen in the same spot.
"He's shutting down," Corvus said, not unkindly. "His parents did a number on him. Whatever they said, it worked."
"What do I do?"
"Give him space. Let him work through it." Corvus poured himself coffee, clinical as always. "Or don't. Force the issue. Both options have merit."
But I couldn't force anything. Not when every instinct said he'd pull further away.
So here I am, sitting in callback auditions, trying to focus on Hedda Gabler while my chest aches with Dorian's rejection.
"Levine." De Scarzis's voice cuts through my spiral. "You're up. Act Two, scene one. You'll be reading with Rosen."
I stand, legs steadier than I feel. Ben's already at the center of the room, script in hand, giving me an encouraging smile that makes my chest hurt worse. Because he's here, present, while Dorian can't even look at me.
"Whenever you're ready," De Scarzis says, settling back in her chair with that unreadable expression she always wears.
The scene is Hedda's first private conversation with Løvborg—charged, dangerous, both of them dancing around what they used to be to each other. It's about power and manipulation and the way old connections never really die, transform into something else.
"So you've come back," I say, Hedda's words sliding out with the right mix of curiosity and disdain. "After all this time."
"I had to." Ben's voice as Løvborg is rough. Desperate. "I heard you were married. Had to see if it was true."
We move through the scene and something happens—that alchemy that only exists between certain actors. The dialogue becomes real, the space between us charged with all the things Hedda and Løvborg can't say to each other.
Except I'm not playing Hedda. I'm channeling every ounce of hurt from this morning, every bit of rage at being pushed away, every desperate need to matter to someone who's decided I'm a mistake.
"You're playing with fire," Ben says, and he's broken character slightly, searching my face with concern.
"I know," I murmur back, and I'm not sure if I'm answering Løvborg or Ben or myself.
"Thank you." De Scarzis makes a note on her clipboard. "Excellent work. Rosen, stay center. Morrison, you're up next for Hedda."
I take my seat and watch Charlotte Morrison perform the same scene. She's good—technically perfect, hitting every beat. But she's playing Hedda. I was being her. There's a difference.
Ben catches my eye from across the room and mouths "you got this." I try to smile back.
The rest of the session passes in a blur. By the time De Scarzis dismisses us, promising the cast list tomorrow morning, I'm exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with acting.
"You killed it," Ben says, catching up with me in the hallway.
"Charlotte was better."
"Charlotte was technically proficient. You were Hedda." He bumps my shoulder. "Trust me. You got this." He pauses, studying my face. "You okay? You seemed like you were channeling something pretty intense in there."
"Just getting into character."
"Vespera—"
"I'm fine." I hoist my bag higher on my shoulder. "Just tired. I'll see you tomorrow."
