“We haven’t actually cleared the room yet,” he says dryly.
“Behave!” Juno calls, smirking as she slings her bag over her shoulder and heads for the door.
Toby cups his hands around his mouth. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”
“Which is everything,” Juno immediately fires as she disappears down the hall.
Lucky flips them all off over my shoulder, still kissing me between interruptions. Finally, he breaks away, presses his forehead to mine, and mutters, “Voyeuristic idiots.”
The crew filters out, voices echoing as they call goodbyes. The stage door closes, leaving just us, the silks, and the hum of the empty theater.
Lucky tilts his head, mischief glinting in his eyes. “You mind waiting for a few minutes while I shower real quick? I want to show you something.”
“Of course,” I answer, trying really hard not to imagine whatthatshow would look like.
I’m his willing captive as he takes my hand and leads me down a short hall off the rehearsal floor. His hand is warm against mine, his grin twitching like he’s trying to keep a secret but failing miserably. We head down the dark hallway until we reach Lucky’s dressing room. He disappears into the bathroom for five minutes. I busy myself by responding to appointment requests. He steps back out, steam billowing out behind him, wearing a fresh set of Saint Shade rehearsal pants and a sleeveless top. Once more, he takes my hand and guides me down the hall.
He stops at a heavy black door with a keypad lock. Quickly, he taps in the code and swings it open like he’s revealing treasure.
“Welcome to my sanctum,” he says, voice dripping with theatrics.
I step inside, and my breath catches.
It’s a cavernous circular room, maybe thirty feet wide and forty feet tall, with walls lined in mirrors that rise from floor to ceiling, wrapping around the entirety of the room. They catch every movement, every angle, fracturing us into dozens of reflections. Even the ceiling gleams with panels that bounce the light back down in sharp shards. The effect is dizzying—like walking into the inside of a diamond.
From the rafters, long silks cascade in deep jewel tones: crimson, indigo, black. Some hang loose, others are tied off in complicated knots. Ropes, rings, and bars dangle, all rigged to the steel grid above. The air smells faintly of chalk, sweat, pine cleaner, and the metallic tang of stage lights cooling down. It shouldn’t smell good, yet there’s something… heady, intoxicating about it.
Lucky crosses to the wall and hits a switch. The fluorescent overheads snap off, plunging the space into shadow, and then a wash of dramatic lighting clicks on. Blues and purples sweep across the mirrors. The whole room transforms—no longer diamond-like, but moody, sensual, almost holy in its strangeness.
I smirk, folding my arms. “Of course you’d have mood lighting in here. All that’s missing is the fog machine.”
Lucky’s grin goes feral. “Oh, I could go grab it if you want.”
I shake my head, but I can’t help but grin. “It really is a beautiful space. There’s something special about it. It feels like… you.”
He nods, and the look in his eyes deepens as he looks around. This place, it feels private. In here, it’s just Lucky. No managers, no choreographer. This is Lucky’s holy place.
“This is where I break myself down. Every flaw, every slip. The mirrors don’t lie.” He steps closer to the center, his reflection multiplying around us until it feels like the world iscrowded with him. “But they also show me the truth. Every angle. Every weakness. Every win.”
The light sharpens his cheekbones, makes his green eyes glow almost inhuman in the glass. He’s a kaleidoscope—ten Luckys, twenty, all looking at me, all smiling like I’m the only thing keeping him tethered to the floor.
He grins and nods to me. “Come here,” he says, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “It’s your turn in the silks.”
I know nothing about silks. But there’s something in Lucky’s eyes, in his confidence and the way he gives a reassuring nod, that makes me step forward.
“Hook your arms through here,” he instructs, holding a loop open for me. “And then you just kind of sit in it.”
I do what he says, following him exactly. It’s like a huge swing, sort of. I loop my arms back through it first, and then, with his help, I settle into the sway of the loop. My feet come off the ground, and I swing back and forth.
“There you go,” Lucky says, and he sounds so excited, so damn delighted, it brings a giggle from me. I don’t giggle. But around Lucky? All bets are off.
I lean back, extending my legs, making myself swing bigger. High above us, the silks don’t even make a sound as they strain against the rigging hanging from the ceiling. I pump my legs harder, getting a little momentum. Feeling brave, I ease myself backwards, holding onto the silks, keeping my legs hooked. My hair rustles around me, fanning out as I swing.
Finding even more bravery, I let go of the silks with my hands and extend them out, letting myself swing, holding on only by my legs.
“Holy fuck,” Lucky breathes. “This is an image that I will never, ever let disappear from my brain.”
“This does it for you, huh?” I tease, elongating my body, throwing a little flare into my moves.
