He’s standing halfway down the aisle. Late twenties, maybe early thirties. No badge. No lanyard. Just jeans, a hoodie, and a look on his face that’s too intense to belong in a rehearsal space.
“You don’t even know him,” he shouts, walking faster now. “I’m perfect for you, Lila.”
Security moves immediately. Manny’s voice snaps through his radio. Two guards break from the wings and head straight for him.
But the man dodges them.
Not well. Not skillfully. Just enough.
He breaks into a run.
Straight toward the stage.
Logic fires in my head like a checklist. He’s unarmed. He’s already being intercepted. He’s not actually a threat.
But my body doesn’t care about logic.
My chest tightens hard and fast, like something clamps down around my lungs. My fingers go numb around the mic. The distance between me and the edge of the stage suddenly feels wrong. Too short. Too exposed.
The man is tackled within seconds. Security has him on the ground, voices firm, controlled. He’s still shouting, words tumbling over each other now, frantic instead of confident.
It’s already over.
My knees still wobble, and I can't seem to take a full breath.
And then Cam is there.
Not rushing. Not calling out. Just stepping into my space with a quiet certainty that makes the air feel different, like something has finally decided to hold.
He positions himself between me and the aisle without looking back, body angled just enough that I don’t have to see anything else if I don’t want to. The theater narrows to the line of his shoulders, the back of his jacket, the solid reality of him occupying space so I don’t have to.
One of his hands lifts like he might reach for me—then stops. Drops back to his side.
“Hey,” he says, voice calm, even. “I’ve got you.”
My legs disagree with the idea of staying upright.
Cam notices before I do. His hand comes to my elbow, not grabbing, not pulling—just there, solid and certain, like a marker my body can orient around.
“Easy,” he says quietly, and somehow that word doesn’t sound like instruction. It sounds like permission.
He guides me down without haste, without spectacle, until I’m sitting on the edge of a stage riser. The wood is cool through my jeans.
My chest is still locked too tight. My breath skims the surface of my lungs like it’s afraid to go deeper.
Cam crouches in front of me.
“Hey,” he says again, softer. “Look at me.”
I try.
My eyes don’t quite cooperate at first. The lights feel too bright, the quiet too loud. Everything seems sharpened at the edges, like the world is overexposed.
“That’s it,” he murmurs when my focus finally lands on his face. “Just here.”
His eyes are steady. Not searching. Not asking questions. Not trying to pull anything out of me. Just present, warm, and unafraid of how long this might take.
I latch onto that steadiness because I don’t have anything else.
