Page 71 of Specters & Spotlights

Elise’s mouth twitched, caught between embarrassment and something like pleasure. She looked away for half a second, and the movement was⁠—

Adorable, his mind supplied, once again.

Graham, he told himself sharply, get a hold of yourself.

He realized he’d moved closer without meaning to—one step, maybe two—drawn in like the room had a slope to it. He stopped, forcing his feet to behave.

Up close, he noticed something he couldn’t believe he’d missed: her eyes weren’t just brown. There was a faint ring of green around the pupil, like moss in shallow water, only visible when the light hit at the right angle.

How had he not noticed that before?

“What are you doing here?” she asked at last, after what felt like an eternity, though it was probably only a few seconds.

Oh no.

Had he just been staring?

He blinked, once, like that could reset him. Too late. He was hopeless. There was no way she hadn’t noticed. His face stayed composed out of habit, but inside his brain was already writing the postmortem.

Graham rubbed the back of his neck, buying himself a beat. “I, uh… watched the show tonight,” he said, and immediately regretted how obvious it sounded. “Figured I’d sit in the house and see how Nick did.”

He heard himself keep going—because once he’d started, stopping felt worse. “And after… I thought I might catch you before you left.” His gaze flicked, briefly, toward the wig stand, as if it could justify his presence. “I knew you’d be here—resetting Elizabeth’s wig and all.”

Too much, his mind snapped. That was too obvious. You’re coming on too strong.

Elise blinked. “You… knew I’d still be here?”

Graham couldn’t tell if the look on her face was surprise—at being noticed, at being seen—or something closer to nerves.

Uh oh.

Was he being a creep?

He felt the heat of it immediately, the realization that he’d just admitted, out loud, that he tracked her habits. That he knew where she’d be after a show. He’d meant it as practical. Observational. Normal.

It didn’t sound normal.

Shit. He was definitely coming on too strong.

He nodded anyway, because lying wasn’t an option and because he couldn’t seem to stop digging. “You always stay late,” he said, quieter than he intended.

The moment hung.

He shifted his weight, trying to look like he wasn’t suddenly aware of his own hands, his own posture, his own presence in her space. Was that the wrong thing to say? Of course it was. He should probably just leave now—back up, offer a simple apology, vanish into the hallway.

Would she believe him if he said he’d forgotten something in his dressing room?

She tilted her head, eyes flicking down. “Is that… a book?”

Oh.

He’d forgotten he was still holding it—like a shield, apparently.

“Oh—yeah.” Graham glanced at it, then back to her. “I, um… went back to the hotel after the show to grab it.”

He should retreat. He should invent something bland and exit stage left.

Or—He cut that thought off before it could finish forming. Don’t start running the disaster scenarios. You’re already here.