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I keep my eyes fixed on the stage, and my hands grip the neighboring armrests for dear life.

He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t lean over to whisper an excuse. He simply sits there. Slowly, tentatively, his hand settles onto the shared armrest. He doesn’t reach for mine. His pinky brushes against it. I don’t pull away.

The contact is barely there, but after more than a week of emotional distance, it feels intimate.

Next to me, Max lets out a slow breath.

For now, his presence beside me is enough.

As the final chords of the descent fade and the curtain falls on the first act, the house lights slowly come up. The rest of the row begins to stand, filtering out toward the bar for intermission. I finally turn toward Max.

He looks exhausted. Shadows linger beneath his eyes that no amount of stage makeup could hide. But his gaze is clear. “You look incredible in that dress. I should’ve told you that when I saw you the other day,” he says, his voice a low rasp. “I’m sorry I’m late. I wasn’t sure if you wanted me here. I didn’t want to ruin the show for you.”

“You didn’t.” A lump forms in my throat. “I’m glad you came. I kept wondering if you would.”

Some of the tension leaves his face.

“There’s a lot we need to talk about,” I say.

He nods once. “We will. After the show? There’s a place not far from here that I’d like to take you.”

I nod. “I’d like that.”

The house lights dim once more. Reaching over his armrest, I slip my hand into his.

Twenty-Nine

Max is quiet as we walk down a narrow side street a couple blocks from the theatre. Our fingers are still loosely linked. His pinky is hooked around mine.

“Over here,” he says, gesturing to a place between a shuttered tailor shop and a neon-lit ramen bar. The sign in the window reads “Snowdrop Shaved Ice” in looping pastel letters.

“You remembered,” I say, stopping short.

Max glances at me carefully, uncertainty flickering across his face. “I’m cashing in the rain check from Orlando.”

When he pulls open the café door, the sweet, comforting scent of condensed milk and fresh strawberries wraps around us. The shop rivals Mamma Lina’s when it comes to lack of personal space. There are six tables squeezed together beneath strings of paper lanterns.

A couple sits in the corner, sharing something covered in matcha powder, while a twenty-something group crowds around a table near the window, debating whether taro counts as a dessert flavor.

“How did you find this place?”

Max’s grins. “Pinterest, believe it or not.”

He waits for me to slide into the booth before taking the seat across from me instead of beside me. The distance feels intentional. As if he’s trying very hard not to assume he’s earned closeness back yet.

A teenage employee walks up and hands us laminated menus, and for a moment we both stare at them far too intently. I’m sure neither of us is actually reading a single word.

“How’s rehearsal been going?” I ask, deciding to address the giant emotional manatee in the room head-on.

He lets out a quiet laugh. “Straight for the kill, huh?”

“I’m a tennis player. It’s what we do.”

That earns me a real smile this time. It fades quickly as he closes the menu and finally looks at me fully. “It’s taking everything I have right now just to keep up.”

“So you’re officially confirmed as Eros?”

“Yeah.” He rubs a hand across the back of his neck. “The contract has been signed. They haven’t changed their minds yet.”