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I’m going.

He’d picked up a tofu bowl and coffee, scarfed it down, and disappeared back into the studio barely ten minutes later.

When I pull open the heavy door to the building, the lobby is quiet and the front desk is empty. A small handwritten sign taped to the elevator points toward the stairs: “Studios 3–6.”

When I enter the rented room, the first thing I notice is the wall of mirrors catching the late afternoon light. A barre runs along one wall, and a covered upright piano sits in the corner. Max is in the center of the room, muttering to himself as he executes a turn and a high kick.

As I stop to watch, a wave of jealousy hits me. His leg goes higher than mine ever will. Unless mine is detached from my body and handed to me.

The way he moves is so graceful. It’s hard to believe sometimes that the human body is capable of something like that. I recognize the sequence he’s marking out. He’s practiced it in my living room at least half a dozen times this week.

“Knock, knock,” I say, keeping my voice low so I don’t startle him mid-movement.

Max finishes his turn and spins to face me. The moment he realizes it’s me, his stressed expression breaks into a wide smile that seems to fill the entire studio. He crosses the floor in two strides and pulls me into a tight hug.

I squeeze him back, soaking in his woodsy scent.

“Hi, Katie.” He leans back just enough to look at me, his eyes bright despite the fatigue. “How long have you been standing here?”

“Only a couple of minutes,” I say, smiling back. “I didn’t want to interrupt you. It’s looking good.”

“I suppose. I’m still having trouble with getting into the right mindset. I wish the script had more direction.” He sighs, releasing me. His eyes drop to the bag in my hand, his nose crinkling as he catches the scent of garlic and lemon. “Whatever is in there smells amazing. I think my stomach just woke up.”

“I picked up some chicken rice bowls. I figured if you were going to do some more dancing before we ran lines, you’d want something light again.”

“Thank you,” he says, leaning in to press a quick, warm kiss to my cheek. “Seriously. I needed this.”

I look around the room. Aside from the piano and a stool in the corner, there isn’t really anywhere to sit except on the floor.

“I thought I saw a sign downstairs that said no food or drink in the studios,” I whisper, glancing back toward the hallway. “Think we can get away with eating in here?”

“Yes.” Max nods. “People break those rules all the time. Trust me, the floors have seen worse than lemon chicken.” He walks over to the door and kicks the doorstop away, letting it swing shut with a soft thud. He turns back to me, eyes dancing. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

I giggle, feeling a little spark of mischief. “I like it when you’re a rebel.”

Reaching into my tote, I pull out one of my spare towels—the thick, oversized ones I usually keep for post-practice. “I swear this is clean,” I promise, spreading it out over the scuffed wood. I set the bags down, take a seat, and pat the space next to me.

Max plops down right beside me. His shoulder brushes mine. I start divvying out the bowls, napkins, and water.

“I’m sorry I was short with you on the mobile earlier today,” he says as he takes a bite of food.

“It’s okay, Max. I knew you were just hangry and didn’t want to break your flow.” I nudge his arm. “It’s my job to be the bad guy here. I didn’t take it personally.”

“You’re a saint.” His shoulders finally drop an inch as the tension begins to bleed out of him.

Watching Max now, I’m struck by how different he feels from the man I met in Orlando. Back then he always seemed polished, funny, permanently switched into performance mode.

But sitting cross-legged on a rehearsal studio floor with sauce near the corner of his mouth and exhaustion written all over his face, his guard is finally down.

It should probably scare me how much I understand him. Instead, it only makes me feel closer to him.

He finishes about half the bowl before setting it down and looks at me, gratitude in his eyes. “Thank you, Katie. I feel better than I have all day. I didn’t realize how famished I was.”

I do a quick clean up, then load the script on my phone. “If you’re ready, I’m ready. Which scene do you want to work on?” I ask.

“The prologue.”

I nod. “All righty, maestro, take it away.”