The rehearsal space was a wide, soundproofed room with mirrored walls and a glossy hardwood floor that gleamed under overhead lights. The walls were lined with water bottles, folded jackets, crumpled lyric sheets, and discarded sweat towels. In the center, Elliot stood hunched over slightly, one hand on his hip, the other holding a mic with the cord snaking out behind him. His breath came shallow and fast.

"Again," the vocal coach said. "But keep your posture up, Elliot. You're collapsing at the end of every chorus."

Elliot gave a small nod and adjusted his stance, tilting his chin up even though his shoulders ached. The mic felt heavier now than it had at the beginning of rehearsal—his voice still steady, but his body clearly protesting the repetition. He glanced to the side, where the choreographer was watching him like a hawk, arms folded across her chest.

Off near the corner of the room stood Chance.

He was leaning against the wall beside a stack of folded mats, one foot crossed casually over the other, arms tucked into his black coat. His gaze swept the room in calm intervals, never too sharp, never too distant. A bodyguard's stance, sure, but his posture was relaxed—as if he'd been here a hundred times before and had all the time in the world. Occasionally, he took a sip from a can of soda and gave an approving nod when the backup dancers executed a difficult spin.

Elliot tried not to stare too much in his direction. But he couldn't help noticing the way Chance's eyes softened when they landed on someone struggling—how, instead of tensing like most security staff he'd worked with, Chance looked like he genuinely wanted everyone to do well. It was strange. Comforting, even.

"All right, from the top!" the choreographer called, clapping her hands.

The music started again—one of Elliot's more upbeat tracks, laced with breathy vocals and rapid steps. His feet moved automatically, muscle memory taking over, but his voice wavered near the bridge. Not because he forgot the words. Not even because he was tired.

His foundation was cracking again.

He could feel it—the burn site, flaring up beneath the makeup. Sweat was starting to ruin the coverage. Every time he turned toward the mirror, his heart skipped, half-expecting to see it bleeding through. But no—just the same smooth face, painted carefully, delicately, as always. A mask of perfection.

He pushed through the next verse, forcing his voice to stay crisp. Just a few more takes. Just a little longer.

The moment the coach called for a water break, Elliot dropped to a sitting position near the wall, towel pressed to his neck. His breath caught, lungs burning slightly. He ran a hand through his damp hair and leaned his head back against the wall.

"Not bad, superstar," a voice said beside him, low and friendly.

He looked up. Chance was crouching nearby, still with that relaxed air, a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You looked like you were about to pass out during that last chorus. Need a body double yet?"

Elliot let out a tired laugh. "Not yet. Maybe after one more round."

Chance nodded. "Tough rehearsal?"

"Yeah," Elliot murmured, wiping his jawline carefully. "This one's longer than usual. And there's a lot riding on the next performance."

Chance tilted his head. "Big show?"

"Biggest one this year," Elliot said quietly. "It's... a lot of pressure."

Chance nodded like he understood. "Pressure's a strange thing. Looks heavy on some people, light on others. But you wear it like a pro. You wouldn't believe how many people I've guarded who just melt on day one."

Elliot blinked at him. "You've done this a long time?"

"Long enough," Chance replied. "Started out doing gigs for tech execs and politicians. But singers? They're more interesting. More... human. You guys don't bark orders every five minutes."

Elliot gave a small smile. "So I'm an upgrade from politicians?"

"Oh, definitely," Chance said, mock-serious. "None of them can hit a high note."

Elliot chuckled under his breath.

For a moment, they just sat in silence. The room buzzed with distant footsteps and the soft hum of music rewinding for the next run. Dancers stretched. Technicians tinkered with wires. The lights dimmed slightly.

Then Chance reached into his coat pocket and pulled something out—a small, neatly wrapped candy. It was cherry-flavored, the kind that came in a glossy red wrapper with gold lettering.

"Here," Chance said, offering it casually. "Noticed you've been clenching your jaw since you started singing. Sugar helps loosen the nerves. Or so I tell myself."

Elliot hesitated, then took it slowly, brushing the wrapper between his fingers. It felt oddly warm from Chance's pocket. "Thanks," he said.

Chance shrugged. "No big deal. Just don't choke on it mid-song."

"I'll do my best."

He unwrapped the candy, popped it into his mouth, and let the sweetness melt slowly on his tongue. It wasn't anything fancy, but it did help—just a little. Enough to pull him out of his head and ground him in something real.

Chance stood again, stretching his arms behind his back. "Well, time for round two. Or is it five?"

"Six," Elliot muttered with a laugh, pushing himself to his feet.

"You've got this," Chance said, flashing him a lazy thumbs-up before retreating to his corner once more.

Elliot watched him for a second, then turned back toward the center of the room.

He didn't know why, but something about Chance's presence made everything feel a little less suffocating.

And for now, that was more than enough.