Noah hated when people talked during rehearsal.

Not the quiet whispering from the wings or the occasional muffled laugh—that was normal. Expected, even. Theater kids were incapable of true silence for more than 30 seconds at a time.

No, he hated the loud talking. The careless kind. The kind that made it obvious someone thought what was happening on stage didn't matter.

"Can we—please—focus?" Noah called, clapping his hands once as the chatter in the auditorium swelled again. "We are literally in the middle of Act Two. Emotions are high. Stakes are higher. Betrayal is happening as we speak, lest you forget."

From the front row, Marcus let out a dramatic gasp. "Betrayal? In this show? I'm shocked."

Noah shot him a warning look. "Marcus."

Marcus pressed a hand to his chest, already grinning. "Sorry. I'll save my shock for opening night."

A few people snickered. Noah tried not to smile.

"Places," came Liv's voice from the aisle, calm but firm. She didn't raise it—she didn't have to. People listened to Liv. "From Noah's entrance. And if I hear talking again, I start assigning push-ups."

"That's cruel and unusual punishment," Marcus muttered under his breath as he stood.

"You'll survive," Liv said without looking up from her clipboard.

Noah stepped back into position just offstage, rolling his shoulders once, grounding himself. The energy shifted almost immediately—the loose chaos tightening into something focused, something ready.

This part, at least, was easy.

"Ready?" Marcus whispered, slipping into place beside him.

Noah glanced at him. "Always."

Marcus smirked. "Liar."

Noah exhaled, just once, then nodded toward the stage. "Go."

The lights came up and everything else fell away. It always did.

The noise, the stress, the constant low-level awareness of who was watching or what people thought—it all disappeared the second Noah stepped into the scene. The stage wasn't just a place. It was a boundary line. Cross it, and the rest of the world didn't matter. Cross it, and he could become a different person entirely.

Noah moved forward, hitting his mark without thinking.

"And you expect me to just stand here," he said, voice steady, controlled, "And pretend none of this matters?"

Marcus turned toward him, already fully in character, expression sharp with practiced tension. "I expect you to understand what's at stake."

Noah laughed, short and bitter. "Oh, I understand perfectly."

The scene built from there, each line layering on top of the last, voices rising, emotions sharpening. It was messy and loud and dramatic in all the best ways. The kind of scene that let you feel everything without holding back.

Noah leaned into it, letting the anger in the script blend with something real, something deeper. The words came easier that way, like they had weight behind them.

"Then say it," Marcus shot back. "Say what you actually want."

Noah stepped closer, closing the distance between them. "You want the truth?" he said, quieter now, but more intense. "Fine. I'm tired of pretending I don't see what's right in front of me."

Something flickered across Marcus's face—perfectly timed, perfectly played.

"Then maybe," Marcus said, softer now, "you should stop pretending."

Silence.

Noah held it, just for a second longer than comfortable.

"Stop!"

The lights cut.

Noah blinked as the real world rushed back in, the stage fading into just a stage again.

"Good," Liv said, already making notes. "Better pacing. Still need to tighten that pause before the last line."

Marcus groaned, dropping the tension instantly. "You're killing my artistic instincts."

"You don't have artistic instincts," Liv said. "You have dramatic impulses."

"Rude."

"Accurate."

Noah laughed under his breath, stepping back from the edge of the stage. The energy lingered in his chest, that familiar post-scene buzz, like his body hadn't quite caught up to the fact that it was over.

"That was good," Marcus said, bumping his shoulder lightly. "You almost made me feel something."

"Almost?" Noah said. "I poured my soul into that."

"Tragic," Marcus said. "I must be dead inside."

"Confirmed," Liv called from the aisle.

They took a quick break after that. The cast scattered—some heading for the lobby, others collapsing into seats in the auditorium. Noah dropped into the front row, stretching his legs out in front of him.

Marcus flopped down beside him with zero grace. "If I die before opening night, tell people it was for the art."

"You won't die," Noah said. "You'll complain dramatically until the end of time. But you won't die."

"Also true."

Liv joined them a moment later, still holding her clipboard. She didn't sit right away, just looked down at Noah with that familiar, assessing expression.

"What?" Noah said.

"You're distracted," she said.

"No, I'm not."

"You missed your cue in Act One earlier. Don't think I didn't notice," Liv said.

"That was one time."

"You don't miss cues, Noah," she reminded him.

Marcus leaned forward, suddenly invested. "Ooh, are we having a moment? Should I get popcorn?"

"Stay out of it," Noah and Liv said at the same time.

Marcus grinned. "Never."

Liv finally sat, crossing her legs. "What's going on?"

"Nothing," Noah said, a little too quickly. "I'm just tired."

"You're always tired," she said. "This is different."

Noah opened his mouth to argue, then stopped.

Because the annoying thing was—she wasn't wrong.

He didn't feel off onstage. That part was still solid, still easy. But everything around it felt... slightly out of sync. Like he was waiting for something without knowing what.

"I'm fine," he said finally, softer this time.

Liv studied him for another second, then nodded once. "Okay. But if 'fine' turns into 'spiraling,' I reserve the right to say I told you so."

"Deal."

Marcus clapped his hands together. "Excellent. Emotional repression is always a great sign."

Noah shoved his shoulder. "You're insufferable."

"And yet," Marcus said, spreading his arms, "Beloved."

Rehearsal wrapped later than usual.

By the time they finished cleaning up, running notes, and resetting for the next day, the auditorium had mostly emptied out. The stage lights were dimmed, leaving everything in a soft, hazy glow.

Noah grabbed his bag from the front row, slinging it over his shoulder.

"You heading out?" Marcus asked.

"Yeah," Noah said. "You?"

"Liv's making me stay and fix that disaster of a prop table."

"It's called responsibility," Liv said, appearing behind them.

"It's called oppression," Marcus shot back.

Noah smiled. "Good luck with that."

"Abandon me in my hour of need," Marcus said, pressing a hand to his heart. "I see how it is."

"You'll survive," Noah said, echoing Liv from earlier.

"I might not," Marcus said. "Tell my story."

"No one will listen," Liv said.

"Cruel and unusual."

Noah laughed, heading toward the aisle. "See you tomorrow."

"Don't be late!" Liv called after him.

"I'm never late."

"You were late last week."

"That was one time."

"You don't get to use that excuse twice in one night," she said, pointing her pen at him.

Noah just grinned and kept walking.

The hallway outside the auditorium was quiet, a sharp contrast to the noise of rehearsal.

Noah stepped out, letting the door swing shut behind him. For a second, he just stood there, listening to the sudden absence of sound.

Then he started down the hall.

He didn't get far before he noticed someone standing near the doors.

Tall. Broad shoulders. Still in a basketball jersey.

Noah slowed slightly, recognition clicking into place.

Ethan Walker.

Hard not to recognize him. The whole school knew who he was—the star player, the one teachers mentioned with that mix of pride and expectation, the one people watched during games like something important was happening.

He was just... standing there in his jersey, light brown hair all sweaty post-game.

He wasn't talking, wasn't on his phone. Ethan was just looking into the auditorium like he'd forgotten how to use his feet all the sudden.

Noah raised an eyebrow. For a second, he considered just walking past. It would've been easier. Less complicated. But his curiosity won.

"You planning on joining the cast," Noah said, "or are you just here for the free entertainment?"

Ethan blinked, like he'd been pulled out of a completely different world.

Their eyes met.

Up close, he looked a little different than Noah expected. Less polished. More... real, somehow. Like the version of him everyone saw in the gym didn't quite match the one standing here now.

"I—" Ethan started, then stopped, like he wasn't sure what he'd been about to say.

Noah leaned casually against the wall, crossing his arms. "Relax. We don't bite. Usually. Though I can't speak for the chorus. They're eyeing a horror for the spring show."

Unexpectedly, Ethan huffed a quiet laugh.

"I was just watching," he said.

"Yeah," Noah said. "I got that."

The pause wasn't awkward, exactly. Just... unfamiliar.

Noah tilted his head slightly. "So? What'd you think?"

Ethan hesitated.

And for a second, Noah expected the usual answer—the polite, dismissive one. It was good. Cool. Not really my thing.

Instead, Ethan said, "It was... intense."

Noah blinked.

"...Intense?"

Ethan nodded, a little surer now. "Yeah. The scene. It felt real."

Something in Noah's chest shifted, small but noticeable.

"Wow," he said lightly. "A thoughtful critique. I'm impressed."

Ethan's mouth twitched, like he wasn't sure if that was a joke. "I mean it."

"I know," Noah said.

And he did.

They stood there for another second, the quiet stretching between them.

Then Noah pushed off the wall, adjusting his bag. "Well, thanks for the review, Walker. We'll add it to the playbill."

"Ethan," he corrected him.

Noah smiled, just a little. "Ethan."

He started down the hall again, then glanced back over his shoulder.

"You should come again," he added. "Might learn something."

Ethan raised an eyebrow. "Like what?"

Noah's grin widened as he lifted and dropped his shoulders. "How to feel things. For starters."

He didn't wait for a response; he just kept walking.

But as he turned the corner, he couldn't quite ignore the fact that something felt different and bright in the usually dingey hallway.