-Devon.
Crescent Theater had a way of swallowing you whole. The vaulted ceiling, patched in places with light fixtures that hummed faintly, the rows of empty seats stretching into the dark, the faint smell of sawdust and old curtains lingering beneath the brighter scent of fresh paint from the set. I sat in the dim middle rows, arms crossed, trying to look like I was scanning the exits as usual, but the truth was I was watching him.
The play, from what I could piece together, was about a man named Marco—an everyman beaten down by the small cruelties of life. He managed one restaurant in a chain that had gone bankrupt, and now had to carry the weight of telling his employees they were finished, that the place they depended on was closing its doors. It wasn't just the restaurant though. His friendships, his love life, even the way his own mother spoke to him—each of them chipped at him until he was nothing more than a man trying to keep one part of his heart from being completely crushed. He loved a woman, Camille, but his closest friend Owen loved her too, so Marco buried his own longing in silence, though it kept slipping out in cracks, in words, in the way his eyes betrayed him.
I had only seen the beginning of rehearsal, just the first few scenes, and already Bryce had disappeared into him. The shift of his shoulders, the weariness in his stance, the defeated drag of his words—it didn't look like acting. It looked like living. The way he carried Marco's exhaustion was uncanny, as though he'd rehearsed the part for years without knowing it.
When he stepped into the stage light, his face seemed older, weighed down. His mouth, which usually curved with some teasing remark, tightened instead into lines of quiet disappointment. Even when he tried to smile, it faltered halfway, and something about that falter burned more than any outright sadness. I could feel it ripple through the empty theater, like even the seats were paying attention.
I leaned forward in my chair, elbows braced on my knees. My job was not to marvel, but I couldn't help it. He was mesmerizing. Each flicker of emotion that passed across him—resignation, frustration, small bursts of tenderness—was played with such control that it didn't feel like performance. He was Marco.
The director called out notes, and Bryce adjusted instantly, as though his body was an instrument tuned to command. A shift of tone, a softer hand gesture, a pause longer than before, and suddenly the weight of the scene doubled.
The story itself hit too close. A man who kept trying to choose the lesser evil, who loved quietly, who worked for scraps of dignity even as everyone else reminded him of his failures. I knew men like that. Hell, I'd spent years standing beside one, watching him drown in his own silences.
The scene shifted to a phone call with Marco's mother. Bryce hunched slightly, one hand pressed against his temple, his voice cracking with irritation that quickly folded into defeat. Her words, played off-stage, sliced at him—no grandkids yet, no success, no respect. He didn't fight back. He just listened, absorbing it, letting his shoulders sag until he looked as though the phone itself had grown heavy. I could feel the memory of every kitchen table conversation I'd overheard in my life, the same cadence of disappointment disguised as parental concern.
When the rehearsal paused, Bryce shook himself out of character, running a hand through his hair, and muttered something under his breath that made a few of the crew laugh. He glanced my way then, spotting me still watching from the shadows of the seats. His brows lifted.
"You look like you're taking notes," he called out, his voice back to its usual lilt.
I sat back in my chair. "Just wondering if I'm supposed to clap when you cry on stage."
He laughed, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. "Clap, whistle, faint dramatically—dealer's choice."
The director barked for focus again, and he grinned, shooting me one last look before turning back into Marco.
The grin vanished as quickly as it had come. Shoulders slumped again, his chest sagged with invisible weight, and just like that the theater belonged to him.
I leaned back, watching, my chest tightening in a way I didn't have a name for.
Because this wasn't just him acting. It was him showing the cracks I'd always pretended not to see.
And it terrified me how beautiful it was.
The rehearsal carried on, the stage shifting into a different scene. The lights dimmed to a softer glow, shadows lengthening, and the piano began its steady build. I knew from the way the director leaned forward in his seat, and the way the air seemed to change around us, that this was the moment meant to split the audience open.
It was Marco's song.
Bryce stepped into the center, his shoulders bowed, his hands trembling slightly at his sides as though weighed down by everything Marco couldn't say aloud. I'd heard him sing before—so many times, even when there was no call for it. He sang in hallways, in cars, in kitchens, sometimes with full bravado, sometimes under his breath just to annoy whoever was listening. His voice was always good, even when careless, the kind of talent that never needed effort to shine.
But this… this was something else.
The first note slipped from him low, nearly fragile, and it struck me like it had been pulled straight from the marrow of his bones. He carried the words about Camille, about love too deep to silence and too dangerous to admit, and every vowel trembled with restraint. His voice climbed slowly, gathering strength, the ache in it laced with yearning.
It was the way he let emotion weave into the sound that caught me. Not just pitch, not just control, but the surrender inside it. I felt it through my ribs, like the song was shaking something loose in me. Each phrase unfolded like a confession Marco couldn't give her, spilling into the theater as if the walls themselves were meant to carry the secret.
Bryce's face shifted with the notes—his eyes glistening, his mouth trembling in places where he forced the words to steady. When he sang Camille's name, it was soft and fierce all at once, like he was whispering it to her in the dark while the whole world slept.
I'd been prepared to sit through a song. I hadn't been prepared to feel it like a punch to the chest.
The range of his voice stretched higher, fuller, filling every empty seat in the theater, and I sat there stunned, staring like an idiot while my throat tightened. The song wasn't just about a character anymore. It wasn't just Marco speaking to Camille. It was Bryce, standing there raw, his talent spilling out of him in a way that made it impossible to separate where the role ended and where he began.
By the time he hit the last note, holding it with the strength of a man clinging to his last piece of dignity, my hands had clenched into fists on my knees. My pulse was racing, and I couldn't understand why I felt like I'd just been exposed to something I shouldn't have seen.
The note broke into silence, echoing once against the ceiling. The director stood, clapping loudly, the crew joined in with scattered applause. I didn't move. My body refused.
Bryce looked toward the seats, chest heaving, sweat darkening the collar of his shirt. His eyes found mine. His mouth tugged into a crooked grin.
"What?" he called, his voice raspy from the song. "Don't tell me I broke you."
I swallowed, my voice not ready to work, and after a pause I managed, "You sing like that again and the building's going to need evacuation protocols."
The crew laughed. Bryce laughed louder, bowing with exaggerated flourish before dragging his sleeve over his forehead. He winked at me as if he hadn't just gutted me alive in the space of three minutes.
I leaned back in the chair, exhaling slowly, my chest still thrumming with the song.
And for the first time in a long time, I didn't know whether to be relieved or terrified that someone could sound like that in front of me.
When rehearsal ended, Bryce didn't head toward his dressing room with the others. He slipped down one of the side corridors, his shoulders loose, gait unhurried in that way that somehow always felt deliberate. I followed, of course. It wasn't even a decision anymore. My body moved before my thoughts caught up, shadowing him the way I was trained to, though something about it felt far less professional than it should have.
He pushed open the door of a small storage room and stepped inside. I trailed after him and closed it behind us, and suddenly the sounds of the theater muffled to a hum, distant and unimportant. The room was cramped, narrow shelves stacked with paint tins, lighting cables, and crates of unused props. The overhead bulb sputtered and buzzed faintly, throwing pale light across Bryce's face, catching at the edges of his hair.
The space pressed us together without effort. I could feel the heat of him, the faint trace of sweat still drying along his neck, the citrus tang of cologne softened by hours under stage lights.
I let my eyes sweep the room once, more to steady myself than to check for exits. "Why are we in this tight space?" My voice came rougher than I wanted it to. "Why aren't we in your changing room?"
Bryce leaned back against a stack of crates, arms folding loosely over his chest. His smile was a slow thing, spreading with the kind of confidence that came from knowing exactly what he was doing. "Because here," he said, lowering his tone like he was handing me a secret, "no one barges in without knocking. In there, we'd both have to keep pretending not to want exactly this."
The words landed heavier than I expected. My jaw tensed, and for a moment I tried to look anywhere else, the dust, the bulb, the coils of cable. But when I looked back, he was watching me—eyes steady, mouth tilted like he'd just placed me in checkmate.
I should've told him to leave. Should've kept the space between us like a barricade, held the line while I still could. But it snapped—whatever thread had kept my spine straight, whatever false calm I'd been clinging to. Gone.
I didn't walk to him—I closed that space like something breaking. It wasn't want, not in the usual sense. It was rawer, more primal, the kind of drive that surged before thought. My fingers curled without meaning to. My chest tightened like a fist. Something in me knew this was about to burn.
The kiss hit like contact, like collision. No slow lean-in, no testing. Our mouths crashed together full-force, teeth scraping, breath already gone. He made a sound low in his throat as I caught his jaw in one hand, pulled him down into me. His grip locked around my waist, and it wasn't gentle—he bunched my shirt in both fists, dragged me closer until there was no space left between our bodies, not even air.
We stumbled a step, our legs tangling, my knee knocking into the edge of the low lighting rig behind him. I didn't register the danger until my peripheral caught the glint—steel, sharp, waiting.
Instinct flared hot. My hand slid behind his head fast, fingers fanning through his hair, holding him steady as I twisted, turning him away before that thing could bite into his skull. I didn't stop kissing him. I couldn't. I steered him like that—tongue deep in his mouth, palm firm at the nape of his neck, guiding him back against the wall with my weight.
When we hit, it wasn't soft. His back met concrete and his breath hitched, but he didn't stop. His mouth opened wider beneath mine, his grip shifting, rougher now. One hand slid up under my shirt, flat against my spine, pulling me in, dragging heat between us as he arched into the kiss like it was the only thing tethering him upright.
I bit his bottom lip, just enough to make him flinch and press harder. His fingers twisted in my shirt at the small of my back, and for a second the whole room felt airless. No light, no space, just the grind of our bodies, the sound of breath moving through clenched jaws and parted mouths.
When we broke, it wasn't clean. Our lips lingered, dragged apart slowly, breath catching on each other's skin. I was close enough to taste his exhale, feel the pulse in his neck under my palm. My forehead rested against his for half a second too long.
He didn't smirk. That cocky edge he always wore had drained out of his face entirely. His eyes stayed locked on mine, dark and stormed-over, lips still parted like the kiss had taken something from him. Like words had tried to follow it out and just—stayed stuck.
I could still feel the shape of his mouth against mine. Still feel his hands gripping my back like he hadn't wanted to let go.
I didn't either.
"You make it impossible not to fall for you," he said, so low it might have been meant for himself.
The heat that had already been burning in me climbed higher, unwanted, and I shook my head, searching for composure. "Don't say that."
"Don't?" His grin flickered back, though softer, more intimate. "You know I don't appreciate being told what to do. But with you, it's different. With you, I end up doing it anyway. Even when I try to fight it." His fingers flexed against my shirt before he let go. "And this time, I won't fight you. I can't. You treat me with a kind of care I've never had before."
I forced my voice into something firmer. "That's my job."
"No." His reply came sharper, decisive in a way I rarely heard from him. "You're too close for it to just be your job. You do things no one else would even think to."
I tilted my head, trying to retreat into the safety of dry professionalism. "Is this about the kiss? Was I not very professional?"
His exhale came fast, a huff of exasperation. "You don't get it. You're so infuriating." He turned as if to leave, his hand brushing the crate, but I caught his arm before he could slip away.
"Then explain it," I said, the words torn rawer than I meant. "Please. What do you mean?"
He shook his head, eyes flicking over me with something unreadable. "Figure it out on your own."
"I can't do that." My voice rose, cracking the walls of my control. "I've never been able to figure things like this out on my own, Bryce. I've had enough of this bullshit."
I released his arm and pushed past him, the room suddenly too tight, too charged, the air thick with everything unsaid. My hand hit the door, ready to leave it all behind.
But the silence that followed wasn't empty. I could feel him still, standing there in the flickering light, his gaze burning into my back.
The silence in the car was heavier than any shouting match could have been. No words, no glances, just the low thrum of the engine and the faint hiss of tires against the road. Bryce sat angled toward the window, as if the night outside had more to offer than anything near him. I didn't try to reach across that gulf. My hands stayed folded, my jaw locked, and the air between us thickened until it felt like it might split my chest open.
When the car rolled to a stop outside the house, Bryce was the first to move. He pushed the door open and slammed it shut behind him, storming off with a sharpness in his stride that carried more wounded pride than anger. I stayed where I was, pressing my palms hard over my face until I couldn't keep the sound down anymore. A groan—loud, guttural, an "ugh" torn out of me like it had been sitting there for hours.
Beside me, Turner flinched, his grip on the wheel twitching. I dropped my hands and muttered, "Sorry, Turner."
He gave the faintest nod, his eyes fixed on the windshield, pretending not to have noticed. I pushed out of the car, the cool air slapping me awake, and headed inside. The house was hushed, shadows stretching long over the walls. I moved through the rooms, checking corners, expecting to find Bryce sprawled across a couch or pacing the hallways. Nothing. His absence needled me sharper with every door I opened.
By the time I reached the back patio, panic was starting to stir in me like a tide rising too fast. I stepped out into the garden, and there he was. A pale shape against the night, sitting hunched on a stone bench by the fountain. For a moment, I forgot the worry and just stared. I hadn't even noticed this fountain before—maybe I had, but my mind had filed it away, too busy cataloging threats and exits. Now it was impossible to ignore, the water catching the dim light and breaking it into restless patterns, a soft music rising from its spill.
Bryce sat at its edge, shoulders bowed, hands clasped between his knees. The sulkiness I'd seen before was gone, replaced with something rawer. When I approached, he lifted his head, eyes glassy in the dim.
"I'm sorry," he said, voice breaking around the words. "I fucked it up. I spoke too soon, ruined everything. I'm sorry." His throat worked around the next line, fragile, like it cost him more than he wanted me to see. "You aren't leaving, right?"
I felt something twist deep in me. He looked too young like that, too unguarded. It hit me with the sort of tenderness that always comes with danger, the kind you can't afford if you want to stay whole. Too cute, I thought miserably. Too damn cute for his own good—or mine.
I stayed standing while he sat, the height difference only underlining the way he was folded in on himself. I reached down, cupping his cheeks in my hands, his skin warmer than the night air. "I'm not leaving," I told him, steady, slow, as though saying it with care could lodge it deeper in him. "And you didn't ruin anything. I just wanted to know what you meant, that's all."
His face stayed small between my palms, and I let the words come, no matter how they weighed. "Listen, Bryce. I've spent a generous portion of my life wandering blind through half-expressions and crumbs of meaning. Guessing, overthinking, running circles in my head until I drove myself into delusion. All because I was around someone who would take the longest road possible instead of saying something clear. I learned to stop asking, because the silence was easier to live with than another maze. But you…" I swallowed, my thumbs brushing along his jaw. "You wear your heart right out in the open. When I asked, I thought maybe you'd talk to me the way you always do. And when you didn't, I got stuck in that same old place. And I hate it, Bryce. I hate being back there. So I'm asking you—speak honestly with me."
He dropped his gaze, lashes trembling against his cheeks, but he didn't pull away from my hands. His voice came softer than I expected, almost childlike in its truth. "I don't know why I get so shy with you. So nervous I can't say what I mean."
I leaned in closer, lowering myself until I could meet his eyes, letting my voice cut through the quiet. "Then try. Please. If you can."
I moved down onto the bench beside him, the stone cool beneath me, the fountain's hush filling the space between us. He shifted slightly, as though the nearness made him both uneasy and relieved.
I waited, steady, giving him the room he needed to find his words.
The night pressed in around us, quiet but for the water spilling from the fountain, catching the moonlight in shifting silver threads. I sat there, half turned toward him, waiting. Bryce kept his gaze lowered for a beat too long, then he drew in a breath that sounded like he'd been holding it for hours.
"When I said you're making it hard not to fall for you," he began, voice roughened by nerves, "it wasn't just a line. It really is hard. And maybe it's the proximity, maybe it's the way you're always there, but I've had guards close to me before. All the time. And all they did was make me feel like I was a burden. Like I was another duty to tick off, another thorn jammed under their nails. They hated me for existing in their schedule, and I hated them right back."
His eyes lifted then, locking on mine, and the honesty in them was a punch to the chest. "But you… you made it personal. You care about me, and not just because you're being paid to. So stop lying to my face, and stop lying to yourself. It isn't helping anyone. You try to play dumb whenever things get heated. You'll kiss me like you mean it, then turn around and call it 'professional.' You aren't even honest with yourself, Devon. And I'm saying this with the utmost respect, but you asked me to be honest. So I am."
I barely breathed as he leaned forward, shoulders heavy, his hands hanging loose between his knees. "I have feelings for you. That's just that. You want to hang around me and call it part of your job, fine. But then you'd be no different from the person you just told me about, the one who kept you walking circles in your own head. You'd rather play it safe than gamble. You'd rather cling to what's guaranteed. I don't operate like that. Not because I have nothing to lose, but because I've lost too damn much already. To the point where it's just numbness now. And then—" his mouth twitched, like he couldn't believe what he was saying, "then you show up, and suddenly I feel something different than the usual emptiness. You filled a void inside me, too quick, I know. But here we are, under the stars, next to a fountain. How more absurd can it get?"
I sat back a little, trying to process the weight of his words. They didn't land soft—they crashed, and for a moment all I could do was sit in the wreckage of them. My mouth opened, then shut again, and the only thing that slipped out was a muttered, "Damn."
Bryce's head snapped up. "You're like every other man in this world. I pour my heart out, and all you have to say is damn?"
A laugh broke out of me, startled, sharp, and I shook my head. "No, no. I was just—processing." I rubbed the back of my neck, still feeling the ghost of his words ringing through me. "Since we're on honesty, I'll give you mine. Hearing you say that… it felt amazing. I don't even know the last time I let myself hear something like that. And—" I exhaled hard, the corner of my mouth twitching up, "wow. I do feel something for you too, Bryce. That's how more absurd it can get. Not that my feelings for you are absurd, but the fact that I actually feel anything other than constant rejection, constant cold shoulders… that's the absurdity here."
He let out a long, uneven sigh, his arms still dangling loosely between his knees. His gaze drifted down again before he spoke. "I don't know who the fuck hurt you that bad. But I find it hard to believe someone had you in the palm of their hands and they squished you instead of nurturing you further."
The words hit like a blade slipped between my ribs. Too direct, too raw. I stiffened, caught in that sting, and for a long moment I couldn't even find the shape of a response. His face was tilted down, hair falling forward, and I knew he hadn't even seen the way I flinched.
I cleared my throat, but the sound didn't steady me. "That's not exactly dinner conversation, Bryce."
He smirked faintly without looking up. "We skipped dinner anyway."
A reluctant laugh cracked out of me, jagged but real. "You really don't know when to shut up, do you?"
Finally, his eyes lifted, bright even in the low light, and he said, "Not when it comes to you."
That was it. That was the part that left me speechless all over again.
The air was too heavy in my chest after everything I'd said. I thought I'd feel lighter. Like the weight of it would lift once the words were out. But the truth just sat there instead—raw, exposed, ugly in how honest it was. It clung to the space between us like smoke.
Bryce didn't speak. He just stared at me, his usual deflections stripped away. No grin, no jab. His expression was bare—wide open, like a held breath. Waiting.
I couldn't take it. That silence. That look. The way his eyes felt like hands, reaching for something in me I hadn't even admitted aloud.
My body moved before my mind had a chance to weigh the cost.
I stepped in, cupped his face with both hands, thumbs brushing slow over his jaw. His skin was warm beneath my fingers, softer than I expected, and my pulse spiked as he leaned into the touch like he needed it. Like he'd been starved for it.
Then I kissed him.
Not the cautious kind we'd traded in shadows. Not the testing sort. This was harder—intentional. My mouth slanted over his with heat and finality, breath curling between us. There was no hesitation in it. No room left for second-guessing.
His lips parted under mine, startled—but not for long. The moment he caught up, he pressed back with a low sound in his throat, something hungry and frayed at the edges. His hands slid up under the hem of my shirt and spread wide against my back, fingers splayed firm and possessive, like he wanted to feel everything at once. Like if he didn't hold on tight, I'd pull away again.
I didn't.
I pressed into him, deeper, tilting his head to seal the kiss tighter. I wanted all of it—his mouth opening under mine, the heat of his tongue catching mine, the slight drag across my skin when our angles shifted. I kissed him like I was making up for lost time. Like I had something to prove. Like if I kissed him hard enough, long enough, it would burn away the ache in my chest.
The bench dug into the back of my thigh, sharp through my jeans, but I didn't care. The breeze carried the faint spray of the fountain, cool against the flush of heat rising between us. It only made him feel warmer. Realer. His chest was flush with mine, breath coming fast, his hips tilted forward as he tugged me closer by the fabric twisted in his fists.
I let him pull. Let him feel how much I wanted it—wanted him. I kissed him deeper, hips pressing flush to his, the contact sending a pulse of heat low in my belly. He gasped into my mouth, barely there, and the sound made my spine light up.
Fuck, he tasted like everything I'd been trying not to admit I wanted.
I only stopped when my head was spinning, when the need to breathe finally overrode the need to keep kissing him. But even then, I didn't go far. Our foreheads rested together, his breath stuttering warm across my cheek, both of us shaking.
"That's what I meant," I murmured, voice rough and frayed, the last word barely audible against his lips.
Bryce let out a breathless laugh, one hand still clenched in my shirt, the other dragging slowly down my back. His voice came quieter, deeper.
"About time."
The second I kissed him again, I knew I'd never get enough.
It wasn't careful. My hands framed his face, thumbs brushing his jaw as our mouths crashed together, no hesitation left. His lips parted and I took it—tongue sliding past his, tasting heat and breath, the kind of kiss that left no room to speak. His grip tightened around my waist, pulling me in, anchoring me like he thought I might vanish.
"I really like you," I said into the kiss, my voice rough. "You have no idea."
He stilled for a breath, eyes locked on mine, and then he shifted forward—climbed into my lap, straddling me with quiet certainty. The move sent heat surging low in my gut. His knees bracketed my hips, hands in my hair, mouth already on mine again, fuller, deeper, no pause between.
I groaned against him, fingers pressing into his waist, feeling the slow drag of his hips settling over mine. He kissed like he was trying to memorize the shape of my mouth, slow and hungry, his chest flush to mine, breath stuttering as he shifted closer. My hands slid up under his shirt, palms dragging across warm skin, and he shivered into it.
We moved together—nothing frantic, just heat building with every press, every sound that slipped between us. His mouth left mine only to kiss along my jaw, then returned with more need, more intent. My whole body was tuned to the shape of him—his breath, his hands, the weight of him in my lap. There was no space between us. No room for pretending.
Only the truth of it, burning hot between our mouths.