-Devon.
"Bryce, we have to go now."
My voice carried into the bathroom, firm enough to mean it, though I already knew he'd pretend not to hear. The sound of running water, the faint spray of cologne, and his humming drifted back at me.
He appeared in the doorway a moment later, comb still in his hand, his hair damp and parted but not finished. He leaned in, catching my mouth with a quick kiss, then pulled back with that grin that said just one more, just one more, until I get caught.
Before I could say anything, he turned again, brushing at his hair with a look of deep concentration, like he was sculpting marble instead of taming strands. Two strokes later, he was back against me, pressing another kiss, shorter but insistent.
I sighed and caught him by the waist, steadying him where he hovered half in, half out of the bathroom. "We have to go now. Like now now."
His mouth curved into a pout, the kind he knew was ridiculous and leaned into anyway. "But I really don't want to go."
"What happened to the man who was excited about the play?" I asked, tightening my grip before letting him slip back again. "Every talk show I've seen today is talking about it."
He tilted his head, sulking in a way that made him look younger than he was. "Fake news. I want to stay here with you."
"You do realize I'll be going with you anyway, right? I'm not staying behind."
"I don't mean with me," he said, brushing his lips against my jaw. "I mean here, in my bedroom, with you."
I narrowed my eyes. "You're an adult. You have responsibilities. Let's go." I released him, giving him the space to move.
But he didn't. He stood there, smirking, testing how far I'd push it.
So I gave him a gentle shove between the shoulders.
He stumbled forward with a theatrical gasp. "Heyyy!"
I raised a brow at him. "Go."
He huffed, dragging his feet toward the door like a child ordered to bed. "Fine…" he muttered, throwing me one last exaggerated look over his shoulder before stepping out.
I followed, closing the door behind us, and though I didn't say it aloud, the corner of my mouth betrayed me with the faintest smile.
The car hummed along the city streets, pulling them past traffic lights and blocks of glass and brick. Bryce stretched out like he was on a couch, legs splayed too wide, the hem of his shirt untucked where he hadn't bothered fixing it. His sighs were exaggerated, like he was carrying the burden of a full Broadway run instead of a rehearsal call.
"You know what's worse than a premiere?" he muttered, watching the city blur past the glass.
"What?" I asked, already suspecting the answer.
"Rehearsals. Endless, mind-numbing rehearsals." He tilted his head toward me, his grin sly. "Especially when I could be in bed with you instead."
"You keep forgetting this is your job," I said, keeping my tone even.
"I don't forget." He nudged me with his knee. "I just prefer to imagine better uses of my time."
"You're an adult," I reminded him. "Adults show up."
He groaned, dragging his hands down his face like I'd just sentenced him. "God, you sound like Gracie."
"Good. Maybe you'll listen to one of us."
He chuckled at that, the sulk cracking open into laughter. "Not likely." He turned, slumping against the seat so that his shoulder pressed into mine. The smell of his cologne was faint beneath the detergent of his shirt, a mix too clean for how careless he sat.
The driver's eyes flicked up in the mirror and then away again. Bryce caught the movement, smirked, and whispered just loud enough for me to hear, "See? Even he thinks we look like a couple sneaking off to make trouble."
I shook my head, but the corner of my mouth betrayed me.
The closer we got to the theater district, the more he straightened, the sulk evaporating bit by bit. Posters for the play hung on lamp poles, his face painted with dramatic lighting, the name bold across the bottom. His gaze snagged on one as we stopped at a light. I saw his reflection in the glass, his jaw tight now, his playfulness stilled.
"You'll be with me the whole time?" he asked, quieter this round.
"Yes," I said, without hesitation.
He nodded once, as if locking that in, and leaned back. His thumb tapped against his thigh, restless, his body caught somewhere between nerves and eagerness.
The car slowed, pulling against the curb in front of the side entrance of the theater. Stagehands were already milling near the door, hauling cases, talking quick in clipped phrases. The building loomed, its paint peeling in places, but the smell of sawdust and fresh paint spilled through even from here.
Bryce stared at the door, unmoving. Then, with a groan, he leaned into me once more, his head against my shoulder. "Last chance. We can still go home."
"Out," I said, opening the door.
He laughed under his breath, muttered "tyrant," and finally slid out, pulling his hoodie over his head. I followed, the city air heavier here, laced with old wood and damp stone. He shot me a look as the door shut behind us, his grin resurfacing, reckless and bright.
"Fine. Let's work."
The theater smelled of paint and dust, the kind of air that clung to your throat. A stagehand pointed Bryce toward the back, and he disappeared behind a curtain, tossing me one last look over his shoulder like he was making sure I wasn't going to vanish into the street. I made my way down the aisle and slid into a seat in the front row, the wood beneath me creaking faintly. From here the stage looked smaller than I expected, ropes and flats still visible, pieces of sets waiting to be dragged into place.
I sat back, scanning exits, watching the crew shuffle around.
A voice broke through the scrape of ladders and the shuffle of scripts. "Hi."
I turned my head to find the girl who played Camille lowering herself into the seat beside me. Her hair was tied up, her costume not fully buttoned, a scarf tossed around her shoulders like she'd run out just to catch a break. She leaned toward me, a conspiratorial smile on her face. "First time I've seen you in the front row instead of pacing backstage."
"Wanted a change of scenery," I said, tone even.
"Your name's Devon, right?"
"Yeah."
"I'm—"
"Karla!"
The voice cut through like a whip, sharp enough to startle both of us. We turned at once toward the stage. Bryce stood center, hands planted on his hips, smiling wide enough to show teeth, but his eyes gave him away. His gaze had narrowed just enough to sharpen the air.
"Karla, we are looking for you backstage," he called. His tone was light, but the weight in it was clear enough.
"Right, right, sorry." She shot up from the seat, half-laughing, half-flustered. She gave me a quick smile over her shoulder. "Talk to you later." Then she darted off, her scarf trailing behind her.
I looked back to the stage. Bryce's smile had already vanished. His eyes locked on me, unblinking. His voice carried, flat this time, all traces of play gone. "There's no later, Devon."
He stepped down from the stage and vanished backstage without another word.
I sat there for a beat, then let the laugh slip out, quiet, shaking my head. He hadn't even tried to hide it. Jealous, obvious, ridiculous. And I couldn't help but find it funny. The mighty Bryce Villa, stealing scenes on and off stage, keeping tabs on anyone who so much as said hello to me.
I leaned back in the seat, still smiling to myself, and thought, Oh, Bryce. You're jealous.
The rehearsal was in full swing, voices carrying across the stage, feet scuffing the wooden boards. I leaned back into the front row seat, arms folded, eyes tracing Bryce's movements. He had a way of filling space even when he was just standing, waiting for his cue.
The side door opened without ceremony, and the faint shuffle of leather soles drew my attention. A man walked in, silver threads at his temples, coat cut sharp enough to fit a boardroom rather than a theater. He didn't call for anyone's attention. He simply sat down beside me, like he belonged here as much as the stage lights.
I glanced once, then again, longer this time. Something about his profile pulled at me, a recognition I couldn't quite anchor. His hands were clasped loosely in his lap, his gaze steady on the stage. Then, as if aware of me staring, he turned, offered a small smile, and looked back ahead.
I stilled. That smile sparked the memory.
Before I could piece it together, the director's voice rang out, startled, breaking the rhythm of rehearsal. "Oh my god—Mr. Villa!" Tim all but tripped over himself as he clapped his hands together and called for a break. The cast dispersed, murmurs rippling. He jogged down the aisle, hand extended like he was greeting royalty.
So yeah, I thought, nodding to myself, this is where I know him from.
Bryce noticed next. His head snapped toward the audience, his expression caught between shock and disbelief. He leapt off the stage, landing with the ease of someone used to making an entrance. "Dad? What are you doing here?"
"What, I can't come check on the progress?" Jose's voice was warm, almost teasing. He wrapped Bryce into a swift hug, patting his back with a firmness that felt rehearsed. Pulling back, his eyes scanned the stage, the scattered props. "I like the decorations so far. Let me know if you need anything."
Bryce scratched at his jaw, his smile thin, tired around the edges. "Thanks. All is good."
Jose's gaze shifted, finally landing on me. "Hello."
I stood quickly, extending my hand. "I'm sorry. I knew I'd seen you before, but I couldn't pull the memory."
Jose laughed, low and easy, gripping my hand with surprising strength. "No, it's all good. Gracie's told me all about you. We're really happy to have you around."
"I'm happy to be around," I answered, though the words came out more formal than I meant them to.
Jose nodded once, then said casually, "I called Kate and told her I'll be having dinner at yours tonight. Hope you don't mind, Bryce?"
Bryce's eyes flickered, just for a second, but he forced a smile, the kind that didn't reach his eyes. "No. Why would I mind."
The director—Tim—was still hovering, his hands wringing together. "We only have thirty minutes left."
"Take all your time," Jose said, waving him off. "I'll sit here with Devon."
He dropped into the seat beside me again, the leather squeaking faintly under his weight. I followed suit, lowering myself back down, though my mind hadn't caught up with the sudden shift.
I could feel his presence beside me, calm and deliberate, a man who stepped into any room like it already belonged to him. Beside him, I was suddenly aware of my posture, the way my knees angled, the stillness of my hands. It was strange, sitting shoulder to shoulder with the father of the man who'd kissed me only an hour ago in the doorway of a bathroom, now running lines on stage as though none of this collided.
I kept my eyes forward, though the corner of my mouth twitched upward. Somehow, the idea of Bryce sulking about rehearsal earlier, only for his father to materialize in the front row, was funny enough to cut the tension.
We watched the rest of the rehearsal in silence, Jose sitting beside me like he had always belonged in that seat. His presence was steady, deliberate, not intrusive but impossible to ignore. He didn't fidget, didn't speak. He just observed, eyes fixed on the stage as though he was evaluating more than the performance. I kept my gaze forward as well, though now and then I caught myself checking his profile in the corner of my vision, the resemblance between him and Bryce clear in the set of the mouth, the confident tilt of the head.
When the rehearsal ended, the cast trickled off stage, laughing in clusters, scripts tucked under their arms. Bryce disappeared backstage to change, his steps quick, almost too quick. Jose stayed in his seat until the house lights dimmed, then rose with the same poise he had carried in, brushing an invisible speck from his coat.
"I came here with my car," he said, glancing at Bryce as he reappeared in his street clothes. "I'll follow you back home. You head first."
Bryce gave a small nod. "Alright." His tone was clipped, but he forced a smile to smooth it over.
We left through the side door, the cool evening air cutting against the heat of the theater. The car was waiting, engine humming low. I slid into the passenger seat, Bryce sinking into the back like the weight of rehearsal and family had finally landed on his shoulders.
As we pulled away from the curb, I glanced in the side mirror. His reflection sat quiet, head tipped against the window, brightness drained. No jokes, no quick words, no theatrical sighs. Just silence.
I turned in my seat, voice calm. "What's wrong?"
He shifted his gaze to me, and instantly the smile was back, practiced, a flicker of teeth. "Oh, nothing's wrong. Just exhausted from rehearsal."
I didn't press. I only said, "You did amazing, by the way. I can't wait to see you on the day of the premiere."
His eyes widened slightly, the mask faltering, awe breaking through. "Thank you, Devon. Really." The way he said my name landed differently, as if he wanted me to feel the weight of it.
I gave a small nod, turned back around, and let the hum of the car fill the rest of the ride.
When we reached the house, the lights inside spilled across the lawn, Gracie already standing in the entryway, arms crossed like she had been waiting.
Bryce trailed in behind me, shaking his hair out of his hood. "My dad's like two minutes away or something."
"Yeah, I know." Gracie's tone was brisk but her smile was there. "That's why I'm here." She turned to me, her eyes sharp but not unkind. "We'll push dinner for later, if that's okay with you."
"Yeah, that's fine," I said. "I'm not hungry anyway."
"Good. Follow me then."
She moved down the hall without waiting, and I glanced back at Bryce. He stood in the doorway, shoulders still carrying the heaviness he'd hidden behind his smile. I let mine soften into something quieter, steadier, just for him, before I turned to follow Gracie.
The floor creaked faintly under my steps, the air carrying the smell of home cooking lingering from earlier. I trailed her toward my room, the sound of the front door shutting behind us marking the two minutes she'd predicted.
The room was quiet when we stepped inside. Same floor as the dining room, same level as the living room, but it felt removed now that the door was closed. Gracie sat down on the edge of my bed without hesitation, folding her arms across her lap, her weight bending the mattress. I stayed by the door, my back against it, one hand resting on the knob as though I might still need to leave at any moment.
"So," I said, eyes narrowing on her. "Why are we here?"
She leaned forward slightly, elbows on her knees. "Because you wouldn't want to be out there while Jose and Bryce are having dinner."
I tilted my head, waiting. "Elaborate."
Her breath caught, and she let it out slow, like she was choosing her words carefully. "It's complicated."
"I can handle complicated."
"Whenever Jose drops by," she began, glancing toward the window before she looked back at me, "it's usually one of two things. Either he's here to call Bryce out on something he's done, or he's just checking on him in general. Now, since Bryce hasn't stirred any big headlines lately, I think it's the second." She paused, twisting her fingers together. "But with them, checking on him doesn't end well. Bryce usually ends up low afterwards. Depressed. So that's why I'm here—I already have a plan lined up for later, to take his mind off it once Jose leaves."
I frowned, pushing off the door just slightly, though I didn't move closer. "I don't get it. If his father's just checking on him, what's wrong with that?"
Gracie sat back, her shoulders rising and falling in a shrug that looked heavier than the word implied. "It's not always just checking. That's the problem. Jose… how do I put it?" She pressed her lips together, thinking, then sighed. "Jose feels like Bryce was the one thing that didn't go his way. His daughters—both of them—are in production with him, involved in the same circles, part of the machine he built. But Bryce was the odd one out. He didn't want to fall in line. And honestly, I don't blame him. He grew up in their shadow, never really got the same attention, and when he chose music and theater, it wasn't what his father wanted for him."
Her voice softened at the edges, though her words stayed blunt. "Jose doesn't appreciate what Bryce is doing now. He'd rather have him close, under his wing, part of the family business. So his way of checking in is to say things like, 'I see you're doing well,' and then slip in, 'but what else is going on under the surface?' He pries. He digs. He looks for something to fix, or control. He thinks he's guiding him, but it feels more like he's pulling at loose threads."
I nodded slowly, letting it settle. "So, hard to please parents."
She gave me a look, her brows pinching faintly. "Not just hard to please. That would be simpler. It's more… relentless. He always has to say something. Even when Bryce is doing fine, he'll find some way to question it. And I don't understand why. Bryce has been doing well—better than well. But Jose can't just let him have that without weighing in, without reminding him he sees things differently."
Her hands lifted, palms open, then fell back into her lap. "It's weird, really. He is a good man. Don't mistake me there. He's generous, he's done more for people than most ever will. But when it comes to Bryce, they just don't fit together. Oil and water. Every visit feels like another reminder that he never got the son he wanted, and Bryce never got the father he needed."
I let the words hang in the air between us. Through the door, faintly, the sound of cutlery reached us from the dining room. I imagined Bryce sitting there across from his father, smile taut, back straight, already bracing for words he wouldn't want to hear.
"I see," I said quietly. "So it's not dinner. It's a test."
Gracie gave me a half-smile that didn't disguise her frustration. "Exactly. And Bryce always pays for it after."
I leaned closer to the door, pressing my ear against the wood. The muffled sound of laughter filtered through, warm at first—Bryce and his father both chuckling at something.
Behind me, Gracie hissed, "Hey, that's not polite!"
I waved her off without looking. "Shhh."
She sighed loudly, muttering, "Unbelievable." A second later she shuffled forward and crouched beside me, lowering her head until her own ear was pressed just below mine.
On the other side of the door, Jose's voice carried, smoother now, still wrapped in amusement. "So, you finally managed to stay out of the papers for more than a month. I was starting to wonder if you'd retired from making a fool of yourself."
Bryce gave a small laugh, but it was thinner than the one before. "Guess I'm losing my touch, huh?"
I pulled back half an inch, whispering, "What the fuck, who says that?"
Gracie elbowed my knee to shut me up.
Jose's voice came again, pitched in the cadence of a joke. "Don't worry. Mediocre actors rarely make headlines. You'll be safe as long as you keep things… average."
Bryce shot back quickly, though his laugh wavered. "Well, lucky for me, people still buy tickets to see average. Keeps the lights on."
I exhaled sharply, disbelief spilling out of me. "There's no way…"
From below me, Gracie tilted her head back, her eyes wide as she stared up at me. "What do you want to do right now?"
My jaw clenched. "I want to go out there and get him out of that room."
She let out a muffled squeal, clapping her hands over her mouth. "Awwww."
I looked down at her, frowning. "What's wrong with you?"
Instead of answering, she plopped down on the floor where she'd been crouching, staring up at me like she'd just solved some grand equation. "I can't believe it. When you first walked into my office for the interview, I could have sworn you were going to leave like everyone else. I was mentally preparing myself not to hope too much. But I think I was right."
I narrowed my eyes. "I don't understand what you're saying. And you're interrupting my peeping session."
She rolled her eyes, waving at the door dismissively. "Fuck the peeping session. We'll hear everything from Bryce after they're done anyway. Just talk to me, please. This is so cute."
"I don't understand what you're talking about."
Her grin widened. "You and Bryce."
I groaned, dragging a hand down my face. "Oh my god, you again."
"Come on, Devon. Please, just tell me one thing. Confirm my suspicions."
I went quiet, glancing at the door, then at the ceiling, then back at her. She leaned forward, expectant.
Finally I muttered, "Okay, fine. We like each other."
Her reaction was instant—both hands slapped over her mouth as she squeaked, her voice bursting out in a half-whisper, half-scream. "Oh my god, I can't believe it. I can't believe it. I can't believe this is the cutest shit ever."
"Okay, can you shut up now so I can listen to the talk?"
"No. Fuck no." She sprang up, grabbed me by the wrist, and dragged me toward the bed with surprising force. "Sit."
I let her shove me down onto the mattress, sighing. She perched on the edge, eyes gleaming. "Since when?"
"Not so long ago," I said carefully.
"Was it the gallery day?"
"Well… before the gallery."
She threw her hands up. "I swear to God, I knew it. You two were looking at each other with these eyes, like—uhhh. I knew it."
Her questions came rapid fire. "Why do you like him? Do you really like him? Or is it just a thing?"
I rubbed at the back of my neck, staring at the floor. She wasn't going to stop until I gave her something real. My chest tightened, words pressing at the back of my throat. I let them out slowly, each one heavier than I expected.
I exhaled, rubbing my hands together, trying to find the right words. "I like him because he's… more alive than anyone I've ever met. He's impossible to ignore. He fills a room even when he isn't trying, and somehow, even when he's being annoying, you can't help but watch him. He's sharp, he's clever in ways people underestimate, and he doesn't mind looking foolish if it means getting a laugh out of someone. He's got this stubborn streak where he'll argue just to prove he can, but then he'll turn around and do something kind without even thinking about it."
I glanced away, my voice quieter now. "He works harder than people give him credit for. Everyone sees the chaos, the jokes, the noise, but behind that, he cares so much about the people around him. He doesn't let go of things easily, and sometimes he drives me insane, but there's no one else who's built quite like him. He's too much and not enough at the same time, and somehow that makes sense. That's just him. And I like him for it. For all of it."
Gracie's mouth fell open, her eyes softening as she leaned closer. "Devon…"
I shook my head, lifting a hand to cut her off. "Don't. I've already said more than I should've."
But she was smiling, bright, her voice a whisper. "That wasn't just more. That was everything."
Gracie let out a long breath, the kind that carried both relief and excitement, her hands clasped tightly in her lap as if she didn't know where else to put them. "You know," she said, voice softer now, "he drives me absolutely mad. There are days I want to strangle him. He forgets things I told him an hour ago, he teases until I'm ready to walk out, and he can be the most exhausting person in any room."
Her lips twitched into a small smile as she went on. "But even with all of that… I would never choose anyone else. I've had plenty of chances to leave. Offers that would've paid me more, positions that would've been quieter, easier, safer. And every time I thought about taking one, I just couldn't. Because it wouldn't have been him. It wouldn't have been Bryce."
She glanced at me, her eyes clearer now, less playful than before. "The thing about him is that he isn't easy. He'll test every nerve you've got. But he's also… loyal in ways you don't see right away. And when he cares, he cares with his whole chest, like there isn't another way to do it. That's why people stay. That's why I stayed."
Her shoulders lifted, then fell again. "So yeah, he drives me insane. But if you asked me who I wanted to work with for the rest of my life, it would still be him. No question.
I let her words hang between us, watching the way her expression softened in the silence after. She wasn't trying to convince me of anything, she wasn't even looking for agreement. She was just telling the truth.
I leaned back a little, my palms resting flat on my thighs. "Yeah," I said slowly, almost to myself. "He drives me crazy too. Half the time I'm convinced he does it on purpose. He pushes, he tests, he never makes anything easy." My mouth curved faintly, though there was no humor in it. "But I'd stay. Even with all of that, I'd stay. Because it's him. If it were anyone else, I'd already be gone."
Gracie's eyes lit, not in that squealing way she'd teased me with earlier, but with something steadier, like she understood exactly what I meant. She nodded, her voice low, sure. "That's what I mean. There isn't anyone else you'd put up with it for. And once you realize that… it's over. You're in it, whether you want to be or not."
I didn't say anything to that. I just sat there, listening faintly to the muffled scrape of cutlery and voices carrying through the door, and thought about how true it was.