She’s the only person in the entire world.

Whitney, dark-haired and elegant, and so alive under the stage lights that she looks like she could burst into flames at any moment. My hands are steady around the heft of the bouquet, but my stomach rolls and dives.

Dayton took his fucking phone out the moment the curtain call started. He looked at the screen, whispered something to Summer, and got the hell out of there. I can hear her, somewhere off to my right, her voice the only recognizable thing in the hellish cacophony of the applause. It rockets off the wall of the stage and bounces back over me. I don’t turn my head to search for Summer. Whitney’s all that I need.

It’s too loud—it’s tearing me apart—but that asshole shrink I met this morning walked me through a sheet of things to do like I was five years old. The worst part is, that bullshit is already working. It’s tenuous around the edges. The thunder of applause threatens to blur into the low rumble of that IED tearing through the tank, again and again.

Focus on the here and now.

Whitney’s eyes glow darkly in the stage lights, her costume hugging every curve. She’s breathing hard, like she just finished running, and her body leans toward me, even as she keeps her back straight and chin up. Her eyes burn, and I let them capture me, pull me away from the sound. I breathe in deeply. Your brain doesn’t know the difference between fear and excitement. The bouquet is solid in my hands, the stems still vibrant beneath the tissue paper it’s wrapped in.

“Come on up.” The voice comes from far away and I have to tear my gaze from Whitney’s. It takes every effort, but I know they’re talking to me—somehow, I know. A short woman, dressed all in black, she’s beckoning me to a low flight of stairs at the edge of the theater. Access to the stage, hiding in plain sight. She’s smiling so widely at me, and I go. I go to the stairs and she puts a hand on my shoulder. “For Whit, right?” Her words blur together. Must be Wes. Make her night. It must be Rowan, Whit’s director.

The crowd noise shifts.

“Hold it,” Rowan calls to someone behind me. People are getting ready to leave, gathering purses and programs and talking to each other. Whitney stands at the front of the stage, a smile still on her face.

But her forehead is wrinkled.

Her eyes dart from seat to seat.

She’s looking for me, and trying to make it look like she’s not.

It takes everything I have not to run across the stage to her. No. I walk. I keep it under control. At the last moment, she whispers, “Oh, Jesus,” and she turns, and those same dark eyes sear into mine.

One instant, and her face lights up. It’s just like the sunrise—one moment, the world is murky and gray, and the next, color spills into every corner. Color blooms across her cheeks and her hands fly to her mouth.

“You—” The tears come next, welling up. “You still mad?”

“Whitney.” The words are impossible to contain. The way she makes me feel—that squeeze, that ache that fills my entire chest—it’s beyond measure. “I love you. I’m so fucking sorry. And I brought you flowers.”

She flies into my arms then, pushing the bouquet that I’ve spent the last two hours tending to out of the way. She presses her face to my neck and holds on tight.

Everything falls away.

The chatter from the crowd.

The rush of the other actors and actresses across the stage.

The orchestra, playing the audience out.

There’s nothing but Whitney’s voice, her scent, her breath against my cheek, and then—

Her lips against mine.

She kisses me like I’m the only thing keeping her on earth, and who knows? Maybe I am. But she’s doing the same for me. Without her…

I can’t think of my life without her.

There’s a sound like the beginning of rainfall. It’s soft, in the distance, like raindrops in the forest, and I surface from Whitney’s kiss to realize that people are clapping.

For us.

My grip tightens on the bouquet. I can’t bring myself to let go of her. I know it must be unprofessional as fuck, but I am lost in her eyes, in her touch, and she’s the first person I’ve ever found who can hold me. All of me. Even the broken, shattered parts. “I’m going to get you in trouble.”

She puts her hands on my face, her soft palms against the rough stubble there. “I swear to Christ, Wes, if you ever leave me again—”

“It’ll be the end of me.” The air scorches my lungs. “I’m done being without you, Whit. One week was all it took. I’m a fucking broken man.”

She nips at my bottom lip, audience be damned. “Sometimes, we must be broken, so that our spirits can find new ways to—”

I lean in and press my lips to the creamy skin at the curve of her neck. “Break me again, if that’s what you want. I’d rather be torn apart at your hands than live without you.”

“That’s—” Whitney shudders underneath my hands. “That’s kind of gross, Wes.” I freeze. Have I fucked this up again? Then Whitney laughs, and the tension flies out of me. “I’ll do better. I promise.”

“At breaking me?”

“At being—you know, predictable.” Whitney looks up into my eyes and someone in the front row screams, Kiss her again! “I can be calm. I can follow whatever routine—”

I take her face in my hands and the bouquet drops to the stage floor. “Listen to me now.” She goes still, her hands pressed up against mine. “I don’t want you to be calm. I want you to be mine. Do you hear me? I love you. I love you.”

“I love you,” she whispers.

I can’t help myself—I lean in one more time. I’m not the kind of guy who takes orders from anyone. I’m the kind of man who gives orders. But I relent. I let her pull me in and I devour her, right there in a crowded room, where anything could happen.

Anything at all.