Dylan asks. He’s center stage, sitting cross-legged, his shoulders slumped forward. And Cass is pacing. The theater is midnight dark—the only light in the entire room comes from a spotlight that’s popped to life, shining down from the ancient rigging. It creates a white circle of light on the wooden stage. “I don’t know,” Cass says. She’s walking in a circle over and over, tracing the outline of the spotlight. “Everything would be different if we could do our musical in here.” Dylan brings himself to his feet and reaches for her. It was intended to be a brief moment of comfort—an it’s okay; we’ll get through it. But the instant his hand touches her arm, it becomes far more. They don’t so much embrace as curl into each other. Cass tucks her head beneath Dylan’s chin, resting her smooth, peach-colored cheek against the base of his perfect throat. Each time their skin touches, a tiny burst of sparks flies into the air. This has never happened before. Dancing—yes.
