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It was, by most definitions, a freak accident—though that phrase didn’t quite capture the absurd specificity of how it unfolded: unprompted, unnecessary, and entirely self-inflicted.
Aidan, the actor originally cast opposite Kaveh in Barefoot in the Park, had developed a reputation over the course of several rehearsals for valuing spontaneity over order, a trait that he often described as instinct given at birth and everyone else described, privately, as a liability. The jump had never been discussed. It wasn’t in the script. It wasn’t in the blocking. Nilou had given no direction to that effect, and the character certainly didn’t call for it. But Aidan—buoyed by the energy of the moment or his own unshakable belief in improvisational brilliance—decided it needed to happen.
Nilou had told him not to do it. Repeatedly. Calmly at first, then with increasing concern. “Your character walks in through the door,” she’d said. “He’s a lawyer. He doesn’t swing into the apartment.” Aidan had nodded, smiled, agreed in principle—and then vanished from the wings five minutes before his cue.
They didn’t realize he was missing until halfway through the first scene, when Nilou scanned the wings and whispered, “Where’s Aidan?”
And then he jumped.
From the edge of the theater’s side box seats—arms extended, eyes full of delusional conviction—he launched himself down toward the stage with all the confidence of a man who thought gravity was a mere suggestion in the grand scheme of things. It happened so quickly that no one processed what he was doing until it was already too late.
The spring was beautiful—almost balletic. The twist in the air was unintentional. The landing was absolutely catastrophic. One ankle bent sideways, the other hit the corner of a coffee table that wasn’t supposed to be there, and the rest of him followed in a crumpling heap of muffled screams, Oh Gods, my leg, ripped denim, and the sickening crack of dreams dying.
The silence that followed was deafening. No one screamed, no one gasped, or breathed, for that matter. They stood there—stage director, technical management, the cast—gawking at the visual of Aidan sprawled on the floor like a ragdoll dropped by an indifferent god.
Someone, eventually, called for a medic.
Aidan was carried out like a tragic hero, slumped between two tech crew members like a painting of martyrdom that had been dropped and chipped. His left shoe was missing. His scarf—why was he even wearing a scarf at rehearsal?—was somehow wrapped around his upper arm like a tourniquet, though no one had asked him to do that. Someone had handed him an ice pack, which he was holding against his cheek for reasons that remained unclear.
“The table,” he was muttering as they passed the risers. “It came out of nowhere. I was airborne and then… betrayal. I think I saw my grandmother…”
“You landed on your leg, Aidan,” Nilou called after him, clutching her clipboard like it might keep her soul inside her body.
“Which one?” he shouted back, dazed but theatrical. “Tell her to let the light in. I’m not going toward it without notes!”
“Just—just let the medics take him,” she whispered.
Nilou stood, staring at the space where Aidan had been, as if she could rewind the last twenty minutes if she just focused hard enough on the floor tape. Then her face cracked, with tears that threatened to leap just as hard as Aidan did, panic folding itself into professional survival instinct—and she began to pace. Notes to chest, eyes unfocused, steps increasingly erratic.
“Okay. Okay, okay, okay, okay—he’s out. Aidan’s out. We don’t have an understudy. We’re two weeks from curtain and he’s on crutches and painkillers and he can’t even sit on the stage without wincing like he’s being stabbed. This is a disaster. This is a festival show. This is Barefoot in the Park , not Hospital in the Plaza. I can’t—”
“You could breathe,” Kaveh offered from the couch, not looking up from where he sat cross-legged, script open on his lap.
Nilou whirled around angrily. “Don’t be calm! I need you to not be calm so I can lose my mind at a reasonable altitude!”
Kaveh began absorbing the blow he’d already seen coming. “I’ve already memorized Act One,” he added, hoping it was something she could anchor herself to. “And I just about have Act Two and Three done. You don’t need to carry everything.”
She made a sound somewhere between a groan and a sob. She dropped herself onto the crate that served as their stage table, spine folding forward as she rubbed a hand over her forehead like she could erase the last forty-eight hours with friction alone.
“You were supposed to play off Aidan’s golden retriever energy,” she said, tired now. “Not sit there like a swan preening your feathers.”
“I had an inkling premonition, so I did offer him a mat,” Kaveh reminded her, glancing up. “I think it was polite of me.”
Nilou exhaled like each breath was dragging her ribcage with it. Her legs swung backward, heels thunking gently against the crate’s edge. The clipboard rested in her lap now, lifeless, scribbled margins facing the ceiling.
“Kaveh, I love you. I do. But you’re playing Corie—the emotional core of this play—and now I have no Paul. You need someone who can match your energy.”
“You’d be surprised at what I can work with,” Kaveh grit out sarcastically, with a smile that barely stretched above the enamel of his teeth.
Nilou’s head dropped back until it thunked lightly against the wall behind her. She let her eyes close, her hands falling limp in her lap, clipboard sliding to one side. For a moment, she didn’t say anything. The first stage of grief.
She breathed—long, slow, and shaky—like she was holding something down with effort. The second stage of grief.
Suddenly, the tension left her shoulders all at once, replaced by the quiet certainty of a doctor who had found the cure to cancer. She had skipped all the way to acceptance in mere seconds. There was nothing good about that. Kaveh’s stomach turned.
Her lips parted. She was about to gift him something efficient, brilliant, and completely doomed.
“No.”
She hadn’t said anything.
Kaveh repeated it. “No.”
“You don’t even know who I’m thinking—”
“It’s him ,” he said, already closing his script. He knows exactly how this ends. “And no.”
Nilou just sat there, the room spinning in the quiet around her, eyes on nothing. Then she looked up, slowly, as if the sheer force of disappointment had weighted her skull.
“Kaveh,” she said, voice softer now. “Please. I’ve already rewritten the lighting cues three times. The costumer has a fever. The script printer jammed and spit out thirty-seven copies of page sixteen and nothing else. I need something to go right.”
“You have me,” Kaveh says, gentle, but not budging. “You have the set, the script, and a Corie who’s prepared and professionally punctual. That’s more than most festival shows get.”
“I need a Paul. ”
“No, you need a replacement that is calm and cooperative, without any stage presence necessary. He just needs to walk in and be tall. That criteria fits many people.”
“I need someone with enough of a presence standing next to you that they don’t disintegrate into the wallpaper. If you hate him to the point that he burns into the foreground, that’s—that's perfect.”
“Was that personal?”
“It’s a compliment!”
From somewhere behind the curtain, a chair scraped.
Candace poked her head out, headset slung around her neck. “For what it’s worth,” she said, “you’re being kind of a diva.”
“I am not.”
“You’re not Furina. You’re literally just some guy.”
Kaveh sputtered at that.
“What the hell?!”
Dehya appeared next, hands in the pockets of her cargo pants, grease on her wrist where she’d been fixing something or other for the last hour. She leaned on the doorway with a quiet, amused sort of judgment. “We’ve all been here for six weeks,” she said. “I’ve worked fourteen-hour days to make sure your second-act lamp doesn’t electrocute anyone. The least you could do is have a heart and play pretend with your roommate for a couple nights.”
“He’s not my roommate,” Kaveh said, and immediately regretted how defensive it sounded.
Nilou squinted at him.
“…You’re not still splitting rent with him?” she asked.
“No,” Kaveh denied, a tad too quickly.
Then, sighing, “Yes. But that’s not the point.”
“So he’s in the building.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“Absolutely not.”
“You’re my last shot, Kaveh.”
“Still no.”
Candace crossed her arms. “You’re really gonna make Nilou drag some poor freshman out of Theater 102 to share a stage with you in front of half the city?”
Dehya clicked her tongue. “What happened to your whole ‘the show must go on’ thing?”
“I said that about the fog machine,” he retorted, standing. “Which, I’ll remind you, still doesn’t work.”
Nilou stood up, finally, brushing invisible lint off her skirt.
She took a slow step forward, pressing her palms together in a motion so reverent it bordered on devotional. Her lower lip wobbled. Then her shoulders slumped. The voice, when it came, was soft and sweet and just a little strained.
“Kaveh,” she started, with the same gravity one might use to address a reluctant saint.
Kaveh didn’t speak. His arms hovered mid-air, not knowing what to do with them.
Nilou took another step closer.
“I’ve had nothing but two throat lozenges and a prop apple. The vending machine ate my mora card. The fog machine is leaking. The kiss choreography still isn’t blocked. There are like, five kiss scenes. And someone just asked if we need a safe word.”
Kaveh raised a hand in front of him, like that might ward her off. “Nilou—”
“I’ll owe you,” she cut in quickly. “For life. For real. I’ll build you a shrine in the green room. I’ll do all your tech week paperwork. I’ll say nice things about the lighting until it starts behaving.”
“Nilou, he doesn’t even—”
“He reads everything and keeps a mental catalogue of what he’s read, he’s even read the script at least once, and I know this because the second I mentioned it he started reciting lines from memory like he was a text-to-speech machine,” Nilou gasped out, rambling with urgency. “It spoke to me. Doesn’t he give off the airs of a disgruntled lawyer? No chances of jumping off of a balcony without a detailed analysis of the benefits and consequences beforehand. I mean this in the nicest way possible. That’s—Kaveh, it’s literally him—”
Kaveh made the mistake of hesitating. She gasped and clasped her hands under her chin, eyes going wide with hope and absurd theatricality.
“You hate each other. You’d file for separation within 6 days. He would never walk barefoot in the park, it isn’t ‘logistically sound.’ He would tell you that there is a 38% chance of surface-level contamination from avian waste alone. Then you'd ask to get divorced. Isn’t that great?”
“Nilou—”
“Please. Just this one time. One time! I’ll buy you a sandwich every day until closing night. I won’t forget the aioli. I’ll remember your oat milk ratio. I’ll personally write a grant to cover your and all of your future inconvenience!”
Kaveh opened his mouth—
“Kaveh. Please. I’ve seen the abyss. It’s full of cold risers and untrained freshmen and stage kisses that look like mouth to mouth resuscitation. Please. ”
He groaned, head tipping back. “Good grief.”
“ Please please please please please please please— ”
“Fine! Yes! Yes, okay? Yes! I’ll do it.”
Clearly she was not expecting a response. Her face lit up like a lantern.
She squealed and launched forward, throwing her arms around him and lifting him clear off the ground in a spinning, breathless victory hug.
“Nilou! Put me down—”
“You love me! ”
“You owe me! ”
The problem, Kaveh decided, was that Nilou was built like an anime girl and weaponized that fact at every opportunity.
No one else could get away with half the things she did. The wide eyes. The theatrical wobbly chin. The quaver in her voice that suggested she might crumble if denied, even though she could and had carried entire set pieces on her back like a bodybuilding world champion during tech week. It was dishonest marketing, frankly. Incredibly misleading. She was a five-foot-three deception wrapped in a ballet cardigan.
And Kaveh—unfortunately, tragically, predictably—was not a monster.
Which was why he now found himself sitting in the green room three days after that conversation, knees pulled up, forehead resting against the edge of his script like the sheer force of secondhand embarrassment might physically burrow him into the table.
Someone—probably Candace—had left half a pastry in a napkin next to him. He wasn’t sure when, but he still hadn’t moved to touch it. Acknowledging the events to unfold made him lose his appetite.
“Gods,” he muttered. “He hasn’t even said anything yet and I already regret everything.”
When the door creaked open Kaveh flinched like it’d be a debt collector.
It was only Dehya.
She took one look at him and laughed loudly.
“He’s not contagious, you know,” she said, dropping her backpack next to the mini fridge with a thud. “You look like someone told you he was going to propose.”
“It’s worse,” Kaveh said into the table.
“He’s barely even said yes.”
“He said it by showing up.”
“That isn’t a ‘yes’, it’s coercion,” she said, cheerfully. “Besides, if anyone got blackmailed today, it was him. Nilou’s been rehearsing that speech in the mirror since Tuesday.”
“I should have known,” Kaveh whined, lifting his head. “She cornered me with it the same way housing cornered me with him.”
Dehya stared. “You mean the room assignment thing?”
Kaveh groaned. “Oh, don’t get me started.”
“No, actually do get started. You never told me how that happened.”
Kaveh started speaking like an eye-witness testimony to his own trial. “I checked the ‘quiet, non-smoking, probably won’t steal my laundry’ box on the housing form. That’s it. That’s all I did. And instead of a sensible second-year with social skills, they gave me him.”
“Wasn’t he a recommendation?”
“Yes, but not for me. Some upper-level researcher flagged him as a ‘non-disruptive academic candidate with a preference for independent routines,” which is code for ‘loner with a tight schedule.’ Apparently, someone in admin saw that and decided we’d balance each other out.”
Dehya blinked. “They shipped you?”
“They assigned me,” Kaveh snapped. He pressed both palms to his face like the memory had aged him ten years. “And the worst part is—I was excited, Dehya. I’d been saving all semester for a place with actual walls. No bunk beds, no twenty guys to a hall. A door that locks. I was finally getting an apartment-style dorm with a real bedroom and an actual living space and a shared kitchen. I was going to live like a person.”
“And?”
“I opened the door on move-in day and there he was. Luggage already unpacked. Books stacked in order of height. Ugliest room decor known to man. He’d somehow hacked the thermostat. Hacked the thermostat. It was fucking freezing in there, Dehya. I was about to turn into an icicle.”
“…So you knew it was doomed from the start.”
“Oh, absolutely. The moment I walked in and saw him reading a book about syntax mapping in long-dead dialects no one speaks anymore, of all things, at the dining table with headphones on, I knew I’d made a mistake.”
“And yet you stayed.”
“And yet I stayed,” Kaveh repeated, miserably. “Because rent is evil and I’m a creature of comfort.”
“Sure you are,” she laughed.
Kaveh’s head snapped up. “Excuse me? I had candles picked out. I bought a bath mat! I was ready to thrive, Dehya.”
She was clearly unconvinced.
“And, you know, when I called admin to beg for a reassignment, they told me all other shared spaces were full. My only option was to get a solo unit off-campus—and I don’t know if you’ve seen those rates, Dehya, but I’m not paying a king’s ransom just to avoid a man who alphabetizes his snack shelf.”
“Alright, alright,” Dehya leaned her hip against the counter, grinning. “Hey, it can't be that bad.”
Kaveh gave her a look. Then sat up a little straighter, arms folding tightly over his script like it might shield him.
“It’s like—” He paused, searching. “It’s like living with someone who breathes on a different frequency. Like oil and water. No matter how much you shake the bottle, it’s never going to mix. You can see each other, you’re technically in the same space, but fundamentally? You repel. Philosophically. Practically. Viscerally.”
“Poetic.”
“It is not poetic as much as it is a survival assessment.”
She snorted. “Come on. You’re telling me he hasn’t grown on you a little?”
“He’s grown on me like black mold,” Kaveh deadpanned. “Quiet and creeping.”
“…That’s kind of hot.”
“I hate you.”
Dehya raised her hands in surrender, smug as ever. “Alright, alright. I’m just the tech girl. But I am saying—you didn’t throw him out. And he didn’t leave. Which, considering what I’ve heard about you two in the communal laundry room, is a miracle.”
“We tolerate each other because we have no other choice,” Kaveh said, then added, mostly to himself, “and because neither of us will surrender the lease.”
There was a brief pause. Dehya cracked open a fizzy drink and tilted her head.
“Still think you’re the oil?”
“I know I’m the oil.”
“Well, guess that makes him the water,” she said, grinning. “Good luck, lava lamp.”
Kaveh groaned and dropped his head into his hands. Someone called from the other side of the wall.
“Five minutes to warm-ups!”
After adjusting his hoodie, he stood and muttered a prayer to any divine being willing to listen.
The silence was weaponized.
It rang through the theater like a threat. There was the echo of a loaded gun that hadn’t been fired, but sat gleaming on the table between them with the safety off and the safety manual missing.
Kaveh stood center stage with his script in hand, foot tapping softly against the taped outline of the set. The blood had been scrubbed off of the floor meticulously. Above it, Alhaitham was standing on the edge of a glass prop roof looking into the apartment.
He flipped through the script with a bored look, glasses perched on his face.
Kaveh took a breath and called out, sharp and panicked, “Paul! You idiot! Come down! You’ll kill yourself!”
Alhaitham glanced down.
“I want to be a nut. Like everyone else in this building.”
It landed like a dropped fork.
Nilou’s pen made a small snap as the cap broke in her hand.
Kaveh stared at him. “That’s… that’s your delivery?”
“That’s the line.”
Kaveh’s face spasmed like he’d been physically slapped. “Are you kidding me?”
Alhaitham blinked. “Was that wrong?”
“Was it wrong? Tell me, were you reading a suicide prevention pamphlet designed by AI, or from the script?”
“I followed the punctuation. There is a fullstop at the end. I stopped fully.”
“It’s not about punctuation, of all things, it’s the urge to do something dramatically, as an act of love.”
“You want me to perform dramatized instability?”
“No, but act like you care that you’re about to fall off a fucking building!”
Tighnari coughed somewhere in the wings. It sounded suspiciously like laughter.
Nilou held up a hand, voice tight. “Okay—pause. Can we try it again, but maybe like Paul actually wants to do something unhinged and dangerous and tipsy instead of… I don’t know, write an op-ed about it? Kaveh, build the scene. Alhaitham, connect.”
“Fine,” Kaveh muttered, stepping back to reset. He raised his voice again, more raw this time. “Paul, you idiot! Come down! You’ll kill yourself!”
The reply came immediately.
“I want to be a nut like everyone else in this building.”
There was another silence.
Someone dropped a pencil backstage.
Kaveh turned to Nilou, holding back a scream.
“It’s like trying to do a passionate waltz with a fucking bookshelf.”
“A waltz? I stood in the correct position.”
“Your problem is that whenever you stand it looks like you’re queuing for the library bathroom!”
“I wasn’t aware the line required dynamic movement.”
“It requires life, Alhaitham! Basic animation! The essence of sentient motion!”
“Okay. Okay. Let’s… let’s switch it up. Take five, then let’s move to Act Three, Scene One. Kaveh, maybe you can help him find the tone.”
Kaveh dragged a hand down his face. “If it’s constipated, he’s already mastered it.”
“That’s childish.”
“And you’re a child,” he seethed.
Alhaitham leaned onto the edge of the plywood balcony. “Are we done with rehearsal or just maturity?”
Somewhere in the booth, Tighnari muttered.
“So… I’m guessing that’s a no on the kiss scene today?”
Kaveh didn’t respond. He only looked at Nilou, utterly done.
She met his stare with a look that could only be described as maternal desperation.
“Please,” she mouthed.
Kaveh closed his eyes.
Oil and water. He was drowning in it.
Kaveh sighed loudly, long and winded, the physical effort too obvious for any bystanders to believe it natural.
“Are you doing that on purpose,” Alhaitham asked, without looking up from the page, “or are you just that loud by design?”
Kaveh slapped his script shut. “I’m sighing because I’m being smothered.”
“We’re in rehearsal. You’re meant to be focused.”
“I am focused! I’m so focused I’m shaking with the effort of pretending this won’t be a complete disaster.”
Alhaitham finally looked up. “Define ‘disaster.’”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Kaveh said, pacing a quick, dramatic circle that put just enough distance between them to keep him from doing something regrettable with his script. “Maybe the fact that I’m playing a character in love with someone who doesn’t bother to meet the other person halfway. Maybe the part where your body language is impossible to decrypt. Or maybe the fact that your range has three settings and all of them are Do, Not, Disturb, listed consecutively.”
“I’m following the script.”
“You’re killing the script,” Kaveh squinted his eyes. “Murderer.”
Alhaitham jutted his lip out slightly. “You’re exaggerating.”
“You’re underperforming.”
“And you’re overreacting.”
“You’re so divorced from the moment that my own delivery is filing for separation!”
Candace cut in. “You ever consider just kissing and getting it over with?”
Kaveh jerked like the mere suggestion had electrocuted him.
Wincing, Nilou attempted to play the mediator. “Actually—okay—guys—before anyone escalates into murder or civil union, maybe we try…”
She anticipated the reaction. The second part was said much more meekly.
“...method?”
Both of them turned to look at her this time.
She wielded her clipboard like a shield. “Just a suggestion! Some actors use it to find connection. Real-world emotion equals authentic performance. You two do live together.”
“Is it connection,” Kaveh drawled, “when you have to get stockholmed for it?”
Alhaitham, to everyone’s surprise, didn’t immediately reject the idea. He tilted his head, calculating.
Method acting, or the simulation of emotional proximity to generate organic performance.
Logically sound. Anecdotally proven. Slightly manipulative, but no more than rehearsal itself.
“I’d consider it,” he said.
Kaveh looked at him with disgust. “You’d what?”
Nilou perked up, pleased. “Honestly, it could be good! Force you two into emotional proximity. Shared routines. It’s what the characters go through in the play—”
“I’m not sleeping on the couch for this.”
“No one said—”
“I refuse to call him ‘honey.’”
Alhaitham answered. “I wouldn’t ask you to. That would be immersion-breaking.”
The problem, Kaveh decides, wasn’t just that Alhaitham had no range, even when the similarities were so close all he’d have to do was change his name. It was that Nilou somehow expected him to fix it. Performance chemistry was not something you could brute-force by proximity and stubbornness and sheer willpower. Kaveh has already spent a full semester proving that Alhaitham was biologically immune to charm.
“I’m going to scream,” Kaveh muttered, burying his face in his hands.
“You already have,” Candace pointed out, sipping something iced and pitying.
Nilou rubbed her temples.
“Okay, look. You’re actors—well, one of you is. You’re meant to create illusions. Maybe just… pretend you don’t hate each other? And then hate each other when it calls for it.”
“We don’t hate each other,” Kaveh snapped.
Alhaitham, beside him, nodded agreeably. “I simply find him taxing.”
“I’m the taxing one?”
“Absolutely. Frankly speaking, you have an obnoxious tendency to vocalize every internal monologue as if your day-to-day is a performance you need audience validation for.”
Kaveh gaped.
“You—! It’s called being expressive! Some of us aren’t as interesting as… as a furniture catalog!”
“Is that the best you can come up with?” Alhaitham let out a short, amused scoff, crossing his arms loosely. “I think catalogs make for wonderful optimization.”
“But look at that, no one wants to date one.”
“Boys,” Nilou cut in, voice tight. “Act Two, Scene Three. Try it. Please.”
With a shallow breath, Kaveh stepped into place. His script was clenched tight in his hand. It gave him somewhere to direct his rage.
Alhaitham mirrored the movement, settling onto the taped square that marked Paul’s position.
Kaveh raised his voice into the scene, something light and brittle, a little too loud. “You're always dressed right, you always look right, you always say the right things—”
“Because I am right.”
“It’s a line, Alhaitham!”
“Oh. Then what’s the cue?”
Kaveh turned to Nilou, practically vibrating. “He doesn’t even know the lines.”
“I know the lines,” Alhaitham corrected, without looking up. “I just don’t think they’re good.”
“Off-book by Friday,” Nilou scolded. “Both of you.”
Candace passed him a bottle of water and gave his back a few stiff, well-meaning pats, like she was burping a very sad baby. The attempt at comfort fell slightly short of intent.
“I liked the part where you looked like you were going to bite him,” she offered, trying.
Kaveh whimpered into the curtain. “He’s doing it on purpose. He’s trying to kill me slowly.”
“I think that’s just how he is,” she said. “He doesn’t really… escalate. He plateaus you to death.”
Kaveh stared at her. “That’s worse.”
“It is,” she agreed. “You okay?”
“No,” he answered. “I’m in hell.”
Because the universe was cruel and theatrical gods were real, Alhaitham appeared beside them holding a marked-up copy of the script, as if the thought had only just occurred to him.
“If you want to run lines, I’m available after 6.”
Kaveh stared at him, before staring at the script, before staring at Candace. The look on her face told she was actively choosing not to comment.
“You’re not allowed to correct my grammar.”
Alhaitham frowned. “That’s going to be difficult.”
“Deal with it.”
He turned on his heel and stormed off.
Alhaitham watched him go, looking down at his script, before following.
A few feet away, Nilou popped out from behind a cabinet and let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding in.
“Okay,” she said quietly. “That’s something.”
From across the stage, Cyno shouted. “Where’s the body double? Someone moved it.”
“Someone gave it tits,” Dehya yelled back in reply. “The dummy has boobs now.”
“…What? Who?!”
“…Wait, did they really?” Candace squinted. “Oh. Oh wow.”
Nilou ducked back behind the cabinet without another word.
By 6:03, Alhaitham was seated on the couch, back straight, script open in his lap as if it were a legal deposition. By 6:11, he was still sitting there, legs crossed neatly at the ankle.
Kaveh burst into the living room at 6:14, barefoot, hair still wet from a stress-shower, shirt hanging off one shoulder. His copy of the script was clutched in one hand and already crumpled at the corners.
“Don’t you have anything better to do than be early to things you don’t care about?”
Alhaitham didn’t even blink. “No.”
“Gods, of course not.” Kaveh flopped onto the other end of the sofa, meaningfully distant, legs tucked under him like a sulking cat. “Let’s get this over with before I break something.”
“You won’t let your hair down for a minute,” Kaveh said, voice tight as he got up and stood a few feet from the couch. “You couldn’t even relax for one night. Boy, Paul, sometimes you act like a—” He hesitated, because the delivery felt like shouting into fog. “—a…”
Alhaitham, still seated, didn’t look up. “What. A stuffed shirt.”
The energy of a wet towel. However, Kaveh did not react. He was past the initial disbelief.
“Say that again,” he said.
Alhaitham turned a page. “What. A stuffed shirt.”
Kaveh reached up, pressed two fingers against the bridge of his nose, and exhaled, sitting back down. “Say it like you’re in the middle of an argument, not reading instructions off a screen.”
“I tried.”
“No, you didn’t. You sounded bored.”
“I was being dry.”
“You were being useless.”
That got Alhaitham to look up, but only slightly. A flick of the eye, not of the ego. Nothing so easily provoked.
“Say it like it means something!” Kaveh flung his hands up. “Like—like you have skin in the game, not like you’re filing taxes. You’re supposed to sound like you care,” he continued. “Like you’re upset.”
“I didn’t think Paul was upset here.”
“He is upset. That’s the whole point.”
Alhaitham didn’t interrupt, so Kaveh kept going.
“He’s upset because he loves her. She’s tearing into him and he doesn’t know how to give her what she wants and he’s still—he’s still trying, and he’s losing. That’s why he’s upset.”
Alhaitham blinked once, unhelpfully. “Maybe. But I don’t see that in the line.”
“Then you’re not reading it,” Kaveh snapped. “You’re just reciting it.”
“He doesn’t act like it.”
“Because he’s repressed? That’s the entire arc!”
Alhaitham went quiet, as if considering it.
He replied evenly.
“Kaveh, do you want me to act like I’m in love with you?”
Kaveh’s hands clenched around the script.
Is he serious?
As if this was about them and not the scene.
As if asking for effort meant confessing something.
He half-expected a hidden camera crew to emerge from the wings. Expectations be damned, it was always the same with him—deflect, misframe, move like showing basic emotion was some kind of trap.
“I want you to act like the character gives a damn.”
There was a shift. The room went quiet except for the soft rustle of the script where it had settled on the couch. Alhaitham sat motionless.
“I said the words.”
“That’s not enough,” Kaveh said. “Just saying the words isn’t enough.”
Alhaitham adjusted how he was sitting, barely. He exhaled, the annoyance growing infectious.
“Then stop dragging the scene,” he said.
Kaveh’s eyebrows shot up. “Excuse me?”
“Your pacing’s off.”
“My pacing is fine.”
“You’re hesitating.”
“It’s me reacting.”
“Kaveh, you’re restraining.”
Kaveh let the silence stretch. His jaw flexed.
He bit down on the first ten responses that came to mind, most of which involved colorful synonyms for what he wanted to say. This was somehow Kaveh’s fault in the end, a consequence perhaps for tone-policing someone that only ever had one tone. He could practically feel the eye twitch coming.
Biting sarcasm simmered under the surface, but he was trying, for Nilou’s sake, not to burn the whole damn stage down.
So, he replies, clipped and fast, “I didn’t say you’re a stuffed shirt. But you are extremely proper and dignified.”
Alhaitham mirrored him, without missing a beat.
“When? When was I proper and dignified?”
Kaveh looked up from the script.
“You’re doing it again.”
Alhaitham glanced up. “You didn’t like the delivery.”
“Oh, I hated the delivery,” Kaveh shot back. “If that delivery knocked on my door, I’d slam it shut and move apartments.”
Alhaitham closed the script, but left a finger marking the page. “Would you like me to attempt it again?”
Kaveh scoffed, shoulders tight, arms still locked at his sides. “I would like you to attempt it like you’ve met another human being.”
He stopped.
“You know what,” Kaveh said, standing abruptly, “this is pointless.”
“You’re quitting?”
“I’m not quitting. I’m—temporarily removing myself from an unproductive dynamic.”
“That’s a bad HR memo.”
“Shut up.”
Alhaitham watched him pace the room once, twice, a third time before carefully closing the script and resting it on the coffee table. “If the issue is immersion,” he said, “we can try method.”
Kaveh stopped and turned.
“Not this again.”
“I’m simply suggesting—”
“No, you’re deflecting. Because Gods forbid you meet the scene where it is. You’d rather build a study around it.”
“I thought we agreed the scene wasn’t working.”
“It’s not working because you aren’t. You don’t want to connect with me in this scene,” he said. “You want to control it. You want to study it. You’re allergic to connection.”
Alhaitham didn’t flinch. “Do you believe that’s necessary for the performance?”
“I believe it’s necessary for the audience to care.”
Alhaitham reached for the script again but didn’t open it.
“Kaveh, I am trying,” he said. “Just not in the way you want me to.”
Kaveh exhaled hard through his nose and turned away. His hands dragged through his hair, then down over his face, as if scrubbing off the entire conversation. “You make it impossible to get through to you,” he muttered, not quite under his breath.
Alhaitham didn’t respond. That annoying stillness again—he’d paused himself mid-frame, completely detached from the situation.
Kaveh sat down hard. Picked up the script, then immediately slapped it spine-first against his thigh. The pages rustled but didn’t fall apart. One corner had folded under itself, so he tore it flat with his thumb—too forcefully, because he wanted it to tear, just a little.
“You know,” he said quietly, “I don’t even like this play.”
Alhaitham glanced at him, questioning.
“Then why audition?”
“I didn’t. Nilou asked me to. It’s her show.”
“She trusts you.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m good for it.”
“I disagree. You don’t think you’re good for it.”
Kaveh blinked, just once, caught off guard by the quiet certainty in Alhaitham’s voice. There wasn’t the usual air of superiority wrapped in logic—only said as if it were fact. For a second, something in him almost paused to examine it, but he pushed past the impulse. It was Alhaitham, after all. Even sincerity could feel like a test coming from him.
Kaveh let out a breath through his nose. “You disagree with everything.”
“That’s not true.”
Then, he turned his head.
“Then agree with me on this: we shouldn’t do method. It’s unnecessary.”
Alhaitham nodded. “Fine.”
“Fine.”
Once it registered, Kaveh blinked, dumbfounded. “Fine?”
“You’re not ready,” Alhaitham said, voice as matter-of-fact as always. “It wouldn’t work until you are.”
Kaveh stiffened. “I’m not ready?”
“You’re too focused on me.”
Kaveh barked out a laugh. “You think I’m too focused on you ?”
“You’re responding to my flat affect, not the scene. It’s distracting you.”
“It’s killing me.”
“Exactly.”
Kaveh shut up at that. He was waiting for Alhaitham to realize what he’d said and how it sounded. Realize how fucking obnoxious it was to be so calm while accusing someone else of being the problem.
But, he didn’t. He only sat there.
“You’re unbelievable,” Kaveh muttered. “You’re sitting there telling me that my emotional range is the problem?”
Alhaitham shrugged lightly. “It’s not your range. It’s where you’re aiming it.”
Kaveh let out a sharp breath. “You shouldn’t pretend like you’re being helpful.”
“I’m being honest. ”
“You’re being condescending.”
Alhaitham raised a brow. “Would you rather I lie?”
“I’d rather you engage.”
“I am engaging, Kaveh.”
“With feelings! ”
Alhaitham didn’t flinch at the sudden raise of tone.
“You’re confusing rehearsal with catharsis.”
“You’re confusing presence with performance,” Kaveh said. “You think being still will always keep you steady. But it just makes you invisible.”
Alhaitham’s brow twitched, and his parallel nonchalance broke for the first time during that conversation. It was satisfying. “I’m not trying to disappear,” he said, slower this time. “I just don’t think I need to take up space to be part of something.”
“No?” Kaveh tilted his head. “Then how come when we get to the middle of a fight scene, it feels like I’m talking to a fucking brick wall?”
“That’s not what it feels like from my end,” he said.
Kaveh stared at him, slack-jawed. “You think you’re being present right now?”
“I think you’re making this personal.”
“It’s acting, Alhaitham.”
“Yes, it’s acting,” Alhaitham mirrored. “Does it have to be?”
“Gods, I don’t even know how you make it through a conversation with anyone without them throwing a chair.”
“It’s just you,” Alhaitham replied.
Kaveh was seething.
“You’re a vacuum, you know that?”
“It’s hard to connect when you’re trying to prove you’re the only one who cares.”
Kaveh scoffed, ready to fire back—but nothing came out. He had nothing smart to say about that. His mouth hung open for a second too long, then closed with a tight click. So he just looked away.
They sat in the heat, the mess, the suffocating glare of a scene that wouldn’t work no matter how many times they read it aloud. Kaveh didn’t want to look at him. He didn’t want to say anything else, he just wanted to forget the script, forget the festival, forget the fact that this was supposed to be fun .
But of course, Alhaitham wasn’t done.
“If this really isn’t working,” he said, careful, “we should reconsider the method approach.”
Kaveh could only tilt his head back, eyes to the ceiling, like he was trying to physically reign the frustration in.
“No,” he said. Final.
“We’ve already reached a performance plateau,” Alhaitham continued, stupidly unperturbed. “Staging isn’t solving the chemistry problem. Tone correction isn’t helping. Immersion might.”
“I already told you. That’s not the problem.”
“You keep saying that,” Alhaitham said. “But we keep coming back to it.”
“That’s because you keep bringing it up.”
“Because it’s true.”
“No, it’s convenient. You think proximity will force emotional stakes into the scene, but it won’t. Not if you keep treating this like an academic exercise.”
Alhaitham folded his arms. That, at least, was new.
“You said yourself—Paul is upset because he loves her. Because he doesn’t know how to reach her. That’s a lived tension.”
Kaveh narrowed his eyes. “What are you trying to say?”
Alhaitham paused long enough to make Kaveh’s stomach twist.
“If we simulate that proximity,” he said, “you’ll stop performing frustration and start using it.”
“You want me to use this?” Kaveh asked, gesturing between them.
“I want you to stop fighting it.”
Kaveh blinked, slow and careful. “So what, you want to have fake arguments in the kitchen? Eat breakfast in silence? Pretend we’re married for a week?”
“Married is optional,” Alhaitham said. “But shared space, yes. Shared behavior. Maybe a script on the fridge. If you’re up for it, eye contact that lasts longer than two seconds.”
“And what, you’ll just… agree to all that?” Kaveh asked. “You’ll play along? Even when you can’t even deliver a line like you’re breathing air instead of reading it from a file?”
“If it helps the scene,” Alhaitham said plainly, “yes.”
Kaveh stared at him, resisting the urge to pace. The idea of method acting coming from Alhaitham of all people was almost insulting. And yet… the precision, the control, the way he absorbed detail like it was data—it wasn’t impossible. If anyone could brute-force emotion into a scene through sheer technical commitment, it’d be him. That was the problem. It might actually work.
The worst part wasn’t the suggestion.
It was the fact that it made sense.
And Kaveh hated that he knew it.
“…You’re serious,” he muttered.
“I always am.”
Kaveh sat back, exhaled, and rubbed at his face, relenting. “This is going to suck.”
Alhaitham didn’t disagree with that.
“If this turns into some drawn-out, method-actor breakdown bullshit,” he said, voice quiet but sharp, “I’m sleeping on Candace’s floor.”
“Understood.”
“And you’re not allowed to pull any of that ‘detached husband’ crap. If we’re doing this, you react . You meet me in the scene.”
Alhaitham gave a short nod. “Fine.”
Kaveh stared at him for another beat, like he was still half-expecting resistance. None came.
He held back tears.
The next day, they walked in holding hands.
As disgusting as it was, Kaveh’s fingers were curled around Alhaitham’s with the kind of grip that suggested he was making the active effort to pretend he wasn’t thinking about it. His expression was blank in the way only exhaustion could mow a person. With it, it was not hard to assume he’d accepted something awful in the night and was now choosing to suffer through it out of sheer pettiness alone.
Alhaitham looked no different than he did any other day. His hand was steady in Kaveh’s, like they did this every morning.
They crossed the rehearsal floor, released each other’s hands without a glance, and sat down three feet apart.
Nilou, halfway through setting up her clipboard and a mug of something vaguely herbal, paused mid-step.
Candace blinked twice. “What.”
Dehya, seated in the back row of the risers with a protein bar half-unwrapped, lowered it as if she were watching an eclipse happening indoors.
“Are you dating or fighting to the death.”
“Both,” Kaveh said flatly, flipping open his script.
“Ah,” Cyno nodded. “Lovers-to-enemies-to-cohabiting coworkers. A classic.”
Tighnari, seated nearby with a highlighter and a page of light cues, lifted his head very slowly. “Is… is this a prank?”
“No,” Alhaitham said. “We’ve started method.”
There was a pause.
Tighnari squinted. “Method as in… immersive character-building or method as in ‘we’re going to make everyone else uncomfortable for two weeks straight?’”
“Yes,” Alhaitham said.
Candace leaned toward Nilou. “You knew about this?”
“I encouraged emotional proximity,” Nilou whispered, eyes wide. “I didn’t think it would… manifest like that. ”
Kaveh slumped deeper into the couch, one hand shielding his face.
“Scene three,” he muttered.
“Scene three,” Alhaitham confirmed.
They opened their scripts at the same time.
From the back row, Dehya took another bite of her bar. “This is the worst version of Mr. & Mrs. Smith I’ve ever seen.”
“Shhh,” Cyno said, visibly delighted. “Don’t ruin it.”
The next afternoon, they arrived together again.
This time, no handholding. But Alhaitham opened the studio door and waited just long enough for Kaveh to step through first. Kaveh didn’t acknowledge it, walking in like it was routine.
As they crossed the rehearsal space, Kaveh reached up and flicked a piece of lint off Alhaitham’s shoulder. Then, without looking, straightened the line of Alhaitham’s collar with two fingers. Alhaitham had no issue with that, only adjusting the strap of Kaveh’s bag higher on his shoulder like he was fine-tuning a backpack on a child.
Once they sat down, Alhaitham pulled two thermoses out of his bag, one silver, one dark red. He handed the red one across the table. It was already unscrewed.
Kaveh took it without comment. When he sipped it, his face twisted in a grimace.
“This is the protein one.”
“You said you were low on iron.”
“I said I wanted juice.”
“Protein digests slower.”
“I hope you know you’re going to make someone cry if you keep talking like that.”
“I assume you mean me?”
“Correct.”
Across the room, Dehya raised an eyebrow and leaned into Cyno’s side.
“Why does it feel like they’ve been fake-married for seven years already?”
Absorbed, Cyno watched them with curiosity. “This is better than the stage kiss rehearsal.”
Dehya turned to him. “We haven’t even had one yet.”
“Exactly,” Cyno said, eyes never leaving them. “This is prelude.”
“Archons,” Dehya muttered. “They flirt like it’s a hostage negotiation.”
“And neither one plans to surrender.”
“Yes.”
Candace walked in mid-sentence, then stopped, looked at the break room, then looked back at Nilou. “What is happening now.”
“They brought lunch for each other,” Nilou mumbled, dazed.
“They what?”
“They’re methoding.”
Kaveh unsnapped a packed bento from Alhaitham’s bag and peeled it open with the weary air of humiliation. Inside: olives, hummus, spinach, and two slices of grilled chicken.
He sighed. “You really put olives in again.”
“You need sodium.”
“No, you need sodium. I need you to stop projecting your taste palette onto me. Colonizer.”
“Eat the spinach and stop talking.”
“I’d rather die.”
“You’ll die anemic.”
“Then I’ll do it with my pride intact.”
Alhaitham took a slow, measured sip from his thermos. “Do it after dress rehearsal,” he said.
Kaveh smiled with all his teeth. “You’ll miss me.”
Alhaitham glanced at him. “I’ll inherit your amenities. It’ll be like you never left.”
“Oh my Gods, ” Tighnari muttered under his breath.
They started blocking not long after.
Act Two, Scene Three. The one with the fight, again.
Alhaitham stood stage left, Kaveh at center. There was a pause, the usual breath before beginning, and then Alhaitham reached over and tucked a piece of Kaveh’s hair behind his ear.
Kaveh froze, for nothing longer than a second, surprised.
He softly shook his head before he launched into the line like it hadn’t happened, voice sharper than necessary.
“I didn’t say you’re a stuffed shirt. But you are extremely proper and dignified.”
“When? When was I proper and dignified?” Alhaitham asked, this time with actual weight behind the line. Annoyed, a little sharp, a little tired.
It landed?
Kaveh gasped, turning to face him.
“Better,” he said, not in character.
“I thought so,” Alhaitham replied.
“Still needs heat.”
“I’m not cooking. I’m simmering.”
Kaveh scoffed. “Your version of simmering is room temperature.”
Once they made it through the rest of the scene without stopping, Nilou clapped her hands together softly, smiling like she was trying not to look too smug about it. “Good,” she said, mostly to herself, then a little louder: “Let’s circle back in ten. Water, notes, snack—whatever you need. That was solid.”
Tighnari clapped once. “Bravo. I give them three days before someone cracks.”
“Two,” Dehya countered. “And it’ll be Kaveh.”
“I’m standing right here! ” Kaveh shouted.
“We know,” Candace said.
The stage was dark again, but the dressing room lights buzzed overhead. Kaveh sat on a battered trunk, prying a bent staple out of his glove with tweezers he’d stolen from wardrobe.
Nilou stepped in, hairpins clinking. “Reminder,” she said, cheerful as ever, “tomorrow’s potluck. You promised something light.”
Kaveh frowned. “I don’t even remember promising something medium.”
“You were holding the clipboard; that counts.” She offered him a conciliatory thumbs-up and ducked back out before he could argue.
Kaveh sighed, shoved the tweezers in his pocket, and checked his phone. He had nothing in his fridge but mustard and three questionable eggs.
Footsteps approached; Alhaitham appeared in the doorway, flipping through a dog-eared copy of the script.
“Nilou corner you?” he asked without looking up.
“Briefly.”
Alhaitham slid a stray note into the margin and set the script on a table. He reached into the paper cup and held it out. “Last olives.”
Kaveh eyed them, then took one. “Thanks.”
There was something fundamentally unromantic about grocery store lighting.
Everything was too bright, too clean, too white. For Kaveh, who had only intended to run in, grab a few things and leave with a shred of dignity intact, the reality of aisle six was quickly becoming his personal hell.
His shopping basket was already heavy, swinging low from one arm, packed with produce that looked too beautiful to be affordable. He hadn’t meant for this to be complicated. He was only going to pick up ingredients for Nilou’s potluck, something light and harmless and vaguely Mediterranean, and leave alone, with dignity.
But “method,” apparently, had different plans.
Alhaitham had insisted on coming. No, offered. No—showed up. Which was worse, because it meant Kaveh couldn’t even accuse him of overcommitting without also acknowledging that he’d let it happen. And now here they were, simulating “shared domestic routine” like it was part of a rehearsed act, because grocery shopping was something couples did. Together.
The moment they entered, they’d started bickering.
Loud, overlapping commentary that made everyone around them feel like they’d stumbled into the third act of a married couple’s unresolved twenty-year argument. Kaveh was holding a shopping basket that was already more than half full, swinging slightly with each frustrated pivot of his body. Alhaitham was hovering by the shelves, reading nutrition labels. The way he was acting, you’d think he was doing fieldwork.
“Olives,” Kaveh started, irritated, “are not a foundational ingredient.”
“They are when I’m cooking,” Alhaitham replied.
“You’re not the one cooking.”
“You said we needed to look lived-in.”
Kaveh whirled on him, squinting with disdain at his words being minced. “I meant, like—remembering whose side of the bed is whose. Not dragging me into an argument about brine ratios in public.”
Alhaitham dropped a jar into the basket anyway. “You’re overreacting.”
“I’m reacting appropriately to what this is.”
“It’s one jar of olives.”
“A jar that the recipe doesn’t call for.”
A woman edging past them with a bottle of avocado oil glanced over with visible concern. An older lady took one look at Kaveh’s expression and turned directly around, cart squeaking in retreat.
Alhaitham didn’t seem to notice. Or care.
“You’re being dramatic,” he said, adjusting the basket on his arm.
“That’s my job,” Kaveh snapped.
“You’re not in character.”
“I am in character.”
“Corie doesn’t go this crazy over ingredients.”
“Not in my iteration.”
Alhaitham shot him a side eye. “Is this what we’re calling rehearsal now?”
“It’s method, isn’t it?” Kaveh sneered, folding his arms. “You said realism was key. Congratulations. You’re now experiencing a very real moment of me hating you.”
Alhaitham picked up a second jar. “Then we’ll need duplicates, for continuity.”
Kaveh groaned so loudly the hummus guy two aisles over flinched.
He shoved the basket at Alhaitham’s chest and turned, with a stomp, muttering something that sounded vaguely like do what you want before disappearing around the corner.
Alhaitham stood in the aisle a moment longer.
He calmly picked up a bag of pine nuts and dropped them in the basket.
“We need basil,” he called over his shoulder. “For the sauce.”
There was no answer.
Until halfway across the store, a disgruntled voice shouted.
“I’m not making sauce anymore, just because you said that!”
Alhaitham hummed, the corners of his mouth curling up like a satisfied cat.
“If he really meant it, he wouldn’t have picked out the expensive oregano,” he murmured to himself.
He turned toward the checkout line.
Back at their dorm, the kitchen was too quiet. Almost like the walls were listening.
Kaveh stood at the sink, rinsing spinach with passive aggressiveness. His sleeves were rolled up past his elbows, wrists damp, forearms tense. He looked flushed due to low-simmering irritation that had nowhere to go. His hair was tied back messily, a few strands sticking to his temple.
Alhaitham, stationed at the counter behind him, was grinding pine nuts and basil into a slow, smooth paste. Every motion of the pestle was steady.
As the best things go unplanned, once again, they actually weren’t going to cook together. But the second the groceries hit the kitchen counter, they began to argue for ten minutes about who should be doing what. So in the end, they’d split the kitchen like a battleground.
Kaveh didn’t look up from where he was bent over the counter, knife in hand, half a bell pepper already diced and the other half suffering under his passive-aggressive chopping. Each slice cleaner than the last, like he’d been waiting all afternoon to take something apart. “Don’t oversalt it.”
“I never do,” Alhaitham replied.
“You do it passively.”
“And how do you figure that?” Alhaitham asked.
Kaveh placed the knife aside. He wiped his fingers on the dish towel, fingers twitching once before settling.
“You assume lemon will fix everything, and it doesn’t.”
“Because it does,” Alhaitham said, already halfway to defensive. “It balances.”
Kaveh finally spun to face him, brandishing the half-chopped pepper in one hand and the knife in another. “You have a complex about citrus. You have a complex about everything.”
Alhaitham reached for a spoon, tasted the sauce, and hummed. He set the spoon down and stirred again, the motion smooth, bordering on deflecting. He opened the drawer beside him. The citrus press clanked against the metal edge before landing on the counter with a dull ring. He didn’t look up as he scraped the basil paste into a mixing bowl, then reached for the olive oil, unscrewing the cap with two fingers.
Kaveh huffed, louder this time, and shook water from his hands. “Are we going to keep talking like that? Or are we going to pretend we’re normal for five minutes?”
“Define normal,” Alhaitham said, measuring the oil by sight.
“You know what I mean.”
“I don’t think I do.”
Kaveh turned then, halfway, elbow braced on the counter, water still dripping from his fingertips. His eyes narrowed accusingly. “You’re enjoying this.”
Alhaitham met his gaze, steady and unbothered. His hand paused over the bowl, olive oil bottle still tilted.
“Are you not?”
Kaveh stared for a second too long, then scoffed under his breath and turned back to the sink. He grabbed a dish towel and started drying his hands with too much focus.
Behind him, the faint sound of oil hitting basil picked up again.
“Of course not,” he seethed.
“Strange,” Alhaitham said, lightly. “You’re very good at it.”
“At what?”
“At pretending that you are.”
Kaveh dropped the spinach into a bowl and set it down harder than necessary. Leaves bounced. “You’re projecting again.”
Alhaitham didn’t look up. “Observation, not projection.”
“You’re not as subtle as you think,” Kaveh snapped, reaching for the salt.
“You’re more transparent than you think,” Alhaitham replied, calmly slicing a lemon in half.
There was a beat of humid silence. The stove clicked as Kaveh turned the knob, and the burner lit with a faint whoosh. The pot began to simmer, just shy of a boil.
“I’m doing the couscous,” he muttered, half to himself.
“I know,” Alhaitham hummed. “I wouldn’t mind watching you.”
Kaveh paused mid-pour, the box hovering above the pot.
He snapped, “That’s not flirting.”
Alhaitham looked up briefly, cocking his head just enough for Kaveh to register his mock curiosity. “Did I say it was?”
“You’re testing me,” Kaveh said, finishing his pouring.
“I’m experimenting,” Alhaitham replied easily.
“For what?”
“For tone.”
“Experiment this,” Kaveh muttered, flipping him off over one shoulder.
Behind him, Alhaitham stirred the pesto in silence. The movement was meditative, and Kaveh almost fell asleep at the sound.
When Kaveh turned around again, they passed each other—close, too close—in front of the counter. Alhaitham reached for a knife as Kaveh went to grab a spoon. Their hands brushed, light contact, nothing meaningful.
Kaveh flinched anyway. Alhaitham didn’t move. The contact held for a brief moment, then broke.
Kaveh stepped back, heart thudding somewhere it shouldn’t be. “You’re not allowed to touch me if it’s not blocked.”
“We’re not on stage.”
“Exactly.”
“Would you rather I ask first?” Alhaitham asked, quiet now. “Before I touch you.”
Kaveh blinked. “What?”
“I’m asking if that’s your boundary.”
The words landed wrong in Kaveh’s head. His expectations had been lowered so much he didn’t calculate how considerate Alhaitham sounded when he said that.
Kaveh looked away.
“It’s fine. You don’t have to.”
“You just flinched.”
“I was joking,” he replied. “We’re supposed to be married. So. Method.” He internally cringed at how close he was to stammering.
Alhaitham nodded in earnest, going back to what he was doing. Kaveh did too.
For the most part, Kaveh had gotten over it, until about ten minutes later.
When Alhaitham passed by Kaveh again, this time his hand landed lightly at Kaveh’s waist... steadying. A single palm, big, flat and warm, fingers rested at the curve of his hip like it was second nature.
Involuntarily, he shivered. A full-body ripple, subtle and sharp, like the aftershock of something he hadn’t been prepared to feel.
Then he stiffened.
He stopped what he was doing then, locked in place, spine held straight by the quiet weight of a single, unimportant hand and the realization that his skin had gone hot beneath it. Something delicate had brushed against a faultline and if he moved now the whole thing might break open.
Alhaitham didn’t move for another second, then he did. His hand withdrew as calmly as it had arrived, without acknowledgement. There was silence where the warmth had been.
Uh. Okay.
His impeccable timing got to him the most. Because Alhaitham hadn’t hesitated, hadn’t second-guessed it, hadn’t treated it like a boundary or a dare, rather, one smooth, quiet motion, hand to waist like he was steadying a stack of books or reaching past someone in a shared kitchen. It didn’t mean anything at all.
But Kaveh stood dumbfounded, like he’d been pressed there. The print of a palm was still ghosting through the fabric of his shirt.
So natural.
Method.
He stirred the couscous too hard. Steam hissed up and kissed his face. He welcomed the burn. It felt easier to manage than the heat pooling somewhere behind his ribs.
Right, method.
How could I have forgotten.
His next thought came uninvited, sharp and clumsy.
Maybe that’s what he did with his girlfriends.
Maybe he’d done that before—countless times. Late nights in shared apartments, quiet domestic partnerships with someone who fit in the frame better than Kaveh ever could.
And of course he wasn’t ugly. Kaveh had never once thought that. Alhaitham was—fine. Broad-shouldered, clean-cut, sharp in the way that made people stare at him just a second too long. And Kaveh noticed, because how could he not? You’d have to be asleep or dead.
And sure, Kaveh found him insufferable—sharp-tongued, impossible to argue with, always two steps ahead in the most condescending way—but maybe that was just him. With Kaveh.
Maybe he wasn’t like that with everyone else.
Maybe there were people he was soft with. Gentle. Maybe there were moments like this, casual and domestic and quiet, that he’d shared before, with someone who wasn’t constantly getting under his skin.
He imagined it: a girl leaning back into that touch, smiling ear to ear, letting it happen, because for her, it was affection.
Kaveh gripped the handle of his wooden spoon harder. It took effort to resist the urge to start mashing it violently.
Alhaitham hadn’t said anything. If it had meant something, it would have registered. Of course, since it had meant nothing, and because it didn’t, he wouldn’t still be thinking about it.
Alhaitham was already back at the counter, silent, transferring pesto to a small ceramic bowl like nothing had happened. They were just two people in a kitchen, working efficiently toward a shared goal.
He cleared his throat. “Can you—pass me pesto?”
He didn’t look up when he said it.
Alhaitham nodded once. “Of course.”
The couscous finished cooking while the tomatoes roasted. The pesto was drizzled like they were on some show for couples who hated each other but made incredible food. At the table, Kaveh sat down without a word.
“If you say anything about flavor balance,” he muttered, “I swear to the Gods I’ll throw it at you.”
Alhaitham looked at him for a long moment before he picked up his fork. He took a bite, chewing with earnest.
“It’s good,” he nodded.
Kaveh was left unsatisfied with that response. “Just good?”
“Is something wrong with that?”
“Well—no—but, you’re my husband, I expect more of a response.”
“Okay,” Alhaitham thought for a second.
“What if I said you tasted better?”
Kaveh coughed, loudly.
“You’ve made better, I mean. You’re an amazing cook.”
Kaveh sputtered, setting his fork down with a clatter.
“If you’re going to flirt, at least commit to it!”
“Do you not know what a freudian slip is?”
“I do, that’s the issue!”
Alhaitham lip twitched, and if Kaveh were more oblivious, he’d think it was playful. As it is, Kaveh knows that Alhaitham is a prick by nature.
“Then you want me to say it again.”
“I want you to keep your tongue away from any sentence that starts with you taste—”
“You’re the one who told me to engage, wife.”
“Not—not like that.”
“Hard line to walk with you sitting across from me, acting all expectant.”
Kaveh flushed a little.
His brain buffered for a full second before he snapped. “You haven’t been honored the privilege of looking me in the eye while saying that.”
“You said method. I’m doing method. You’re the one making it immersive.”
“I swear—”
“If you kill me,” Alhaitham said calmly, “you’ll have to explain it to Nilou. And she likes my pesto.”
“I hate you.”
“I think,” he smiled, almost teasingly, “you like hating me.”
When Kaveh kicked Alhaitham under the table, he didn’t even flinch.
He just took another bite, chewed slowly, and said, “Still good.”
The mood had settled, sort of. Kaveh packed the leftovers in a tupperware tray to bring in for the potluck. They were still sitting at the table, plates half-empty between them quieted by the hum of evening. The olives remained mostly untouched on Kaveh’s plate, picked around with surgical pettiness.
Kaveh wasn’t looking at him anymore. He was keeping his eyes on the grain pattern of the table, on the line of olive oil he’d accidentally smeared near his wrist, on anything but the person across from him who kept annoying him—showing up too closely, saying too little, touching too easily, irritating.
Alhaitham, for once, said nothing. He ate slowly and neatly. When he was done, he set his dish in the sink, behaved and proper.
He spoke afterwards.
“Did I make you uncomfortable?”
Kaveh’s head shot up.
“What?”
Alhaitham still wasn’t looking at him. “Earlier. The kitchen. I touched you. You flinched.”
Kaveh’s mouth opened, fish-like, but nothing came out.
His fork was still in his hand and he hadn’t moved in nearly thirty seconds.
“You didn’t say anything,” Alhaitham added, still measured. “You said it was fine. But I thought—I wasn’t sure. So I’m asking.”
It hit him harder than it should’ve.
So Alhaitham had noticed? That he had registered the touch, the shiver, the hesitation. That he had waited. He didn’t mock him, he didn’t use it as leverage. He waited until the timing was right to ask, conscious, and… considerate.
Kaveh set his fork down, too gently. His hands were steady, but his heart started thumping harder, pressing up against his chest.
“No,” he said hurriedly. “No, it was—it was nothing. It’s fine.”
Alhaitham glanced up, brows twisted in concern. “Are you sure?”
And that’s when it started.
Asshole.
Well, now, Kaveh couldn’t stop thinking about it. The way it had happened. How natural it felt, how casually Alhaitham had reached for him, how confidently his hand had landed like it belonged there. And now—now he was sitting there across the table with that same unreadability of his, asking if it had made him uncomfortable like he hadn’t just dropped a hand on his waist like he knew how to do that, like he’d done it before.
With someone else. With girlfriends. With people he wanted.
And Kaveh had felt it. Hell, he even shivered. He’d felt it like his body had betrayed him—like he was just waiting for Alhaitham to touch him again and dreading it in the same breath.
Kaveh looked up and made the mistake of meeting his eyes.
Alhaitham’s gaze was steady and Kaveh hated that something in him lit up under it.
“No,” he repeated, voice quieter this time. “It didn’t make me uncomfortable.”
It didn’t sound convincing, even to himself.
“Alright,” Nilou said, hands on her hips, eyes flicking between them. “Let’s run it again. From ‘I’m beginning to wonder if you’re capable of having a good time.’”
He was already halfway into character, but something about the words—you’re capable of having a good time—made his stomach twist.
Alhaitham stood opposite him. That guy hadn’t flubbed a line in four rehearsals.
Kaveh raised his voice and stepped into the scene. “I’m beginning to wonder if you’re capable of having a good time.”
Alhaitham’s delivery was steady. “Why? Because I like to wear my gloves in the winter?”
“No.” Kaveh started to answer, but his voice caught.
His mind snagged hard on the memory of the kitchen—hand at his waist, breath too close, the are you sure spoken like a wound being traced.
He shook his head once, pretending he could physically dislodge it. “Because—”
He glanced down. Shit. Lost it again.
“Because—uh…”
There was a pause too long. Alhaitham waited, just as patient, not mocking.
Kaveh tried again. “There’s not—you’re not the kind of—”
“Line,” he muttered.
Nilou finished it for him, gently. “‘Because there isn’t the least bit of adventure in you.’”
Kaveh swallowed. “Right. Sorry.”
Alhaitham’s gaze didn’t waver.
Candace, perched on the edge of the stage, leaned toward Cyno and whispered, “Wasn’t it him last week that said someone else was dragging the scene?”
Cyno didn’t look up from his sudoku book. “Balance has been restored.”
Kaveh forced his voice up. “Do you know what you are? You’re a watcher. There are Watchers in this world and there are Do-ers—”
He said it too fast. It landed flat, he could feel it.
“You sit around watching the Do-ers do,” he continued, pushing through the stumble.
“Well,” Alhaitham said, slow and cutting, “tonight you watched. And I did.”
The silence afterward was longer than the script called for.
Kaveh stared at him. Just a second too long.
His throat was dry. He moved to speak—and stumbled again.
“You—you couldn’t even relax for one night. Paul, sometimes…”
He stopped.
The line was right there. He knew it and had said it no less than fifteen times this week.
“…sometimes—”
Alhaitham said nothing.
Kaveh blinked at the floor, at the scuffed tape on the stage, anywhere but the eyes across from him.
Nilou gave it. “‘You act like a…’”
Kaveh breathed out through his nose, sharp.
Kaveh flushed. “Sorry. I’m fine. I just—just lost the rhythm.”
Alhaitham tilted his head. “You should be off-book by now.”
“I am off-book,” Kaveh snapped, then immediately regretted it.
It didn’t stir Alhaitham at all, though. He had just said, without judgment, “Take a minute.”
Obviously, as if it made it better, with kindness.
Kaveh turned away, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead. He could feel everyone watching him, but it wasn’t in a cruel way. In some ways, pity is worse than scrutiny.
“Let’s pick it up again in a minute,” Nilou called. “Five-minute water break.”
The hallway was quieter than it had any right to be.
Kaveh leaned against the cool wall outside the rehearsal room, arms folded tight across his chest. The air was still, and the hum of fluorescent lights overhead buzzed low like background static. He wasn’t pacing, only waiting for the adrenaline to drain from his fingertips.
The door behind him clicked open. He didn’t look.
He heard soft footsteps tread carefully. Then a quiet voice, low but close.
“You okay?”
Kaveh let out a breath through his nose. “If I say yes, will you leave?”
Alhaitham didn’t answer.
Kaveh sighed. “Thought so.”
There was a quiet rustle of fabric as Alhaitham leaned against the wall beside him, just close enough without it feeling suffocating.
“I’ve never forgotten lines like that,” Kaveh said finally. It came out too soft.
“I know.”
“I could hear myself flailing. It was like watching a glass fall in slow motion.”
Alhaitham hummed. “Still landed better than Aidan did.”
Kaveh huffed out a laugh.
“There,” Alhaitham said.
“What?”
“A smile.”
Kaveh shook his head. “Don’t start.”
“I’m just saying,” Alhaitham said mildly, “your frown was starting to depress the empty theater.”
Kaveh gave him a sideways glance. “Are you only this emotionally literate when no one’s looking?”
“I’m adaptable, depending on the person.”
Kaveh snorted. “That’s not a compliment.”
“You need one?”
Kaveh momentarily short-circuited. The comeback was right there—it always was—but for some reason his brain decided now was the perfect time to stutter. He pulled a face, more out of habit than anything. “Wow,” he said, drawing the word out like it physically pained him.
Alhaitham barely reacted.
“Hm?”
Then Kaveh asked, suspiciously, “Why are you being nice to me?”
Alhaitham turned his head, brow furrowed just slightly.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
Kaveh shrugged, a little defensive. “You’re usually not.”
“You usually don’t need it.”
Something in Kaveh’s chest shifted at that. He didn’t know what to do with it.
“I don’t need it now, either,” he said, but it lacked bite.
“You sure?”
Kaveh was quiet for a second longer than he meant to be. “No.”
Alhaitham didn’t press.
They stood there together, letting the moment hold.
After a while, Kaveh murmured, “If you tell anyone I got all emo in the hallway, I’ll deny everything.”
“I’ll say it was method.”
Kaveh laughed. For real, this time.
“I hate you,” he said, lighter now.
“I’m still in character.”
Kaveh bumped his shoulder lightly. “Asshole.”
Alhaitham let himself smile, just enough. “Better.”
They didn’t move for a while.
Kaveh leaned his head back against the wall, arms still folded, but looser now. It was less like armor and more like habit. Alhaitham offered some quiet. He stood beside him, eyes forward, weight evenly distributed like he could wait here forever.
The absence of a lecture, a sigh, or a sideways comment was unnerving in itself. Honestly, it felt like a trap.
“…You didn’t have to come after me,” Kaveh said eventually. “I wasn’t about to start sobbing dramatically over a missed cue.”
“Didn’t think you were.”
“Then why?”
Alhaitham shrugged. “You looked like you needed a minute. I had one.”
Kaveh let out a soft scoff, almost a snort. “That’s the most casually infuriating answer I’ve ever heard.”
“You’re welcome.”
“You’re dumb.”
“I’m here, though.”
Kaveh glanced at him. “So what, now you’re the emotional support castmate?”
“No,” Alhaitham said. “Just yours.”
Kaveh blinked.
His stomach did something he immediately refused to acknowledge, again, like it had done in the past 48 hours. He looked away fast, because the hallway wall had suddenly become fascinating. “I’m not quoting that back to you later. Just so we’re clear.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“You don’t even realize how ridiculous you sound sometimes.”
“Maybe,” Alhaitham said, “but I’ll believe you like it.”
Kaveh made a face. “You’re lucky I’m too mentally fried to throw hands right now.”
“You wouldn’t hit me. You’d feel bad.”
Kaveh bumped their arms again, lightly. “I’d feel satisfied.”
Alhaitham smiled again.
“You still shaking?”
Kaveh paused, looked down at his hands. He opened and closed them once.
“…Not as much.”
“Good.”
They didn’t say anything else right away.
After a long moment, Kaveh nudged his shoulder one more time.
“You’re still an asshole.”
“Mm,” Alhaitham murmured. “But a helpful one.”
Kaveh sighed, tilting his head back with a groan. “This is going to stress me out.”
Alhaitham glanced sideways. “The show?”
“No. You being nice.”
“Get used to it,” Alhaitham replied easily. Then he shifted, glancing at the script again.
“We could run lines,” he said.
Kaveh gave him a look. “Now?”
“You’re the one who said I was being nice. Might as well ruin that.”
Kaveh huffed, but grabbed his script anyway. “Fine.”
They flipped pages in near unison, landing on the same highlighted passage.
Alhaitham tilted his script slightly toward the light and said, with what sounded like genuine annoyance, “You’re ridiculous.”
Kaveh raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
“The line,” Alhaitham clarified. “We’re rehearsing, remember?”
“Oh,” Kaveh said, trying not to look too flustered. “Right. In that case—” He cleared his throat. “And you’re not. That’s just the trouble… Like Thursday night—you wouldn’t walk barefoot with me in Washington Square Park. Why not?”
“Very simple answer,” Alhaitham said, without inflection. “It was seventeen degrees.”
Kaveh squinted down at the line. “Exactly. That’s very sensible and logical. Except it isn’t any fun.”
There was a pause. Kaveh leaned back, frowning thoughtfully. “Huh.”
Alhaitham raised an eyebrow. “What?”
“This is disturbingly close to an argument we’d actually have.”
“You mean have had.”
Kaveh rolled his eyes. “Excuse me for enjoying whimsy.”
“Excuse me for wanting my toes to remain attached.”
Kaveh snorted. “Corie would’ve dumped you in a heartbeat.”
“She wouldn’t have gotten frostbite.”
Kaveh nudged his knee, not quite a kick. “You know, if I squint hard enough, I’d almost be charmed by how considerate you are.”
“I’ve been told worse.”
“By me.”
“Frequently.”
Kaveh glanced sideways, watching the way Alhaitham’s eyes tracked the page, half-lidded but alert, like he was cataloguing the lines. Even in a beat-up hoodie with his hair slightly messy from leaning against the wall, he didn’t look bad.
Kaveh tore his eyes away before he could start monologuing about the curve of Alhaitham’s jaw.
Kaveh folded his script shut, tapping it against his thigh. “Thanks, by the way.”
“For what?”
“For coming after me. I’ve been giving you every reason not to.”
Alhaitham looked over. “I happen to like you.”
Kaveh snorted under his breath. “No you don’t.”
“Who says?” Alhaitham asked, tilting his head slightly. He made it sound genuine.
Kaveh gave him a flat look. He couldn’t believe he was being forced to dignify that with a reaction. Instead, he cleared his throat and flicked his wrist at the clock on the wall. “It’s been five minutes. We should get going.”
Alhaitham didn’t move. “Probably.”
Kaveh stared. “Are you going to follow me everywhere now?”
“You say that like it’s not part of the job description.”
Kaveh scoffed, already half on his feet. “You know I’m fine, right?”
Alhaitham didn’t miss a beat. “And you know you’re my wife, right?”
Kaveh faltered mid-step, nearly tripping over his own foot. “Excuse me?”
Alhaitham didn’t even blink. “Have you forgotten already?”
Kaveh turned to him, eyes narrowed. “Forgotten what?”
“The arrangement,” Alhaitham said. “Seems like someone’s not fully committed.”
Kaveh stared at him. “You’re taking this a little too seriously.”
“I’m dedicated,” Alhaitham replied, as if that explained anything.
Kaveh rolled his eyes, brushing past him. “At this point I think you just like messing with me.”
Alhaitham followed at a steady pace, completely unfazed. “You do make it easy.”
Kaveh threw a look over his shoulder. “I’ll make it less easy.”
Alhaitham raised an eyebrow as he caught up. “Is that a promise or a threat?”
“Depends,” Kaveh muttered, tugging open the door. “Are you planning to keep hovering?”
“If I am?”
“Then it’s definitely a threat.”
They stepped back inside the room, the faint buzz of conversation and the clatter of prop boxes filling the air again. The lights were still half-dimmed. Nilou was flipping through her clipboard by the piano, scribbling something furiously with a pink pen.
Kaveh paused by the chairs, script still tucked under his arm. “You really don’t have to babysit me, you know.”
“I know,” Alhaitham said, settling into the seat beside him anyway. “But can’t I?”
Kaveh blinked, caught off guard again for the third time that day. “Seriously, what’s gotten into you?”
Alhaitham leaned back, stretching his legs out without fanfare. “Method.”
“You’re blaming that for everything now?”
“It’s convenient.”
Kaveh gave him a side stare, since he didn’t fully buy it—but also didn’t entirely mind. “Fine. But if you start acting weird in front of everyone, I’m moving out.”
Alhaitham didn’t even look up. “We signed a lease. You’ll need a lawyer.”
“I’ll need a psychiatrist,” Kaveh muttered, turning the page a little too hard.
Alhaitham didn’t respond, but the tiny exhale through his nose gave him away.
“Oh my f—”
Dehya stopped herself just in time, her hand flying to her mouth, eyes going wide.
Cyno looked up from his phone, half-interested. “What?”
She gestured sharply for him to look.
The others followed, one by one, like moths drawn to deeply inappropriate light.
There, on the worn couch of the apartment set, the leads were fast asleep.
Together.
Kaveh was curled in tight on his side, knees tucked, body drawn close, his face resting in the crook of Alhaitham’s neck like it had always belonged there. His arm was loosely draped across Alhaitham’s chest, fingers tangled absently in the fabric of his shirt. His breath was slow and warm, mouth barely parted against skin.
Alhaitham, for his part, had one arm anchored firmly around Kaveh’s back, elbow hooked, palm spread flat between his shoulder blades like it was keeping him there. The other hand rested at Kaveh’s hip, thumb brushing the hem of his shirt. His chin was tilted slightly downward, forehead just grazing Kaveh’s hairline.
It hadn’t started like that. Sometime after the water break and another run through, they’d been sitting, scripts in their laps, running lines again under the excuse of “quiet concentration.” Alhaitham had tilted his head back at some point and closed his eyes. Kaveh had stopped reading soon after. One arm draped over the couch’s armrest, body curled toward the cushions.
Then, slowly, without fanfare, they’d drifted closer. They’d collapsed into the space between them after gravity won, wrapped around each other like two people who never shared space and had just discovered the luxury of another body in sleep.
Tighnari blinked. “They were on opposite sides of the couch half an hour ago.”
“They migrated,” Candace whispered.
“They merged,” Cyno corrected.
“Like mitosis,” Tighnari added.
Dehya had already crouched low with her phone, snapping silent shots from the wings. “Okay. This is better than the tech run kiss that hasn’t happened yet.”
“They’re not dating,” Tighnari reminded her, like the world still made sense.
Candace snorted. “Their lungs are touching. They don’t need to be.”
Nilou tilted her head, frowning. “Do you think they’re warm enough? What if they need a blanket? Kaveh’s always cold.”
“His entire face is pressed against Alhaitham’s throat,” Dehya whispered. “He’s fine.”
As if on cue, Kaveh shifted slightly, breath catching on Alhaitham’s collarbone. His hand tightened in the front of Alhaitham’s shirt. Alhaitham murmured something in his sleep, too soft to catch, but his arm pulled Kaveh closer.
The collective gasp was religious.
Dehya pulled out her phone and set it on burst.
Candace slapped Dehya’s arm. “Send that to me. Send it.”
“I already made a whole folder,” Dehya muttered, grinning.
“Label it ‘evidence,’” Cyno said. “For the trial.”
It hit all at once. The heat at Kaveh’s side, the soft pressure at his waist, the steady breath grazing his temple. He was tucked against Alhaitham’s chest, head nestled right against his neck, one leg caught between Alhaitham’s like they’d been spooning for years. His hand was still gripping the front of his shirt. He didn’t move.
Alhaitham stirred, fingers flexed slightly against Kaveh’s back before going still again, and for one awful, suspended second, they didn’t say anything. They were there, awake, wrapped around each other, breathing the same air, fully aware.
Kaveh pulled back like he’d been electrocuted.
“Fuck—shit, sorry, I didn’t—I didn’t mean to—!”
Alhaitham blinked, slow and dazed. “I think you were drooling on my clavicle.”
“Don’t make it weird!” Kaveh snapped, already halfway off the couch.
“You made it weird.”
“You’re holding me!”
“I was asleep.”
“So was I!”
From the wings was an unmistakable sound of someone wheezing from suppressed laughter.
They froze.
Kaveh gasped when he saw one of Tighnari’s ears twitching from behind the curtain.
“You—!”
After that, things changed, a little.
Kaveh came home from rehearsal to find his charger—the one that he had accused Alhaitham of stealing, missing for three days and the subject of no fewer than two full arguments—coiled neatly on his desk.
There was a sticky note on top.
Drama queen.
He stared at it for a second longer than he should have, then left it there. The next day Alhaitham opened the fridge when he came home from class and found a protein bar he’d been complaining about running out of restocked. He labeled, in careful handwriting:
Sorry.
He quickly scribbled another line underneath it.
I guess.
They didn’t talk about it. Rather, they kept going.
Leftovers started showing up in the fridge, split cleanly in two. A slice of cake Kaveh had insisted was “for critique” ended up with Alhaitham’s name taped to the container. Alhaitham replaced the broken mug Kaveh claimed to hate but never threw out.
No explanations.
Kaveh’s laundry ended up folded neatly on his bed one afternoon with a note that said “don’t say I never do anything for you.”
Alhaitham’s textbook pile reorganized itself by subject, somehow.
They started leaving each other notes—but sarcastic ones, not always. Some were jokes, but others were closer to reminders, or things no one else would understand.
Don’t forget your Act III pages.
Drink water before rehearsal, you looked like a corpse yesterday.
Your sweater’s on the balcony. I didn’t touch it. It just fell.
The apartment got quieter when things got done without being asked.
Kaveh found his coffee made more than once. Alhaitham found his scripts with bookmarked pages he didn’t remember marking. After Kaveh restocked a new tube of toothpaste inside the bathroom cabinet, he left a note that wrote “you’re welcome.”
A few hours later, a response, in Alhaitham’s handwriting:
“Thank you, dearest.”
Kaveh, clearly infuriated by his display of mockery, kept it.
They were on the couch, mid-evening, post-rehearsal, post-dinner. The living room was dim but warm, the soft flicker of the TV casting shadows on the ceiling. Their scripts were abandoned somewhere behind them. A container of half-eaten dumplings sat on the coffee table.
On screen, two overly dramatic nobles were arguing in a candlelit corridor, flanked by an inexplicable number of swan motifs. The show— Thorns & Tea , a cult-favorite period drama Kaveh had insisted they watch “ironically” and now refused to admit he was emotionally invested in—was reaching its nightly crescendo. Lord Thistledown had just been slapped by his ex-fiancé-slash-foreign envoy and declared, with full conviction, “You wound me, darling—but I love you still.”
Kaveh snorted. “Didn’t he try to assassinate her last episode?”
“He missed,” Alhaitham replied.
“How do you miss with poison? ”
“She built up a tolerance. He does it a lot.”
The next line was a breathless, “My sweet velvet nightmare,” followed by a close-up of him clutching a bloodstained glove.
Kaveh set down his chopsticks. The television flickered softly. On screen, someone was weeping in a garden over a steel locket. Kaveh’s brain unwillingly slipped away.
Suddenly, he wasn’t on the couch anymore.
No, now he was standing beneath a vaulted ceiling, all stained glass and candlelight, with an ornate chandelier swaying slightly overhead from the sheer weight of plot tension. His coat was longer. His boots had heels. His collar stood unnaturally high and very dramatic.
And his corset, because of course there was a corset, was cinched so tightly he could barely breathe. His waist had never looked better. He was also suffering immensely.
Across the room, at the top of a grand staircase, stood Alhaitham.
Damn.
Wearing a red-lined cape and a waistcoat that did unspeakable things to his shoulders. In one hand, he held a goblet, ruby dark, definitely blood. In the other, a single black glove he was peeling off finger by finger rather sexily.
Why was his brain casting Alhaitham as a smug, sexy vampire in a waistcoat? Worse—why was it working?
“You came,” Kaveh said, breath catching. “Despite everything.”
Alhaitham’s voice echoed from the stairs. “I always do, my flame.”
Kaveh turned away sharply, cape flaring out, voice wounded. “Don’t say things like that,” he bit out. “You know what they do to me.”
“You wound yourself, beloved.” Alhaitham descended the staircase, slow and certain. “I merely speak the truth.”
Kaveh pressed a hand to his chest. “And yet your words sting like a dagger forged from broken promises, darling.”
Alhaitham stepped closer. His eyes glinted. “You’re bleeding,” he said, voice low.
Kaveh touched his neck and, oh—yeah. Fang marks. Right. Forgot about that part.
“I’m fine,” he said. “It’s just decorative.”
Alhaitham looked unimpressed. “You’ll end up fainting later if we don’t get that bandaged.”
“I never faint.”
“You did, last time, into a hedge.”
“That hedge caught me,” Kaveh snapped. “Like a gentleman. You wouldn’t understand.”
Suddenly, a thunderclap, lightning. Possibly bats.
Kaveh clutched at the folds of his coat. “We can’t keep doing this,” he whispered, voice trembling with tragic resolve.
“We’re not doing anything.”
“Exactly,” Kaveh breathed. “And it’s killing me.”
Alhaitham stepped closer, the tip of his boot barely brushing Kaveh’s. His voice dropped to a whisper, smooth as silk and dark like shadows.
“Then let me kill you with a kiss, my nightingale.”
His hand rose, long fingertips ghosting along Kaveh’s jaw. The air pulsed around them. A strong velvet, the scent of old roses drifting through the grand hall. Kaveh’s breath hitched as Alhaitham’s thumb traced the line of his cheekbone, slow enough to feel every heartbeat.
And then—
“Hello?”
No—wait. That wasn’t part of the fantasy.
“Kaveh.”
The ballroom simmered.
“Kaveh.”
The stained glass blinked out. The chandelier collapsed into a ceiling fan.
His entire fake castle imploded in a puff of smoke.
Kaveh blinked. He was on the couch again. The TV was playing an ad for paper towels. Alhaitham was staring at him.
“…Are you okay?”
Kaveh cleared his throat. He certainly hadn’t just mentally staged a gothic period drama. “Yes.”
He picked up his chopsticks again, poked at a dumpling, and tried not to look like his brain had just crash-landed back in reality. After a beat, he said, too casually, innocent in nature, acting as if he hadn’t just heard the words my flame whispered from the top of a marble staircase,
“Should we start using pet names?”
Alhaitham looked up from the cushion he’d leaned into, one eyebrow raised. “For what?”
“You know. For realism.”
“Realism.”
“They’re married,” Kaveh said, waving a hand vaguely. “Paul and Corie. It’s not weird. Married couples say things like that.”
There was a pause. Alhaitham just watched him.
“You’re suggesting we use pet names,” he repeated slowly.
Kaveh immediately backpedaled.
“I mean—I wouldn’t. I’m not going to. Obviously. That’s not my—I’m not a pet name person.”
“So you were expecting me to call you them?”
Kaveh froze.
His mouth opened and closed like a fish. “What—no—I didn’t say that—”
“You said we should use pet names.”
“For immersion!”
“And now you’re saying you won’t.”
“I can’t—I mean I wouldn’t—but that doesn’t mean you—!”
“You want me to call you sweetheart?”
“No!”
“Darling?”
“Don’t—don’t say that word!”
“Cutie?”
Kaveh physically recoiled, voice cracking. “Oh my Gods, shut up! I hate you!”
Alhaitham kept steady. He tilted his head slightly, eyes fixed on Kaveh with the kind of perceptive focus that made the burning underneath his skin ten times worse.
“You said realism,” he said, measured and a little dangerous.
“I meant in theory!”
“So you don’t want me to call you baby.”
“I—what—I never said—!”
“Are you blushing?”
“No I didn’t! I—shut up!” Kaveh stuttered. His hand flew up to his face before immediately dropping again, catching himself halfway through his attempt at shameful hiding. He fumbled for a pillow and clutched it to his chest. “You’re— this— isn’t fair!”
“You’re flustered.”
“I’m not!” he hissed, hugging the pillow tighter. “I’m horrified. There’s a difference!”
“Mm,” Alhaitham said thoughtfully. “You’re trembling.”
Kaveh looked down at his own hands and panicked harder. “That’s a medical thing. I’m low on salt. Or iron. Or—oxygen.”
Alhaitham leaned in.
It was subtle, quiet, almost imperceptible—but Kaveh felt it, static under his skin. His back pressed against the arm of the couch. There was nowhere else to go.
“You’re backing away,” Alhaitham observed.
“I’m maintaining safe distance from your smug face,” Kaveh managed, voice climbing in pitch.
“I could stop.”
“You should stop.”
“Do you want me to?”
Kaveh opened his mouth, then stopped. His face went pink. Then red. Then deeper red. He didn’t answer.
Alhaitham leaned a fraction closer. Their knees bumped. Kaveh’s breath stuttered.
He continued, softly, offering something different this time.
“Should we practice kissing?”
Kaveh’s eyes widened. “What—”
Alhaitham didn’t falter, only pulling the pillow from between Kaveh’s arms, before continuing.
“For realism.”
There was a warmth that pressed in around them, tight, hot and crackling.
Kaveh’s mouth opened again, barely.
“…Y-you’re not serious.”
“Am I not?”
“I—you—” Kaveh let out a breathless, desperate laugh. “You can’t be—”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ll say yes.”
That shut Alhaitham up.
The space between them felt smaller than it had any right to be.
Kaveh’s voice, when he spoke again, was quieter. Shakier, ever so slightly, but from something entirely different now.
“…and you can’t look at me like that, either.”
“How am I looking at you?”
Kaveh swallowed. “You just look like you want it too.”
Alhaitham said nothing.
No one moved.
The silence stretched between them, taut as wire. Kaveh’s breath hitched, and Alhaitham heard it—felt it, in the subtle tremble of the air.
Then, slowly, willfully, Alhaitham leaned in.
Kaveh froze.
He didn’t pull back, but he didn’t lean forward either. He had no idea why he was just there, completely frozen. He was completely resigned to sit there, wide-eyed, stupid, lips parted slightly like he’d forgotten how to close them.
Alhaitham brought his mouth close to Kaveh’s ear, hovering, barely there. It was close enough for heat, close enough for something done with intention.
And then, low, lower than before, voice warm and unhurried,
“Baby.”
Kaveh shivered.
His hands, clenched in his lap, twitched like he wasn’t sure if he should push Alhaitham away or grab his shirt and haul him in. His knees knocked together from where he was half-curled against the armrest, every inch of him pulled tight.
“You’re—” His voice broke. He cleared his throat. “You’re messing with me.”
Alhaitham said nothing. He stayed there, steady. A breath away, waiting again.
Kaveh swallowed, throat dry. His gaze dropped to Alhaitham’s mouth. He didn’t mean to, nor did he want to.
“Don’t do that,” he hissed, voice cracking.
Alhaitham didn’t back up.
“Sweetheart.”
Kaveh jolted. Just hearing the word had grazed a nerve. His hand came up automatically, smacking Alhaitham’s shoulder in a weak, open-palmed protest.
“Honey.”
Another hit—more of a swat, really, as Kaveh batted at his bicep. “You’re really not funny—stop it!”
Alhaitham’s mouth tilted. “Mm. Not funny.”
He leaned in closer, until his voice curled right into Kaveh’s skin.
“You’re so cute.”
Kaveh made a noise—an outraged, flustered, half-gasped thing—and pushed at his chest with both hands.
“That’s not even—that’s worse!”
“Worse how?”
“Because it’s not a name anymore!”
Alhaitham blinked innocently. “Accurate, though.”
“Shut up,” Kaveh breathed, hands still against his chest.
Alhaitham hummed softly and tilted his head, eyes locked on Kaveh’s mouth. Kaveh tried to retreat, but the couch arm behind him had nowhere left to give.
He spoke again.
“Fussy little baby, aren’t you?”
Kaveh whimpered and slumped forward to bury his face against Alhaitham’s shoulder in defeat.
“I hate you,” he muttered against his collar.
“You said that already.”
“I’ll say it again.”
“You’re cute. So, so cute.”
Kaveh let out another wounded groan and smacked his shoulder—less of a hit this time, more of a soft, helpless thud.
“And such a bad liar,” Alhaitham continued.
Kaveh was still curled into Alhaitham’s shoulder, face burning, eyes wide, breath uneven. His fingers were curled tight in the front of Alhaitham’s shirt, and he was either anchoring himself or trying to physically stop the world from tilting any further.
And Alhaitham, damn him, was steady. One hand braced lightly at Kaveh’s hip, the other resting against the cushion after he’d decided it had nowhere else to be. His voice had gone quiet.
“You didn’t answer me, baby,” he murmured, head dipping slightly, eyes flicking down.
Kaveh shivered. His grip tightened.
Alhaitham paused for half a breath. Long enough that Kaveh had to look up.
Softly—dangerously close:
“Do you want to practice kissing me?”
The question touched his skin like a dropped match, setting his nerves on fire.
Kaveh’s lips were parted, stuttery. His hands had gone still against Alhaitham’s chest, but they didn’t move away. His eyes flicked down to Alhaitham’s mouth and back up again, panicked, caught, cornered—he couldn’t decide if he was furious or terrified or…
Or something else entirely.
When he spoke, his voice was a whisper—thin and cracked and barely there.
“…For realism?”
Alhaitham didn’t flinch.
“Yes,” he said, low and sure. “For realism.”
Kaveh’s heart was stuttering out of time. He briefly considered the possibility of arrhythmia—if he had to go to the ER, it’d be his fault.
Alhaitham asked again.
“Can I?”
Kaveh nodded, meekly.
Alhaitham leaned in and kissed him.
It wasn’t gentle, but nothing close to harsh at all, lacking any hesitance. He felt solid against his lips. His mouth met Kaveh’s like he already knew how he tasted, like he’d been thinking about this too long to start soft.
Kaveh made a sound, sharp and surprised, and clutched tighter at his shirt, pulling him in. His lips parted before he realized what he was doing, and Alhaitham took the opening immediately, tongue sliding in with quiet, practiced confidence.
Kaveh whimpered against him.
It was a mortifying sound he’d never made onstage. For realism—my ass. It was a sound no one would ever believe was in the script at all. But Gods, if it didn’t make for such a great excuse.
He kissed back—too fast, too messy, all tongue and heat and desperation, like he was trying to make up for the months of avoiding each other so fervently, that being what led them here.
When they finally broke apart, it was barely half a breath. A strand of spit pulled from their tongues. Kaveh’s chest heaved. Alhaitham’s thumb brushed his jaw, slow.
Kaveh whispered, dazed and flushed, “…that was…”
Before Kaveh could finish, Alhaitham’s mouth ghosted over his again.
He slotted his lips back against Kaveh’s, desperate and wanting. He couldn’t get enough, like he knew exactly what he wanted, and what Kaveh needed before Kaveh did.
Kaveh made a helpless sound, half gasp, half moan, and opened up under it instinctively. His grip tightened. His mouth parted, and Alhaitham’s tongue slid past his lips another time, hungrier, slow and devastating.
Kaveh kissed back soft and needy, one hand fisting in Alhaitham’s shirt like he meant to tear it. He tasted heat, salt, something he didn’t have words for, something that left him aching, shaking, pulled tight as a wire.
When they finally broke apart, both of them were breathless. Kaveh’s chest rose in short, shallow bursts. His lips were pink, kiss-damp, parted.
They didn’t move far. But it was enough for their lips to part. Enough for Kaveh to inhale shakily, eyes still half-lidded, ditzy, flushed all the way down to his throat. His hands were still curled in Alhaitham’s shirt. His chest rose and fell like he’d just been dropped into cold water.
Alhaitham’s eyes were locked on him. Steady. Grounding.
Neither of them spoke right away.
The air was too heavy. Their mouths were still too close.
Voice raw, unsteady, scraped up from the bottom of his ribs, Kaveh whispered, “That… wasn’t in the script.”
Alhaitham looked at him, gaze sweeping over kiss-bitten lips, trembling fingers, the stunned flush still blooming high on his cheeks.
“So pretty,” he murmured.
Then his hand moved, slow and careful, to Kaveh’s jaw. His thumb brushed beneath the corner of his mouth, tracing something invisible.
“No,” he responded eventually. “It wasn’t.”
Kaveh didn’t pull away.
He couldn’t.
He just blinked, once, too slow. His heart stuttered in his chest, and his mouth parted like he meant to say something. But didn’t. Couldn’t.
Alhaitham’s hand stayed at his jaw.
And then, just as gently,
“Do you want to do it again?”
Kaveh’s breath caught.
This time, he didn’t answer with words.
He kissed him again.
It didn’t stop after that.
There was no conversation, no awkward morning-after debrief. There was a new rhythm folding into place where silence used to sit.
The next time it happened, it was in the kitchen, between loading the dishwasher and arguing about whether basil counted as a leafy green. Alhaitham had said something dry. Kaveh had rolled his eyes and leaned in.
Their mouths had met like gravity.
By the end of the week, it had happened four more times.
None of them were the same.
The third kiss was all teeth, frustrated, sharp-edged, stolen right after a tense rehearsal when Kaveh had slammed the apartment door behind them and Alhaitham had kissed the anger right out of his mouth.
The fourth was slow. Sleep-heavy. Kaveh’s hands in Alhaitham’s hair at midnight, standing in the hallway like he’d wandered out of his room and forgotten why. That one lasted too long. Neither of them said anything after.
It became a thing.
Just something they did.
A pause between lines. A goodbye before rehearsal. A breath caught between scenes. Sometimes Kaveh would look up from his script and Alhaitham would already be leaning forward. They’d kiss like they’d always done it, like it wasn’t something new, like it meant nothing even though it never really did.
They didn’t talk about it.
So when the day of the kiss rehearsal rolled around, things went a little unexpectedly.
Nilou had prepped for it, emotionally and logistically. She’d cleared the stage, closed the wings, and told everyone—kindly—to “maybe keep their reactions internal.”
She was hoping for a decent kiss.
Passable chemistry.
Not a crime scene.
“First kiss scene. We’ll run through the buildup. Stop right before the kiss, then we’ll walk through the blocking,” she said, voice a little too bright.
Kaveh nodded. Alhaitham nodded.
No one said anything about how calm they looked.
No one said anything about how casually Kaveh was sitting, how he was already leaning, nor did they mention the way Alhaitham’s hand had been resting at the low of back for the last two minutes like they were already on mark.
Nilou sighed. “Whenever you’re ready.”
They started the scene.
It was smooth. Eerily so. No stumbling, no clipped pacing, no overacting. To say the least, Nilou was very impressed.
Kaveh’s voice hit every line in cadence. Alhaitham’s replies were exercised and grounded, moving in a way that made people shift in their seats.
Then came the final cue.
Kaveh moved into him. Alhaitham reached out, fingers brushing Kaveh’s waist, guiding without force.
And then, without hesitation, they kissed.
There wasn’t a single sign of discomfort, nor clumsiness. It was fluid, practiced, and warm, like their mouths already knew what to do.
Kaveh’s hand slipped behind Alhaitham’s neck. Alhaitham tilted his head. Their mouths parted easily, with just enough pressure to suggest depth, just enough to make it last.
A minute passes.
Then another.
Then—
“Oh my Gods,” Candace whispered from the booth.
Dehya gagged. Audibly.
Cyno said nothing. He simply turned around and walked out of the room.
Nilou dropped her clipboard.
The kiss broke.
Kaveh blinked once, then calmly adjusted Alhaitham’s collar like it was part of the scene. Alhaitham brushed his thumb across Kaveh’s jaw.
Neither of them looked flustered.
They looked rehearsed. Extremely ruined.
“Was that—was that good?” Kaveh asked, voice even.
Nilou stared. “I… yeah. Yes. That was. Technically perfect.”
Kaveh nodded.
“Cool. Should we run it again?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Okay,” Candace said, slamming her water bottle down onto the green room table. “Who is going to say it first?”
Dehya was already one step ahead. “That was borderline pornographic.”
“I saw tongue,” Tighnari muttered, horrified. “As in. Not even implied. It was real-time witnessed tongue.”
“Technically,” Cyno said from where he sat curled in the armchair, hands folded, “it was impressive, blocking-wise. Synchronized tilt. No mic collision. Very clean.”
“Cyno.”
“I’m just saying. I respect the craft.”
“Respect the—?” Dehya snapped. “That was deeply practiced, deeply personal, deeply recreational.”
“They kissed like they’d been kissing,” Tighnari said. “Like, for fun, not for blocking.”
Nilou sat back in her chair and pinched the bridge of her nose. “They have been, right?”
Dehya turned slowly. “Do you have intel?”
“I don’t have intel, but I have vibes. And the vibes have been weird since the nap incident.”
“The nap incident was five days ago.”
“They were cuddling like they were between takes on a drama set. I swear I could hear the shalalala~,” Candace said.
“…And I don’t care how good your method acting is, no one spoons like that with someone they hate.”
Cyno nodded solemnly. “We’ve all seen the footage.”
“You filmed it?”
“It was archival, for theater history.”
Candace ignored that. “Okay. But the kiss today? That was—like, come home with me after the cast party.”
“That was very much we live together and the sexual tension broke a week ago and we’re pretending it didn’t,” Tighnari said.
“Oh my gods,” Dehya groaned. “They’re dating and denying it.”
There was a pause.
Dehya turned to Candace. “You know the worst part?”
Candace didn’t even look up. “What.”
“I still kind of ship it.”
“Dehya!”
“That was just… so… premeditated.”
“They’ve been ‘rehearsing’ alone for a week,” Candace said. “Of course it was premeditated.”
Cyno glanced up from his sudoku and nodded. “I’ve updated the graph.”
“What graph,” Dehya asked.
“The sexual tension projection curve.”
Candace dropped into a chair. “Tell me it’s still trending upward.”
“It spiked today,” Cyno said, straight-faced. “We may have passed the point of no return.”
Dehya raised a brow. “What’s the forecast?”
Cyno pulls up the chart on his phone and they all crowd around it.
“If they don’t hook up by tech Monday, it’s going to detonate.”
Tighnari leaned forward. “You think they haven’t already?”
“Seen Haitham’s collar?” Dehya asked. “It was buttoned weird when they came back from break yesterday.”
Nilou groaned. “Okay, okay, but—they’re not fighting.”
“Not yet,” Tighnari said. “That’s worse. That means it’s still sweet.”
“Sweet?” Dehya repeated. “They kissed like they were sealing a pact of mutual destruction.”
Cyno nodded. “That was a ‘we’ve already made bad decisions and we’re going to make worse ones later’ kiss.”
“They’re gonna break,” Candace said flatly. “Before opening night.”
“They’re gonna fuck before opening night,” Dehya corrected. “And then break.”
Everyone went quiet.
Then Cyno said, “I give it one day.”
“Two,” Tighnari said.
“By Monday,” Dehya added, “they’ll either be sleeping together or screaming at each other during costume changes.”
Candace glanced toward the hallway.
“Kaveh didn’t even look smug,” she said. “He melted like butter on a saucepan.”
“That’s because it’s over,” Tighnari said. “He’s in. He’s already doomed.”
Dehya stretched her legs. “Haitham’s probably already thinking about buying a property in their names.”
Cyno closed his sudoku. “We should start writing the eulogy now.”
The bar was too loud for subtlety and too dim for pretense. Nilou had declared that one week out deserved celebration. It started with happy hour specials and devolved into pitchers, shots, and a round of “Which cast member would survive the zombie apocalypse?” Consensus: Tighnari. Least likely? Kaveh.
They were crammed into booths with sticky menus and flickering overhead lights. Kaveh sat with one leg tucked under him, sipping from a sweating glass. He looked composed, flushed, laughing a little too easily, but very in control.
Alhaitham was not.
He’d had just enough to loosen his posture, to lean too heavily into the curve of the booth, to let his thigh rest against Kaveh’s like it had always belonged there.
“You’re drunk,” Kaveh muttered under his breath, leaning in.
“I’m not,” Alhaitham replied, too quickly.
“You are. You’re leaning on me.”
“I’m not leaning. I’ve seated myself firmly.”
“You’re slouched. Has your spine forgotten how to function?”
Alhaitham blinked slowly, then looked at him. “You’re warm.”
“That’s because you’re touching me. Gods, drink some water.”
“Don’t want water,” Alhaitham said, voice low and lazy. “Want you.”
Kaveh nearly choked on his drink.
Across the booth, everyone was too deep in conversation to notice. Candace and Tighnari were arguing. Cyno was only there to placate them if things went wry.
Kaveh’s voice cracked. “What?”
Alhaitham leaned in, just a little. Enough to let his mouth brush close to Kaveh’s ear.
“You kiss like you mean it,” he said. “Do you?”
Kaveh froze.
His pulse jumped. His fingers tightened on his glass. “Are you seriously doing this here?”
“You started it.”
“I did not—”
“You said ‘for realism.’” Alhaitham’s voice had dropped into something quiet and dangerous. “Is this still that?”
Kaveh swallowed hard. “You’re drunk.”
“And you’re not stopping me.”
Kaveh didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His throat was too tight.
Alhaitham’s hand landed lightly on his knee under the table.
Kaveh breathed, “Alhaitham—”
But Alhaitham was already looking at him with a softness that wasn’t practiced. It was genuine, and open, to the point it felt almost stupidly devastating.
“You like me,” Alhaitham murmured, almost like he was realizing it for the first time.
Kaveh’s heart stuttered in his chest.
“…I should’ve made you eat more before that second beer,” he said faintly.
Alhaitham hicupped.
And then rested his head on Kaveh’s shoulder like it was the most obvious place in the world.
Alhaitham’s head was heavy where it rested against his shoulder, but what got to Kaveh wasn’t the weight.
It was the sheer softness of it all.
The loose, unguarded warmth of it. The way Alhaitham sighed like this—this, of all things—was comfort. The familiar way his fingers brushed gently against Kaveh’s knee under the table, lazy and thoughtless, like a reflex, one you would think is practiced.
Kaveh didn’t move. Rather—he couldn’t.
He stared forward, ignoring Dehya’s cackling, Candace’s sixth cocktail, Tighnari’s increasingly aggressive miming about stage blocking.
Alhaitham shifted. His nose brushed against Kaveh’s neck. He made a low noise, something between a hum and a sigh.
Very quietly, he mumbled something barely intelligible, but if you listened close enough, you’d be able to hear it.
“My baby…”
Kaveh held his breath.
“I like you,” Alhaitham slurred. “I like you so much it’s—” He lifted his head just slightly, eyes barely open. “You’re so pretty when you argue with me. I’d let you win. Every time.”
Kaveh’s mouth parted, heart jumping straight into his throat.
“Alhai—”
“I’d call you—baby,” Alhaitham murmured again, smile slow and lopsided. “Angel. Cutie. Whatever you want. You’re so—you’re so—”
He blinked again, hiccuping.
And then, mid-sentence, his body went slack.
He slumped fully against Kaveh’s side, out cold. Completely asleep. Dead weight, one arm loosely hooked around Kaveh’s waist like he meant to finish the sentence somewhere in his dreams.
Kaveh sat frozen in place.
Walking Alhaitham back to the apartment was a nightmare.
Not because he was loud, because—well, he wasn’t. Ever. Not because he was heavy—Kaveh had dragged set pieces heavier than this. No, the problem was that Alhaitham had gone completely soft in every muscle, limp and warm and pliant, clinging loosely to Kaveh’s waist the whole way like a goddamn barnacle with a six-foot wingspan.
Getting Alhaitham out of the car was the first trial. Getting him upright was the second. By the time they were a corner away, Kaveh was convinced he’d already done enough heavy lifting to qualify for a gym discount.
“This is absurd,” he grumbled under his breath, looping one of Alhaitham’s arms over his shoulder. “You’re not even drunk. You had, like, two or three drinks. What are you made of, lead?”
Alhaitham made a low, agreeable noise against his neck, which wasn’t helpful.
The city was quieter than usual. Streetlights glowed like tired sentinels, casting long shadows that stretched behind them as they shuffled up the sidewalk. Kaveh’s feet ached in his shoes. The weight leaning into him wasn’t exactly unbearable, but it was committed to giving him a hard time. Alhaitham had decided, somewhere around the second block, to abandon all self-propulsion and let Kaveh do the work.
“You’re so dramatic,” Kaveh hissed through his teeth, adjusting his grip. “You can lecture everyone on ‘efficiency’ all day long but the second you’re remotely tipsy, you go boneless like a starfish on vacation.”
“Mm,” Alhaitham mumbled, swaying with each step. “Vacation…”
“I wasn’t talking to you.”
Still, the sound of Alhaitham’s voice, sleep-warm and quiet, kept catching him off guard. It curled against his jaw with every slow exhale, too close and too real. His fingers clutched at the fabric of Kaveh’s coat whenever they wobbled, and Kaveh felt every twitch of movement like static crawling down his spine.
They turned the corner, apartment building in sight.
“Don’t you dare fall asleep,” Kaveh muttered, shaking him slightly. “We are not stopping in the stairwell. I will leave you there. Like a cautionary tale.”
Alhaitham’s head lolled a little toward him. “Pretty…”
Kaveh blinked. “What.”
“…door,” Alhaitham finished after a beat, eyelids barely open.
Kaveh rolled his eyes so hard it gave him a headache. “You’re lucky I’m nice.”
“Cute,” Alhaitham slurred, nearly tripping over the welcome mat. “Nice… cute…”
“Stop that.” Kaveh elbowed him gently in the ribs. “If you’re gonna be annoying, at least stay conscious long enough for me to fight you.”
Alhaitham made a noise that might have been a laugh or a burp. Kaveh wasn’t willing to investigate further.
When they reached the door, he propped Alhaitham against the wall with one arm and fumbled for the keys with the other. “If you puke while I’m unlocking this, I’m letting you sleep outside.”
There was a pause.
“Mm… warm… door.”
“Oh my gods.” Kaveh finally got the key in, swung the door open, and all but dragged him across the threshold. “You’re not even saying words anymore.”
Alhaitham mumbled something truly incomprehensible and then, just as they cleared the entryway, leaned heavily against him and whispered, like it was a great secret: “Smell nice.”
Kaveh froze.
“Okay. Nope. No more talking. Don’t throw up on your shoes,” Kaveh muttered, adjusting his grip as Alhaitham sagged even further into him, nearly knocking them both off balance. “Or mine. Gods, especially not mine.”
He managed to get him inside, down the hall, into the bedroom. It took two tries to get him out of his coat, another to get him horizontal. Alhaitham was barely awake by then, eyes fluttering, cheek smushed against the pillow, a faint crease in his brow. Even when he was like this, it was clear his body didn’t know how to rest without analyzing something first.
Kaveh exhaled shakily and stood at the edge of the bed, brushing a hand through his hair.
“Okay,” he muttered. “You’re alive. You’re safe. I’m going to get you water and then leave.”
He turned.
A hand caught his wrist.
“Kaveh,” Alhaitham slurred, still mostly unconscious. “Don’t go.”
Kaveh froze. “I’m just getting you—”
“Bed’s cold.”
“You are the bed, you six-foot heat lamp—”
“Stay.”
Kaveh hesitated.
Alhaitham tugged, clumsy but insistent. “Stay,” he repeated. “Come here.”
And then somehow, impossibly, he was in the bed.
Alhaitham had pulled him down without warning, half-sprawled across the mattress before Kaveh could think. A leg hitched over his. An arm curled around his waist. And then a breath at his neck, slow and hot.
His whole body lit up like static.
Then it happened. A kiss, or barely a kiss. It was the faint press of Alhaitham’s lips to the back of his neck, fleeting as if done without a second thought. He didn’t say anything, though. He tightened his arm, settled in closer, and rested his head like it meant nothing at all.
Kaveh forgot how to breathe.
His thoughts scattered, then tried to regroup, failing spectacularly. What was that? What was that? The kiss? The hand? The total lack of follow-up?
His heart stuttered, caught, panicked. It couldn’t decide if it wanted to flee or settle in forever. He didn’t even know where to put his hands. His head rested on Alhaitham’s bicep. His back was against his chest. He could feel everything.
“Haitham,” he whispered.
No answer.
Kaveh smacked his shoulder lightly. Then again.
“Haitham.”
Nothing.
“Haitham.”
Still nothing.
He was left with the steady rise and fall of his breathing and the infuriating weight of the current Alhaitham who’d clearly decided that emotional intimacy was a problem for future Alhaitham. Kaveh hit him one more time, harder this time, as if that would do anything.
“You unbelievable bastard,” he muttered. “Of course you fell asleep.”
The man was completely out cold again.
Kaveh stared at the wall. Maybe it could solve quantum theory if he looked hard enough.
He didn’t move. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t, as his thoughts started circling—quiet at first, then faster, tighter, until they started to devolve, becoming messier.
This doesn’t mean anything.
He’s drunk. He won’t remember.
But what if he does…?
He said he likes me. He said—gods, he said—baby—
Kaveh bit his lip, heart pounding. Alhaitham’s thumb twitched against his waist.
Don’t fall for this.
Don’t fall for it.
Don’t—
Alhaitham woke slowly.
His mouth was dry. His temples throbbed. The light sneaking through the curtains felt like punishment. His whole body was warm—too warm—and his arm was slung across something soft and faintly lemon-scented.
He shifted.
It was a pillow.
Not a person.
Not—
His eyes opened fully, suddenly aware of the ache in his spine, the lingering heat under the covers, the feeling that something, someone—had been there. The other side of the bed was faintly indented, and smelled just like Kaveh’s shampoo.
Alhaitham exhaled, slow and hoarse, and sat up.
There was no note on the pillow.
But on the dresser, in Kaveh’s scribbled handwriting, was a folded piece of paper. One corner was bent. The handwriting looked rushed.
He reached for it with a tired hand.
Went to class. There’s ibuprofen in the bathroom cabinet, drink water with it. I made you breakfast—it’s on the stove.
The eggs are soft-boiled. Don’t argue.
Kaveh
Alhaitham read it twice.
The scent of toast and basil drifted in from the hallway.
He sat back, the note still in his hand, and stared at the wall for a long moment. There was a crease in the pillow where Kaveh’s head had been.
His fingers curled over the paper.
“…Shit.”
Kaveh was not hiding, he told himself, even as he rerouted every hallway walk, adjusted his entry timing by the minute, and used a lamp post like a shield to block any potential line of sight between him and Alhaitham.
He was simply… managing his rehearsal flow. Optimizing his entrances. Minimizing unnecessary emotional friction. A perfectly healthy, methodical avoidance pattern that should earn him a certification in the study of fight or flight, or, more accurately, flight or flight responses.
It wasn’t like he hadn’t shown up. What is he? Inconsiderate? He was not about to pull an Aidan and disappear off of the face of the Earth. For one, because it would be unfair to Nilou, and two, for a more selfish reason—because Kaveh did not want to see Alhaitham kissing someone else in the same way Alhaitham kissed him. As ironic as it is.
He was at the theater, he was taking notes, he was listening to Nilou and checking and re-highlighting his lines like a professional. But he wasn’t doing any of it near Alhaitham. In fact, he’d mentally charted out an entire spatial avoidance strategy that kept at least three other people between them at all times. It was fine. He was fine. Everything was okay! His clipboard hadn’t cracked from the pressure of his grip. Not yet!
Well, what else was he supposed to do? Have a conversation about it? Gods, no. What would he even say?
Hey, remember when you passed out and dragged me in bed to spoon me like a body pillow after calling me baby and whispering that I was pretty whenever I acted like I hated your guts?
…Yeah, I’ve been thinking about that nonstop while trying to convince myself I don’t want to lick your collarbone and make babies with you.
No. Absolutely not. The problem wasn’t that Alhaitham had cuddled him like he paid rent on Kaveh’s soul. The problem was that he had done it in his sleep. While drunk.
If there was even a sliver of the possibility that he didn’t remember a single word, no matter how intimate, Kaveh would much rather aim for self preservation over public humilation.
The little Kaveh on his shoulder snickered as it grew horns and a tail.
Of course he didn’t mean it. He was drunk. People say things when they’re drunk all the time.
Kaveh had. After one too many failed confrontations and cocky smirks, he’d wake up 12 hours later, drowning in nothing but regret and Pedialyte. People said things when they were sleep-deprived and overserved and standing too close to someone who made them feel seen. They mistake attention for affection. It doesn’t always mean anything.
So maybe Alhaitham had just… slipped?
Maybe it was all muscle memory and ambient heat and momentary affection that dissipated in daylight. Maybe Kaveh had imagined half of it. He was always doing that—taking scraps and spinning them into something that it isn’t and wasn’t ever going to be. He was drunk too, a little.
Alhaitham didn’t have to force anything. That was the thing. He let the script speak, let the movements land where they would. No improvisation, no declarations, nothing of that sort—he left just enough space for Kaveh to fill in the rest. It was never careless; it was meaningful in its restraint. Smart, really. Let the method do the heavy lifting. Let the scene blur the line for him. It’s science. And if someone got confused—if Kaveh got confused—well. That wasn’t Alhaitham’s fault, was it?
Wait a damn minute.
He knew it.
Alhaitham was saying that as Paul, not to Kaveh, but to Corie.
And now he was supposed to what—carry that around like an unsent postcard?
He considered distraction, briefly. A hookup, maybe, or something meaningless, using it like duct tape to cover a dam. He could go out, flirt a little, see what happened. There were options. He’d been told he was charming and attractive. It could work.
The second, even more unhelpful part of his brain kicked in and said, Sure.
And then what?
You think you’re not going to accidentally moan his name the first time someone bites your neck the wrong way?
You’re charming and attractive. But do you want to be called pretty?
By anyone.
Even if it isn’t—
Kaveh dropped his pencil.
He sighed, loud enough to make Dehya glance up from the risers.
“Everything okay?” she asked casually.
“Yeah,” Kaveh said, too fast. “Just—revising.”
She gave him a look that suggested she knew that was a lie, but chose, mercifully, not to press.
He went back to pretending the margin notes he was writing were about transitions and not about every stupid, soft, impossible thing he was feeling. No, he was not hiding. There’s a difference between hiding and simply not being ready.
And if Alhaitham came near him today—if he looked at him like he’d meant it—Kaveh didn’t know what he’d do. If he looked at him like he didn’t, Kaveh still wouldn’t know. At most, cry himself to sleep.
Which was why he couldn’t risk it.
At the very least, until he could look at him without remembering the way he’d said it.
Stay.
He was screwed.
“Kaveh’s avoiding me.”
Nilou, hunched over the edge of the prop box with her hair in a lopsided braid and her forehead pressed to the back of her clipboard, groaned softly into the wood. “Gods,” she mumbled, voice hoarse from either dehydration or karaoke, “please don’t start with the feelings. I just remembered I offered Dehya my Netflix password in exchange for fries.”
Alhaitham didn’t move from where he stood near the stage risers, arms crossed. “He left early. No bag. Didn’t say goodbye. We’ve been leaving together for a week.”
Nilou lifted her head, blinking at him like she was manually rebooting. “Okay. That’s new.”
“I know.”
“Did you… do something?”
“That’s the issue,” Alhaitham said, voice steady but too clipped to be calm. “If I did something, I don’t know what it is. And for as long as he plays hide and seek with me, I’ll never know what it is.”
Nilou sat all the way up at that, shoulders swaying slightly. “Oof. Romantic.”
“It’s cumbersome.”
“It’s romantic and cumbersome. That’s what makes it compelling.”
He shot her a look.
“Sorry,” she said, waving a hand, “still metabolizing tequila.”
They sat in silence for a moment—Alhaitham with his stare fixed somewhere distant.
“Wait,” Nilou said slowly. “You mean after the bar?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.” She blinked, then looked up at him. “You… don’t remember ?”
Alhaitham didn’t answer at first. Then, “I remember arriving. Not leaving.”
“Yikes.” She grimaced. “That tracks.”
“You don’t remember either.”
“I remember dancing with a Dehya shaped blob and losing one of my shoes. I woke up with an energy bar in my bra. I do not remember anything involving plot.”
Alhaitham exhaled through his nose.
Nilou looked at him again, a little more carefully. “Did he look at you weird today?”
“Yes.”
“Talk to you?”
“No.”
“And last night was the last time you saw him?”
“I woke up alone, hugging a pillow. There was a note.”
“What kind?”
“Neutral. Hydration reminder.”
Nilou winced. “Oh no.”
Alhaitham didn’t respond.
She reached for her water bottle, took a long sip, then glanced back up. “You think he’s avoiding you because of what happened?”
“I know he is.”
“You don’t remember what happened.”
“I know him. ”
Nilou was quiet for a moment, then said, “So, you’re just going to wait?”
“I don’t want it explained to me secondhand.”
She smiled faintly. “That’s almost noble.”
“It’s reasonable.”
“It’s very ‘staring at the horizon waiting for your tragic lover to come home.’”
He pouted at that, a little petulant, even if true nonetheless.
“Oh come on,” she continued, standing and stretching. “You two have been acting like exes in denial since the first blocking. I’m amazed it took this long for someone to flee the scene.”
“I didn’t realize your job title included romantic diagnostics.”
“I’m the stage director. That means I’m allowed to judge everything. ”
“I see that now.”
Nilou gave him a long, speculative look. “Okay, but like—what are you guys, anyway?”
Alhaitham blinked. “What?”
“You know. You live together. You fight like an old married couple. You kiss like you’ve been doing it for years. But you ‘hate’ each other? I’m confused.”
He didn’t respond.
Nilou squinted at him. “So?”
Alhaitham looked away, just briefly. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“I haven’t asked.”
“Do you want to know?”
He furrowed his eyebrows.
“I think I do,” he said.
Nilou softened, just slightly. “Well,” she said gently, “you’re not going to find out by talking at the air. You two don’t do things by halves. You know that, right?”
He didn’t reply.
She smiled anyway. “He looks at you like he’s halfway in love and halfway terrified.”
“And I’m the reassuring one in that scenario?”
“You’re the one waiting at the end of the scene, hoping he turns around.”
That gave him something to think about.
Nilou stood, slung her bag over one shoulder, and bumped his arm lightly with her clipboard. “You should ask him.”
“And if he doesn’t answer?”
“Then ask again.”
He raised a brow. “You make it sound simple.”
“It is. Just stupidly difficult.”
Alhaitham gave her a flat look.
“Just make sure you’re not waiting so long he starts thinking you don’t care.”
“I’m not the one who left.”
“No,” she said, pausing, “but you are the one who doesn’t remember saying it.”
“Saying what?”
She gave him a grin. “Exactly.”
Nilou hummed in her throat with too much glitter still stuck to her neck. As she headed out, she stopped just outside the doorway, leaned in with a grin, and flicked two fingers in a lazy salute before disappearing down the hall.
When Alhaitham stayed behind, hands in his pockets, that question hovered in the air where she’d left it.
What are we?
The apartment was still empty when Alhaitham got back.
Again .
Same kettle on the stove. Same faint hint of bergamot in the sink from a cup that hadn’t been washed properly. The window cracked open the exact amount it always was when Kaveh needed air but not too much of it. His scarf was still missing. The one he always left on the back of the couch. Alhaitham hadn’t asked, but he knew it meant he wasn’t coming home tonight either.
He kicked off his shoes, moved into the kitchen, opened the fridge. Closed it. Opened the cabinet instead and stared at the same box of crackers for five seconds before reaching for his phone.
He opened the messages app.
[Messages – Alhaitham → Kaveh]
6:22 PM
You left your charger on the table.
6:59 PM
You’re not answering Nilou either.
7:10 PM
I assume that means you’re still mad? Or avoiding me. Possibly both.
7:41 PM
This is an inefficient form of communication.
8:03 PM
Kaveh.
8:17 PM
If you’re not going to respond, at least let me know you’re safe.
8:22 PM
Are you.
8:24 PM
Safe.
8:30 PM
I’m going to stop texting now.
8:32 PM
That was a lie.
8:36 PM
Just come home.
He set the phone down beside the kettle and leaned forward onto the counter. It buzzed once. A promotional text from a bookstore. Not him.
A knot in his stomach started twisting, but he still didn’t delete anything.
The part that pulled at something tight in his chest wasn’t even the silence.
The cold had long since slipped past his jacket and into his bones. Kaveh hadn’t meant to walk this far, and now he was too far from home to turn back and too stubborn to admit that his hands were stiff and red and his ears hurt. The city lights were too bright. He kept his eyes down, head low.
So of course he walked straight into her.
“Oh—sorry—” he began, but the apology fell flat as recognition kicked in.
She blinked at him. “…Kaveh?”
Fuck.
“Liana,” he mechanized. He sounded like he was reading a name off a jury list. “Hey.”
“Wow.” Her brows lifted. “It’s been forever. You look—uh—well.”
“I am,” he lied.
She gave him a once-over. “You sure?”
“More or less.” He forced a polite smile. “Just cold. Walking off some thesis stress.”
“You always did overthink drafts.”
“Still do.”
There was a pause.
Kaveh shifted his weight, already bracing for the out. But instead she tilted her head, friendly. “I was just about to get coffee. There’s a place a block from here. You want to—?”
He hesitated.
It was freezing. His apartment was not an option and his phone was a painful reminder of the fact that Alhaitham is sitting and waiting at home as he runs around the city like Santa. And his fingers were numb.
“Yeah,” he said. “Sure. Why not.”
When they walked in, the café was warm and smelled like cinnamon. Rather comforting, if not heartbreaking. They sat in a quiet corner, surrounded by tiny string lights and students hunched over laptops. Liana ordered a chai. Kaveh asked for black coffee and immediately added six sugar packets and oat milk. It was a pick-me-up.
It was fine . It was normal.
“So,” she said, cupping her drink between both hands, “catch me up. How’s your next production going? Still brilliant and dramatic? How are you? ”
Kaveh opened his mouth to give a normal answer.
The sentence never made it out.
It was a question. People ask it when they don’t even really want or care for an answer, it’s polite noise to fill space—and normally, Kaveh would’ve played along.
Instead, his eyes welled up, chin wobbling.
Something about the warmth of the café and the fact that someone asked how he was finally cracked open the dam, and suddenly he was doing the unthinkable. Sobs plague his throat without grace, not a delicate tear-down-the-cheek moment, no—full, humiliating, voice-wobbling, nose-stinging, lip-quivering sobs like he was a Victorian widow hearing bad news in a thunderstorm. Grief hits him, because now that someone’s asking, and he has to confront the fact that he is not okay.
Liana blinked. “Oh—”
“I’m—” Kaveh said, voice cracking badly on the first syllable, “I’m great.”
Her eyes widened.
“I—uh,” he said quickly, hands flying up like surrender, “don’t. It’s not you. I’m fine.”
“Oh my gods, are you—are you crying?” she whispered, half-shocked, half-concerned. “You’re crying!”
“No! Yes. Kind of.” He wiped his face with the back of his sleeve. He gets a strand of wool in his eye, blinking rapidly. “Fuck. Shit.”
“Dude,” she said, wide-eyed. “We don’t have to catch up! You can say no! We can literally never speak again if this is a hostage situation.”
Kaveh laughed wetly, halfway to a sob. “It’s not you. I just—I haven’t slept. And I think I forgot how to breathe. And the other day he—he said he liked me and then forgot he said he liked me, and then called me baby in a voice that sounded like it was on purpose.”
Liana blinked again. “Okay. He? I’m gonna need context. But also—do you want a muffin?”
Kaveh covered his face. “Yes.”
She got up, returned with a muffin, and set it in front of him as a peace offering. He took it with shaking fingers.
“I’m really sorry I broke up with you over text,” his lower lip quivered.
“Man. That was three phones ago. Focus. Who’s he?”
“My roommate. Stage partner. Problem.”
She nodded slowly. “Ah. One of those.”
“He held my waist and then passed out on top of me. And then spooned me. I think he forgot it happened.”
“Oof.”
“And he’s smart. And annoying. And he knows everything except this.”
“This being…?”
Kaveh sniffled. “Me.”
Liana leaned back. “Well,” she said, thoughtful, “he sounds like an idiot.”
Kaveh nodded into his cup. “He’s the worst. I think I’m in love with him.”
She stared at him for a moment, then patted his hand.
“You’re a disaster,” she said kindly.
“I know.”
“Eat your muffin.”
He did. A bite, then two. He chewed slowly, like that might stop his eyes from watering again.
He continues—quietly— “...I’ve also been ignoring him all day.”
Liana raised a brow. “Why?”
“Because I panicked,” he said, mouth full. “I woke up and realized I wanted him to mean it. And I didn’t want to realize that he didn’t. And I thought maybe I could protect myself if I just… avoided it.”
She blinked. “And how’s that working out for you?”
“I’m crying into a muffin at 8:56 PM.”
“Right.”
He slumped. “I could’ve just talked to him. Instead I ran.”
“Classic.”
“I should’ve texted back.”
“Yeah, that’s rough.”
“I even left him a note like a coward.”
“A note?”
“To stay hydrated.”
“Oh god, you are losing it.”
“I think he might hate me now.”
Liana sighed and took a long sip of her chai. “Kaveh.”
“What?”
“He doesn’t hate you. No one cuddles someone they hate. Especially not in their sleep.”
Kaveh went very quiet.
He shoved another piece of muffin in his mouth like it might plug the hole in his heart.
Liana snorted. “You always think people hate you when they’re quiet.”
“Because sometimes they do!”
“Or they’re processing. Or breathing. Or—wild concept—at work.”
Kaveh let out a pitiful sound. “I know. I’m—I know. I just—I’m the one who ran. Again.”
“Yeah, you do that.”
He blinked. “What?”
“You ran from me too, remember?”
Kaveh stiffened.
“You broke up with me over text, Kaveh.”
“I—okay, that was different.”
She raised both brows. “It said, and I quote, ‘Hey, I think we should stop dating. Hope studio’s not too crazy rn lol.’”
He buried his face in his hands. “You said you were okay with it.”
“I was! You were twenty and allergic to confrontation.” She sipped her drink, unbothered. “It was either a breakup text or you ghosting me and transferring classes.”
“I was a mess.”
“You are a mess, but people only know that if they talk to you for long enough to know.”
“I hate this.”
“Good,” she responded gleefully, “that means it’s growth.”
Kaveh peeked out between his fingers. “You’re making fun of me.”
“Absolutely. With love.”
“I was overwhelmed!”
“You always are!”
He groaned. “Why are you so well-adjusted?”
“Because I got out early,” she said, sipping smugly. “Now finish your muffin and text your very confusing situationship before he files a missing person’s report.”
Kaveh slouched dramatically over the table.
“I want to die.”
“Text first. Then die.”
Alhaitham’s phone was beside him on the couch, face down but near enough to reach without looking, and near enough to check without making it obvious that he was checking it every five minutes. The cushions barely shifted beneath him. His leg moved occasionally, restless, shallow tapping in place, but everything else about him was unnervingly still.
When the message came through, it was so small. A quiet buzz, a familiar tone, nothing remarkable, but he still reacted like he’d been tased.
He stood too quickly, knocked his knee against the coffee table in the process, and didn’t even flinch. His hand was already on the phone before the notification had finished lighting up the screen.
[Messages – Kaveh → Alhaitham]
9:09 PM
okay
im sorry for disappearing
can we talk
Something about the way the messages were written—lowercase, quiet, imagining Kaveh had typed them with his shoulders hunched and his heart in his throat, made Alhaitham’s chest go warm and stupid all at once.
Before he knew it, a full, idiotic soft-eyed expression possessed his face like someone had handed him a small kitten and told him it liked him best.
The second he realized it was happening, he blinked like he’d been caught on camera, wiped his face with one hand, feeling like a teenager deleting their browser history.
No.
This is Kaveh.
Be serious.
He lowered himself onto the couch like the moment might shatter if he moved too fast, suddenly hyperaware. The phone was warm in his hand. One wrong move and that tiny, skittish kitten might bolt into traffic. Kaveh would not make for a good carpet.
He had to be careful.
The sudden itch of stress underneath his skin spread like venom. There came the cold, creeping confusion in the part of his brain that hated loose threads.
What did I do?
He didn’t remember everything from that night. He’d been warm, and Kaveh had been warmer, and there was a moment, half-lucid, where they were pressed close together, and it felt… right. That was it. That was all he had.
The feeling of Kaveh’s back against his chest, the soft hum of breath, and a vague, unshakable comfort in the way Kaveh fit into him like something practiced.
But then Kaveh had pulled away.
So what had he done? What had gone wrong?
Was he too clingy? Too quiet? Did he say something? Did he not say something? Did he fall asleep too fast or hold on too long?
He chewed on his thumb and replayed the few fragments he did remember like a puzzle he was missing pieces to. His brain filtered it into sections: body weight, pressure, possible implications. Tone? Unknown. Physicality? Possibly too much. Consent? Hadn’t been discussed. Intent? Fuck. Did it matter what he meant if Kaveh had interpreted it another way?
Alhaitham hated miscommunication. It made him get hives.
He started typing.
[Alhaitham → Kaveh]
Yes. Of course.
Do you want me to come to you?
I’m up.
After a second of reluctant honesty, he sends another message.
I missed you.
Liana truly did not expect her night to go this way. One minute she was grabbing a sympathy muffin for a guy she hadn’t seen in six semesters, and the next he was having a televised-level breakdown in front of a café window while cradling his phone like it might explode.
She wasn’t new to Kaveh’s drama. They dated once for three months and a heatwave. He’d dumped her via text with emojis. That was freshman Kaveh—charming, unfiltered, always twenty percent too much and proud of it. This version was different as he was unfiltered in another way, and she knew it by the way strings of snot dripped down his nose and he barely even cared to wipe it.
She handed him a napkin. He took it so tenderly, as if he thought it would disintegrate in his fingers.
Now he was on the phone, half-turned away from her, pacing in jittery little half-circles on the sidewalk. She tried not to listen, she really did. But when someone starts a call with “Hey—sorry, I saw your messages, I just—” in a voice that cracked like old vinyl, you sort of start paying attention.
Especially when he looked like that.
She stepped up behind him without thinking and muttered, mostly to herself, “This reminds me of when you cried on my couch.”
Kaveh’s soul left his body.
“Liana— not now.”
“What? I didn’t mean—”
He turned away from her, scrambling, urgent. “Alhaitham? No, wait—she wasn’t talking to—fuck—”
The cicadas chirped.
“He hung up,” Kaveh whispered, stunned.
Liana gaped dumbly. “Shit.”
“He thinks I’m with you.”
“Well—I mean—you are. But—oh gods.” She actually winced. “That was on speaker, wasn’t it.”
“He thinks I’m with you with you.”
“Oh fuck. Kaveh, I’m so sorry. I was trying to be funny!”
“He sounded like he was gonna say something real,” Kaveh said quietly. “And then I ruined it.”
“No,” she hid her face with both hands, guilty now and fully aware of it. “I ruined it. I just torpedoed your call like a human landmine.”
Kaveh pressed a hand over his face. “He’s probably never going to talk to me again.”
The words came out hoarse, and they were horrifically plausible.
Liana opened her mouth to say something, probably a joke to defuse it, but he was already unlocking his phone with shaking fingers. “No, I need to call him back. It wasn’t even a full minute. He might not have left the room yet—”
“Kaveh—”
“No, this is salvageable. This can be salvaged.” His thumb hovered. “He said I missed you. And I didn’t say it back because I was too busy playing worst-case theater in my head like an idiot.”
“You didn’t know I’d be audible. It was just bad timing—”
“It was catastrophic timing.”
“Kaveh—”
He hit the call button, it rang once, twice, then three times, and Kaveh’s heart sank.
Voicemail.
A mechanical “Please leave a message” rang over his ear.
Kaveh ended the call before it could record.
“Fuck,” he whispered. “He’s screening me. He’s actively not picking up. He saw my name and he—he declined it.”
Next to him, Liana was already shaking her head. “No, no, no—shit—I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry—”
“Stop saying that, it’s making it worse!”
“I know it’s making it worse, I can’t stop, it’s happening!” She slapped both hands over her face, then peeled one away to groan. “I ruined your tragic gay longing. I’m the villain. I’m the ex who got between you and the guy who calls you baby on purpose.”
“Stop it, Liana. He’s not answering,” Kaveh muttered, tearing up, phone still in his hand like it might bite him.
“I know. I heard it. I felt it.” She stopped pacing just long enough to press a hand to her chest, dramatically. “I’m gonna be sick.”
“I have to go now,” Kaveh groaned.
“Take my biscotti,” Liana said quickly, shoving it into his hand. “I’m seriously so fucking sorry.”
She stood there for another second, half-considering chasing after him to apologize again , before giving up and dropping onto the nearest bench. The wood was cold against the backs of her thighs and the latte she bought for one too many mora went lukewarm in her hand. She felt the wallet sitting in her back pocket tremor sadly.
She should’ve been at the club instead.
Kaveh missed the last train.
He stood on the platform a little too long, hands in his coat pockets, brain buzzing and body running on autopilot. It was half his fault—okay, entirely his fault—for walking slow, and for taking a detour through a park bench he didn’t need to sit on. But by the time he reached the station again, the gates had already rolled down. The schedule blinked out. No more rides tonight.
The bus was patchy that late. So he walked, forty minutes in the cold, earbuds dead, sidewalk cracked, streetlights flickering because they couldn’t decide whether to help him or haunt him. He clutched the strap of his bag hoping it might keep him upright while his shoes made that rubbery sound against the pavement.
By the time he got home, it was two hours later.
The apartment was dark. Empty dark.
Alhaitham’s shoes weren’t by the door.
Kaveh stood in the entryway for a moment longer than he meant to, waiting for… something. A sound. A light flicking on. The rustle of movement from the other room. A passive-aggressive remark about how late he was, maybe. But the only thing that greeted him was the low hum of the fridge and the aching quiet of a room that hadn’t been touched in hours.
The kitchen counter was wiped down. The bathroom door was open. The lamp in the living room was off. There was no mug beside the sink, no laptop charging, no blanket draped over the couch where Alhaitham sometimes fell asleep halfway through reading case files. Nothing.
He didn’t even leave a note.
Fine, Kaveh thought. Fine , two can play at that game.
If Alhaitham wanted to leave without a word, then so be it. Kaveh wasn’t going to beg for conversation. He wasn’t the one acting like the world ended because someone had the decency to go quiet for a few days. If Alhaitham wanted to ghost the apartment like he had something better to do—well. Good. Perfect. Kaveh hoped it was thrilling.
Still, the words rang a little hollow. Because even as he dropped his keys in the bowl and kicked off his shoes, he was biting the inside of his cheek and glancing sideways, half-expecting—half-hoping—to hear the creak of a door or the scrape of a chair. A sign that maybe Alhaitham had waited, just not long enough. But no. Nothing .
He didn’t even bother to wait around. Didn’t bother to ask, to press, to care whether or not Kaveh had someone over that night or if he’d just… walked away.
And sure, Kaveh had avoided the conversation. That was true. But Alhaitham hadn’t tried to start it either. Which meant—what? That it didn’t matter? That he was just letting it die?
So, Kaveh had, without question, reverted back into a coward.
The situation he put himself in didn’t consist of the usual raised voices or theatrical exits or pointed refusals to share a stage. Instead, he made a habit of arriving early and leaving quickly, sidestepping conversations with a timing so precise it could pass as accidental. He told Nilou he needed to double-check lighting cues, asked Candace for minor prop adjustments, hovered by the costume rack with questions he had already asked the day before. If he could convince everyone that he was simply over-involved, then maybe no one would notice that he was hiding in plain sight.
Now that they were rehearsing choreography that demanded closeness, intentional touch, blocked movement, even shared breath in the heavier scenes, Kaveh had taken it upon himself to rewrite the spacing in a way that made the scenes technically functional but emotionally vacant.
He moved around Alhaitham without ever quite moving toward him, crossed the stage without aligning his steps, and delivered lines with his gaze aimed just left of center. There was no way he’d have spoken to Alhaitham outside of assigned lines.
And in the days that followed, they had both been disciplined in their silence, each avoiding the other with such practiced detachment that it began to feel like a different kind of performance. One neither of them had auditioned for, but both had decided to commit to anyway.
The most disorienting part was not the silence itself, even if uncomfortable, but how completely Alhaitham seemed to accept it. He didn’t push. He didn’t corner him between scenes. He didn’t offer unsolicited feedback or underhanded compliments or any of the usual signs that he was still engaged. There was no hint of irritation. No visible discomfort.
If anything, he had gone the opposite direction, really. Offensively unbothered, unreadable, most definitely composed, and worse, polite and impersonal, entirely too exact. And it made Kaveh feel like he had been edited out of a scene without realizing it.
At first, he told himself that the distance was his own fault, that this was what he wanted, the space giving room for perspective, to use that time to regroup. But now, sitting a room away in the rehearsal hall and pretending to be absorbed in line notes he’d already memorized, Kaveh couldn’t shake the quiet ache in his chest, the feeling that something had ended before he had the chance to name it.
He was halfway through his fourth reread of the same sentence when a folder landed beside him with an obnoxious smack.
Nilou sat down in the chair directly across from him, legs crossed, arms folded. Dehya followed two seconds later, leaning on the backrest with the weight of someone who had no intention of leaving.
“You’ve got five seconds to explain what the hell you’re doing,” Nilou said without preamble. “And if you say you’re just tired again, I’m going to scream.”
“I am tired,” Kaveh said instinctively.
“No,” Dehya cut in, “you’re performing tired. This is different. This is you flinching every time someone mentions his name and then bolting the second rehearsal ends like you’ve got a fire to put out.”
“I do have work—”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” Nilou warned.
“I’m being professional.”
“You’re being a ghost,” she snapped. “And not even a scary one. Like, a petty ex-boyfriend ghost who flicks the lights and slams a door and then sulks in the attic.”
“I think he’s trying not to break down in front of his situationship,” Dehya offered, tone light but not unserious.
Kaveh looked between them, annoyed and cornered, but mostly exhausted. “Can’t I just—I don’t know—have a couple days to not completely humiliate myself?”
Nilou narrowed her eyes. “You already did that.”
Kaveh groaned. “That’s not comforting.”
“I didn’t mean it to be. You’re building a maze in plain sight, and the worst part is, he’s just as bad. You’re both magnetized like bumper cars but you won’t even make eye contact.”
“I’m giving him space.”
“You’re giving him paranoia,” Dehya corrected.
Nilou leaned forward. “Whatever you’re waiting for—he’s not going to say it unless you do.”
And Kaveh, cornered in a plastic chair under fluorescent lights, with his entire emotional support system staring him down like he was a walking PSA for patheticism, realized he had no counterpoint.
He just sighed and looked down at his script, where the words had started to blur. The mess of pencil marks and half-legible margin notes began to look like they were wiggling.
“Curtain is in one week,” Nilou added, quieter now, but no less firm. “You don’t have time to act like you’re starring in your own private tragedy. This isn’t even entirely about your feelings anymore—this is about the fact that the play needs you both to show up. Fully. Together.”
Dehya crossed her arms. “We can’t keep rerouting scenes. Candace has resorted to drinking chamomile at call time.”
“I’m serious,” Nilou continued, nudging Kaveh’s shin with her foot. “You don’t have to fix everything in a day. But you can’t do nothing either. Not with how much work everyone’s already put in. Not with what you’ve already built.”
Kaveh let out a slow breath, the kind that felt like it took more out of him than it gave back. His voice, when it finally came, was low. “What if I’ve already ruined it?”
“Then you pick it up,” Dehya said. “That’s what we do. In theater. In life. You drop a cue, you breathe, and you keep going.”
Nilou tilted her head, her voice softening just slightly. “And Kaveh, he’s still waiting. You know that, right? He’s just waiting. Like you.”
It was a ridiculous metaphor that hurt exactly the right amount.
Kaveh could feel the heat building, in the stare from Nilou, the quiet expectation from Dehya, and the space around him narrowing, all signs pointing toward the first few seconds of an ambush. There was a window to escape, but it was closing fast.
“Okay,” he said, raising both hands in false surrender. “I hear you. You’re right. I’ve been avoiding things. I’ve been difficult. But before we unpack anything, does anyone else see that—?”
He pointed past them toward the scaffolding near the back corner of the stage.
“What?” Nilou turned automatically. “See what?”
She squinted.
Dehya followed her gaze, frowning. “Was that—?”
When they both turned around, Kaveh was already gone.
“He’s running!” Nilou shouted. “Go!”
Dehya didn’t bother with the sprint. She turned on her heel and looped around through the side exit, cutting him off with practiced ease. Kaveh turned sharply, breath uneven, nearly tripped over a costume rack, and caught himself on the wall.
“You’re outnumbered,” Dehya droned, militant.
Kaveh twisted to bolt the other way, and slammed into Nilou at full speed.
She grabbed his arm before he could rebound. “You are not skipping this conversation!”
“This is entrapment!”
“This is an intervention,” she said, tugging him upright. “One that’ll work.”
Dehya caught the other arm, already steering him like they were moving furniture.
“No—no—noooooo—come on,” Kaveh protested, heels scraping uselessly. “This is insane!”
They reached the janitor’s closet in a flurry of mismatched footsteps, Nilou’s grip unyielding on Kaveh’s arm while Dehya practically hauled him forward with no-nonsense steadiness normally reserved for moving malfunctioning set pieces. The door creaked open with a reluctant groan, and Kaveh twisted in place, half-tripping over his own boots as he tried to find some last-minute foothold in logic or dignity.
“This is—this is a health hazard—there’s mold—someone’s definitely going to die in here—” he blurted, breath quickening, just before they unceremoniously shoved him over the threshold.
The door slammed shut behind him. Kaveh barely caught himself on the nearest shelf, knocking over a bottle of cleaner in the process, and spun around to immediately start pounding on the wood.
“Let me out before I report every one of you for reckless endangerment!”
For a second, he thought he heard retreating footsteps. But then, the door opened just a sliver, a thin line of hallway light slicing across the floor. Before Kaveh could register what was happening, another body was shoved inside with considerably more resistance, a low, disgruntled noise escaping as Alhaitham stumbled forward and clipped his shoulder against the wall.
The door slammed again. The lock turned with a click, and the unmistakable sound of something heavy being wedged in front of it followed.
“Both of you, just talk!” Nilou’s voice came muffled.
“Or kiss,” someone else chimes in. There are snickers. It’s hard to recognize who they are through the walls.
“We are not letting you out until you work it out,” Nilou’s voice called through the door, muffled but stern. “You’re not embarrassing the entire theater department in front of half the city because you can’t communicate like functioning adults.”
There was a pause.
“…If this keeps up, we’ll have to rename it Barely in the Park.”
Silence.
Cyno, why.
Someone groaned. Then came a chorus of footsteps, fading quickly down the hall.
Fuck.
Clearly the janitor’s closet wasn’t large enough for pacing or avoidance. It was barely large enough for two people who had mastered the art of ignoring each other in open rooms. Now, shoulder-width apart, they stood in stiff, lopsided symmetry: Alhaitham with his arms folded like he could cross his way out of the situation, and Kaveh pressed back against a shelf of multipurpose cleaner, pretending to examine the scuffed tile floor like it might offer directions.
Neither of them made eye contact.
Kaveh sniffed once and shifted his weight. He nibbled on his lower lip and immediately regretted it, because now he was aware of his mouth, which made him become extremely aware of the last time they kissed, which made the silence worse .
He exhaled through his nose.
His arms were folded so tight across his stomach he half-considered dropping them, just for the illusion of normalcy, but then what—let them hang there awkwardly at his sides like a schoolboy waiting to be scolded?
No, thanks.
Kaveh shifted his weight again, heel dragging against the linoleum in a restless scrape. Spurred on by his lip nibbling, he continues to fantasize about what it felt like to be kissed, slow and wanting, by the same person standing three feet in front of him not saying a single word—and that did not help. At all. He wills himself to stop thinking before he gets turned on.
“…Hi,” he said, eventually, like the word had been pulled from his throat by force.
Alhaitham’s gaze didn’t move at first. With the quietest tilt of his head, he looked at him.
“Hi,” he replied.
The light above them buzzed, failing to commit.
Kaveh let out a sound. An exhale, halfway a laugh that never got permission to exist.
“This is so fucking stupid,” he muttered, not really to Alhaitham, more to the shelf beside him, which housed a box of disposable gloves.
“It is,” Alhaitham agreed.
Kaveh buffered. Mouth pressed together in a tight line, his eyes finally moved back up, meeting Alhaitham’s just long enough to spark something in his stomach. He didn’t like how it felt, so he looked back down.
“Okay,” Kaveh said. “Cool. So we’re in agreement. This is stupid.”
“Yes.”
“And we’re both here against our will.”
“Yes.”
“And the people we thought were our friends have resorted to hostage tactics.”
“That part was inevitable.”
Kaveh made a face.
“Gods,” he muttered. “You’re so calm. Do you ever panic?”
“I don’t see the benefit.”
Kaveh rubbed a hand over his face. “Of course not. Why would you? It’s just social convention and neurochemistry and being a human person, but sure, go off.”
Alhaitham glanced at him again. “Do you want to panic?”
Kaveh stared at him. “What kind of question is that?”
Alhaitham shrugged. “A reasonable one. You look like you’re about to either explode or pass out.”
“I’m not,” Kaveh rebutted.
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“You’re biting your lip.”
Kaveh clamped his mouth shut and pointedly looked away. “It’s a habit.”
“It’s concerning.”
“Then stop looking at my mouth.”
“I wasn’t,” Alhaitham said. It sounded like a lie.
Kaveh sighed, folding his arms tighter across his chest, like he could squeeze the discomfort into something smaller. “You’re very annoying, you know that?”
“I’ve been told.”
“And you just… accept it?”
“Would denying it help this conversation?”
Kaveh made a frustrated noise, half-lived in and half newly earned. He shifted in place, bumping into a shelf with a loud rattle, some old spray bottles clattered dangerously close to falling. He winced.
“You’re awful.”
“You’re deflecting.”
“Don’t start with the therapy voice.”
“That was my regular voice.”
“Well then fix it.”
Alhaitham raised an eyebrow, one knee drawn up casually despite the lack of legroom. “You don’t actually want me to stop, do you?”
Kaveh blinked stupidly. “What?”
“You keep talking like you’re trying to end the conversation,” Alhaitham said, watching a smudge on the wall. “But you’re the one who keeps it going.”
Kaveh opened his mouth, closed it, then kicked the toe of his shoe lightly against the tile. “I—shut up.”
“Noted.”
They both went quiet.
The fluorescent light above them flickered once. Something dripped in the corner. The scent of old bleach clung to the air like a third participant in the conversation.
When Kaveh didn’t move, Alhaitham didn’t push.
After a long stretch, Alhaitham spoke again—quietly, without looking up.
“Should we recite lines?”
Kaveh whipped around, blinking rapidly like he’d misheard. “What?”
“Lines,” Alhaitham said, tone perfectly neutral. “Our performance issues. That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”
Kaveh narrowed his eyes. “You want to rehearse. In a closet.”
“Isn’t that what we’re always doing?” Alhaitham replied. “Rehearsing things. Talking around them.”
Kaveh opened his mouth, closed it again, then frowned. “…I genuinely can’t tell if that was supposed to be profound.”
Alhaitham didn’t answer. Instead, he shifted slightly to avoid knocking his knee against a broom handle and began reciting without warning.
“Maybe we have nothing in common. Maybe we rushed into this marriage a little too fast. Maybe love isn’t enough.”
The delivery was irritatingly good.
“I didn’t agree yet,” Kaveh muttered. “Gods, you’re impossible.”
Alhaitham didn’t even blink, witty as he is. “‘And you’re unbearable.’”
Kaveh frowned. “Wait—was that…”
“Line 42.”
It was so quick, so dry, that Kaveh laughed before he could stop himself, short and disbelieving. The sound bounced off of the walls and died.
“I see we’re sticking to the script now,” he huffed.
Alhaitham raised a brow. “You started it.”
Kaveh rolled his eyes and leaned back against the shelf again.
There was a time that would’ve spiraled into a full-blown debate, but now it just… didn’t. Maybe they’d outgrown it.
That got the smallest smile out of Alhaitham—barely there, but not nothing. He tilted his head just slightly, watching Kaveh with the same steady expression he always wore, except a little less guarded.
“You’re impossible.”
“You’re unbearable,” Kaveh shot back in the same way Alhaitham did earlier.
They both fell quiet again, but it didn’t sting this time.
Kaveh shifted his weight and glanced sideways at him. “You don’t actually think we have nothing in common, do you?”
Alhaitham’s gaze didn’t move. “No.”
Kaveh looked at the wall, then back at him, and the line came out before he could stop it.
“Don’t oversimplify this. I’m angry. Can’t you see that?”
Alhaitham didn’t miss a beat. “Corie, it’s two-fifteen. If I can fall asleep in about half an hour, I can get about five hours’ sleep.”
Kaveh blinked, already suspicious.
“I’ll call you from court tomorrow,” Alhaitham added, perfectly flat. “And we can fight over the phone.”
There was a pause.
“Get it?”
It took a second to register, which made it worse.
Then Kaveh huffed out a laugh—short, incredulous. “Oh my god. That’s what you were doing?”
Alhaitham didn’t answer right away. His expression barely moved, debating how much context to offer.
“You know,” he started, tone mild, “when I hung up on you—”
“No, I get it,” Kaveh cut in quickly, raising a hand. “Please don’t explain it.”
Alhaitham paused, then shrugged. Fine by him.
“You’ve been sitting on that one for a while, haven’t you?” Kaveh muttered.
“It was convenient,” Alhaitham said.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“You laughed.”
Kaveh shook his head, still smiling as he looked away. “You’re an asshole.”
“I’m in character,” Alhaitham corrected, barely above a murmur.
Kaveh huffed softly, folded his arms again, and let his head fall back against the wall.
“You know, maybe I am too proper and dignified for you. Maybe you would have been happier with someone a little more colorful and flamboyant.”
"If anything," Kaveh crossed his arms loosely, “he’d be a lot more laughs than a stuffed shirt.”
Alhaitham’s tone stayed even. “Oh. I thought you said I wasn’t.”
Kaveh hesitated. “Well, a stuffed shirt might possess some good qualities.”
Alhaitham’s head tilted. “That’s not in the script.”
“I know.”
There was a pause again.
“…Did you forget your lines?”
“No,” Kaveh said, lifting his chin, “I’m improvising.”
“Now?”
“Yeah. Now. Maybe we should practice that too. You know. Improvisation, not a skill we’ve tried much.”
Alhaitham narrowed his eyes, skeptical. “You want to improvise. With me.”
Kaveh nodded once, defiant. “Why not?”
“Because when you improvise, someone usually has to follow.”
“Exactly,” Kaveh said. “You hate not knowing what’s next. It’ll be good for you.”
Alhaitham gave him a look that hovered between resignation and curiosity.
“All right.”
Alhaitham was still for a moment longer, then continued, quietly.
“But, first.”
Kaveh looked over at him.
“I remember that night,” Alhaitham says. “Pieces.”
Kaveh blinked, a little thrown. He hadn’t expected Alhaitham to bring it up when he’d been planning to stall as long as he could.
“The bar. The noise. You pulling my hand out of the basket of beer coasters. I remember leaning on you. I remember warmth, then your voice, saying something about not throwing up on my own shoes.” He paused. “Then I remember lying down.”
Kaveh was staring at the floor now. “You don’t remember what you said before you passed out?”
“No,” Alhaitham said, honestly. “But I know I woke up holding a pillow and I wasn’t alone the night before. I figured that much.”
Kaveh exhales, eyes focused on the floor between them. “You weren’t.”
He rubbed his thumb over the inside edge of his palm, the nervous tic obvious in the quiet space between them.
Alhaitham watched him for a moment, then spoke again, voice quieter this time. “Did I… do something wrong?”
Kaveh glanced up.
“That morning,” Alhaitham added. “I woke up alone. I wasn’t sure if I’d said something I shouldn’t have. Or if I hurt you.”
Kaveh huffed, more out of disbelief than anything else. “Gods.” He rubbed a hand down his face, like he was bracing for the embarrassment of hearing it out loud. “Fine. Since we’re doing this.” He paused—half a breath, maybe—then looked up and faltered slightly, Alhaitham’s gaze catching him off guard. Kaveh clicked his tongue, annoyed at himself for hesitating. “You called me things. You called me pretty…”
Alhaitham was still looking at him—too much. It made Kaveh feel exposed in a way that had nothing to do with the words. His cheeks were warm. “Stop looking at me like that,” he muttered, flustered. “I’m telling you what you said.”
Alhaitham genuinely diagnosed the issue. “This is just my face.”
“…You called me pretty,” he said, exasperated. “Then pulled me in and got all comfortable like we were already dating or something.”
“You passed out mid-sentence,” Kaveh continued. “I didn’t know if it meant anything. I didn’t know if it was just the drinks or if you… meant it. Any of it.”
There was a pause, then Alhaitham spoke, voice steady.
“I remember the warmth,” he said. “I told you that.”
Kaveh looked at him. “I didn’t know if I was allowed to want it.”
Alhaitham didn’t look away. “Well, you were.”
Kaveh stared at him.
“How would I have known?”
Alhaitham shifted, just barely—enough to uncross his arms, so that his hands rested lightly against his thighs. “You didn’t ask.”
Kaveh laughed under his breath, the sound dry and self-deprecating. “Because what if I wasn’t?”
“You thought I’d push you away?”
“I thought you’d forget it ever happened. And you did.” He paused, corrected himself, softer now. “Sort of.”
“I didn’t forget how I felt,” Alhaitham said, like it was simple. “Just the pieces around it.”
Kaveh rubbed his thumb along his wrist again. His voice was quieter this time.
“You said I liked you.”
Alhaitham’s brows lifted slightly, but he didn’t speak. He let it hang there, waiting.
“You were drunk,” Kaveh continued, looking at the floor. “But you said I liked you, and then—you said you liked me, too.”
A pause. Alhaitham blinked slowly, as if replaying it in his head.
“Did I?” he asked, carefully.
Kaveh’s mouth quirked, but it wasn’t quite a smile. “Yeah. You were very confident about it. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world.”
He kept his head down after that. His gaze stayed fixed somewhere near Alhaitham’s knees, like eye contact might tilt the balance the wrong way. His throat worked. The next breath he took stuttered slightly, and he blinked a few times too quickly, trying to will the burn behind his eyes into submission.
It felt stupid, honestly—getting choked up over something like this, something that technically wasn’t even happening yet. But there was a tightness in his chest that hadn’t gone away since that morning, convincing himself it hadn’t mattered. And now—now it was all spilling back in, sharp and stupid and dangerous. He’d told himself not to bring it up. He’d planned to play it cool. But the longer the silence stretched, the more he felt like he’d misread everything.
Kaveh swallowed hard. “I just—if I was wrong, you can say so.”
Alhaitham exhaled through his nose, not denying it.
“I wasn’t wrong,” he said.
Kaveh looked up, startled—he hadn’t really expected a response, let alone that one. His breath caught, a little too sharp in his throat.
“You…” He blinked. “Wait, really?”
Alhaitham didn’t flinch. “You weren’t wrong.”
That time, Kaveh did laugh, a small, breathless sound, disbelieving more than anything. He wiped under one eye with the heel of his palm, half-embarrassed, half-relieved. “Gods. Okay. Okay, wow.”
He sat back slightly, shoulders loosening like someone had just cut a string pulled too tight for too long. “You really know how to sit on information, don’t you?”
Alhaitham tilted his head. “I thought you knew.”
“I didn’t,” Kaveh muttered. “Obviously.”
“You said I was confident.”
“Yeah, well.” Kaveh sniffed, then wrinkled his nose. “You’re also annoying. So it cancels out.”
“You’re the one who said it. I’m just agreeing.”
“You were wasted,” Kaveh emphasized. “And you’re the kind of person who takes direction seriously. Nilou could’ve told you to crawl into bed with me and whisper poetry and you’d do it, because that’s what the scene called for. That’s what I thought it was.”
He didn’t look at Alhaitham when he said it. The room stayed quiet, just the low hum of background noise from the hallway outside. Alhaitham didn’t rush it. His hands shifted a little on his knees, thinking it through.
He took a deep breath.
“I wouldn’t have done it drunk,” he said.
Kaveh finally glanced up.
“If I do something for Nilou, I do it right. I stay on script. I don’t improvise affection. I think staying within the constraints of the text is the most honest thing an actor can do," he adjusted his posture slightly, eyes steady. “So that wasn’t rehearsal. That was me.”
Then he added, more awkwardly than anything else, “And could you—maybe stop tearing up like that? It makes me feel like the villain.”
“Wow,” Kaveh muttered, voice still wobbly. “Romanticism and guilt-tripping. You really do multitask.”
Alhaitham’s hand twitched slightly at his side, like he was debating whether or not to reach out, maybe swipe away the dampness clinging to the corners of Kaveh’s eyes, maybe do something stupid like kiss his salty tears away where he was softest and red-eyed and trying not to sniffle, then hug him and refuse to let go this time.
But Kaveh beat him to it, clearing his throat and sitting up straighter, like sheer force of will could hold him together.
“This still counts as improv.”
Alhaitham sighed. “Does it?”
“Yeah. Vulnerability scene, unscripted confession, organic stakes.” He teased. “Nilou would be thrilled.”
“I thought you were talking to someone else,” he said.
Kaveh’s expression faltered. “What?”
“That night,” Alhaitham said. “When you called me. When I picked up, and I heard her voice. I thought—”
He trailed off, shook his head once, eyes narrowing faintly—not in anger, but like the memory had started to sting.
“I thought you were already with someone. Or going back to someone. I’d misread everything. I thought, maybe you kissed me because it was part of the show. You stayed that night because you’re kind. Because you’re soft when someone needs you. And I thought,” He paused, “I was the one you didn’t want.”
“No, stupid.”
“I know that now,” Alhaitham said. “But I didn’t then.”
Kaveh stared at him. “I knew that was why you didn’t answer.”
“That’s why I didn’t know what to say if I did.”
There was a moment, passing slowly.
Kaveh spoke first, quiet but sure. “You thought I was choosing someone else. And I thought you didn’t want me at all.”
Alhaitham let out a small breath. “We’re not so smart.”
“Terminally,” Kaveh agreed. “Stage-four miscommunication.”
Alhaitham smiled. “Are we still improvising now?”
Kaveh made a face. “You think I’d script this?”
“I don’t know,” Alhaitham said, tone deceptively casual. “You’re the dramatic one.”
Kaveh scoffed. “You’re the one who confessed like we were in Act Three of a courtroom drama.”
“And you,” Alhaitham replied smoothly, “are the one who made me play hide and seek for three days.”
“It was two days.”
“It was fifty-two hours, I counted.”
Kaveh narrowed his eyes. “You’re making fun of me.”
“A little.”
“Well, don’t.”
Alhaitham peered at him, grinning. “Should I look away while you blush?”
“I am not—” Kaveh stopped, flustered, then huffed. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re unbearable.”
“Are you going to keep repeating that line?”
“If it continues to be true, yes,” Alhaitham replied evenly, his irritating nonchalance back in full force.
Kaveh threw his hands up. “You see? This is exactly why people think we’re doomed.”
“We?” Alhaitham echoed, raising a brow.
“I meant the characters,” Kaveh snapped. “Obviously.”
“You’re blushing again.”
Kaveh clapped a hand over his own cheek. “I am not!”
Alhaitham leaned in slightly, just enough to be smug about it. “You’re so bad at lying.”
Kaveh didn’t respond right away. His expression turned venomous.
“You said I was so pretty you’d let me win every argument.”
Alhaitham blinked.
Kaveh cocked his head, pretending to think. “Actually, I think the phrasing was, ‘You’re so pretty when you argue with me. I’d let you win. Every time.’ ”
Alhaitham tried to say something, but couldn’t get anything out.
He looked absolutely thrown. It wasn’t obvious, not to most people, anyway, but Kaveh caught it. The slight hitch in his breath, the fractional delay in his reply. Alhaitham was suddenly very… off. And Kaveh felt something flutter low in his stomach at the sight of it.
Kaveh grinned—slow and sharp and gleaming with petty victory. “What’s the matter? Forget that part?”
“I—” Alhaitham said, and then stopped again, visibly recalculating.
His face didn’t change right away. A slow stall in his expression. There was a slight twitch at his mouth, a flicker of something uncertain behind his eyes, and then—nothing. But Kaveh could see it, plain as day: the way his gaze dipped for half a second, how the flush started creeping up his neck, betraying everything his mouth didn’t say.
And gods, it was cute. Infuriatingly so. Kaveh felt it bloom in his chest, warm and ridiculous, a strange mix of smugness and affection that made his grin stretch wider. He wasn’t supposed to find this hot. Or maybe he was. Either way, he was keeping it.
Kaveh’s smile widened. “You meant it.”
“I was intoxicated.”
“You were affectionate.”
“I was being reckless.”
“You remembered the warmth. You were being honest.”
Alhaitham huffed, turning his head away just slightly. “I’m going to regret saying that, aren’t I.”
“You already do,” Kaveh said cheerfully. “Which is why I’m going to keep it forever.”
Alhaitham pressed the heel of his hand to his temple, but not before Kaveh caught the faint flush blooming at the tips of his ears.
“Oh my gods,” Kaveh gasped. “You’re embarrassed.”
“I’m not .”
“You are!”
Alhaitham continued to burrow himself into his hands, turning away.
Kaveh stared at the back of his head, stunned by the softness suddenly crawling up his spine. His brain was still trying to finish laughing when his mouth ran ahead of him.
“…You’re cute,” Kaveh said, almost offhand—but not.
Alhaitham’s brows lifted just slightly. “Pardon?”
Kaveh, now clearly on the edge of regretting it, forced a casual shrug. “I said what I said.”
Alhaitham stared. Kaveh stared back, trying very hard not to combust.
“You’re cute,” Kaveh repeated, slower this time, his tone bordering on defiant now. If he said it with enough certainty, he could pretend it wasn’t giving him a minor cardiac event.
Alhaitham didn’t blink. “You said otherwise ten minutes ago.”
“You can be both.”
“That seems like a contradiction.”
“So is everything about you.”
Alhaitham narrowed his eyes, but there was no real bite behind it. “That’s not a compliment.”
Kaveh folded his arms, chin lifting. “Wasn’t meant to be.”
“Then allow me to correct course.” Alhaitham leaned back against the closet wall with practiced ease, voice low and steady. “You’re talented. Brilliant, actually. And too stubborn to know when you’re the smartest one in the room.”
Kaveh blinked. “Is this—wait, are we doing this?”
“You started it.”
Kaveh’s mouth opened, ready to argue—then shut again, recalibrating. “Fine. You’re—” He gestured vaguely, flustered but determined. “You’re composed. Annoyingly so, and unshakable. You explain things like you’re the final word on the subject and half the time you are.”
Alhaitham inclined his head. “That sounded admiring.”
“It wasn’t.”
“It was flattering.”
Kaveh pointed at him. “You have really nice hands.”
That earned a pause. “That’s a shift.”
“ Asshole . You do. They’re unfairly elegant.”
“And you’re saying this calmly?”
“I’m panicking,” Kaveh said brightly. “I’m a good actor.”
Alhaitham considered. “You’re passionate. Exacting. You care too much and try to hide it. And when you think no one’s looking, your whole face softens.”
Kaveh’s face started burning. “Okay.”
“And your eyes,” Alhaitham went on, as if Kaveh hadn’t spoken, “lovely, even when you’re just daydreaming.”
“Haitham—”
“You’re interesting,” he finished. “You always have been.”
Kaveh didn’t move.
“…I was just going to say you have a nice jawline,” he mumbled.
Alhaitham smirked, victorious, but not smug. “That’s fine. We can call it a draw.”
Kaveh rolled his eyes, lips twitching. “I hate you.”
“I know.” Alhaitham’s voice was warm, giddy. “But you think I’m cute, and I think you’re cute too.”
Kaveh cringed, dragging a hand over his face like it might hide the heat blooming from the tips of his ears down to his collarbone. “Can you not?”
“Not what?” Alhaitham asked, far too pleased with himself.
“Say that like we’re in the last two minutes of a teen drama and someone’s about to cue the music.”
“I could hum, if you prefer.”
“Gods, please don’t.”
Alhaitham leaned his shoulder into the wall, still watching him with that slow, steady patience that made Kaveh feel flayed open. “You’re cute when you beg me to stop.”
“You’re cute when you shut up,” Kaveh muttered.
“No I’m not,” Alhaitham replied, and then—unapologetically, unblinkingly—added, “I’m hot when I shut up.”
Kaveh stared at him.
Alhaitham stared back.
Kaveh looked like he wanted to throttle him. “How do you even say that with a straight face?”
“Practice.”
“Well, stop.”
“You’re smiling.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m smiling in protest. ”
Alhaitham tilted his head just slightly, and turned his Paul voice back on. “You’re pretty when you’re mean and rotten.”
Kaveh went deadfaced.
“Are we rehearsing again?” he asked flatly, like the words were being dragged out of his mouth.
Alhaitham didn’t falter. “You’re the one who said improv.”
“That was before you called yourself hot when you shut up,” Kaveh replied, visibly pained.
“Still true.”
“Gods, I hate you.”
Alhaitham picked up a thread of dialogue from the script without missing a beat, his voice dipping into Paul’s practiced rhythm. “‘Come on, Corie. Let’s break my fever—’”
Kaveh threw an arm up. “Do not touch me.”
“Gee,” Alhaitham repeated, feigning a sigh as he leaned against the wall with theatrical laziness, “you’re pretty when you’re mean and rotten.”
Kaveh stared at him like he was considering homicide.
“I’ll come down when you’ve said it again,” he said, steady and quiet. “Loud and clear.”
Kaveh groaned. “Said what.”
“You know what.”
Kaveh flushed, biting the inside of his cheek. “We are not still rehearsing.”
“Up to you.”
“Gods, you’re the worst scene partner,” Kaveh muttered, glaring down at the floor. “I mean it. You’re difficult. Stubborn. Completely unreadable.”
“Still waiting,” Alhaitham said, calm, almost smug.
Kaveh folded his arms. “I already said it once.”
“I want to hear it again.”
“Why?”
“So I can come down.” His gaze didn’t waver. He stepped onto a mop bucket for effect. “Because if I’m standing on something high, Kaveh, I need to know you’ll catch me.”
Kaveh, still blushing from his last outburst, squinted. “What? What do you want me to say?”
Alhaitham shrugged, a barely-there smile tugging at his mouth. “Anything.”
“My husband, Paul Bratter…”
“Nope,” Alhaitham clicks his tongue. “We’re playing Kaveh and Alhaitham right now.”
Kaveh huffed. “My… roommate.”
Alhaitham raised a brow. “Try again.”
“…Alhaitham.”
He tilted his head. “Mm. Almost.”
Kaveh squinted at him. “You are not seriously making me do this.”
“Loud and clear,” Alhaitham said smugly. “Come on.”
Kaveh grit his teeth. “My stage partner, my roommate, the rising young—”
“—asshole,” Alhaitham cut in.
“—asshole,” Kaveh echoed, deadpan, then softened. “is a lousy, smug, emotionally constipated bastard.”
Alhaitham smiled faintly. “Go on.”
“…And I love him,” Kaveh finished.
The smile broke fully across Alhaitham’s face. “And I love you, Kaveh. Even when I didn’t like you,” he said, stepping closer, “I loved you.”
Kaveh exhaled, chest tight. “You are… utterly infuriating.”
“I know.” Alhaitham reached for his hand. “But I infuriate you.”
Kaveh let out a shaky laugh. “Don’t you dare fall off any metaphorical ledges.”
“I won’t,” Alhaitham murmured, tugging him closer.
Their foreheads brushed first, just barely, Kaveh leaning in like he wasn’t sure whether he was chasing comfort or being pulled into it. Alhaitham’s hand slid up the back of his neck, firm but unhurried, fingers threading in his hair.
They kissed slow and a little uneven, like they’d already been talking for hours and this was just the next part of it. Warm mouth, dry lips, the faint press of sweat between them from too many layers and not enough breathing room.
Kaveh leaned into it. Maybe melted a little. It felt like a landing.
When they parted, it was barely even a pull.
Kaveh blinked, dazed, voice low. “That wasn’t in the script.”
Alhaitham shrugged, breath still warm between them.
“Improv.”
As the door creaked open and the two of them stepped out, Kaveh with his head ducked slightly and Alhaitham blinking like he’d just emerged from hibernation, they were immediately met with the sight of five grown adults standing in the hallway in varying degrees of teary-eyed disarray.
Nilou had her hands clasped over her mouth, eyes glassy and suspiciously red. Candace was holding an entire box of tissues like it was a baby. Dehya was mid-sniff, pretending it was just allergies. Tighnari had both ears flattened, and even Cyno was dabbing at one eye with the corner of his sudoku booklet.
“We were timing it,” Cyno said softly. “Eighteen minutes and forty-seven seconds. You beat the previous record by two minutes.”
“You had a record?” Kaveh blinked.
“For closet confessions?” Dehya muttered, “Yeah. It’s a thing.”
Candace took a delicate step forward, offering a tissue. “We didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”
“You shoved us in a closet,” Alhaitham said flatly.
“You’re welcome,” Nilou choked out.
“Are you guys… crying?” Kaveh asked slowly, incredulous.
“Shut up,” Dehya said, sniffling. “Let us have this.”
“We’ve been watching this disaster unfold for two weeks,” Nilou added. “Two weeks of hallway tension and forced pet names and uncomfortable PDA and kissing with tongue so deep you started chewing, you finally—”
Tighnari stepped in, clearing his throat. “If you could just confirm your relationship status for the spreadsheet, we’d really appreciate it.”
“What spreadsheet—” Kaveh started, only to be cut off by Candace.
Candace cut him off with the practice of someone who’d done this dance before. “The betting spreadsheet.”
“You— what? ”
Dehya raised her hand casually. “Five to one odds you’d crack first.”
“Ten to one you’d kiss in a supply closet,” Cyno added without looking up from his phone. “I doubled down after rehearsal yesterday. You were going through it.”
“I wasn’t going through it,” Kaveh protested, flustered. “I was—keeping my distance.”
Nilou gave him a look. “That’s literally you going through it.”
Tighnari, from behind the clipboard he had absolutely no reason to be holding, murmured. “To be fair, Alhaitham had ‘closet confession’ written all over him.”
“Did I?” Alhaitham questioned.
“Yes.”
He blinked once, unperturbed. “Huh.”
Kaveh turned slowly to face him. “You knew about this?”
“I suspected. Cyno tried to make a side bet with me on Tuesday.”
“You declined,” Cyno said with mild disappointment. “Which was suspicious.”
“Because I don’t bet on inevitabilities.”
Kaveh covered his face with both hands.
“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” Nilou said, reaching over to pat his shoulder with a tissue. “You’re in love. It’s not terminal.”
“We’re not—” Kaveh’s voice cracked, muffled behind his hands. “We haven’t even—what are we?”
Alhaitham looked at him, amused. “Do you want to define it here? In front of an audience?”
“Please do,” Dehya said. “I need closure.”
Kaveh peeked through his fingers at the group of very emotionally invested adults staring back at him with all the anticipation of a soap opera season finale.
He groaned. “We’re going home.”
Nilou clapped. “A domestic ending!”
“No,” Kaveh said, already walking. “A privacy ending.”
Alhaitham followed, entirely unbothered. “Do you want to hold hands?”
“Absolutely not,” Kaveh hissed.
They held hands anyway.
By the time they reached the apartment, Kaveh’s steps had slowed, cautious. He wasn’t sure what to do with the fact that everything between them was finally out in the open, no longer confined to stage cues or drunken slips or whispered “for realism” excuses in the dark.
He keyed open the door. Alhaitham followed him in, just a few paces behind, then stopped in the entryway while Kaveh toed off his shoes.
The door clicked shut behind them.
Kaveh turned toward the kitchen on instinct, but only made it halfway to the counter before Alhaitham’s voice cut in—quiet, even. “Wait.”
He turned. “What?”
Alhaitham stood with his hands in his pockets, gaze steady. “I want to make sure we’re not confused again.”
Kaveh raised an eyebrow. “About?”
“You. Me. This.”
He didn’t say it like a question. Kaveh didn’t rush to answer, because something about being asked that plainly made his chest ache a little.
Alhaitham took one step closer. “What are we?”
Kaveh stared at him, then said, softer than expected, “Something.”
Alhaitham’s lips tugged into the faintest smile. “That’s vague.”
“It’s honest.”
Alhaitham stepped closer still—close enough that Kaveh could smell the body wash he used, could feel the faint heat radiating off of him like gravity. He didn’t touch him yet.
“Then let me clarify.”
Kaveh held his breath.
“You’re mine,” Alhaitham said. “And I’m yours.”
Kaveh’s mouth parted slightly. He nodded. “Yeah. Okay. That works.”
“We haven’t practiced kissing in a while?”
Kaveh huffed, disbelief laced in a laugh. “You are so—”
Alhaitham stepped closer, teasing. “Forgetful?”
“You want to call it that?” Kaveh said, smiling, eyes narrowing.
“Not exactly,” Alhaitham said, and finally—finally—rested one hand on Kaveh’s waist. “Is that okay?”
Kaveh’s breath hitched, but he nodded. It felt real now.
“Got it,” he murmured. “Noted.”
“Good.”
His hand slipped, just barely, fingers brushing along the curve of Kaveh’s hip like a memory.
Alhaitham leaned in, mouth near his ear. He murmured. “Do you remember when I did this?”
Kaveh sighed.
“Mm. I do.”
“Good,” Alhaitham said.
Kaveh looked at him with a wicked little smile. Slow and meaningful, he ground his hips back into Alhaitham’s. The effect was immediate—Alhaitham’s hand flexed against his waist and his breath caught audibly.
Kaveh didn’t stop. “Do you remember this part, too?” he asked, too-sweet, too-smug.
“No, I don’t .”
“Yeah, well,” Kaveh said, looking back at him over his shoulder, voice light, “maybe I’m just trying to be a good scene partner.”
Alhaitham hummed as he slowly slipped one hand beneath the soft edge of Kaveh’s shirt. His fingers traced lightly up the curve of Kaveh’s stomach—warm skin, quick breath, tension coiled and pretending to be anything but palpable.
Kaveh stiffened, like he’d just remembered they were alone.
“Do you remember this, then?” Alhaitham said, voice low.
Kaveh snorted, shaky. “We’ve never done this.”
“I’ve thought about it.”
“You imagined this?” Kaveh exhaled, shallow, voice already fraying.
“Not just this,” Alhaitham murmured.
He dipped his mouth to Kaveh’s ear, close but not touching, voice dropping as if he was confessing something he didn’t entirely plan to say.
“I imagined it the night we fought about the room key.”
Kaveh’s breath hitched, but Alhaitham kept going.
“You stormed out. Slammed the door like it owed you something. Came back two minutes later just to argue louder.”
His voice thinned with memory, sharp at the edges. “You were pacing. Talking with your hands. Furious. You kept saying the same thing over and over—like volume made it more right.”
He exhaled, slowly. “You had this look on your face. All righteous and infuriating and bright. Bratty. Like you knew you were winning. Like you wanted to shove it in my face.”
He paused.
“And all I could think about,” he said, “was how badly I wanted to wipe that look off you.”
Kaveh let out a broken sound, half-whimper, half-swear.
Alhaitham didn’t stop.
“You were insufferable,” he said, quieter now. “Still are.”
His hand dragged slowly up Kaveh’s chest, the kind of touch that felt like a warning.
“I wanted to shut you up. Right there in the middle of the kitchen. Shove you to your knees, press your back against the cabinet, and fuck your mouth until you stopped talking.”
Kaveh shivered, his legs already going weak beneath him, fingers curling into the nearest edge of the counter.
“I wanted you gagging on it,” Alhaitham went on, voice smooth but barely held together. “Eyes watering. That same look on your face, just wrecked instead of smug.”
Kaveh’s moan cracked in his throat, sharp, involuntary.
He was shaking now, breath gone shallow. When he managed to look up at Alhaitham, his face was already flushed, lips parted, expression dazed and barely holding.
Kaveh whined.
“Alhaitham—”
“Don’t worry,” he murmured, finally backing off. “I know you’re not ready.”
His hand slipped from under Kaveh’s shirt—leaving warmth in its wake, the skin already cooling.
Kaveh stood there, trembling a little. His voice, when it came, was almost quiet enough to miss.
“You’re so mean.”
Alhaitham hadn’t gone far, but he moved enough to let the air settle between them, charged and crackling. Kaveh stayed rooted, his back still half-turned, chest rising unevenly as he was trying to regulate breath through a storm.
“You’re so fucking mean,” he said again, louder this time, but still hoarse.
Alhaitham leaned against the counter beside him, casually, like his hand hadn’t just been under Kaveh’s shirt, like he hadn’t just spoken filth into the shell of his ear with the same tone one might use to discuss weather.
“I’m being patient,” he said. “You’re the one who keeps stepping into the ring.”
“I’m playing along.”
“You’re acting,” Alhaitham corrected. “Very convincingly. I give it a strong nine-point-three.”
Kaveh turned then, too fast, fast enough that you could tell he hadn’t meant to. His face was flushed, mouth slightly parted, and gods, he hated how steady Alhaitham still looked. It almost seemed like this didn’t affect him at all, but even Kaveh knew better.
“You think this is funny?” Kaveh asked, stepping closer. “You think just because you’ve imagined it before, you get to—”
“To what?” Alhaitham tilted his head. “Touch you like I’ve earned it?”
Kaveh faltered. He did. Alhaitham knew it.
“You haven’t,” Kaveh said, but his voice lacked conviction.
“No,” Alhaitham agreed. “But you haven’t told me to stop.”
Kaveh licked his lips nervously. “You always talk like you’re above it,” He pointed between them. “You’re just a hypocrite, under that neutral face.”
Alhaitham’s gaze dragged down the line of his throat. “I never claimed neutrality.”
Kaveh stepped closer again—close enough that their chests brushed when he inhaled. “Then why are you always pulling back right when I—”
Kaveh’s hands curled at his sides. His thighs clenched, pulse thudding behind his teeth.
He should leave. He should walk away. He should throw something or yell or redirect the conversation to stage directions or lighting cues or literally anything that wasn’t this unbearable ache between his legs and the heat crawling up his spine like a handprint.
Instead, Kaveh stayed, right there in Alhaitham’s space, practically trembling with it.
“Coward,” he breathed.
Alhaitham smiled.
“I’m just waiting,” he said, “for you to break character.”
Kaveh surged forward in a way that made it look like it burned to stand still, like the only relief was in friction—and grabbed Alhaitham by the collar.
Their mouths collided, messy, all teeth and open heat. It was friction snapping taut in an instant.
Alhaitham caught him around the waist, dragged him in harder, one hand braced low on his back, the other slipping down—brazen now—down to the curve of Kaveh’s ass, where he gave a soft, open-palmed smack, before grabbing it.
Kaveh gasped. Loud, pathetic, unfiltered, hips jerking forward like his body didn’t know whether to flinch or beg for more.
Alhaitham didn’t even blink. “Sensitive?” he asked, mild as ever.
“You—” Kaveh’s voice cracked. His thighs pressed together, betraying him completely.
Kaveh moaned into his mouth, high and desperate, grinding down against the thigh Alhaitham stepped between his legs like he meant to pin him right there in the kitchen.
“You think I haven’t imagined this too?” Kaveh gasped, pulling back just enough to speak, breath hot against Alhaitham’s jaw. “You think I don’t know how you look at me? You—fuck—”
Alhaitham rocked up against him, deliberate, and Kaveh’s knees buckled.
“Alright,” Alhaitham muttered, lips grazing his ear. “What do you think about when you’re alone?”
Kaveh shuddered. His head tipped back, exposing his throat, mouth parted like it would’ve been easy to bite.
“You,” he breathed. “I think about you. The way you’d make it hurt before you made it feel good.”
Alhaitham groaned—like Kaveh had hit something buried deep.
He crowded Kaveh back against the counter, his hips pinning him in place. First, he pulled his shirt off, and then Kaveh’s—one hand fumbled at the button of Kaveh’s jeans, the metallic click echoing too loud in the kitchen.
His fingers slipped just beneath the waistband, rough denim scraping knuckles, the heat beneath undeniable.
Kaveh sucked in a breath, hands gripping the counter behind him like he needed the anchor.
“You want me to?” he asked. “Make it hurt?”
Kaveh’s breath stuttered. His hips jerked forward, chasing friction. “Yes,” he gasped. “Please.”
Alhaitham kissed him again. It was harder this time, possessive, pulling Kaveh’s jeans off with little grace.
“Red for stop, yellow for slow down. Will you remember that?”
“Ugh, yes, yes, come on, please,” Kaveh whimpered. He chewed his lip, eyes glassy, voice wrecked.
“I’m serious, Kaveh.”
“Yes! So get on with it— you—“
He spun Kaveh to face the counter and shoved him forward—one firm hand between the shoulder blades, bending him down until his chest hit the cool surface. Kaveh gasped, palms splayed flat, hips instinctively tilting back.
Alhaitham grabbed the underside of one thigh and hiked his leg up onto the counter, opening him wide.
“Stay,” Alhaitham said, voice sharp.
Kaveh trembled, cunt exposed and dripping, flushed pink and slick all the way down his thighs. His jeans were tangled around one knee, useless, and his body arched in a perfect, desperate line.
Alhaitham spread his pussy nice and open, and spat, wet and hot, landing directly on his hole, then shoved two fingers inside without ceremony.
Kaveh cried out, the angle forcing his back to arch deeper, everything tighter, sharper, overwhelming.
“Fuck—Alhaitham—!”
He wanted more. Curling his fingers, he found that spot, and pressed in ruthlessly.
Kaveh sobbed against the countertop, knuckles white where he clung to the edge. “Oh gods, gods, please— ”
Alhaitham leaned over him, hand gripping his thigh to keep him open, and fucked his fingers in deep and brutal, slick, loud, obscene. His palm slapped wetly against Kaveh’s cunt with every thrust.
“You’re soaked,” Alhaitham said, voice just behind his ear. “You like being taken like this? Bent over and spread in our own fucking kitchen?”
Kaveh moaned—high and open, voice cracking. “Yes, yes, I—fuck, I need it—”
Alhaitham angled his fingers down and Kaveh screamed, full volume, spine bowing as he came, pussy clenching down hard, pulsing around him.
He showed little mercy, even as Kaveh trembled violently, gasping, ruined.
Kaveh was still twitching when Alhaitham adjusted his grip.
One hand spread across the small of his back, keeping him pinned against the counter. The other buried itself back inside him, three fingers this time, slick and unhesitating. Kaveh wailed, but Alhaitham refused to stop. He fucked them in deep, knuckles flush, and then started to move his whole arm, vibrating it.
A brutal, relentless motion from the wrist up; tiny, fast tremors that sent pressure ricocheting directly into Kaveh’s front wall. Over and over, without rhythm, without mercy.
His leg slipped from the counter, but Alhaitham caught him by the thigh and hiked it back up, leaving him splayed and shaking, pussy stretched around his fingers and leaking down his wrist.
“Haitham— fuh, fuck —I can’t—”
He was rocking back on it now, instinctively, desperately, hips jerking to match the brutal motion. The pressure built fast, sharp and tight and unbearable, low in his belly and curling inward like a fist winding through his guts.
It felt like the urge to piss, urgent, hot, so fucking full, but warped into something slick and wrong and good. Too good.
His walls fluttered, clenching down in frantic pulses as heat licked up his spine, and still the sensation kept blooming, unbearable and wet and rising. It was too much. It was perfect. And it was scary.
“I’m gonna pee,” he gasped, voice wrecked and high. “I think I’m gonna—pee—please, stop, please—”
Alhaitham leaned in, mouth at the back of his neck.
“Don’t worry,” he said, low and hot, “it’s not pee.”
Kaveh shuddered. “N-no, I—Haitham, it feels weird, I swear—” His voice broke on a whine, breath coming out in sob-like tremors now. “My stomach’s hot, it’s—fuck, something’s gonna come out, I can’t—”
Alhaitham didn’t slow down.
His arm kept vibrating, wrist locked in a rhythm that punched hard and relentless against Kaveh’s g-spot, the pressure brutal, so precise it felt like it was tuned to his nerves. Kaveh’s hips jolted again, heel slipping uselessly on the edge of the counter, hands clawing at the slick surface for anything to hold onto. But there was nothing except for the obscene wet squelch of his pussy around Alhaitham’s fingers.
Every movement made a sound, lewd and squishy and soaked. Each slap against his pretty hole pushed out more slick, more mess, Alhaitham’s hand slick to the wrist and still sinking deeper, stretching his walls apart in greedy pulses. The sound echoed off tile, loud and vulgar, the squish-squish-slick of it filling the space beneath Kaveh’s whimpers.
“Ah— fuck, I’m serious, I’m — I think I’m gonna pee—”
“You’re not,” Alhaitham said again, firmer now, hand tightening on his thigh. “That’s not what this is. You’re right where I want you.”
“Haitham, please, ” Kaveh gasped, voice shrill with panic. “It feels wrong, I—I can’t hold it— I can’t—”
“Then don’t,” Alhaitham said, dragging his fingers in deeper. “Let go.”
“Nnnh—ah, gods, I’m— ”
When he turned his wrist he curled his fingers deep, pressing down cruelly.
Kaveh thrashed pathetically. His thighs jolted with every pump of Alhaitham’s hand, muscles twitching in panic and pleasure. His breath caught in high, broken squeals, punched out of him every time Alhaitham’s fingers slammed home, every thrust slick and noisy and deep.
His ass bounced under Alhaitham’s palm with every motion, fat jiggling where it met his hand, trembling with the force of it. The sound of his pussy was everywhere. So, so wet and squishy, squelching louder the harder Alhaitham worked him open, like his cunt couldn’t keep up with how much slick was being coaxed out of him.
Kaveh’s toes curled, squirming and shrieking again when Alhaitham’s fingers curled down and ground in, hitting the same soaked, swollen spot with ruthless precision.
Kaveh sobbed.
“I can’t—”
“You will,” Alhaitham said, steady as ever. “Make a mess. Show me how loud you can be.”
With a scream so sharp it scraped his throat raw, he broke—hole spasming violently, a gush soaking Alhaitham’s hand, thighs shaking like they were going to give out. Despite this, the fingers in his hole didn’t let up. He couldn’t stop squirting, the squelch gushing loud and obnoxious in his ears. His eyes rolled back, lips open and trembling, then the world narrowed to heat and pressure with the sound of slick, obscene wetness as Alhaitham fucked him through it.
He collapsed against the counter, shaking, ruined with it.
When it finally stopped, Kaveh was boneless, draped over the counter, face wet, legs trembling like they didn’t remember how to hold him.
Alhaitham leaned in close, lips brushing his ear.
“That,” he said quietly, “was not you pissing yourself.”
Kaveh let out a broken, humiliated whimper.
“Fuck you.”
Alhaitham just smiled. “Sure.”
Kaveh stayed like that for a little bit twitching with the aftershocks, Alhaitham stroking his back lovingly.
When Kaveh felt like he’d recovered enough, he slid down to his knees, unsteady. His thighs were slick, his center still dripping, the counter edge printed red across his lower stomach.
He looked up at Alhaitham through heavy lashes, lips already parted, breath shallow.
“Did I look like this,” he said, voice low and rough, “when you imagined me?”
Kaveh hooked his fingers in the waistband of Alhaitham’s pants, yanked them down in one smooth pull, and Alhaitham’s cock sprang free. It was already hard, flushed, twitching against his stomach.
Kaveh gave up with the teasing. He leaned in, let his tongue drag once up the underside, then opened his mouth and swallowed him whole. Hot, wet heat and the tight seal of his throat around Alhaitham’s cock, burying him deep with one practiced breath.
Alhaitham swore, hand snapping to Kaveh’s hair.
Kaveh moaned around him, loud, and pulled back just enough to speak, spit trailing from his lips.
“Is this what you saw?” he gasped out, breath hitching as he pumped him with one slick fist. “Me like this, messy and wet with your cock in my throat?”
Alhaitham hissed through his teeth. “ Fuck, Kaveh—”
Kaveh licked the head, slow and filthy, then took him again—deeper this time, nose brushing skin, throat flexing as he swallowed. Spit overflowed, running down his chin, soaking his hand as he stroked what he couldn’t fit.
The room filled with the wet sounds of his mouth: slurping, sucking, obscene and wanton. He moaned like he was savoring it, eyes fluttering closed, lashes damp with tears.
“Your voice,” Alhaitham muttered, breath breaking. “Your mouth—”
Kaveh moaned louder in response, gagging slightly as he pushed deeper, then pulled off with a gasp, breath catching on spit-slick lips.
“I want you to come like this,” he said, voice hoarse. “In my mouth. All of it. Don’t hold back.”
Then he wrapped his lips back around the head and sucked, hard, relentless, bobbing his head fast and messy, throat working, drool sliding down his wrist and dripping onto the floor.
Alhaitham’s jaw clenched, thighs shaking. “You’re—gonna make me—ngh— fuck— ”
Kaveh kept going.
Kaveh took him deep. So damn eager, completely open, his throat tight around Alhaitham’s cock, spit trailing in glossy strings from his lips to his knuckles. Every bob of his head was messier than the last, every moan more desperate, like he was trying to swallow the tension straight out of Alhaitham’s body.
It was working too well.
Alhaitham’s hand tightened in his hair.
“Stop.”
Kaveh barely had time to react before Alhaitham yanked him off, wet and gasping, mouth slack, spit smeared across his chin. He blinked up, dazed, pupils blown wide.
Alhaitham stared down at him then grabbed the base of his cock and slapped it against Kaveh’s tongue. Once. Twice. Again. The sound was sharp, sticky, obscene.
Kaveh whimpered, mouth still open, tongue out, eyes locked on his.
“Look at you, baby,” Alhaitham muttered, cock twitching in his grip. “Fucking perfect.”
He groaned—then came hard, hot and thick, spilling across Kaveh’s tongue in heavy pulses. Kaveh moaned as it hit, salty and hot, dripping off the edge of his tongue—
Then Alhaitham shoved back in.
The head forced itself past his lips, burying deep in one thrust. Kaveh gagged—choked—but held still, throat fluttering as Alhaitham fucked the rest of it straight down.
“Good boy,” Alhaitham hissed, hand fisting tight in Kaveh’s hair. “Take all of it—”
Kaveh moaned helplessly, lips sealed, throat tight, and swallowed.
Alhaitham finished, groaning low and brutal, cock twitching as he emptied the rest straight into Kaveh’s throat. Kaveh sucked around him greedily, tears spilling down his cheeks, spit and cum running down his chin, a wrecked mess on his knees.
When Alhaitham finally pulled out, it was slow, wet, trailing spit from Kaveh’s lips to the flushed head.
Kaveh gasped, eyes glassy. “Fuck,” he rasped, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
Alhaitham reached down and cupped his jaw, thumb dragging gently along the corner of his lips, smearing spit that Kaveh hadn’t even noticed was still there.
“You were so pretty,” Alhaitham said, voice soft. “You were so good for me.”
Kaveh’s breath caught again, this time from the way Alhaitham was looking at him. He had just sucked his dick sloppy style but he looked at him like he was art.
Kaveh let out a soft, breathy laugh. “You’re being disgusting.”
“You’re on your knees, flushed and drooling. If I were ever going to get sentimental, now seems appropriate.”
Kaveh rolled his eyes and pushed to his feet, shaky but determined.
Then he turned, slow and teasing, and bent over the counter again. His thighs were still slick, his cunt still wet and swollen and aching.
He reached back between his legs, two fingers sliding through the mess with ease. He dipped them inside, just the tips, just enough to feel how open he still was, and let out a breathy moan.
“Can I make it worse?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder. “If I beg you to fuck me?”
Alhaitham’s cock twitched involuntarily. He inhaled slowly through his nose, fingers flexing at his sides.
“You could,” he said, calm as ever, but his voice rasped at the edges. “But I think you want to.”
Kaveh bit his lip. His fingers were still buried in himself, slow and shallow now, just enough to keep him open, aching. He rocked gently on them, teasing his own rhythm.
“You’re still wet,” Alhaitham murmured, stepping in closer, eyes fixed on the slick sheen coating Kaveh’s inner thighs. “You’d take me so easily. You’d slide right onto my cock and probably come before I even finished bottoming out.”
Kaveh whimpered. “Then do it.”
Alhaitham leaned over him, crowding into his space, not quite touching yet. His cock brushed the back of Kaveh’s thigh—hot, heavy, stil hard andl slick from Kaveh’s mouth.
“You don’t want me to start slow?” he asked, lips brushing the shell of Kaveh’s ear. “No buildup? No fingers again, no prep?”
Kaveh moaned. “I’m prepped, I’ve been— fuck, I’m ready, just do it—”
Alhaitham’s hand slid around his waist, firm and grounding.
“Say it again,” he whispered, lined up behind him. “Be good.”
Kaveh squirmed under him, pushing back in tiny, frustrated rolls of his hips, but Alhaitham knew not to give in. He teasingly pressed his cock along the slick seam of Kaveh’s cunt again, dragging the head through the wet, swollen folds in slow, deliberate passes.
“You want it so badly,” Alhaitham murmured. “But I don’t think you’ve earned it yet.”
“ I have, ” Kaveh gasped, flushed from throat to ears, fingers clawing at the counter edge. “I—fuck, please, I’ve been good—”
Alhaitham rolled his hips once, just enough to tease the head against Kaveh’s entrance, barely nudging in.
Kaveh whined , high and broken. “Please—Haitham, please, I want it—I need it, gods, I’ll say it however you want, just give it to me— ”
Alhaitham groaned quietly through his teeth, barely restraining himself. “You’re not helping yourself,” he said, even as his hand slid up to Kaveh’s hip, holding him steady. “You sound like you’d cry if I didn’t.”
“I will, ” Kaveh wailed. “I’m going to cry, I swear—I need you to fuck me right now— ”
Alhaitham leaned in, breath brushing his spine.
“You’re so dramatic.”
Kaveh let out a shaky laugh, breath catching as his body quivered with want. He still had a little bite in him.
“What do you want me to say?” he panted. “‘Paul Bratter is a lousy, stinkin’ drunk…?”
Alhaitham stops at that. Then, he laughs, clearly amused, clicking his tongue in mock disappointment.
“Are you calling another man’s name in bed?”
Kaveh giggled, flushed and wrecked, grinding back against him. “Jealous of yourself?”
Alhaitham thrust in hard, meanly, dragging a scream from Kaveh’s throat as he buried himself to the hilt.
“You’re—mnhf—fuck—” Kaveh whined, his voice pitching high as Alhaitham slammed into him again, hard enough to knock the air from his lungs. “Thank you, thank you—thank you, I—ah, please, I needed it so bad—”
“I know you like it rough.”
“Haha—f-fuck,” Kaveh choked on a smile, legs trembling. “Maybe I do.”
Alhaitham pulled back slowly, then slammed in again, sharp and punishing.
Kaveh screamed , a choked, high-pitched wail as his body jolted forward, bouncing against the countertop with every brutal thrust. Slick dripped down the insides of his thighs, puddling below. His legs kept threatening to give out, but Alhaitham held him up—one hand locked around his waist, the other gripping the back of his neck and shoving him down until his cheek was pressed to the counter, mouth open, drooling onto the surface.
“You hear that?” Alhaitham groaned, snapping his hips harder. “That slap every time I fuck into you? That’s your sloppy hole begging me not to stop.”
“Mmm—mhm—mhm—fuck—yes—yes—I hear it—”
Kaveh was crying now. Desperate, babbling, tears streaking down his flushed cheeks. His moans had broken into near-hysterical little cries every time Alhaitham bottomed out.
“Such a fucking mess,” Alhaitham snarled. “You like being used like this?”
“Yes— gods, yes— please—”
Alhaitham spat down between his cheeks and smeared it across the base of his cock as he rutted in again, balls slapping wetly against Kaveh’s overstimulated pussy. Kaveh shrieked, the sound cracked and helpless.
“You’re dripping all over the fucking floor,” Alhaitham hissed. “You’re gonna clean this up with your tongue when I’m done? You’re good at that.”
“I will, I will! Haitham, please, I—gods, I’m gonna come again—!”
Alhaitham reached down and slapped his ass.
Like a knee jerk reaction, Kaveh’s hole clamped down, gushing and melting around Alhaitham’s cock, milking him through his third orgasm with such intensity it had Alhaitham grunting out.
“Do it—fuck, do it, in me, please—”
Kaveh’s voice was wrecked, ragged from crying out, every word soaked in desperation. His pussy clenched around Alhaitham’s cock, dragging him deeper, grinding against him in frantic, greedy circles.
Alhaitham’s rhythm stuttered. His grip tightened on Kaveh’s hips. One more thrust—deep, perfect—
And then he pulled out.
“H-Haitham—!” Kaveh gasped, frantic. “Why—”
He stroked himself once, twice, and came with a groan, thick, hot spurts painting Kaveh’s lower back, streaking across his ass and dripping down his thighs.
Kaveh whimpered, still twitching, aching around nothing now. “You asshole,” he whined, turning his head with a ruined pout. “I asked for it—”
“I know,” Alhaitham said, breath catching, one hand still gripping the base of his cock as the last pulse spilled out onto Kaveh’s skin. “But I’m not risking knocking you up just because you’re dramatic when you’re horny.”
Kaveh whined again, pushing back, slick thighs trembling. “You’re so mean. I wanted to feel it—feel it.”
“You felt plenty,” Alhaitham said flatly, smearing the mess across Kaveh’s ass with two fingers. “You’re still twitching.”
Kaveh moaned and squirmed, eyes fluttering.
“I’m not done with you,” Alhaitham grinned, leaning over him again. “Next time, we prep for mess properly. You want cum inside, you tell me before you’re begging for it.”
Kaveh was still shuddering, spread open on the kitchen counter, the marble cold against his stomach, his thighs slick and trembling from the sheer need still radiating through him. His underwear was still bunched uselessly around his ankle, chest flushed, lips parted around breathless little gasps.
He looked wrecked, and he was, from the orgasm Alhaitham had dragged out of him minutes earlier, and from the fact that he hadn’t been filled like he thought he would be.
“I meant it,” Kaveh protested, head knocking against the cabinet. “You were deep, I could feel everything—I thought you’d—fuck, please, I wanted to feel you inside—”
Alhaitham had nothing to say. He stared down at him, how his pussy was swollen and flushed, creamy slick smeared over the insides of his thighs, hole twitching open around nothing.
He flipped him over without ceremony, gripped Kaveh’s hips, and buried his face between his legs.
Kaveh screamed.
Alhaitham moaned on contact, deep and low, vibrating through his tongue. He licked a long, filthy stripe through the mess, lapping up the slick he’d spilled earlier and groaning like it was the first drink of water after a drought.
“Sweet,” he muttered, already going back in. “Fuck, you’re so sweet. Messy little thing. I didn’t even need to come in you—your pussy’s dripping.”
He latched onto Kaveh’s clit again and sucked, hard—full suction, his cheeks hollowing as he pulled and pulled until Kaveh was wailing again, legs kicking weakly against his back.
“Ah—hn, gods—s’too—too much—!”
Kaveh couldn’t even form the words to tell him to stop. His tongue felt swollen in his mouth, drool slipping down his chin, lips wet and trembling as he tried to speak.
“Haith’m—uhhn, I—s’good—can’t—fuck—”
His body was reacting faster than his brain could keep up with. Hips twitching, thighs falling further apart, his pussy clenching down on nothing, fluttering open with each stroke of Alhaitham’s tongue.
Then, he felt it. Alhaitham’s wet mouth sealing back over his clit and biting with enough pressure to make his whole body seize, to make his head slam back against the cupboard and his mouth open in a drooling, unintelligible scream.
Alhaitham suctioned his lips around the throbbing bundle of nerves like he was trying to draw something out of it. He pulled with steady, greedy pressure—wet and rhythmic, cheeks hollowing as his tongue flicked fast beneath the suction, coaxing, milking.
Kaveh’s whole body jolted.
“Nnnngh—ahhh—fuck, I—Haitham—!”
But Alhaitham was relentless. He sucked harder, like he knew what he was doing, like he knew Kaveh’s clit was swollen and slick and sensitive and still hiding one more orgasm inside it if he just—kept—pulling.
The wet sounds were sloppy and noisy, echoing off the tile floor as Alhaitham moaned into him, hands gripping his thighs so hard they might bruise. Kaveh’s hips lifted instinctively, grinding into his mouth even as his body tried to pull away.
Then Alhaitham bit, just enough to pinch. He immediately sealed his mouth back over it again, sucking even harder now, tongue flicking fast against the tip like he could wring his clit and eventually milk Kaveh’s cum out.
And it worked.
Kaveh came again, hard and wet, a full-body twitch followed by a gush, a hot stream of squirt that pulsed out in fast, messy spurts. It soaked Alhaitham’s face, sprayed down his chin, hit his chest and dripped to the floor.
Kaveh wailed, half-choked on his own drool, mouth hanging open in a wet, wordless mess as his body seized and bucked and kept leaking.
Alhaitham moaned into him like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted. He wouldn’t even stop sucking. He rode the wave, slurping through the squirt as it came, sucking his clit because he was milking it for every drop it could give.
“Fuck—fuck, look at you,” Alhaitham groaned, breath hot and shaky when he finally pulled back, chin dripping. “You spat all over me. Pussy just couldn’t hold it in.”
At Alhaitham’s filthy words, he came one more time, harder than before. He was absolutely gushing against Alhaitham’s mouth, slick squirting out in hot waves, splashing onto the counter, the floor, soaking Alhaitham’s jaw and neck. His hole spasmed, fluttering like it was still trying to take something in, but Alhaitham held him there, lapping through the mess he wasn’t even done with.
He lowered his head and dragged his tongue down through the mess, slow, until it found Kaveh’s fluttering hole. Still gaping slightly, slick with slick and slicker, twitching with overstimulation and need. He moaned into it, low and breathy, then shoved his tongue in.
Kaveh gasped so hard he choked on it, back arching off the counter.
Alhaitham licked deep, curling his tongue and dragging it along the soft, soaked walls before pulling back just enough to suck. His mouth sealing over Kaveh’s hole like he meant to drain it, to pull every last drop of cream right out from inside him. The suction was messy and strong, his tongue fucking in and out with obscene slurps while his hands held Kaveh open, spread wide and helpless.
Kaveh was a wreck above him. He was whining, twitching, his whole body stuttering around the intrusion, his mouth slack and open, tongue half out and drooling, wet sounds bubbling up from his throat. His eyes fluttered, lashes wet with tears, a few shiny streaks trailing down his cheeks from the overwhelming drag of it all.
Alhaitham only let go when he felt the last tremor run through Kaveh’s body. The final, uncontrollable clench of his hole and the long, broken whimper that slipped from his ruined mouth.
He pulled back, licking his lips slowly, savoring what was left there.
Kaveh went silent.
He was still lying over the counter, skin flushed and streaked with sweat and come, chest rising in shallow, uneven breaths. His arms trembled where they braced him, fingers twitching like he didn’t quite remember how to move them, eyes glassy, unfocused.
Oh no.
Did he kill him?
“…Kaveh?”
He blinked slowly, then turned his face halfway toward Alhaitham—mouth parted, lips kiss-swollen, voice soft and faraway.
“Bed,” he whispered.
Alhaitham’s brow furrowed. “What?”
“Take me,” Kaveh mumbled. “To bed. I want you to carry me.”
Alhaitham exhaled through his nose, calming his own pulse. He reached out. “Alright, wife . I’ve got you.”
He slipped his arms around Kaveh’s waist and thighs and lifted him without hesitation. Kaveh melted into him instantly—limp, boneless, head tucked against his neck, legs dangling, skin sticky and warm.
“Smell like sex,” Kaveh muttered into his shoulder, half-laughing. “Bet the neighbors heard.”
“I don’t care,” Alhaitham said, voice quiet now, grounding. “They should learn something.”
Kaveh hummed, drifting. “You’re such a prick.”
“You picked me.”
He carried him into the bedroom, settled him on the sheets without letting go entirely. Kaveh clung, arms looped lazily around his neck, thighs still trembling.
Alhaitham brushed damp hair off his forehead. “Do you need anything?”
Kaveh blinked up at him, a faint pout returning to his swollen mouth. “You.”
Alhaitham laid beside him and pulled him close, their legs tangling, heat pressed flush from chest to thigh.
“I’m right here.”
Kaveh giggled drunkenly before turning his face into Alhaitham’s chest, his voice muffled and lazy.
Kaveh shifted, trying to fold his legs a little closer together, only to wince and fall back with a dramatic groan. “My thighs feel like I ran from here to Port Ormos.”
Alhaitham didn’t look particularly apologetic, one arm tucked behind his head, the other loosely resting on Kaveh’s hip as he was anchoring him there. “You barely moved.”
“Exactly,” Kaveh muttered, glaring up at the ceiling. “You did all of that to me.”
Alhaitham glanced at him, expression aggravatingly neutral. “I gave you many chances to ask me to stop.”
“I was too busy gushing all over your face,” Kaveh said flatly. “Thanks for that, by the way. I thought squirting was a myth.”
“It’s not.”
“I know that now.” He let out a noise halfway between a whine and a sigh, dragging a hand over his face. “I didn’t know whether to cry or explode.”
“You did both.”
Kaveh turned to glare at him, flushed and exasperated. “How did any of your exes survive you? Like. Genuinely. What the fuck.”
Alhaitham glanced down at him, eyes half-lidded, his hand dragging lazily up the back of Kaveh’s thigh, warm and grounding. “I didn’t fuck them like that.”
Kaveh lifted his head a little, brows furrowed. “What, like… not as rough?”
“Not as intense.” Alhaitham’s voice was quiet, matter-of-fact, not defensive. “I didn’t need to know everything they could do.”
Kaveh blinked slowly, mouth parted.
“I liked them,” Alhaitham continued, fingers brushing along his spine, “but I wasn’t… hungry for them.”
The silence stretched for a moment, the weight of that word sinking in. Kaveh swallowed.
“So I bring out your worst instincts?” he asked, tone dry but a little breathless at the edges.
“You bring out all of them.” Alhaitham’s thumb traced the hollow of his back, slow. “I wanted to learn every part of you.”
Kaveh’s face flushed darker. “Okay, now you’re romantic and mean.”
“I didn’t know I could like someone enough to ruin them,” Alhaitham murmured, dipping in to kiss just behind Kaveh’s ear. “Until you.”
Kaveh melted.
“Oh my gods,” Kaveh groaned, covering his face with both hands. “I’m going to haunt you.”
“You’re the one who wouldn’t stop whining about wanting me to come inside you five minutes in.”
Kaveh peeked out from between his fingers, face bright red. “Because it was so good. You were hitting everything, and I was—”
“Overstimulated. Wailing. I remember.”
Kaveh shoved at him, limbs weak, voice breaking on another half-laugh. “You’re such a dick.”
“You picked me,” Alhaitham repeated, simply.
“I was clearly dickmatized.”
“You didn’t even see my dick when you said yes.”
“Do you think Corie and Paul would do that?”
Alhaitham paused. “You mean would they fuck in the kitchen until one of them cried?”
Kaveh snorted, cringing. “Don’t say it like that.”
“You asked.”
Kaveh let out a groggy little laugh. “Corie would absolutely try to get railed on the counter.”
“And Paul would complain about poor leverage.”
“Ugh,” Kaveh groaned, burying his face deeper into Alhaitham’s shoulder. “I’ll never make it through rehearsal again.”
Alhaitham laughed into his hair, soft and full. “That’s your problem.”
Kaveh lifted his head just slightly, brows raised, voice still faint and slow like molasses. “You realize if I can’t say the lines with a straight face, you’re the one who’s getting notes, right?”
“I’ll recite the script in monotone.”
“You already do.”
Alhaitham exhaled through his nose, huffing. “You were charmed.”
Kaveh yawned. “Unfortunately.”
He nestled back in, letting the silence wrap around them for a long moment, sticky skin against sheets, breath syncing up slowly.
“…Was I really that loud?”
“Yes,” Alhaitham said without hesitation.
Kaveh groaned, face scrunching against his skin. “Gods, you could lie sometimes. Just a little. Spare my dignity.”
“You don’t have any left,” Alhaitham said flatly, hand sliding down to rest low on Kaveh’s back, palm warm over the curve of his spine. “You said ‘thank you’ more times than you’ve said my name all semester.”
Kaveh whined. “Okay, enough. You already got to ruin me, don’t go for my ego too.”
Alhaitham hummed, thoughtful. “If I’d known this was how you responded to stress, I would’ve pulled you into tech week sooner.”
“Ha ha,” Kaveh muttered, but there was no heat in it, exhaustion curling under every syllable. “You think this counts as stress relief?”
Alhaitham looked down at him—hair mussed, lips red, cheeks flushed, still marked up from where he’d gripped him too tight.
“Yes,” he said.
Kaveh exhaled through a crooked smile, eyes finally drifting closed. “Then don’t let me forget next time.”
“I won’t.”
At night, you could only hear the rustle of sheets and the echo of everything they hadn’t said out loud yet.
“…You know this means we actually have to run the scene now, right?” Kaveh mumbled, half-asleep. “As in, front of people.”
Alhaitham’s fingers traced lazy circles against his back. “You’re the one who wanted immersion.”
Kaveh didn’t reply.
He was already asleep, breath even, mouth parted against Alhaitham’s chest, soft in a way he never let anyone else see.
Alhaitham stayed awake a little longer, just watching him.
“…Unbearable,” he whispered, barely audible.
He held him tighter.
Kaveh walked into the theater ten minutes late and looked like hell had chewed him up and spat him out with love bites. His hoodie was half-zipped, scarf tugged tight around his neck with suspicious urgency, and his usually curated hair was shoved under a beanie like it had been styled in the dark during an earthquake.
Everyone turned.
It was quiet just long enough for the math to click, and the collective horror to set in.
A sharp bark of laughter broke the silence. “Oh, fuck no,” Dehya said.
Nilou blinked once, then again, her mouth slowly falling open. “Is that—”
“Those are hickeys,” came Tighnari’s voice, laced with fear. “Serious, multi-location, layered hickeys.”
Kaveh didn’t stop walking, didn’t make eye contact, and most of all, didn’t even bother lying. He held up his thermos to shield himself from scrutiny. “Do not speak to me.”
Candace looked genuinely concerned. “Are you… okay?”
“I’m healthy,” Kaveh snapped, like that was the same thing. “And this is not a crime scene, so stop looking at me like that.”
“You look like you got pinned to drywall and used as a scratching post,” Dehya said, eyes raking over him.
“Did you get mauled by a bear?”
Tighnari leaned in, squinting. “Is that a bite on your chest?”
Kaveh yanked his hoodie up so fast the zipper caught on the scarf.
“Why would you look there?!”
“I wasn’t looking, perv. It’s visible through your shirt,” he pointed out. “Your whole clavicle is red like you got bodychecked by a horny poltergeist.”
“Okay, enough,” Kaveh hissed, retreating toward the wings. “This is theater. Haven’t any of you seen a man with low blood pressure before?”
A page turned. “That’s definitely not from low blood pressure,” Cyno said.
“I hate you all.”
When Alhaitham strolled in five minutes later he was unbothered as ever, carrying two coffees, wearing a white collared shirt that practically begged for someone to ruin it. Every inch of him looked composed. Clean skin, steady hands, not a trace left behind, like he’d spent the night sleeping peacefully instead of fucking someone into next week.
“Morning,” he said, handing Kaveh a cup.
Kaveh snatched it angrily and muttered into the lid. “You bastard.”
“You missed warmups,” Alhaitham said mildly. “Also, your scarf’s uneven.”
He reached over to adjust it. Kaveh slapped his hand away.
“Don’t touch me. You’ve done enough.”
“Archons,” Nilou whispered. “It was him.”
“Obviously,” Dehya said. “Who else would make him limp?”
“I’m not limping—”
“Yet,” Alhaitham said under his breath, and Kaveh nearly threw the coffee at him.
Cyno was already making notes in the production binder. “Next time, separate dressing rooms.”
“I cannot believe you scheduled sex during tech week.”
“It wasn’t scheduled—” Kaveh started, then immediately regretted it.
“Oh my god.” Candace said, backing away like they were contagious. “You’re both animals.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” Kaveh grunted, sipping his drink.
“Not even a scratch,” Nilou said, glaring at Alhaitham. “How do you look normal?”
“He heals fast,” Kaveh gritted out.
“Genetically superior,” Alhaitham added.
“Alright, places in five. Kaveh, if I see one exposed neck vein onstage, I’m finding a replacement.”
From somewhere up in the rafters, he heard a yell. “Tell him to wear a turtleneck!”
“It’s method,” Kaveh said faintly, already walking toward his mark.
“You’re horny!”
“I said don’t talk to me!”
Alhaitham followed him, hands in his pockets. “Do we get notes if the kiss feels too practiced?”
“Shut up!”
SUMERU UNIVERSITY DRAMA SOCIETY PRESENTS
BAREFOOT IN THE PARK
A comedy by Neil Simon
Directed by Nilou
Technical Direction: Dehya
Lighting Design: Tighnari
Stage Management: Candace
STARRING:
Corie Bratter — Kaveh
Paul Bratter — Alhaitham
DATES:
December 18–20 at 7:30 PM
December 21 at 2:00 PM Matinée
VENUE: Sumeru University Black Box Theatre
TICKETS:
Available at the door or online at [ sumudrama.org/park ]
SYNOPSIS:
Paul, a conservative lawyer, marries the vivacious Corie, but their highly passionate relationship descends into comical discord in a five flight walk-up apartment. Corie is spirited and impulsive; Paul is buttoned-up and methodical. Between a surprise visit from Corie’s mother and their eccentric neighbor Victor Velasco, married life quickly becomes anything but simple.
Barefoot in the Park is a sharp, heartwarming exploration of opposites attracting, expectations unraveling, and what it really means to meet each other in the middle.
The house was full. From behind the curtain, the sounds came through low and layered—programs shifting in laps, a few jackets rustling as people settled into their seats, someone coughing into their elbow in the second row. A phone buzzed and was silenced quickly. The voices in the audience had dropped into that soft, anticipatory hum, the one that always floated just above quiet.
The five-minute call had come over the headset a few moments ago. Backstage, the air had settled into its usual heat—stage lights radiating into corners, a faint smell of sawdust from the older flats, something slightly metallic from the rigging that no one had ever managed to fix.
Kaveh stood in front of the mirror near the dressing table, stage lights off, leaning slightly into his own reflection like he might be reading it for subtext. His coat hung loosely from one shoulder, forgotten but still clutched just enough that it hadn’t fallen. He was already dressed; his blazer was shrugged on over a wrinkled shirt, makeup already powdered to survive under heat.
His hair had held through tech week and then some. The scarf was missing tonight. So were the bruises, at least above the collar. Whatever remained had been covered cleanly, skillfully. He didn’t check again. He had already looked twice.
Behind him, Alhaitham stepped into view without saying anything. He never had to clear his throat or announce himself, but arrived, quiet and exact. His tie was off by a fraction—tugged crooked during quick change or from backstage contact that hadn’t fully been fixed. Kaveh reached up and straightened it with two quick motions, fingers moving like they’d done it before. The fabric smoothed flat again. He left his hand there for a second longer, then let it drop.
“Are you nervous?” Alhaitham asked, not unkind.
Kaveh pulled in a breath through his nose, then exhaled through a crooked smile.
“I’m fine about the show. I’ve done this scene so many times I could do it unconscious. But if Nilou sees us make out too convincingly onstage, I’m slightly less fine about whatever she’s going to yell once we get offstage.”
“She won’t have time,” Alhaitham replied. “She’s working light cues. Tighnari’s on the blackout. That takes all his focus.”
Kaveh shifted his weight to one side, hand brushing over the front of his shirt. “That doesn’t really help.”
“You say something like that every time,” Alhaitham said, calm as ever. “Then you hit every mark and walk offstage acting like you’re annoyed the audience clapped too long.”
Kaveh rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth tipped upward again.
“I hate it when you read me like that.”
“Sure you do.”
From deeper in the wings, someone called places.
Alhaitham moved first. He reached out and let his hand rest lightly against Kaveh’s back, fingers curling just enough to hold him there without pulling.
Act I had gone smooth—laughter in the right places, timing just tight enough to feel easy. The kisses had drawn soft ripples from the crowd, half surprise, half interest, and Kaveh had felt Alhaitham’s touch linger a little longer than what light, married pecks should normally require.
It’s the start of Act II. The set sits in a hush beneath the stage lights, caught between moonlight and anticipation.
Then, with the kind of confidence that comes only from repetition, Kaveh pushes through the front door.
He’s carrying a pastry box tucked precariously under one arm and two bottles clutched tightly in the other hand, moving quickly but not clumsily, breath a little high in his throat. There’s a slight hitch in his step, one the audience reads as Corie’s dramatic flair.
The apartment’s a mess. There are hors d’oeuvres everywhere, cocktail shaker half-full on the table, and the door still hanging open from the last scene. Kaveh glides across the space barefoot, arms full of props, face bright with Corie’s scripted exasperation. The room feels lived-in now.
After kicking the door shut behind him, he flips on the lights with a quick snap of the wrist and sets the box down with theatrical exaggeration. His coat is off and hung in the closet before the line even finishes forming in his mouth. He crosses to the bar in a few graceful, nearly soundless steps, and begins unboxing everything as if preparing for battle where the only outcome is survival by charm.
From the wings, someone exhales sharply. Nilou mutters under her breath. “He’s insufferably good at this.”
Then the doorbell buzzes.
Kaveh presses the buzzer and calls down, voice lifting into the air with practiced sweetness, “Paul?”
The response is a strange, garbled sound from below, barely coherent—Cyno’s cue, perfectly mumbled.
“Hi, love,” Kaveh says, not breaking stride as he heads back to the coffee table and tosses hors d’oeuvres from the pastry box with a gentle carelessness. He crosses the space with easy grace, landing perfectly at the bar again, fingers curling around the martini pitcher.
He brings it back to the table, then launches straight into the next beat, voice bright and conversational. “Hey, they sent the wrong lamps… but they go with the room so I’m keeping them.”
“Oh, do you have an Aunt Fern?” he says, uncapping both bottles and tilting them into the shaker in one fluid, symmetrical motion. “Because she sent us a check… Anyway, you have a cheap Aunt Fern.”
The audience laughs, as expected. Kaveh smiles to himself without ever fully breaking character.
As the shaker clinks softly, he turns slightly toward the invisible stairwell and speaks again. “How you doing?”
There’s another mumble from below—Cyno, once again, keeping to the script.
Kaveh doesn’t even flinch. He finishes pouring the gin and vermouth, watching the levels even out with idle satisfaction, and starts shaking the cocktail with a little more flourish than usual. The steel glints in the light. His arms move with rhythm and just enough effort to make the movement look entirely natural, like Corie’s done this a dozen times before, and Kaveh, in some other life, a thousand more.
He sets the shaker down, grabs it again, and walks toward the front door with an easy roll in his stride. His voice lifts, playful, just bordering on sultry. “Hey, lover—start puckering your lips, ‘cause you’re gonna get kissed for five solid minutes and then—”
The door opens mid-line.
Kaveh freezes.
For the briefest second, his smile stalls at the corners. His hand hovers just off the doorknob, the shaker paused mid-tilt. And standing there, stiff and awkward in a bowtie, grocery bag in hand and face locked in neutrality, is Cyno—as Mr. Munshin.
He’s halfway to the door when he stops.
“Oh,” he blurts, sharp, surprised, just like he’s supposed to. “Hello, Mr. Munshin. I thought it was my husband.”
The audience laughs. Alhaitham isn’t even onstage yet.
The door slam shut again. Kaveh shrugs sheepishly and walks back into the room. He disappears into the kitchen, gets the ice bucket, resets the blocking, and waits. He's listening for the cue.
The door opens again, this time more forcefully.
Alhaitham enters.
He’s gasping, slightly, from the performance of effort. His jacket is off-kilter and his tie is loosened.
He stumbles to the couch, drops his attaché case, and collapses with a long exhale that draws soft laughter from the house.
Kaveh emerges from the kitchen just then, shaker and ice bucket balanced in his arms. His expression softens the moment he sees him—but not too much. He plays it just right.
“It was you,” he says, voice lilting with Corie’s familiar, reckless affection. “I thought I heard your voice.”
He crosses to the end table, sets everything down, and keeps moving.
Alhaitham answers without hesitation. “Mr. Munshin and I came in together.”
Without warning, Kaveh jumps onto Alhaitham like a frog. His arms were slung instantly around his neck, legs pulled just slightly inward.
Alhaitham winces in pain—on cue.
The audience erupts in laughter.
Kaveh keeps the momentum.
Alhaitham heaves. “Do you have to carry on—a whole personal conversation with me—after I’ve been on the stairs?”
His voice sounded softer now—method acting does work, after all. Kaveh hates it when he’s right.
Kaveh answers, pouting. “Well, there’s so much I wanted to tell you… and I haven’t seen you all day… and it takes you so long to get up.”
They aren't touching faces, but the proximity is unbearable.
Kaveh slips off his lap and stalks to the kitchen like the distance will give him air.
“Everyone knows the intimate details of our life,” Alhaitham calls after him. “I ring the bell and suddenly we’re on the air.”
“Tomorrow I’ll yell, ‘Come on up, Harry, my husband isn’t home,’” Kaveh replies, grabbing the empty pastry box and liquor bag and throwing them both into the garbage with a satisfying whoosh. The audience howls at that.
“Hey,” he continues, walking back toward the couch, “wouldn’t that be a gas if everyone in the building thought I was having an affair with someone?”
“Mr. Munshin thinks it’s him right now.”
“Well?” Kaveh says, crossing slowly toward him, measured and even.
“Well what?”
“What happened in court today? Gump or Birnbaum?”
“Birnbaum.”
Kaveh jumps on his lap again. Alhaitham winces, more believably this time.
“Oh, Paul, you won. You won, darling. Oh, sweetheart, I’m so proud of you.”
He stays there, and pulls back just enough to look him in the eye.
“Well,” Kaveh says, voice low, almost too quiet to catch beneath the hum of the house mics. He’s still perched in Alhaitham’s lap, arms wrapped around his neck, the lines of his body pulled in just close enough.
“Aren’t you happy?”
Alhaitham gaze settles on Kaveh’s face.
He could’ve answered with the line he’s known by heart since the first readthrough— “Birnbaum won the protection of his good name, but no damages. We were awarded six cents.” It’s cued in his spine by now, ready to leave his mouth without thought. He decides to let the impulse pass.
Paul walks the straight line, balances the checkbook, refuses to walk barefoot in the park because the ground is uneven, the weather is unpredictable, and because love—however much he feels it—isn’t supposed to be reckless.
Alhaitham, who doesn’t believe in emotional performances, who’d rather read than argue, who showed up to first rehearsal only because Nilou cornered him with a casting list and a deadline, has watched Kaveh do the same thing Corie’s done for Paul—to him, over and over, with no restraint.
He’s only started to understand that being loved by someone like that means letting go of the parts of himself that hold the world at arm’s length.
Statistically speaking, the experiment had produced surprisingly robust results. Zero prior romantic entanglement. Several weeks of immersive exposure.
Method acting, while previously dismissed as sentimental nonsense, had proven a disturbingly efficient psychological infiltration tool.
To think, method acting has proven so effective, he’s stolen a couple of lines from Paul Bratter’s playbook.
So instead, Alhaitham looks up at Kaveh, and he grins.
“I am, now,” he replies, easily.
Backstage, three people immediately snap their heads toward Nilou.
Her jaw is already on the floor.
“No way he improvised.”
Kaveh’s breath catches just slightly—a tiny pause before his body continues to move, like something under the surface skipped.
The scene rolls on.
Long after the final performance has ended, the streets are quiet, but not quite dead. A few leftover voices drift out of late-night cafés and apartment windows cracked open to let the city breathe. Traffic’s thinned down to the occasional cab sliding past, tires hissing on wet pavement. Everything feels softer at this hour, a little undone at the seams.
Kaveh is still dressed from curtain call, though his blazer’s unbuttoned and hanging crooked over one shoulder. His bowtie’s tucked in his pocket, half-damp with beer, and his hair’s flattened just enough to show he danced too hard during someone’s impromptu karaoke set. He’s holding his shoes in one hand.
Alhaitham walks beside him, collar loosened, sleeves rolled, expression somewhere between tolerant and fond. He’s holding Kaveh’s bag. His thermos throttles inside of it. It’s empty now, and they’ve both stopped pretending it was ever filled with anything besides vodka and misplaced ambition.
“I cannot believe,” Kaveh says, dragging the words out with drunken sloppiness, “that Cyno did the worm. Onstage. During the bows.”
“He wasn’t even bowing,” Alhaitham replies. “He just decided the floor was his now.”
Kaveh snorts. His steps are uneven but enthusiastic, like his legs forgot how to walk but remembered how to celebrate. “I think I still have cake in my sock.”
“You weren’t wearing socks.”
“Oh,” Kaveh says, blinking at the sidewalk. “Then someone else’s socks.”
They cross at a red light without looking. Alhaitham angles a hand toward Kaveh’s elbow automatically, guiding him with an ease that doesn’t require eye contact or acknowledgement. Kaveh sways a little into the touch, but doesn’t say anything.
Up ahead, a park unfolds quietly beneath the lamplight—gated paths, trimmed hedges, a wide green lawn stretched out in sleepy stillness. It’s empty, serene, and just underlit enough to look like something from a dream sequence.
Kaveh stops walking.
Alhaitham slows beside him. “What.”
Kaveh grins.
“No,” Alhaitham says. “Whatever that face is, it’s illegal.”
“I have an idea.”
“That’s worse.”
Kaveh lets out a high, delighted noise and drops his shoes. They hit the sidewalk with two soft thuds. He tugs off his socks—when did he put those on again?—and leaves them in a limp pile next to his abandoned loafers.
“Don’t—” Alhaitham starts, but it’s too late.
Kaveh steps into the grass, barefoot. The dew’s already set in, soft and cool against his skin. He takes two slow steps forward, then three faster ones, then laughs and runs.
Across the park. Arms loose. Feet flying. Giggling like a drunk, unhinged wind chime.
Alhaitham just watches.
And sighs.
Then, quietly, takes off his own shoes.
“You’re doing this too?” Kaveh yells over his shoulder.
“I’m making sure you don’t fall in a pothole and sue the city.”
“Romantic.”
Alhaitham catches up easily. Kaveh slows down when he reaches the middle of the grass, just far enough from the path that it feels private. They’re surrounded by trees on one side, a distant bench on the other, and stars that might be real or just well-placed streetlights.
Kaveh turns, panting lightly. “So? What do you think?”
“You’re an idiot.”
“And?”
Alhaitham considers. The grass is damp under his feet, his shirt open at the collar. There’s something sharp in his chest that feels suspiciously like joy.
“And you’re barefoot,” he says.
Kaveh smiles like that’s the whole point.
Kaveh drops first. He lets his legs give out beneath him like he’s been shot mid-scene and lands flat on his back in the grass, arms spread, hair fanned wildly across the damp lawn.
“Gods, I’m dying,” he groans.
“You ran ten steps,” Alhaitham says, standing over him.
“Ten theatrical steps. I emoted.”
Alhaitham gives it another second, then folds down beside him with enough intent to count as indulgence. The grass is cold against his arms. The new thrum of quiet is far from uncomfortable.
Kaveh lets out a long, satisfied exhale. “You smell like stage makeup.”
“You smell like vermouth and poor decisions.”
“So,” Kaveh says, blinking up at the sky, “me, basically.”
“Accurate.”
They lie there in silence for a few moments, breath slowing, the buzz from the party still tingling around the edges. Somewhere, a car honks. Somewhere closer, the wind pushes a tree into a soft rustle. But here, in the wide-open dark of the park, it’s just them.
“You improvised,” Kaveh says, eyes still on the sky.
Alhaitham doesn’t answer right away.
“You never improvise,” Kaveh adds. “You said you hated it.”
“I changed my mind.”
“You said you were a script purist.”
“I am adaptive.”
Kaveh turns his head, face scrunched into a slow, suspicious smile. “So you admit it.”
“I didn’t deny it.”
“You said, and I quote,” Kaveh lowers his voice into a deeper register, “‘I think staying within the constraints of the text is the most honest thing an actor can do.’”
Alhaitham doesn’t flinch. “And then I kissed you in front of a paying audience. Clearly I’m on a decline.”
Kaveh snorts. “You are such a little romantic.”
“That wasn’t a compliment.”
“It was,” Kaveh insists, reaching over and poking him in the ribs. “And you are, you little baby. You pretended to be annoyed every time I called us Corie and Paul, but you secretly loved it.”
“I tolerated it.”
“You loved it. You leaned into it. And now you’re here, with me, rolling around in the grass like a puppy because you loved it.”
Alhaitham turns his head too, meeting Kaveh’s grin with something quieter. “You’re hard to ignore.”
Kaveh’s breath catches. Just briefly. Then he covers it with another smirk. “Isn’t it nice that I’m cute?”
“Isn’t it nice that I have bad taste?”
Kaveh groans and flops an arm across Alhaitham’s chest. “Shut up and lie here with me before I decide to make this our last scene and kill you off dramatically.”
“I’d at least like a monologue.”
“You’d get a full soliloquy.”
“Only if you stay in character.”
“I never broke character once in my life,” Kaveh mutters, already melting into him.
They’re quiet for a while. Breathing above the sound of grass settling beneath them and the occasional rustle of a breeze through the trees. Streetlights hum in the distance.
Alhaitham shifts slightly, his fingers brushing Kaveh’s just once, almost absentminded.
“I like you,” he says.
Kaveh laughs, jostling the grass. “I know that.”
Alhaitham doesn’t look at him right away. His gaze stays up, fixed somewhere near the moonlight slicing through the clouds. “I like you,” he repeats. “Too much, probably.”
Kaveh stares. His throat works once before anything comes out. “That’s random.”
“I didn’t think so.”
“It’s two in the morning,” Kaveh says, still blinking at him like he’s trying to catch up. “We’re barefoot in a park.”
“You’re here.”
Kaveh swallows. He opens his mouth, almost like he’s going to say something smug, then doesn’t. His eyes are wide. His voice, when it comes, is quiet around the edges.
“I like you too, stupidly enough,” he says. “So much it makes me kind of nauseous.”
“Romantic,” Alhaitham says.
“Don’t mock me.”
“I’m agreeing.”
Kaveh groans softly and drops an arm over his eyes. “I liked it better when we were roommates.”
“You did not.”
“No,” he admits, grinning helplessly. “I really didn’t.”
Their hands find each other where Kaveh’s arm lays over Alhaitham’s chest, fingers grazing, then curling together without fanfare. Kaveh squeezes once, then doesn’t let go. His head tilts slightly toward him, hair catching bits of grass and light, and the shape of his smile keeps threatening to undo Alhaitham’s entire worldview. Kaveh is talking about something—probably the cake again, or Cyno’s worm—but his words are trailing off, softer with every breath.
Alhaitham shifts slightly, just enough to glance over at him, and says, with no preamble at all, “I wasn’t lying, by the way.”
Kaveh blinks, mid-thought. “About what?”
“You’re so pretty,” Alhaitham says. “It’s actually true—I would let you win every argument.”
Kaveh lets out a small, incredulous sound. “Do you always say this when you’re drunk?”
“I meant it then, too.”
“You’re going to regret that when you wake up tomorrow.”
Alhaitham finally looks at him. “Maybe.”
Alhaitham closes his eyes. The grass is damp beneath them, the stars stubbornly unmoving above. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he thinks they should probably get up soon, probably start walking home before sunrise. But Kaveh’s breathing is warm against his shoulder, and his hand is still resting just above Alhaitham’s heart.
So they stay where they are, for now.
+1
The new script’s good. Fine. Whatever.
It’s sharp, the dialogue moves, the director’s precise without being overbearing, and the other lead is kind, technically sound, emotionally available. Kaveh should be thrilled. He’s getting leads now on reputation alone, and this one comes with a grant and a glowing write-up from the department chair.
He should be fine.
And he is, sort of. But four weeks in, he keeps catching himself bracing for someone to roll their eyes mid-line. Or rewrite blocking because it’s “inefficient.” Or mutter something impossible just loud enough for him to hear: You’re projecting, again.
The new lead never does. He laughs when he’s supposed to. He hits all his cues. He tells Kaveh he’s “a joy to work with” after every scene they run.
Kaveh thanks him and then goes outside to sit on the loading dock and aggressively not think about Alhaitham.
It’s stupid.
They live together. They kiss each other good morning in the kitchen, forehead brushes over coffee mugs, slow hands at the small of the back while toast burns in the oven. They text about groceries and whether Kaveh remembered to drink water, and Alhaitham always signs off with something soft enough to make Kaveh’s throat catch— Don’t overthink this scene. You’re already good. He leaves notes on the bathroom mirror that say You’ll kill it tonight in quick, illegible scrawl. They have sex that’s so good it’s frankly offensive, and more than once Kaveh has walked into rehearsal with a limp and refused to take questions. Kaveh’s noticed that Alhaitham is quietly, shamelessly clingy—the kind of person who sends I miss you messages at 2:14 p.m. and double messages with a photo of Kaveh’s sweater on the couch, frowny face attached.
And yet, it’s been a month since they’ve shared a rehearsal room, and Kaveh keeps missing things he didn’t even realize he’d gotten used to.
The tension. The friction. The way Alhaitham would watch him—his acting, yes, but him, like the scene was a puzzle and Kaveh was the key he already half-solved but liked breaking open anyway.
Kaveh tries to get over it.
He’s at rehearsal early when it happens. Half the cast is still in line at the vending machines. His scene partner’s somewhere upstairs changing. Kaveh’s onstage alone, pacing through lines under his breath.
Someone walks in.
He doesn’t turn at first and just assumes it’s the assistant stage manager.
Then a voice comes in, familiar, dry, and unimpressed.
“You didn’t hit that beat right.”
Kaveh spins. “What the—”
Alhaitham’s standing just inside the house, arms crossed over his chest like he owns the place, already watching the space, mapping it out.
Kaveh’s heart stutters. He covers it with irritation. “What are you doing here?”
Alhaitham shrugs. “I got the part.”
“What part—” Kaveh pauses. “You auditioned?”
“Was that unclear?”
Kaveh stares at him, speechless for a full three seconds. “You don’t even like this play.”
“I like working with you,” Alhaitham says easily. Kaveh swallows. He looks around, like someone might tell him this is a prank. No one does.
“You’re in the ensemble,” he says finally.
“I’m the tree,” Alhaitham replies flatly.
Kaveh blinks. “You’re what?”
“The tree.”
He holds up the new rehearsal schedule. Kaveh grabs it and scans the casting notes, then doubles over laughing.
“You— you got cast as foliage?”
“A silent woodland presence with strong narrative symmetry,” Alhaitham says without inflection.
“You’re listed as ‘Tree Three.’”
“Higher billing than ‘Tree Four.’”
Kaveh wipes a hand down his face. “This is—this is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
“I assumed they were casting metaphorically,” Alhaitham says. “I didn’t realize I was auditioning to impersonate chlorophyll.”
“Was it metaphorical when they asked you to sway during the storm cue?”
“I don’t sway,” Alhaitham replies. “I adjust.”
Kaveh’s still laughing when rehearsal moves on to Scene IV—a romantic monologue capped with a first-kiss. His new scene partner is perfectly charming, very technically solid, and exactly the kind of actor who sells sincerity like it’s instinct. However, something about that perfection is very boring. Regardless, Kaveh leans into the scene with just enough warmth to be believable. But as he steps in for the kiss, he hears a suspicious rustle from upstage left.
He doesn’t turn. But he knows.
After the run, during the reset for notes, Kaveh crosses upstage and finds Alhaitham posted against a painted tree trunk, half in costume, arms crossed like he’s overseeing a security breach.
“You’re watching me,” Kaveh says, arms folded.
“I’m making sure you don’t cheat.”
“Cheat?”
“If you kiss him with too much effort,” Alhaitham says calmly, “I’ll throw leaves at you.”
Kaveh stares at him. “Leaves.”
Alhaitham picks one up off the ground. “With force.”
“You’ll—” Kaveh breaks into another laugh. “What, like a passive-aggressive autumn breeze?”
“Exactly.”
“So what—if I act too well, you pelt me?”
“Consider it feedback.”
Kaveh snorts.
“You’re very touchy with your scene partner.”
Kaveh hums, low in his throat, and takes another step forward, toeing the line between confrontation and invitation. “Jealous?”
Alhaitham’s eyes flick down to the pink of his mouth, then back up. He doesn’t blink. “Observant.”
Kaveh tilts his head, the grin starting slow and wicked. “That’s what you’re going with?”
“I’m a tree,” Alhaitham says, almost too dry to be real. “I have to stay rooted.”
Kaveh lets out a soft, incredulous laugh—and then kisses him.
He leans in, catches Alhaitham’s mouth with his own like he’s saying, okay, if you’re going to stand there like furniture, I’ll decorate you properly.
Alhaitham doesn’t move at first, but then his hands settle on Kaveh’s waist, firm and warm and possessive in a way that says he’s been waiting for this. The kiss tilts deeper. Their mouths pressed together, breath shared between them. Applause is unnecessary when he feels his heart ring louder than his thoughts.
When Kaveh pulls back, his smile is smug and satisfied and a little breathless. “Still observant?”
Alhaitham’s voice is fond, his hands still at Kaveh’s hips. “Still watching.”
Kaveh kisses him again, quick this time. “I’ll ask if I can wear a mouthguard.”
Alhaitham gives him a look, feeling unimpressed and genuinely betrayed.
Kaveh just grins. “Relax. You kiss better anyway.”
That earns a subtle shift—a raise of the brow, but Alhaitham doesn’t respond. His hands tighten slightly at Kaveh’s waist, but the pout is unmistakable.
“Oh my gods,” Kaveh mutters, laughing. “Fine. You’re the best kisser. Happy?”
Alhaitham doesn’t answer, just keeps the pout going with quiet, practiced stubbornness.
Kaveh huffs and presses another kiss to the edge of his mouth, barely a brush. “I’ll ask the director if we can fake the kiss. I’ll mime it. Big dramatic pause, very artistic. We’ll throw up a silhouette.”
Alhaitham finally speaks. “How thoughtful.”
“Haitham,” Kaveh says, tugging gently on his collar, “you’re still holding me.”
Alhaitham wordlessly leans in, tilts his head slightly, and kisses him again—slower this time, with no pressure to prove anything.
Kaveh smiles into it. His fingers curl lazily in the fabric at Alhaitham’s chest. Then he kisses him once more—quick, affectionate, like punctuation—and steps back, already turning toward the stage.
He doesn’t notice the way Alhaitham’s gaze lifts just past him.
Kaveh is already halfway to the wings, shaking out his shoulders and muttering about hitting his cue this time, when the new lead happens to glance up.
And freezes.
Alhaitham hasn’t moved. He’s standing there, arms crossed, expression unreadable—but his eyes are locked, unblinking, on one very specific point: the lead’s face.
The poor guy flinches, mumbles something about “needing to run lines,” before scurrying off in the opposite direction.
Kaveh peels off his hoodie and drops onto the couch with a dramatic sigh.
“I asked the director if we could fake the kiss.”
Alhaitham doesn’t look up from where he’s carefully slicing an apple in the kitchen. “Did you?”
“Yeah,” Kaveh says, grabbing the apple slice directly from his hand. “But apparently the lead already asked. Isn’t that weird?”
Alhaitham tilts his head slightly. “Mm.”
“He said something about chemistry and needing more ‘personal space onstage,’” Kaveh continues, biting into the slice. “I think he’s overthinking it.”
“Sounds serious,” Alhaitham says, utterly neutral.
Kaveh frowns. “Do you think I’m too intense?”
“You were barefoot in the park at two A.M.”
“…Okay. Fair.”
Kaveh adds, completely casual, “Anyway, at least this means you don’t have to throw leaves at me.”
Alhaitham slices another piece and hands it to him without blinking. “We’ll see.”
Kaveh doesn’t even question it.
Alhaitham smiles, just a little, behind his tea.