Short Story: The Kiss

“Whoa, tiger”

The whisper left Niamh’s lips, warm against Jake’s mouth. Her voice was steady, practiced— but the tremor in her breath betrayed her.

Jake held the pose, his hands cupping her face, fingers brushing against the slick heat of her skin. The golden spotlight poured over them, highlighting Niamh’s garnet hair into a flaming crown. It caught the gleam of sweat across his bare chest, exposed by the loose folds of his gilded metallic robe. Her arm was draped around his neck, the other hanging delicately at her side, her body curved against his. Perfect. Controlled. Exactly as rehearsed.

Except for the kiss.

Her lips had parted, his had followed, and the air between them was charged with something neither of them had expected. The harnesses creaked softly as they swayed, suspended mid-air, held in the light like statues carved from gold. The scene demanded they stay frozen, but Jake could feel her pulse against his thumb, quick and uneven.

Her eyes flickered open, just for a second, meeting his. There was something there —something raw, unguarded — and then it was gone. She closed them again, the lines of her face falling back into the practiced softness of the pose.

The stagehands began to lower them. The rigging jerked slightly, breaking the moment’s fragile silence. Jake loosened his grip as their feet touched the ground, but the warmth of her lingered on his palms.

Niamh stepped back first, her movements brisk, deliberate. She adjusted the folds of her robe, tilting her head slightly, her expression a careful mask. “Not bad,” she said, her voice light, her tone giving nothing away.

Jake said nothing, watching as she turned and strode toward the wings, her golden robe catching the faint glow of the fading spotlight.

"It's called 'The Kiss,'" Max Terzian announced, his orange silk scarf catching the late autumn sunlight that streamed through The Ivy's latticed windows. "We're bringing Klimt's masterpiece to life — all that gold, all that passion, all that..." His hands conducted an invisible orchestra as he searched for the word, silver rings glinting.

"Sensuality?" offered Mike Foster, signalling for more wine.

"Precisely!" Max's eyes lit up. "Picture this: Vienna, 1907. A city of secrets and gold leaf. A woman trapped in a loveless marriage. An artist who sees beyond the surface… It's about desire, about that moment just before everything changes. We'll have music — not just accompanying but woven through like threads in a tapestry."

Mike sat back, letting Max build his momentum. He'd timed this lunch perfectly — Max was on his fourth glass of wine, just when his artistic passion really started flowing.

"Course, Jake's got quite a background in performance," Mike said casually. "Did some film work before the MMA fight work took off. Standing in for those pretty boys who couldn't throw a proper punch. Making them look good in the edit."

Max paused, fork hovering over his untouched sea bass, to study Jake properly for the first time. "Really? How... fascinating." His gaze took in the broad shoulders, the clean jawline, the way the crisp white poplin shirt stretched just slightly across Jake's chest. "And our audience would certainly find you... compelling."

"The female demographic has been very responsive to Jake's social media presence," Mike added smoothly.

"I can imagine." Max dabbed his lips with his napkin, though he hadn't just taken a bite. "We're looking for someone who can command attention. Someone who can make even Klimt's golden cloak feel... understated. 

"Tell me more about the story," Jake said, trying to redirect Max's appraising gaze.

Max's face lit up. "Austria at its most decadent. A woman trapped in a gilded cage of a marriage. Her husband, a patron of the arts, commissions a portrait. Enter our artist..." He paused dramatically. "Though of course, we're taking certain... liberties with history."

Jake frowned. "I thought Klimt just painted them, the couple."

"Darling," Max leaned forward, rings catching the light, "art is never 'just' anything. What matters is what's beneath the surface. The longing. The possibility. The moment when everything could change.” The director looked pensive for a fleeting moment then perked up, snapped his fingers and raised a suggestive eyebrow. “Your co-star is Neeve Quinn.” 

“Who?” Jake looked blank. 

“Neeve Quinn. Her first name is spelt in a beautiful Irish manner. N.I.A.M.H. familiar now?”

 Jake was still looking blank but Mike was stammering. “Wait… Niamh Quinn, THE Niamh Quinn?The one who looks like a Rosetti angel?”

Jake’s face perked-up but there was something wary in his eyes. “Musical?”

"Not your standard show tunes," Mike cut in quickly, "More... atmospheric. Contemporary."

"Think Leonard Cohen meets Miss Saigon," Max added, then noticed Jake's blank expression. "We'll have to work on your cultural references, darling. Though with those abs, you could probably convince the audience you wrote La Traviata."

"Is that... good?" Jake whispered to Mike.

"It's opera," Mike whispered back. "Just nod and look soulful."

Max turned to Mike. "Does he move well?"

"Like a cat," Mike said. "You should see his fight videos. Pure choreography."

"I'm not much of a dancer," Jake admitted.

Max waved this away. "We'll work around that. The role needs presence more than pirouettes. Our female audience,” He paused, sipping his wine, "they're not coming for the footwork."

Jake shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Look, I appreciate the interest, but I'm not sure…”

“Your fans will flock to the show.” Mike interjected. “And that's just the beginning. This could be huge, Jake. Theatre’s respectable. Proper acting. Not just punching people for likes.”

Max was still studying Jake with that appraising eye. "The rehearsal process would be... intensive. But I think we could create something extraordinary. Something that would change theatre forever.”

Jake, who had spent the last year being photographed in nothing but designer underwear for billboards across three continents, somehow managed to look uncomfortable.

“Jake's just hit three million Instagram followers,” Mike said casually, as though he hadn't spent the last week carefully preparing this lunch. He'd known his friend since their awkward teenage years - back when Jake had been way too pudgy to be happy or popular. Years before the fighting had given him a physique and modelling had given him polish. "Though he's getting a bit tired of the perfume ads. Aren't you, Jake?"

"I just feel like…” Jake started.

"Like you're more than just an extremely photogenic pair of pecs?" Max suggested, dabbing his lips. "Darling, the theatre understands completely. We're all about depth — soul — passion.” He paused ” Though the six-pack certainly won't hurt ticket sales."

“It’s an eight-pack.”  Mike chipped in with a broad smile.

“An ‘eight-pack’… really!” Max drew out the last word with appreciative longing and Mike sat back, his work was done.

"The thing is," Jake tried again, "I've never…”

"Never explored your dramatic potential?" Max leaned forward eagerly. "Never tapped into your raw, masculine energy in a purely artistic context? Never…”

"Been in a musical," Jake finished flatly.

"Who said anything about a musical?" Max looked affronted. "This is a theatrical experience with... occasional melodic interludes."

Mike kicked Jake under the table before he could ask what the difference was.

"The beautiful thing about theatre today," Max continued, warming to his theme, "is that we're breaking all the old rules. Gender-blind casting, colour-blind casting..." He gestured expansively with his wine glass. "Art should reflect possibilities, not limitations."

"Then why should I be the male lead?" Jake asked, genuinely curious.

Max and Mike exchanged a look.

"Darling," Max said delicately, circling the rim of his almost empty wine glass with the tip of his index finger, "I may be committed to artistic revolution, but I'm not blind to... commercial realities. Our target demographic..." He paused meaningfully.

"Would riot if we put you in anything but the lead," Mike finished. "Though I suppose you could understudy one of the female roles. Your cheekbones could carry it."

"The last post of you doing those morning push-ups got eight hundred thousand likes," Max added. "Even my mother followed you after that one. And she's been dead for three years."

Jake blinked. "I'm sorry, what?"

"The point is," Mike cut in smoothly, "Max's vision allows for infinite artistic possibilities. While also acknowledging that some possibilities sell more tickets than others."

"I'm an equal opportunity revolutionary," Max said with a magnificent shrug. "Though I will insist on you being shirtless for at least twenty percent of the show. For artistic integrity, you understand."

"Of course," Max said, somehow managing to lounge dramatically in the rigid restaurant chair, "we'll need a formal audition but it’s a done deal.”  He sat straight in his chair, his eyes now shining with intensity of a zealot gazing at his God. “We will have to workshop the staging extensively. The technical demands alone..." He mopped his brow with the orange scarf. "The golden cloak sequence! The lighting! The hydraulics!"

"Hydraulics?" Jake looked alarmed.

"For the levitation scene," Max said, as though this was obvious.

Mike cleared his throat. "I thought this was about a painting of two people kissing."

"Please," Max rolled his eyes heavenward. "If I just wanted two pretty people kissing, I'd film a deodorant commercial. We're creating Art!" The capital A was audible. "Though," he added with a sly glance at Jake, "the kissing is rather important. Think you can handle that?"

"I've kissed people before," Jake said flatly.

“You are going to be kissing Niamh Quinn, you lucky dog.” Mike muttered but neither Max nor Jake were paying attention.

"On stage?" Max's eyebrows performed an elaborate dance. "Under lights? With a full house watching? With music swelling and gold leaf falling and-"

"Gold leaf?" Mike interrupted. "Real gold leaf?"

"Well, no," Max deflated slightly. "The budget won't stretch. We're using painted tissue paper. But it will look magnificent! And when he takes his shirt off-"

"I haven't said yes yet," Jake pointed out.

Max waved this away with a bejewelled hand. "Darling, you were cast the moment you walked in. Just look at you! You're practically Klimt's painting come to life. Only with better abs. The original model definitely wasn't doing clean and press."

"The artistic possibilities are VAST!" Max declared, somehow making the word 'vast' need all capitals even in the quiet dining room. Several nearby patrons jumped. "Though naturally, certain scenes will require..." he paused for maximum effect, "special lighting."

"Special lighting?" Jake asked.

"For your torso, darling. We can't just flood those abs with standard spots - we need something..." His hands painted invisible masterpieces in the air. "Something that suggests Klimt's use of gold leaf."

Mike managed to keep a straight face. "You're thinking of bronzing him?"

"I'm thinking of immortalising him!" Max's voice rose again. A waiter dropped a fork. "Though yes, there may be some subtle highlighting involved. And possibly some strategic baby oil."

Jake looked slightly panicked. "I thought this was serious theatre?"

"Oh, it's serious," Max assured him, straightening his orange scarf. "Serious as a heart attack. Which, coincidentally, is what our female patrons might experience during your first shirtless scene if we light it properly."

Mike kicked Jake under the table again before he could bolt. "Think of it as... method acting. You're playing an artist's muse."

"A very buff muse," Max added.

Two weeks later, Jake stood at the Phoenix Theatre's stage door, hand raised to knock. The metal was scarred with years of signatures - actors' names scratched into the paint, faded but still visible in the late afternoon sun.

"Just a little singing," Max had said airily at lunch, waving a ring-laden hand. "A mere formality." But he'd been suspiciously vague about what that meant. Jake had never done an audition - at least, not one that didn't involve throwing punches or posing for cameras. What did theatre people expect? He only knew two songs all the way through, and one of them was "Happy Birthday."

He stared at the peeling red door. He could stride into any TV studio, any photo shoot, be exactly who he was and that was enough. But here? He had no idea who they wanted him to be.

He knocked.

"Enter!" came Max's voice, theatrical even through solid wood.

The stage door opened into a maze of corridors, dim and slightly musty. Unlike the sleek studios and sets Jake was used to, everything here felt worn, lived in. The walls were covered with old production photos - faces caught mid-song, frozen in moments of theatrical passion.

His footsteps echoed on the bare boards as he followed Max's voice. The corridor opened suddenly onto the wings of the stage, and Jake halted for a moment, taking in the vastness of the empty theatre. The house lights were dim, but a single spotlight cut through the darkness, creating a perfect circle of light centre stage. The rest was shadow - rows of empty seats vanishing into darkness, boxes lurking like caves in the walls, and somewhere up in the gloom, a chandelier catching tiny sparks of light.

"Darling! Over here!" Max's voice came from somewhere in the darkness. Jake could just make out a figure perched on the edge of the stage, orange scarf luminous even in the low light.

Jake stepped into that pool of light, feeling its heat on his face. The silence felt different here - not the efficient quiet of a photo studio or the charged anticipation before a fight, but something older. As though the space itself was waiting to see what he would do.

“So," Max perched on the edge of his usual seat, orange scarf practically vibrating with anticipation. "Let’s hear you sing."

Jake stood in the centre of the empty auditorium, looking far more uncomfortable than someone his size had any right to. "I’m not sure..."

"Not sure?" Fletcher's voice echoed from the darkness. "What do you mean, not sure? This is a bloody musical!"

"I mean... I sing in the shower?"

Max and Marcus, the pianist exchanged glances. From the darkness, there was the distinct sound of Fletcher having an aneurysm.

"Well," Max pressed on brightly, "what songs do you know?"

"Um..." Jake shifted his weight. "King of the Road?"

"King of the Road?" Fletcher's voice had moved beyond outrage into something like hysteria. "Are you having a laugh?"

"Marcus," Max cut in quickly, "perhaps G? Nice and simple?"

Marcus played the intro, clearly expecting disaster. Jake took a breath.

The voice that filled the auditorium was nothing short of extraordinary. Rich, perfectly pitched, with a warmth that seemed impossible from someone who looked like he bench-pressed cars for fun. He wasn't just singing the words - he was telling the story, finding nuances in "rooms to let, fifty cents" that Max had never even considered possible.

Fletcher's spluttering died away. Max's scarf stopped its anxious flutter. Even the dust motes in the stage lights seemed to pause.

By the time Jake hit the final "king of the road," you could have heard a protein shake drop.

"Well," Max managed finally. "That was..."

From the darkness came the sound of hands clapping - slow, deliberate applause. Fletcher emerged into the light, his face unreadable.

"You've been holding out on us, young man," he said, but there was something like wonder in his voice. "All that Instagram followers’ nonsense, and you can sing. Max, he can actually fucking sing!"

"No, no, NO!" Miranda, the choreographer, pressed her fingers to her temples. "Jake, darling, you're meant to be embracing her, not putting her in a headlock."

Lucy, one of the ensemble dancers who'd drawn the short straw of partnering him for basic training, extracted herself from his grip with the practiced ease of someone who'd been accidentally martial-arted several times this week.

"Sorry, Lucy." Jake ran a hand through his hair. "It's just... in MMA, when someone's that close, muscle memory kicks in."

"Well, unless you're planning to make her tap out mid-love scene..." Miranda sighed. "You need to flow. Like capoeira - you know, that Brazilian dance fighting? All fluid and graceful? Not like you're about to throw her through the ropes."

"I know capoeira," Jake brightened. "Did some training in-"

"No! God no. Forget I mentioned it. Last thing we need is you doing handstand kicks in the middle of a love scene. Just channel your inner Patrick Swayze."

"Who?"

Lucy, to her credit, stepped back into position and Miranda watched Jake attempt another basic step sequence. "It's like watching a refrigerator try to do ballet," she sighed. "A very handsome, well-maintained refrigerator, but still."

"I can lift things," Jake offered hopefully.

"Yes, darling. We've noticed. The entire female ensemble has noticed. The theatre ghost has noticed. Now if we could just get you to move across the stage without looking like you're clearing customs..."

"Look," Miranda said finally, running her hands through her already frazzled hair. "Let's work with what we've got. Jake, can you lift Lucy?"

"Sure." He stepped forward.

"No, I mean really lift her. Over your head. Clean and steady."

Jake shrugged, then in one fluid motion - the first graceful thing he'd done all morning - hoisted Lucy overhead like she was made of cotton candy. She lay there parallel to the ground, perfectly balanced, his hands to her hips, while he stood as casually as if he was holding a newspaper.

"Oh," Miranda blinked. "Well. That's... actually quite impressive."

"Um, Jake?" Lucy's voice floated down from above. "You can put me down now."

He didn't move. Didn't even seem to be straining.

"Seriously. Any time."

“But I thought that Miranda said I should hold the pose?" Jake looked genuinely puzzled.

"Not until opening night!" Lucy called down. "Though I have to say, the view up here is lovely. I can see what needs dusting on top of the lighting rig."

Miranda was already scribbling notes. "Forget the spins. Forget the fancy footwork. We'll build the choreography around the lifts. You may not be Patrick Swayze, darling, but you can certainly make our girl fly."

"Great," Lucy said from her aerial perch. "Now can someone please tell the human forklift to put me down? Seriously. Any time."

From the doorway, Niamh watched, coffee cup paused halfway to her lips. She'd arrived early for her rehearsal to find her leading man casually holding another dancer overhead like a particularly elegant umbrella.

"Lucy, darling," Miranda called up. "What do you weight? For the technical notes."

"Fifty-eight kilos," Lucy reported from her aerial perch. "Though it feels like I'm gaining altitude."

"I'm fifty-two," Niamh said, making everyone jump except Jake, who maintained his pose.

Miranda's eyes lit up. "Jake? Could you lift Niamh like that?"

"With one hand," he said matter-of-factly, finally lowering Lucy with the same careful precision he'd lifted her. "Used to do a lot of clean and press. Niamh's about what my warm-up barbells were."

"Did you just call Lucy a bar-belle?" Niamh's voice was wickedly amused.

Jake's face went from confusion to horror as he processed the French implications. "No! I meant weights! Not girls! I would never - Lucy, I didn't mean-"

"Shall we try that lift with Niamh?" Miranda asked, hiding her smile.

"Oh no," Niamh said, eyes sparkling with mischief. "I wouldn't want to interrupt his... vigorous workout. He seems to be handling Lucy quite… thoroughly."

Jake went from pink to scarlet. Lucy burst out laughing.

Miranda called for the dancers to take a break whilst she scribbled notes.  Jake found himself at the centre of a circle of suddenly very attentive dancers, all sprawled across the stage floor. Lucy was talking through the mechanics of the handstand trick and was sitting cross legged on the floor, her knee looked as though it was touching Jake’s thigh.

From her perch on the piano bench, Niamh watched with barely concealed amusement as Jake tried to maintain professional distance while being bombarded with technical questions about lift techniques and upper body strength. His ears had gone pink again.

"Ladies," Miranda called out, "our leading man is not a jungle gym. Though..." she added under her breath, "ticket sales would probably triple if we advertised him as one." 

Jake noticed that the tall dancer, Victoria and one other who he had heard called Amy were standing to one side of the stage.  He turned towards Lucy and kept his voice low. “Lucy, what’s-up with the tall girl over there?”

“Oh that’s Victoria.  She’s Niamh’s understudy. Amazing voice and look at those legs! And the short, moon-faced girl is Amy, her latest disciple and worshipper.”

A short, soft featured man with a light beard spoke up. “And I’m yours.”

“You’re Jamie, right?” Jake asked. 

“That’s me. And I can assure you that I cannot lift Niamh but its a bit messed up because Victoria probably could.”

“She does look pretty wiry. Wait, if Niamh drops out, am I supposed to lift her?” Jake pointed at the 6ft tall Victoria who was looking away.

“Do you think that you are too weak?” Lucy replied, pressing the tip of her index finger into Jakes thigh muscle.

“Oh! Well, it’s not that,” Jake stammered, “It’s just that she is really tall and well, kind of angular.”

“No curves you mean?” Lucy said. “Let me tell you something, she is a superb actress but no acting would be required if she were kissing you.”

“From me?”

“No, silly.  From her.  She’s really into men, especially someone as…” Lucy cast her eyes up and down Jake, “…ripped as you.” Then Lucy leaned into Jake and whispered in his ear, her lips brushing his ear. “She’s trans.”

Jake pulled away, and stared at Lucy, his eyes wide. Lucy broke into peals of laughter and some of the other dancers, realising what had just been shared, joined-in.  Jake was by now blushing from his chest to his hairline.  Only Jamie was not laughing. He was pouting and looked indignant. 

Jake did his best to compose himself and he put on his most concerned expression. “Victoria — I mean — is it Ok with her in your changing room? It’s not very private.”

Lucy mimicked Jake’s face, she nailed his expression to the tilt of his eyebrows. Then she whispered, but this time theatrically so the seated dancers could all hear. “She doesn’t have a penis.” 

Once again Jake was drowned in the sea of giggling dancers. He was looking mortified and embarrassed all over again.

As the laughter died down he asked, “But am I supposed to kiss… her?” 

Lucy was still wiping her eyes. “It’s called acting, silly. Just pucker up and think of England. Or better still,” Lucy leaned-in even more closely and with a barely audible whisper she breathed into Jake’s ear. “Imagine it was me.” 

Miranda clapped her hands together.  A staccato call for attention. “Ok you lot. Enough hilarity.  Back to work. Actually," Miranda tapped her pen thoughtfully. "Lucy, how are you with acrobatics?"

"Circus school dropout," Lucy grinned. "Why?"

"Niamh! Come back a moment." Miranda waved her over. "Jake, could you... no, that would be insane..."

"What would be insane?" Jake asked.

"Lucy, can you do a handstand on Jake’s hands?”

What happened next looked more like a Cirque du Soleil audition than a musical theatre rehearsal. Lucy placed her hands in Jake's upturned palms, kicked up into a perfect handstand, and hung there, suspended above him, both looking oddly comfortable with this bizarre arrangement.

"Now flip her," Miranda said.

Jake rotated his wrists slightly, and Lucy somersaulted through the air, landing feet-first in his hands, standing upright above him like a human trophy.

Niamh's coffee cup hung forgotten in her hand. "Yeah... I definitely can't do that."

"God, no," Miranda shook her head. "I was just curious. This isn't Cirque du Klimt. Though..." she scribbled another note. "Maybe some gentle lifts and twirls. I'll work something out."

Victoria, watched from the corner, her lip curling. "Twenty years of classical training," she muttered to Amy, who was retying her dance shoes. "I've done Ibsen, Chekhov, actual art. Two seasons with the RSC." Her eyes followed Jake as he executed another perfect lift. "And now they're casting Instagram models because what - he can do push-ups?"

"He's got a good voice," Amy ventured, immediately regretting it as Victoria's head snapped around.

"Oh yes, raw talent." Victoria's voice dripped acid. "How... natural. Some of us spent years perfecting our technique, but I suppose that doesn't matter anymore. Not when you have," she gestured dismissively at Jake's general existence, "that."

"But Niamh-" Amy started.

"Is wonderful, of course." Victoria's smile was sharp enough to cut glass. "So... instinctive. Though some of us believe art requires more than just instinct. Structure. Discipline. Training." She straightened her already-perfect posture. "But what do I know? I only spent a decade mastering my craft while she was doing commercial work."

Jake heard nothing of this. All he heard was "I'll leave you to your heavy lifting," from Niamh calling over her shoulder as walked away to the coffee station, clearly enjoying Jake's mortification. He stared after her, his eyes never wavering and his lips parted as though he were about to make some witty reply.

Outside the stage door, in what had become the unofficial vaping lounge, Bill, the theatre’s Head Flyman was taking a break from his ropes and pulleys and held court while taking long draws from his e-cigarette. Lucy and a couple of junior techs formed his usual audience.

"So there I am, wrestling with the bloody number three - you know the one, been a right bastard since that Lloyd Webber balls-up in '98 - and this walking gym advert shows up. All done up in them fancy workout togs that cost more than me motor."

Lucy took a particularly long drag from her vape.

"Doesn't say a bleeding word, just starts helping. Proper rhythm too, like he's been doing it his whole life. After a bit, I says to him, 'Bet this ain't what you expected from the theatre business, mate.'"

Bill paused for dramatic effect, a skill picked up from forty years of watching actors.

"And he goes - get this - he goes, 'I like most everyone here but...' then he sort of trails off, looking proper awkward, then says 'never quite sure where I stand with them.' Like he's waiting for someone to tell him it's all a wind-up."

"What did you tell him?" Lucy asked, a bit too quickly.

"Told him that Niamh'd been talking him up. Said he was 'seemed very professional' in rehearsals." Bill waggled his eyebrows meaningfully.

"Professional?" Lucy muttered, barely audible.

"Should've seen his face - like I'd kicked his puppy. Bloody strange, that." He took another puff, letting the vapour curl around his weathered face. "Still, he's a proper good sort that one. Not many of those left in this game, I'll tell you that for nothing."

The dance rehearsals had been going for two weeks nonstop. Jake’s dance skills did not improve but he began to be more fluid around the stage and he could lift partners without dropping them, which apparently counted for something in theatre. The room smelled of floor wax and sweat, ordinary stuff he knew from gyms, though this place had higher windows and better lighting.

Victoria, entering late, swept past Jake. “Still letting Niamh carry the show, darling? Baby steps, I suppose.” She glanced at Amy, who giggled nervously. “Amy, we’ll work on your laugh later. It’s starting to sound like a malfunctioning kettle.

Jake hardly heard Victoria’s barb. His problem was that he was focusing less and less on what he had to do and more on Niamh.  He was no longer lifting Lucy as a stand-in and that was a problem, his problem.

Niamh was working through a sequence that wasn't coming together. Her face had that focused look he recognised from his fighting days - the one where you're battling yourself more than your opponent. Her tank top was dark with sweat, hair escaping from its tight bun.

"Again," she muttered, resetting her position.

Miranda called for more partner work. Jake moved behind Niamh, feeling the solid strength in her spine as she arched back. His hands found their marks on her waist, sensing each breath, each micro-adjustment as she balanced. This wasn't like the clinical poses of photoshoots or the aggressive contact of fighting. This was something else - a conversation without words, trust expressed through tension and release.

When he lifted her, he could feel every muscle engaged, her core tight as steel as she held the position Miranda wanted. A drop of sweat traced down her neck, disappearing beneath her collar. He kept his eyes on the middle distance, trying to focus on counting beats instead of the heat radiating from her skin or the faint scent of jasmine mixing with clean sweat.

"Hold it," Miranda called. Jake felt Niamh's entire body adjust, making minute corrections to maintain perfect stillness above him. His hands were alive with the pressure of her hipbones that felt at that instant as though they were moulded specifically for his upturned palms. 

"And down."

The descent was controlled, professional. But as her feet met the floor, he caught a slight tremor in her legs, heard the small catch in her breath. Up close, he could see the sheen of exertion across her collarbones, the careful rhythm of her breathing as she recovered.

"Water break," Miranda announced.

Jake watched Niamh grab her water bottle, tilting her head back to drink. A drop escaped, running down her neck. He'd seen plenty of sweaty women in gyms, partnered with countless models. This was different. This was Niamh, with her steel core and fierce dedication, making art with the same intensity Jake himself had brought to fighting. And somehow, without him noticing, that combination had knocked him completely off balance.

"Ready to try that lift again?" she asked, turning back to him. Her eyes were bright with determination, cheeks flushed with effort, and Jake realised with sudden clarity that he was in serious trouble.

"Yeah," he managed, moving back into position. "Ready when you are."

Her back pressed against his chest, solid and real and absolutely not his to desire. He knew right then he was falling - not the staged falls of theatre, not the technical falls of fighting, but the kind you don't see coming until it's too late to do anything but brace for impact.

"From 'I've waited all my life,'" Marcus called out.

Niamh began to sing, her face tilted up to his. Jake's entry was perfect, years of fight training keeping his hands steady even as his pulse raced. But then she shifted slightly in his arms, fitting against him like she belonged there, and his voice caught on the word "love" - a tiny crack that should have ruined everything.

Instead, his voice emerged different. Deeper, rougher, charged with something that hadn't been there before. He wasn't singing about love anymore; he was experiencing it, right there in the rehearsal room, with someone else's wedding ring pressing against his chest.

Max had stopped breathing. Marcus's piano had softened to barely a whisper. Even the dust motes seemed to be listening.

The final note hung in the air between them. Neither moved. Jake's arms were still around Niamh, her hands resting lightly on his shoulders, their breathing slightly uneven.

Finally, Niamh stepped back, but not before tapping him lightly on the chest with one finger. "I'm going to have to be careful with you," she said softly, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

"MAGNIFICENT!" Max's orange scarf fluttered like an excited butterfly as he leapt from his seat. "The raw energy! The passion! The..." his hands conducted an invisible orchestra, "...absolute animal magnetism! Darling," he turned to Jake, "The hesitancy, the longing, It is … “ Max looked like he was going to tear-up and held a jewelled hand over his heart. “…perfection”.

Fletcher, slouched in the back row, called out, "What he's longing to do is sell tickets, Max. Don’t mess with a good thing!”

Jake was riding high after rehearsal, the rare praise from the director still echoing in his ears. He strode down the corridor with a confidence he hadn’t felt in weeks, not noticing Victoria lounging against the doorframe, arms crossed, her expression as sharp as a blade.

“Well, if it isn’t our resident rising star,” she purred, her voice laced with mock delight. “Congratulations, Jake. You’ve finally figured out where the audience is. Baby steps, darling, baby steps.”

Jake stopped, his grin wavering. “You’re in a good mood.”

“Of course I am,” Victoria replied, pushing off the frame with effortless poise. “Watching you stumble your way into competence is like watching a child take their first steps. Equal parts adorable and terrifying.”

Jake took a breath, trying not to rise to the bait. “Max seemed happy.”

“Oh, he did,” she said, tilting her head with mock sincerity. “I saw him nod. Once. I mean, sure, it might’ve been a muscle spasm, but let’s not split hairs.”

Jake’s jaw tightened. “I thought I was improving.”

“Improving? Oh, Jake.” She let out a dramatic sigh, stepping closer. “You’re like a stray dog someone let into the opera — charming in a ‘look how hard he’s trying’ sort of way, but still... a dog.”

He opened his mouth to retort, but she cut him off, her tone turning icy. “And let’s not talk about that kiss. ‘Genuine connection,’ the director called it. Really? Because from where I was standing, it had all the chemistry of two mannequins bumping into each other at a sale rack.”

Jake’s face flushed. “Why do you always have to do this?”

“Do what? Speak the truth?” She smiled, her eyes glittering with menace. “It’s a gift, Jake. One you clearly don’t appreciate. But don’t worry, darling — you’ve got Lucy. She practically swooned when you sung that line about the stars. ‘Jake, you were... magnificent.’” Victoria mimicked Lucy’s voice, clutching her chest in mock adoration. “I mean, sure, it was embarrassing for everyone else in the room, but still. At least someone believes in you.”

Jake stood frozen, unsure whether to respond or walk away. Victoria didn’t wait. She turned on her heel, tossing one last barb over her shoulder.

“Enjoy the spotlight while you can, darling. It’s a cruel thing, the stage — it shows everything.”

A few days later, Jake was scrolling through his phone when Niamh found him, his lunch box resting on his knees. 

“Any swipe-rights?” Niamh settled to his right on the bench, too close really. “I can’t imagine that you need to be on Tinder much.”

He locked his phone and a boyish grin spread across his face. “Why would would I need to swipe right when I only need to look right?”

“Oooh, that was smooth!” Niamh held her wedding ring up to Jake’s face. “Married remember?”

Jake visibly deflated and he prodded at the sad container of plain chicken and rice. "Did you know this is my fourth identical meal today? Chicken so bland it makes Andrew Lloyd Webber look spicy."

"The price of being theatrical beefcake?"

"Five containers of misery per day. My meal prep company's motto should be 'Tastes like teen loneliness.'" He speared a piece of chicken. "Though I suppose it's fitting - my love life and my lunch, both officially bland and boring."

Niamh snorted. "Please. You're the walking fantasy of every GenX woman in London. I've seen the stage door crowd. How could you possibly be lonely?"

"Yeah, because nothing says 'relationship material' like being stuck in rehearsals every night for three months straight." He pushed the chicken around its container. "Besides, they don't want the real me. They want the Instagram version, not the one whose meal is the only thing sadder than he is.”

Niamh's giggle caught him off guard. It wasn't the polished laugh she used in rehearsals, or even her usual warm chuckle. This was something else - a soft, almost musical sound that seemed to bubble up from somewhere genuine and unguarded. Jake found himself staring at her profile, thinking how unfair it was that even her laugh felt like a punch to his solar plexus.

"What?" she asked, catching his look.

"Nothing." He focused very intently on his sad chicken. "Just... you should do that more often."

"What, tease you about your protein-packed lunch?"

"No, that... that giggle. The real one." He immediately regretted saying it out loud.

She gave him another one, softer this time, and he had to remind himself about Victoria. About keeping things professional. About Niamh's wedding ring catching the autumn sunlight.

"Actually, speaking of awkward situations... about Tuesday's rehearsal..."

Jake suddenly became very interested in his bland chicken.

"When you rushed off stage to make that 'urgent phone call'..." Her lips twitched. "The lift sequence. When my leotard..." She paused delicately. "When you noticed the... dampness."

"Listen, I… oh Christ! " Jake put his head in his hands. "I am so sorry. It was completely unprofessional. I just... there was suddenly a lot of... you were very..."

"Right in your face?"

Jake let out a strangled groan and put his head in his hands. "Can we pretend this conversation isn't happening?"

Niamh was trying not to laugh. "Actually, I'm kind of flattered. I mean, I'm married, not dead. And it's nice to know the lifts are... working."

"It was the bloody leotard," Jake muttered. "Nobody warned me about theatrical leotards. In MMA at least everyone's trying to kill you, not accidentally seduce you."

"It was just sweat, you know. Dancing does that. Especially in those bloody leggings."

If possible, Jake's face got even redder. I've been trying to imagine I'm lifting Victoria ever since."

Niamh burst out laughing. "Well, that would definitely kill the mood."

"Works every time. Though I did nearly drop you yesterday when she walked past muttering something about an ‘elephant seal’.

"That's actually one of her nicer comments."

"Lovely. Maybe I should interview her on my podcast. I could get it sponsored by whatever brand of dilator she is using.”

Niamh giggled this time, his outrageous comment was irresistible. “God, I wish you weren’t so funny. She shifted on the bench, suddenly serious. “I’m sorry, Jake.”

“What are you sorry about?” 

Niamh’s brow knitted-up, as though she was about to confess a secret but then she brightened.  Jake was convinced that she had decided to change the subject.  “About Victoria... there's something you should know."

"What, she's writing a dissertation on toxic masculinity with me as the case study?"

"Jake..." Niamh paused, unconsciously moving slightly further away from him. "The things she's been saying. About you. They're worse than you think."

"Yeah, I know she hates me."

"It's more than that." Niamh's voice was quiet now. "She calls you 'everything wrong with the male species compressed into one overinflated ego.' Says your mere existence is an argument against evolution."

Jake stared at his hands. "That explains the look on her face every time I walk into a room. Like I'm something she scraped off her shoe."

Niamh put her hand on Jake’s knee and felt his whole leg go rigid. She pulled away. “I’m sorry. But that’s not you. You are talented and gentle and gorgeous. Dancing with you feels right, even if it is with me making more of the moves than I had expected.” Her voice trailed off.

Jake grinned, a wicked glint in his eye, “Are you thinking about that dampness again?”

Niamh giggled. “Eat your lunch you evolutionary monster.” She said, flicking his wooden fork into the rice.

A month of rehearsals changed things. Jake's body learned what theatre required - different muscles from fighting, different timing. The bruises moved around but never quite disappeared. His voice grew stronger. The company grew tighter.

Most days started the same. Jake would help Miranda with the morning lifts, trying not to notice how Niamh's back muscles felt different from the other dancers. He'd work his own scenes until his throat was raw, then hang around to help move set pieces. It was easier than going home to an empty apartment.

Victoria watched it all. She had comments, always just loud enough to carry. "Such dedication," she'd say when Jake stayed late. Or "How's the husband, Niamh?" whenever they worked too closely. She had a talent for making simple questions sound like accusations.

The show came together in pieces. Music, lights, costume fittings. Each new element made opening night feel more real. More dangerous.

Then came the final dress rehearsal. Jack’s short auburn hair was covered with a wavy-haired, jet-black wig, and a green ivy coronet.  He was wearing a shoulder to floor, golden silk cloak, split ‘artfully’ down the front to expose his gilded muscles.  Niamh’s naturally red, shoulder length hair was woven through with green and white blossoms, and she was wearing her own golden, patterned sarong. All eyes were on the couple, and nobody saw the dance block.

The lift itself was perfect – this was the last rehearsal - and by now Jake moved with grace only a man with his raw power could have achieved.

It was the descent that went wrong. Some thoughtless soul had left the wooden dance block just upstage of their mark - barely six inches high, the kind used to practice basic step sequences. Jake, concentrating on keeping Niamh's arc smooth and controlled, didn't spot it. As her left foot reconnected with the stage, her right foot caught the block and twisted.

The sound wasn't dramatic. Just a soft, wet pop - like someone uncorking a bottle of cheap wine. But Niamh's face, as she crumpled sideways, and the quiet “Oh!” that she let out, told him everything.

"I've got you," he said, gathering her closer instead of letting her fall. His arms, trained for fighting but now used for something gentler, cradled her with almost painful care. She felt impossibly light, impossibly fragile.

"Jake, put me down," she murmured, but he was already scanning the room.

"Sofa," he said to no one in particular. "The green room sofa. Now!”

Someone was already dragging it centre stage. Jake moved with careful precision, as if Niamh might shatter if jostled. He'd held her like this dozens of times during the show, but this was different. This was real.

"It's not your fault," she said, reading his face as he finally, reluctantly, laid her down. "I didn't spot the block either."

But he was already kneeling beside the sofa, his hand hovering uselessly over her rapidly swelling ankle, his face a mask of protective concern. The entire company seemed to inhale at once. Everyone knew what this meant.

Everyone except Victoria, who was choosing this exact moment to walk into the rehearsal room, sniffling into a tissue.

"Right," Max said, in the bright tone of someone determinedly ignoring disaster. "Victoria, darling, looks like this is your moment."

In the background, the stage manager was already on the phone. "Yes, we need an ambulance at the Phoenix Theatre. Possible broken ankle..."

Jake, still hovering by Niamh's side, looked at Victoria - who chose that moment to let out a particularly wet, hacking cough into her tissue. The silence that followed was deafening.

"No," he said finally, his voice flat. "Absolutely not."

"Jake," Max started, but Jake cut him off.

"Have you seen her? She's practically patient zero over there. And even if she wasn't..." He straightened to his full height. "Even if she wasn't infectious, I'm not going to kiss someone who thinks I'm, what was it? 'A walking advertisement for chemical castration'? 'The kind of man who makes evolution look like a mistake'?"

Victoria's tissue-holding hand began to tremble.

"Oh yes," Jake continued, his voice getting quieter, more dangerous. "I know all about your little comments. About how I'm 'everything wrong with the male species wrapped in a too-white skin.’ How my mere existence offends you."

Two paramedics appeared in the doorway, wheeling a stretcher. Nobody moved.

Fletcher had climbed onto the stage to see the injury.  On seeing Victoria he exploded, spittle flying, "This is what you get when you try to turn fucking Klimt into your fantasy land! They're supposed to KISS, Max! It's called 'The Kiss' for Christ's sake, not ‘The Hate!'"

"Art," Max drew himself up, voice steady despite his trembling hands, "is about possibilities, about showing people something beyond their narrow…”

"Possibilities? Possibilities! Look around you! Your female lead's being carried out on a stretcher, your understudy's got whatever plague she's got, and your backup plan... Christ, Max, did you even look at anyone before you cast them? Or were you too busy dreaming up your magical theatre where nothing practical matters?"

"My casting choices," Max's voice had taken on a dangerous edge, "were based on talent and…”

"Talent? You cast a cage fighter who can't dance and understudies who can't even…”

"Actually," Jake cut in quietly, "Max cast people who could do the job. Victoria can sing and she can really dance. Jamie can sing. I can sing. The only problem here is that some of us," his eyes flicked to Victoria, "decided to make it personal."

"Oh, that's rich coming from someone who's been deliberately intimidating me for months," Victoria's voice wavered theatrically, tears starting to well. "The way he looks at me, the way he makes me feel so uncomfortable in rehearsals…”

No one spoke. Even the paramedics by the door paused, mid-stride.

"What?" Fletcher's bellow had dropped to something more dangerous. "What is she talking about, Evans?”

"She's lying." Jake's voice was very quiet now. "And everyone in this room knows it."

A ripple went through the assembled company. Stagehands were suddenly finding the floor fascinating. Marcus’s mouth had fallen open.

"Oh for fuck’s sake," Niamh cut in from her stretcher. "You told me yourself he's the only man in theatre who's never once asked about your transition - just treated you like any other performer. You said it was 'almost annoying' how respectful he was.”

Victoria's tissue dropped to the floor. Fletcher's face, already puce, achieved a new shade of purple entirely.

"You," he pointed at Victoria, "tried to Me Too my leading man? In my theatre? And how in the hell can YOU me too a man?”

"I'm not doing it." Jake's voice cut through the chaos. "Not with someone who hates me this much and is willing to lie about it. Not with someone who's clearly sick. And definitely not with someone who'd try to destroy my reputation to save face."

"You don't have a choice," Fletcher snarled, advancing on him. "You're contracted. You'll do it with whoever I tell you to do it with, or I'll-"

"Or you'll what?" Jake didn't back away. "Sue me? For refusing to kiss someone who's infectious and just tried to accuse me of harassment?"

"I'll bury you," Fletcher was almost nose to nose with him now. "I'll make sure you never work in theatre again. I'll-"

"Marty," Max interrupted, his usual flourish gone, "perhaps we should-"

"I'm still not doing it." Jake took two steps backward, away from Fletcher's rage. His foot caught the prompter's monitor - that little black box he'd been warned about but kept forgetting, the one that sat just where the stage lights made it nearly invisible.

His stumble looked perfectly natural. After all, he wasn't a theatre professional - just a fighter who'd learned how to fall.

And fall he did. Beautifully. His body twisted just so, his head snapping back at precisely the right angle to look terrifying without doing real damage. A practiced fall masquerading as a genuine accident. The kind of skill that came from years of knowing how to take a hit in the ring, how to make it look good for the cameras.

The sound of his head connecting with the metal chair in the orchestra pit was theatrical perfection - loud enough to draw gasps, not hard enough to do more than raise a bump through his padded wig. His robe fell open to the extent that he looked like a hero of the Trojan war struck by a Greek arrow. His limbs splayed with calculated carelessness as he landed.

Fletcher's threat died mid-sentence. Victoria's tissue fluttered to the ground. And Niamh, still on her stretcher by the door, narrowed her eyes ever so slightly at the too-perfect arc of his descent.

The silence after Jake hit the ground lasted exactly three seconds. Then the chaos erupted.

"Oh God, oh God, oh God," Max had both hands pressed to his face, his orange scarf askew. "Is he dead? Please tell me he's not dead."

A shout came from the pit. “He’s breathing!”

“Thank God,” Fletcher muttered. “A corpse wouldn’t sell tickets. Though at this point, we might as well try.”

"We need another ambulance!" Someone was already on their phone. "Stage door entrance, Phoenix Theatre. Yes, second one in ten minutes. No, different injury."

The paramedics who'd been about to wheel Niamh out were caught in professional limbo, torn between their current patient and the new emergency.

"Go," Niamh said from her stretcher, her eyes fixed on Jake's still form. "I can wait for the next one." But of course, they couldn't leave a patient. Protocol.

Victoria had backed against the wall, her previous theatrics forgotten in the face of actual drama. The company members who'd rushed to Jake's side were afraid to touch him. He lay there, still and perfect, like some twisted piece of performance art. The front edge of the metal chair held a dent as wide as the back of Jake’s head. There did not seem to be any blood.

Only Niamh, from her stretched-out vantage point, caught the almost imperceptible tension in his supposedly relaxed fingers. The way they curved just slightly, ready to break a fall that had already happened.

"Another unit's four minutes out," someone called.

"Geoffrey," Fletcher's voice had lost its thunder, replaced by something almost like fear. "Get the car. And call Richard. Yes, the lawyer." He stared at his unconscious star, all previous rage deflated.When the second ambulance arrived, they finally wheeled Niamh out. The last thing she saw as the stage door closed was Jake being lifted onto another stretcher, his face a mask of peaceful unconsciousness. Too peaceful.

The stage was silent as Jamie stepped forward and stood in the centre, his legs spread in a power pose.

"And who the hell are you?" Fletcher demanded, squinting at Jamie like he was trying to decode a particularly puzzling piece of modern art.

"This is Jamie, our male understudy," Max said, his orange scarf aflutter with enthusiasm. "Wait till you hear him sing-"

"He looks like Tom Cruise with a wispy beard!" Fletcher spat. "Why does he have a wispy beard? Who authorised a wispy beard?"Oh Christ." Fletcher had spotted Victoria towering next to Jamie. "Oh Christ on a crutch" He started pacing, hands flailing. "Look at them! She could wear him as a hat!"

Victoria drew herself up to her full height - all six elegant feet of her - and fixed Fletcher with a look that could freeze hell. "Some of us," she said pointedly, “have worked very hard to be the understudy."

Max, ever diplomatic, fluttered his scarf approvingly. "And darling, you succeed magnificently. Though perhaps we could explore some alternative blocking..."

"Maybe," Fletcher said, his voice dripping with desperate sarcasm, "Victoria could just bend over him. Who cares what Klimt painted? Why does the er… woman have to be the one being embraced? Very old fashioned, if you ask me. Very patriarchal. Isn't that right, Max? Isn't that beautifully progressive? He stopped abruptly, struck by his own terrible inspiration. "Actually, sod Klimt. Let's have her lift him! Modern twist! Very now! She could hold him like a handbag!"

Max's orange scarf actually wilted. "Marty, the whole point of the painting…”

"And another thing!" Fletcher wheeled around, his face reaching previously undiscovered shades of purple. "I have spent - do you have any idea how much I've spent? Thousands! THOUSANDS on advertising! Full-page spreads in the Standard with him-" he jabbed a finger at Jake, "looking like some sort of 21st century Adonis!"

He grabbed a promotional poster from the wall, shaking it for emphasis. Jake's torso gleamed under dramatic lighting.

"The box office is going to be full of women buying tickets expecting the best Chippendale ever covered in gold dust. And what are we going to give them instead?" He gestured wildly at Jamie. "Instead of 'You can leave yer hat on' they'll be singing 'You can leave yer shirt on’!”

Max attempted to interject something about artistic integrity, but Fletcher was on a roll.

"He does sing like an angel and casting James very brave.” Max insisted again, scarf aflutter.

“Brave, brave! If I wanted a fucking angel I would go to heaven!" Fletcher exploded. "I want someone who sounds like him!!" He jabbed a finger at the prone Jake."His voice - when he's crooning, I get tenty. The audience gets tenty.” We are one day from opening night. ONE. Brenda from Bournemouth doesn’t want brave, she doesn’t want artsy. She wants abs and the odd dick joke. She is looking forward to getting pissed with a huge gin balloon in her fat fingers and watching a little shirtless beefcake. Now all she is going to get is… is… pissed-off!”

He marched toward Max and stood inches from the director who, to his credit, stood his ground. “This… this fucking disaster… is your doing! Gender-blind casting, you said. Very progressive, very bold. Well, guess what, Max? I’ve got a gorgeous corpse, a tiny bearded contralto and a motherfucking 10 foot tall castrato!

Marcus spat out his coffee over the piano keyboard.

Jamie cleared his throat. "Actually, I had surgery to lower my voice…" Fletcher froze, his mouth hanging open.

Victoria collapsed on the stage, just a shade too carefully.

“You have gone too far, Marty!” Max’s voice had lost all its theatrical flourish. “That was beneath even you”

“Oh have I?!” Fletcher screamed. “I wanted Magic Mike and you are about to fucking deliver me another M. Butterfly! You have completely fucked me and… and…”

Fletcher turned on his on his heel and stomped off the stage.

The hospital room was exactly the kind of beige that institutional interior designers seem to favour. Jake "came to" slowly, with the kind of theatrical timing that would have made Max proud. His head was wrapped in a bandage and his neck in a brace that was probably unnecessary but added nicely to the effect.

"Jake? My boy?" Fletcher's voice had undergone a remarkable transformation since the theatre. Gone was the apoplectic rage, replaced by something almost... tender. He leaned forward in the visitor's chair, his usual aggressive energy softened into something like concern.

"What..." Jake managed, then paused for dramatic effect. "What happened?"

"You saved me, that's what happened." Fletcher's laugh had a slightly hysterical edge to it. "Both leads incapacitated in one day. Insurance pays out fully. Did you know that? Both leads had to be out of commission for the policy to cover the full amount." He studied Jake's face with uncomfortable intensity, looking for any flicker of foreknowledge.

Jake just blinked at him, the perfect picture of confused innocence. "Niamh... is she okay?"

"Next door. Ankle's properly broken." Fletcher patted Jake's hand; a gesture so unexpected it almost made Jake break character. "You know, when you backed away from me like that... well, that prompter's monitor being right there... almost like it was meant to be."

"I'm not a real actor," Jake said softly. "Still don't know my way around a stage properly."

Fletcher's smile was knowing, almost conspiratorial. "No. No, you're not a real actor at all, are you?"

"Well," Fletcher stood, straightening his jacket, "anything you need, my boy. Anything at all. We'll do lunch when you're up and about - I know a fantastic little place in Covent Garden."

He paused at the door, that same knowing smile playing at his lips. “Son, you and I are going to make movies together.  Not this artsy crap – proper action movies. Like you were born to. I am going to make you a massive star, son. We are going to make a fortune!”

After Fletcher left, Jake lay back against his pillows, his face carefully neutral. Through the thin hospital walls, he could hear the muffled sounds of movement from the next room - Niamh's room. He touched the bandage on his head gently, allowing himself the smallest of smiles.

A nurse appeared with painkillers he didn't really need, and Jake played his part perfectly - the brave patient, the accidental hero. After all, who could prove that a professional fighter would know exactly how to fall? That a stuntman would understand precisely how to make an accident look real?

The nurse - her name tag read 'Sophie' - was exactly the kind of medical professional who took head injuries very seriously indeed. She was also, as it turned out, one of Jake’s Instagram followers.

"Mr. Evans, you really shouldn’t…” she started, but Jake gave her the same smile that had graced a dozen magazine covers.

"Please," he said, "it's Jake. And honestly, this is nothing. You should've seen what happened during that Dolce & Gabbana shoot in Ibiza." He touched his temple ruefully, playing up the currently non-existent discomfort.

Sophie's professional demeanour wavered. "Oh my god, I love your podcast! The episode where you interviewed Demi Lovato and asked her about P-Diddy? Incredible journalism."

"That's kind of you." He sat up slowly, deliberately careful. "Just need to stretch my legs a bit. Doctor said movement was good, right? Keep the blood flowing?"

"Well, yes, but…”

"And I've got this lovely robe right here." He gestured to the hospital-issue garment. "Tell you what, I'll just walk to the door and back. If I feel even slightly dizzy, straight back to bed. Social media influencer's honour?" He gave her his best podcast-host wink.

Sophie hesitated, then smiled. "Five minutes. And if anyone asks, I was updating your charts in the nurses' station. Could I possibly get a selfie later, though?"

The moment she left, Jake stood up in one fluid motion, tearing off the velcro neck brace. He rocked his head from side to side and smiled to himself. He slipped on the robe, quietly opened his door, and padded next door to Niamh's room.

Niamh's room was identical to his, just mirrored. She was propped up against pillows, her ankle elevated and wrapped in what looked like half the hospital's supply of bandages, one small, French polished toe peeking out from the wrapping.

"That," she said without preamble, "was the most perfectly executed accident I've ever seen."

Jake closed the door quietly behind him. "Don't know what you mean."

"Please. I've watched enough of your old fights. That fall was textbook." She shifted slightly, making room on the edge of her bed. "The way you twisted, the perfect head snap - it was like watching fight choreography in reverse."

He sat down carefully, mindful of her ankle. "Maybe I just got lucky."

"And maybe I just happened to overhear our dear producer next door, practically crying with joy about the insurance payout." Her eyes narrowed. "Did you know about that clause?"

"Not exactly." Jake looked down at his hands. "I mean, I hoped something would work out. But honestly?" He glanced up at her. "I was being selfish. Couldn't face doing that kiss with someone who hated me that much. For once I wanted to choose how I fell. All my life - in fights, in modelling - I've fallen how other people wanted. This time, I fell my way."

"You know, in all these weeks of rehearsal, I've watched you perform. But that fall? That was your best acting yet. And I still didn't quite believe it."

"You know," he said finally, his voice dropping, "it wasn’t acting. It was me. In all those months of rehearsal, not one moment of it was acting. I can’t act. I can’t pretend to be someone else. I still can’t separate you from your character. It’s an art I don’t understand. When I kissed you, I wasn’t acting...."

Niamh's breath caught slightly. "Jake..."

"I know. I know you're married; I know this isn't..." he gestured vaguely at the space between them. "I just needed you to know that it was real. All of it."

"In another universe," she said quietly, "in another timeline... you wouldn't have had to fall off that stage." Their eyes met.

"Maybe we'll do it properly someday. You and me. When that ankle heals." He paused. "Or maybe they'll just cancel the whole thing. Probably for the best - Klimt might not have appreciated all the jazz hands anyway."

"I have a confession to make.” Niamh said, just as Jake reached for the door.

He turned back, hand frozen on the handle. "What is it?"

"You know, Max, beneath all that glitter and theatrical flourish? He's actually a brilliant director." She paused, gathering courage. "But he was terrified you'd bail mid-rehearsal. That this would be too far from your comfort zone."

Jake's brow furrowed. "So?"

Mike vouched for you, but that wasn't enough. "So I told Max that I would pretend to be interested in you. To lead you on." She twisted her hands together. Jake's mouth fell open. "You... what?"

“I’m so, so sorry Jake. I did not know how good a person you were. I never meant to hurt you, so I always showed you that I was married so that you wouldn’t get the wrong idea. That was what I agreed with Max.” Niamh’s words were rapid fire and her eyes were pleading for forgiveness.

Jake just stood stock still as expressionless as a mannequin. Half a minute passed and tears were welling in the corners of Niamh’s eyes. “It’s OK.” He said. His voice soft and reassuring. “You did tell me. You never led me on. I was lonely, that’s all. I should have known better.”

“Oh… fuck!” Niamh shouted. 

“What? What did I say?” Jake looked surprised.

“There you go again and I just lost a bet.”

“A bet?”

“Never mind. She knew you would forgive me. She said you were perfect. Fuck! That is so annoying!”

“Who’s she?”

“Pass me my bag? It's on the chair over there." Jake reached for the slouched leather tote, and handed it to Niamh who rummaged through the bag's contents, finally extracting a crumpled receipt. She smoothed it against the thigh of her good leg and scribbled something before holding it out to him.

Jake stared at the numbers. "Is this... have you changed your phone number?"

"No." A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "That's Lucy's number. The ’she’ I had a bet with.”

"Lucy? As in-"

"Lucy, as in gorgeous, smart, talented… acrobatic Lucy." Her eyes sparkled. "Lucy, who can't string two sentences together when you're not around without managing to mention you. Lucy, who just got dumped by her boyfriend because - and I quote - 'I would not stop talking about Jake.'" She glanced at her watch. "Also, Lucy, who's going to be here in about twenty minutes, pretending she's coming to see me, but we both know who she's really hoping to run into. And she is coming in with my wife.”

Jake looked from the number to Niamh and back again. Niamh watched the confusion flow across the wide-open book of his face. His realisation showed itself the reset of his eye-brows.

“Wait… you’re gay?”

Niamh looked sheepish. “Well, I’ve had boyfriends, but not for the last five years.”

Jake sat down, hard, on the end of the bed. He covered his face in his hands, silent for what seemed like an eternity. “You must think that I am such a fool.”

Niamh reached forward, almost touching her toes and took his hand in her’s, laying her other hand on top: an almost maternal gesture. “Jake, I have never thought that. We did not know how you would react to me on stage. Not many of the cast know, but you have met her and it’s not something I like to make a… song and dance about. I have male fans too you know.”

Niamh let go of Jake’s hand and he visibly composed his expression.  “When did I meet her?”

“Do you remember the dark haired woman sitting next to Marty at the first full rehearsal. The one where we kissed properly for the first time?”

“Oh my God! The beautiful girl that I thought was with Marty!”

“She was his assistant for years. that’s how we met. He brought her to the theatre that night.”

Jack looked concerned. “Didn’t she leave right after the performance?”

Niamh giggled. “Yep. Right after. Boy, did I catch shit for that kiss. She knew that if ever I was going to fall for a guy again, it would be someone like you. Lucy had to scrape her off the ceiling!”

“Lucy, I’m confused, the same Lucy?”

"Yes, Jake. Lucy is my best friend.” She shook her head, amused by his bewilderment. "You know, for someone who makes a living being looked at, you're remarkably blind to what is going on around you.”

Jake picked up the piece of paper that he had let drop to the bed. He stared at Lucy's number, the tiniest of smiles tugging at the corner of his lips.

“She hasn’t fallen for you because you are gorgeous you know." Niamh's voice had shifted, become more thoughtful. She leaned into her pillow and crossed her arms. "God knows in this business we're drowning in beautiful people. Pretty faces, perfect bodies... they're as common as fake smiles at opening nights."

Jake looked up, caught by the change in her tone.

"Every day I walk into rehearsals and watch people pretending to be what they think everyone wants them to be. The ingénue, the diva, the leading man..." She gestured vaguely at the beige walls of the hospital room. "Even off-stage, we're all still performing. Always. It's exhausting."

She met his eyes. "But then there's you. This ridiculous combination of underwear model and prize fighter who somehow wandered into our world. And you're just... yourself. Completely, unabashedly yourself. When you're confused, you show it. When you're happy, you beam like a kid. When you're worried about a something, your forehead does this little crinkle thing..." She touched her own forehead, mimicking it. "You never learned to hide behind the usual theatre masks, and you're too genuine to start now."

She sat up once more. “And you know what makes it even worse? All the actors, as gorgeous as you, are arseholes. I have no idea why you aren’t. That's why Lucy can't stop talking about you. Yes, she is guaranteed to keep you up all night..." A knowing smile flickered across her face and then she clearly attempted to look serious. "But it's because you're the only person she's ever met who is beautiful inside and out.”

Jake stood there, phone number crumpling slightly in his grip, looking thoroughly pole-axed.

"And now," Niamh said brightly, checking her watch again, "you have exactly fifteen minutes to decide if you want to be here when she arrives, or if you'd rather run away, mope and overthink everything I just said."

A knock at the door made them both jump. Sophie's voice called out, "Mr. Evans? You really need to get back to bed."

He paused at the foot of her bed. "I suppose I'm not allowed to kiss you anymore."

"Probably for the best," she sighed, but it was clear that she was trying not to smile.

He shook his head, once again turning away but then spun back. With theatrical flourish, he bent down and pressed the lightest of kisses to her exposed toe.

"All better," he said softly, and walked out.

Through the thin walls, Niamh could hear Sophie fussing over him as he returned to his room. Expressions flowed across Niamh’s freckled face. A slight shake of her head with a furrowed brow; A look at her exposed toe followed by a gentle smile, a sudden wince and at last, a broad grin. 

Then she shouted after him. “Take her to Hollywood with you!”