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Show days always had a different energy.
The crew clocked in mid-afternoon, filing backstage with coffee cups and clipboards, already bracing themselves for whatever mood Artful had decided to debut alongside the evening performance. Some days he was electric. Some days unbearable. Some days both within the same five minutes.
Today?
Today was… weird.
Not bad-weird.
Not tantrum-weird.
Just off.
He was calmer. Sharper. Distracted in a way that didn’t come with yelling.
And the reason was standing right next to him.
No one said it out loud — but everyone noticed you the moment you walked in.
You always came in early, always quiet, always efficient. The crew respected you instinctively. You were the constant. The stabilizer. The person who could pass through backstage chaos without adding to it.
But today, something had shifted.
Artful hovered.
Not dramatically. Not obviously. Just… too close.
When a lighting tech passed behind him and brushed his cape, Artful snapped around — then stopped mid-retort when he realized it wasn’t you.
He watched you move across the space with an intensity usually reserved for props he was afraid might explode.
And then it happened.
You were standing near the prop table, flipping through notes, when Artful stepped up behind you without warning.
No barked command.
No sharp critique.
He reached out.
Just… reached out.
His fingers brushed your sleeve — gentle, instinctive — as he smoothed a crease near your elbow. The touch lingered for half a second too long.
Every single crew member froze.
Someone dropped a roll of tape.
Artful didn’t notice.
He leaned in, murmured something low — too quiet to hear — and then seemed to realize what he was doing mid-motion.
He stopped.
Stiffened.
Pulled his hand back like he’d touched a hot surface.
And then, loud enough for everyone to hear:
“That was— purely practical.”
No one asked.
No one commented.
The silence that followed was deafening.
You didn’t react at all. Just nodded once and continued reading your notes like your personal space hadn’t just been invaded in a way that felt… intimate.
The crew exchanged looks.
Oh.
Oh.
From that moment on, it got worse.
Artful kept forgetting himself.
He reached to adjust your headset — stopped, hovered, then did it anyway.
He tugged you a step closer to show you something — then immediately stepped back, clearing his throat aggressively.
He brushed dust off your shoulder during a set change — froze again, then snapped, “There was lint.”
There was not lint.
One of the stagehands mouthed, Are they—?
Another slowly shook their head like, Not yet.
But it was coming.
Everyone could feel it.
Artful, meanwhile, was spiraling.
You could see it in the way he overcorrected every accidental touch.
He gestured too wide.
Kept his hands clasped behind his back like a man afraid of himself.
Snapped unnecessarily at inanimate objects instead of people.
At one point, he reached for a prop you were holding and your fingers brushed.
He flinched like he’d been electrocuted.
“…Focus,” he muttered to himself.
You said nothing.
Which somehow made it worse.
The crew had seen a lot.
They’d seen performers implode under pressure.
They’d seen dramatic affairs.
They’d seen messy breakups and worse reconciliations.
But this?
This was something new.
This was a man who had no idea what to do with tenderness.
By the time five-minute call rolled around, Artful was wound tight.
He paced.
Adjusted his gloves three times.
Fixed his coat, then unfixed it, then fixed it again.
You stepped close — close enough to speak quietly.
No one heard what you said.
But Artful stopped pacing.
His shoulders dropped.
He nodded once.
And for a brief moment — just a flicker — his hand lifted, like he might reach for yours again.
He stopped himself.
Straightened.
Cleared his throat.
“Positions,” he barked.
The crew scattered — but not before exchanging looks.
As the curtain rose, Artful was flawless.
The show dazzled.
The audience roared.
The tricks landed clean.
But backstage, during quick changes, he sought you out with his eyes every time.
Not panicked.
Grounded.
Like checking where north was.
When the show ended and the crew began clocking out, one of them finally broke the silence — not to you, not to Artful, but quietly among themselves.
“…So,” someone murmured, grabbing their bag, “how long do we give it?”
Another shrugged. “He’s doomed.”
A third smiled. “Good for him.”
No one said anything when Artful brushed past you again — close enough to feel your warmth, careful not to touch.
No one commented when you adjusted his collar before he left the stage.
And no one believed him when he muttered, for the third time that night:
“It’s just practical.”
Because everyone backstage knew the truth.
Artful wasn’t losing professionalism.
He was losing composure.
And honestly?
It was about time.