Milli

  The hum of backstage always feels alive–the whisper of costumes brushing past, the muted shuffle of props being moved, someone’s nervous laughter echoing from behind a curtain. The air smells like hairspray and stage dust, a strange mix that somehow makes my heart race every time.

  Abby’s sitting cross-legged on the floor beside me, script in one hand, lipstick on the other. “Okay, one more time,” she says, glancing up. “From the line after mine ‘Some of us live in the fire not under it’.”

  I nod, trying to steady my breathing. My palms are a little clammy. “Alright.” I cleared my throat and read my line–”And some of us know fire burns out faster when you dance too close.”

  She smirks and shoots back her cue. We go back and forth a few times, our voices low but focused. The words start to feel real, like they belong to us instead of the page.

  Still, my eyes flick to the side curtain every few seconds. No sign of Jax yet.

  Abby notices. “He’ll show,” she says, dapping concealer under her eyes in the small mirror propped against a crate. “You know he’s always last-minute when it comes to acting.”

  “Yeah, I know,” I say, forcing a small smile as I smooth out the sleeve of my costume–a royal blue tunic with ruffles that catch the air—like ripples in the water—when I move. “It’s just…he has this way of walking in like nothing fazes him, and I don’t know how he does it.”

  Abby laughs softly, her deep red tunic catches the light like embers when she moves. “That’s Jax Everhart for you. His highest priority is skating. I’m surprised his parents even allowed him to participate in the school show.”

  Abigail and I became friends shortly after we got picked for this scene together. Now we hang out a lot and occasionally talk about Jax. I learned that a couple years ago, she was offered the same, to be Jax’s skating partner. Yet she declined and walked out, like a baddie.

  I let out a nervous laugh, trying to shake off the thought. My reflection in the mirror looks back at me–hair pinned, stage makeup just right, eyes a little too wide. I take a slow breath.

  “He’s probably just grabbing his stuff,” Abby adds, “Relax. You’ll kill it out there.”

  “Thanks,” I say quietly.

  The stage manager’s voice calls out, “Ten minutes, everyone! Ember and Frost, be ready on cue!”

  My heart jumps at the sound. I stand, smoothing my costume again for the fifth time. Abby’s already on her feet, adjusting her belt and brushing imaginary lint from my shoulder.

  And then—footsteps.

  I turn just in time to see Jax slip in through the side door, hair slightly tousled, script tucked under his arm, calm as ever. Our eyes meet for a brief second, and the noise around us fades.

  He smiles–just a small, reassuring curve of his lips–before disappearing behind the prop wall to get ready.

  Suddenly, my nerves settle.

  Not completely–but enough.

  I hear the soft scrape of shoes against the wooden floor and glance toward the side door.

  Jax steps out.

  The outfit catches me off guard. I actually haven't seen his attire for the show yet. It’s an old-fashioned prince costume–dark velvet tunic, fitted pants, high boots–elegant, but stripped of any jewels, crowns, or gaudy embellishments. He doesn't need them. Somehow, just standing there, posture perfect, sleeves slightly rolled back, he is the prince.

  My breath hitches a little. He moves with that same effortless grace he has on the ice, but it’s different somehow–slower, deliberate, like he’s grounding himself before stepping into the story.

  “Ready?” Abby whispers beside me, brushing a stray hair behind her ear.

  I nod, not taking my eyes off him. He’s already scanning the stage, adjusting his tunic with a flick of his hand. No fanfare. No pretension. Just presence.

  A quiet thrill runs through me. He’s always been magnetic, but right now, backstage, in that stripped-down costume, he looks almost untouchable–like he belongs more to the story than to any stage or audience.

  Just like that, the last pieces of my nervousness slide away.

  The lights dim, and the stage manager calls, “Places! Ember and Frost!”

  I straighten my shoulders, setting down the script to the side, and glance at Jax one last time before stepping into the glow of the stage.

  The stage smells faintly of smoke and wood, the flicker of the dying fire in the hearth throwing long shadows across the ancient hall. Snow drifts in through a shattered window, catching the dim light and scattering tiny diamonds across the floor.

  I take my place, feeling half-shadow, half-spark, the weight of my character, Maris, settling on my shoulders. I glance at Abby, radiant and restless like the flame itself, moving with energy that makes the cold hall feel alive.

  Then there’s Jax.

  Kael. Prince of this abandoned castle. Guarded and calm as marble. He stands in the half-light, tunic dark against the flickering fire, eyes steady and unreadable. Every breath he takes, every subtle shift in stance, is measured–deliberate. He doesn’t need jewels or a crown; the quiet authority in him is enough.

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  I force my gaze forward, trying to anchor myself. This is the scene. The lines. The movement. But my heartbeat betrays me, quickening every time his eyes flick toward mine, every time he shifts with that quiet, controlled grace.

  Abby steps closer, her voice a soft murmur only I can hear. “Ready?”

  I nod.

  The hall seems to breathe around us–snow drifting in, shadows flickering, the dying fire with a subtle warmth. I take a breath, letting it fill the hall.

  Abby looks at Jax with a teasing grin, starting the scene with her first line.“You call this warmth, Your Highness? I’ve seen icier tombs with more heart.”

  He responds without looking at her. “Then perhaps you should seek company in one. You seem drawn to danger.”

  She laughs, “Oh, I am. But danger usually looks taller and less frozen.” She steps closer to him with gleaming eyes, “Do you ever thaw, or is this your royal charm?”

  I speak softly, voice cutting through the air. “He thaws, When someone deserves it.” I direct my voice to Jax, tone playful. “Though I imagine you ration warmth the way others ration gold. Carefully. Secretly.”

  He glances at me, his voice sharp. “You speak as though you’ve seen me count it.”

  Shrugging I retort, “I notice things. It’s a bad habit. You don’t blink when you lie, but you breathe slower. Means you’re waiting for someone to believe it for you.”

  Abby paces around us both, “You two talk like you’re reading poetry at a funeral.” She flicks a bit of melting snow at me, “Some of us live in the fire, not under it.”

  “And some of us know fire burns out faster when you dance too close.” I smile lightly.

  Abby steps up to me with an amused grin. “You think you’re clever.”

  “No. I know I am. You just think louder.” I fire back.

  She laughs, genuinely impressed. Jax watches, his expression unreadable but his eyes alert, caught between the two of us.

  He finally breaks his stillness, “You’re both exhausting.” Beat “But..it’s the first time this hall has felt alive in years.” He lets out a small, reluctant breath that almost sounds like a laugh.

  “Careful, Prince Frost. They might mistake that for emotion.” Abby says.

  “Or for hope. Which is worse, do you think?” I add, tilting my head with a half-smile on my lips.

  Jax looks at both of us–fire and ice, chaos and calm–and for a moment, he looks uncertain which side he belongs to.

  “Hope burns colder than flame. And I’ve had enough of both.” He turns sharply, walking toward the far end of the hall. His boots scrape against the marble floor, deliberately controlled steps.

  Abby calls after him, a teasing edge covering worry.“You always run from warmth, don’t you? Careful you might catch feelings if you linger too close.

  Jax stops mid-step, voice tightening. “You think I run? You think standing still while everything crumbles is easy?” He turns around, his composure cracking for the first time, there’s heat in his words.

  “Every move I make gets measured, weighed, and judged before I can even breathe. ‘Prince Kael–the composed one, the careful one, the cold one.’ Heaven forbid I feel something before it’s politically convenient. You both–”he gestures vaguely between us, “–you burn, you blaze, you live.”

  He laughs bitterly, pacing in front of us, eyes flashing with frustration. “But if I do the same–if I let the fire in, just once–the whole kingdom calls it weakness. My father calls it failure.”

  His voice drops lower, quieter, rawer. “So yes. I ration warmth. Because every time I’ve given it away, someone’s used it to melt the knife they put in my back.”

  A long silence. Even Abby doesn’t interrupt this time. I just watched him, my eyes unreadable, and my usual sarcasm gone.

  After a moment I speak up softly, “Then stop giving it away. Start giving it to yourself.”

  Jax exhales through his nose, shaking his head–too proud to let the words land, too hurt to ignore them.

  “Or–” Abby steps closer trying to lift the mood, “you could stop monologuing and help me fix this fire before we all freeze to death.”

  She grabs a log and tosses it toward the hearth.

  The scene is exceptional so far, exactly as the scene plays out, our acting is phenomenal and everything sounds so genuine, as we fully embody the characters we play the role as. Though it didn’t last long.

  Jax bends to pick up another log but as he crosses the frost-slicked floor, his boot slips on ice that’s crept in through the shattered window. He inhales sharply, then a muffled cry can be heard as he falls hard to one knee the sound of something twisting sharply echoes in the chamber.

  The crowd audibly gasps.

  My eyes widen, I’m instantly alert and already rushing forward, still deep into my character, I improvise perfectly, saying his character’s name instead of his own. “Kael!” I kneeled beside him, assessing his leg without hesitation, “Don’t move–your ankle’s gone wrong. You’ll make it worse.”

  “It’s fine.” He says through clenched teeth, forcing calm.

  I speak dryly, “Right. Because princes are immune to physics.”

  Abby hovers nearby, clearly anxious but covering it up with humor, so the audience wouldn’t be worried, and thinks it’s just part of the show. “See this is why I said fire beats ice. Ice fights back.”

  Jax tries to stand, grimaces, then sinks back down with a sharp hiss of pain.

  “Remind me…never to have philosophical arguments…on frozen floors.” Jax speaks, half-laughing, half-breathless. I help steady him, my touch gentle but sure. Abby, after a moment of indecision, offers her hand too.

  “You can lean on both of us. Just this once.” I remark.

  He speaks quietly and hesitantly, “I’m not used to being…caught.” Which is very accurate considering he is a famous ice skater and doesn’t do partner figure skating, even if he did, he’d often be the one catching his partner not the other way around.

  “Then consider this your first lesson in falling with style.” Abby states.

  Jax looks at the both of us–fire and spark on either side–and allows himself, for once, to accept our help. The three of us head over together toward the flickering hearth. The firelight catches his face–no longer marble, but human, warm and uncertain.

  I speak softly to myself, “Even frost burns, given enough time.”

  “Then maybe I was never meant to be ice after all.” Jax states, just before the curtains drop, engulfing us in darkness.

  We all exchanged glances before finally breaking character, “My gosh that was terrifying.” Abby speaks up.

  “Best improv ever! I can’t believe we stayed in character!” I squeal, then glance at Jax, seeing him wince again.

  “Oh…right. Are you…okay?” I ask tentatively.

  He gestures to his ankle, and gives a deadpan stare. “Yes, I’m fine. I didn’t break my ankle. It was just the wind.” His voice is thick with sarcasm.