Sam woke to the smell of toast.
For a moment, he didn't know where he was. The sunlight spilling across the ceiling was unfamiliar, the room too still. Then his eyes focused — his own apartment, his own couch, a slightly rumpled blanket sliding off his legs.
And the warm weight at the other end of the sofa?
Hayden. Sitting cross-legged, holding a plate of toast with surgical delicacy and watching something on Sam's laptop with the volume barely audible.
He looked like a housecat in borrowed sweatpants.
"You're awake," Hayden whispered, as if they were in a library or a dream.
Sam sat up slowly, rubbing at his eyes. "How long have you been—?"
"Not long," Hayden said. "I made toast. Hope that's okay. Your bread is very fancy. Multigrain with emotional depth."
Sam gave a groggy laugh. "Help yourself."
"I already helped both of us. You snore."
"I do not—"
"It's a soft snore. Like a worried squirrel. Very on-brand."
Sam grabbed a pillow and lightly whacked Hayden's knee with it.
Hayden dramatically caught it like a stage faint. "Abuse! Betrayal! Couch warfare!"
Sam rolled his eyes, but his smile stayed.
They fell into silence after that — the quiet kind that isn't awkward, just... slow. Peaceful. Sam curled back into the corner of the couch, watching Hayden chew his toast and occasionally flick crumbs off the blanket. The morning light filtered in through the curtains, turning Hayden's hair a little gold at the edges.
It occurred to Sam, all at once, that this was the first time he'd seen Hayden like this.
No costume.
No performance.
Just soft. Real.
And it made something flutter and ache in the same breath.
"You could've taken the bed," Sam murmured.
Hayden glanced over. "And let you have the couch? Please. I'm chivalrous."
"You slept in a C-shape."
"Worth it."
Sam hesitated, then added, "I don't mind you here."
Hayden's smile curved up gently. "Good. I don't mind being here."
The laptop played a soft piano track from whatever video Hayden had queued up, and for a moment they sat in it — light and music and stillness.
Then Hayden stood, brushing crumbs from his shirt.
"C'mon. Let's get dressed and go make something brilliant. We've got five days left."
Sam looked up at him, eyes half-lidded from sleep, heart suddenly wide awake.
Five days.
He wasn't sure what they were building anymore — a project, sure, but also something else. Something stitched from spilled paint and head pats and half-asleep confessions.
Whatever it was, he wasn't ready to let go of it.
Not yet.
....
The studio smelled like old glue and possibility.
Hayden was barefoot, pacing. Sam was cross-legged on the floor, sketchbook open, pencil tapping against his lip. Their materials were scattered around them — fabric scraps, foamboard, pieces of wire that Hayden kept trying to turn into crowns, masks, metaphors.
"I think the character's breaking," Hayden said, voice low but intense. "He wants to say something, but he doesn't know how. He's all—" He made a frustrated noise and gestured vaguely at the air, "—stuck."
Sam looked up. "Then let him get stuck."
Hayden paused mid-step.
"What do you mean?"
Sam flipped his sketchbook around. A rough drawing of their character: tall, arms halfway raised, body caught mid-motion. Trapped between moving forward and curling in.
"He doesn't have to solve anything yet," Sam said. "He just has to feel it."
Hayden took the sketch, eyebrows furrowed. "You're scarily good at this."
"I'm just listening to the silences."
That made Hayden stop entirely. "What?"
"You're loud when you act," Sam said. "But it's the quiet parts that make it real."
Hayden didn't answer for a beat. Then: "You really see things, don't you?"
Sam shrugged, suddenly shy. "Only the things worth seeing."
There was a pause between them — charged, hanging in the air like the breath before a scene starts.
Hayden looked at him carefully. "Okay," he said. "Let's try something."
He stepped back, placed the sketch gently on the floor, and slipped into character without fanfare. His posture shifted. Shoulders curled in. Jaw tense. Eyes... aching.
He was the character now: breaking open without falling apart. He moved across the room, slowly, then stopped in front of Sam and whispered,
> "I don't know how to ask for what I want."
It was scripted. Sam knew it. He'd read that line ten times already.
But something in Hayden's voice was different.
Raw.
Not rehearsed.
Sam stood up, barely aware of it. The air between them tightened. He didn't have a line here, not officially, but something rose in him anyway. Something honest.
"I think... maybe you don't have to ask."
Hayden blinked. The mask of character slipped, just a little.
"You think someone would just know?"
"I think," Sam said softly, "if they're really paying attention... yeah."
For a moment, they stood close enough to feel the heat off each other's skin. Not touching. But something had shifted.
Not in the script.
Not in the project.
In them.
Then Hayden gave a quick, shaky laugh and stepped back.
"Okay. Wow. That was... intense."
Sam sat down slowly. "You okay?"
"Yeah," Hayden said, running a hand through his hair. "Just didn't expect to feel it like that. You're a terrifyingly good scene partner."
"You're not bad yourself," Sam murmured, still watching him carefully.
Hayden's eyes softened. "Do you think we're writing the same story?"
"I don't know," Sam said, and this time he didn't look away. "But I hope we are."
Hayden smiled — the quiet, real kind — and flopped down beside him on the floor.
They didn't talk much after that. Just sat there, surrounded by fragments of their project, their characters, their feelings.
And maybe, just maybe, something real had slipped through the cracks.
By the time the sun dipped low, their studio looked like the inside of a very artistic tornado.
Paint tubes uncapped. Paper scraps everywhere. A paper mâché mask drying upside down on a stack of textbooks. Music played softly from Sam's phone — a mix of indie instrumentals and old movie soundtracks, the kind that filled the room without asking for attention.
Hayden sat cross-legged on the floor, scissors in one hand, gold ribbon wrapped loosely around the other like a lopsided bracelet.
Sam was at the table, head bent over a final sketch, the tip of his tongue sticking out slightly in concentration. Hayden kept glancing at him and telling himself it was because he wanted to ask for help with the ribbon. Not because of the way Sam looked when he was focused — soft, quietly alive, like something beautiful he didn't even know he was becoming.
"I think I've permanently inhaled glitter," Hayden said eventually.
Sam glanced over, smiling. "I warned you."
"I thought you were joking. Your glitter is, like, sentient."
"Welcome to my world."
Hayden stretched, arms overhead, shirt riding up just slightly — not that he noticed. Sam did. Sam very much did. He immediately looked back down at his sketch, ears a little pink.
"You okay?" Hayden asked, flopping dramatically onto the floor with a sigh.
"Yeah," Sam said, still sketching. "Just... thinking."
"About?"
Sam hesitated. "How it's weird that we've only known each other since Monday."
Hayden rolled onto his side to face him. "Yeah. Feels longer, huh?"
"Feels like…" Sam paused, searching for the right word. "Like we're in the middle of something that started before we noticed."
Hayden smiled faintly. "Maybe we're just fast learners."
There was a beat of quiet. The kind that felt like it was trying to become something else.
Sam set down his pencil and looked over. "Are you always like this?"
Hayden blinked. "Like what?"
"Bright. Like... the room feels different when you're in it."
Hayden went still. Not dramatically this time — just quiet. Real.
"No," he said finally. "Not always."
"Why me, then?" Sam asked. It came out smaller than he meant.
Hayden studied him. "Because you look at me like I don't have to try so hard."
Sam didn't answer.
Hayden sat up slowly, now just inches away. "And because when I'm around you, I forget I'm performing."
Sam smiled softly. "I like you better that way."
Another silence. Another almost.
Hayden reached out without thinking and brushed a smear of charcoal from Sam's cheek. His fingers lingered for just a moment too long.
Neither of them moved.
Then Sam's phone buzzed with a reminder, shattering the moment like a dropped wineglass.
They both laughed too quickly. Too nervously.
"I should get this sketch scanned," Sam said.
"And I should stop gluing ribbon to my hand," Hayden replied, holding it up like it was a tragic injury.
They didn't talk about the moment again. Not directly.
But when they cleaned up, their fingers brushed more than once.
When Hayden left for the night, he hesitated at the door, then turned and said, "Save me a seat in your world tomorrow?"
Sam nodded. "Always."