Echo of Almost

Act IV: Chapter 17 - Where the Script Ends

It began with a stir. Literally. Delilah at craft services, spoon dragging lazy circles in her cup of too-hot tea. Her eyes weren't searching the hallway. Not exactly. Not on purpose.

But then Dylan walked by.

Tray in hand, curls a little damp, shoulders slightly hunched like he hadn't slept. He caught her gaze. Paused.

"Rough morning?"

His voice was soft. Familiar. Dangerous.

She nodded, blinking against the way her chest cinched. "You can tell from my tea?"

"You stir like you're mixing regret into it."

She laughed before she could stop herself. He grinned.

"How'd your scene go?" he asked.

"Rough."

He brushed her elbow. Just a light touch. But it pulsed through her.

"You'll rewrite the air around it next time. You always do."

And then he walked on.

The air he left behind was warmer.

—

The next day, he passed her in the hallway. Didn't look up.

The day after, she stood right beside him at rehearsal blocking. He didn't speak.

Just nodded once, like a colleague. Not a ghost. Not a man who'd once kissed her like survival depended on it.

It was whiplash. Emotional vertigo. Warm. Then ice.

And she didn't know why.

Or maybe she did.

Maybe it was that scene in the hospital room last week. The one where she touched his face when he cried and the director let the cameras keep rolling long after the scene ended.

Maybe it was that they hadn't spoken since.

Or maybe it was everything they never said before the world collapsed between them.

—

She wasn't ready for the next taping day. No one was. It was supposed to be filler. Light. Holiday fluff.

INT. JONATHAN'S APARTMENT - NIGHT.

Mara shows up unannounced. Gift in hand. Jonathan has one too. They exchange gifts. It's quiet. Intimate. Too intimate.

Delilah read it again. And again. Her pulse didn't slow.

When she stepped onto the soundstage, the set glowed. Strings of white lights lined the fake windows. A miniature tree sparkled in the corner, tinsel catching the overheads. Two wrapped boxes rested under it like promises.

Dylan was already there. Sitting on the couch, thumbing the corner of the script without reading it.

He looked up as she approached. His eyes didn't flinch.

"Hey," he said.

Just that. Just hey.

"Hey," she replied.

No armor. No chill. Just the hum of everything they hadn't exhaled yet.

—

"Rolling."

The clapper snapped. A camera beeped. The hush fell, that particular silence the set held when it knew something honest was about to happen.

Knock knock.