Page 97 of Set to Love

Max stands up, shaking out his arms and resetting his posture. He takes the center of the room. He isn’t the man who was just huddled over a rice bowl anymore. His chin drops, his gaze grows distant. This is Eros. An ancient being who has carried a heavy secret for far too long.

“They say being the son of the Goddess of Love is a blessing. A divine inheritance. For a millennium, I’ve been the architect of the world’s desire, weaving threads between souls who thought they were alone. I’ve watched the spark catch a thousand times over.” His voice drops into a deep, resonant tone that seems to age him a thousand years. “But the flame was never meant for me. I was the torchbearer. Never the one warmed by the fire.”

He stops abruptly, his face scrunching in frustration as he breaks the spell. “No, that’s not right.”

I look down at my phone, double-checking the PDF. “No. That’s the first page of the monologue, word for word.”

He shakes his head, pacing in a small circle on the scuffed wood. “No, I mean it sounded too flat. It needs to be more remorseful. Like the words are being dragged out of him.”

It’s all in his head. All I can do here is be supportive. “It sounded better than you think it did,” I say, keeping my voice even. “At least from where I’m sitting. I felt like I was hearing somebody who’s lived a thousand lifetimes.”

He nods and takes a breath, but I know he isn’t convinced. He closes his eyes for a second and tries again. This time, there’s a flicker of something more ragged in his tone. He makes it through the first page, his movements fluid and deliberate, but as he reaches the transition, he stumbles.

“And when the light finally fades, I am left with nothing but the . . . the echo of . . .” He trails off, his brow furrowed. He snaps his fingers, trying to summon the word from the air. “The echo of . . . darn it, what’s the line?”

“The echo of a choice I didn’t make,” I supply quietly.

Max lets out a frustrated huff and runs both hands through his hair, leaving it standing in every direction. “Right. A choice I didn’t make. Why can’t I get that line to stick? It’s like my brain is short-circuiting.”

“You’re overanalyzing it,” I say, leaning back on my hands. “Instead of trying to be perfect, you need to pretend you’re telling me why love hurts so much. Why is it a punishment to be a love god?”

He looks at me, the frustration in his eyes softening into something more searching.

I try again. “Be messy. Be raw. Be unhinged.”

He takes a long breath and nods. “Messy. I can do messy.”

We run the scene again. And again. Somewhere along the way the words stop sounding like lines and begin sounding like a confession. When he finishes, the room remains quiet, and Max stands still, chest rising and falling before finally letting out a long breath.

The energy in the studio shifts. “That’s it,” I say softly. “You aren’t Max anymore. You’re Eros.”

“Now I need to keep it for another ten pages,” he scoffs.

I place my hand over his. “One step at a time. We can stay as long as it takes to get through it.”

He squeezes my hand back, his grip firm as he takes a deep breath. “Then I guess I’d better not muck any more of it up, or we’ll be here all night.”

“I’m off tomorrow,” I remind him with a small smile, letting my thumb brush against the back of his hand. “I’ll be here as long as it takes.”

He looks at me for a long moment, appreciation in his eyes. He doesn’t say anything. But he doesn’t have to. We both know what the other is thinking.

Watching him now, laughing despite how exhausted he is, I realize this has become something I never planned for.

I want to remind him to eat. I want to tell him when he’s overthinking. I want to stay on this studio floor for as long as he needs, reading lines, giving cues, reminding him he doesn’t have to carry everything alone.

Maybe I’m not ready to call it love.

But I think I’m past pretending it isn’t becoming something very close.

Twenty-Four

Ihaven’t had a real conversation with Max in four days that wasn’t somehow connected to The Winged God. Ever since Friday, we’ve spent nearly every spare second preparing for today’s final callback.

My kitchenette is buried beneath empty espresso pods, the coffee table has disappeared under takeout containers, and every piece of furniture has been shoved against the wall to make room for the rehearsal mat Max brought over.

“Did you manage to get any sleep last night?” I ask, walking out from the bedroom and tossing my hair into a messy bun.

He’s already dressed, shaved, and showered, looking unfairly put together in a fitted black shirt and trousers. Only the shadows beneath his eyes and the tension in his shoulders betray how exhausted he really is.