“I have to get going,” Archer said, the words bursting out of him from the pinching in his lungs. “I need to grab some dinner before the show.”

“Okay,” his mom said. “Great to hear from you. Take care, hon.”

Archer hung up and stood blinking at the quiet green cathedral around him and, for a second, considered hurling his phone as far as he could into its mossy depths. Then he sighed and went back inside to see if there were any red gummy bears left.

“I hope Mateo isn’t still mad,” Archer said on their way down to the theater.

“Fuck him,” Caleb snorted. “I don’t know why you care so much about his opinion.”

“I know, it’s just … It’s Mateo Dixon! I worshipped him when I was a kid.”

“You did?”

Archer kicked at a rock and shrugged. “Yeah.”

“Well … he’s just Mateo now, some grumpy asshole you have to work with. Honestly, don’t worry about him for one second. It doesn’t matter what he thinks.”

So Archer tried not to worry about him. But his stomach curdled when he offered Mateo a friendly smile in the greenroom, and Mateo looked right through him.

Mateo managed to avoid eye contact the rest of the week, in fact, except where necessary for the pas de deux in Saturday’s show. But there was nothing in his eyes beyond cold professionalism, and that came through in their dance. Usually, Archer could feel the audience breathing with them, but tonight the theater may as well have been empty.

Caleb’s right, Archer told himself as he changed after the show. It doesn’t matter what Mateo thinks. Obviously, I blew any chance we had to be friends, so now I just have to dance the best I can and try not to fuck up anymore.

I can do that.

I hope.

He packed up his bag and was about to leave the greenroom when someone approached him from behind. “Archer, can I have a minute?” It was Mateo.

“Of course, sure.” Archer steeled himself for more criticism or another tongue-lashing.

“Tonight, while we were dancing, I had a thought.”

“Oh?”

Mateo stepped close to him and grabbed his waist. “I was thinking here, when I hold you…”

Archer’s mouth dried out. He was not expecting this. Their noses were nearly touching. He inhaled Mateo, sweat and moss.

“What if,” Mateo murmured, “we paused, for four counts. Just letting it simmer.”

“Simmer,” Archer repeated, like an idiot, trying not to stare at Mateo’s lips. That was a mistake because then their eyes met. Mateo’s were dark and intense, and they drilled down into Archer’s very core. He feared every molecule in his body was about to disintegrate.