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The backstage area of the London venue is a chaotic symphony of winding down—the distant hum of the crowd filtering through the brick walls, the smell of stage makeup and damp wardrobe racks, and the frantic energy of a successful final show settling into quiet exhaustion. Skipper stands by a crate of props, two paper cups of mud-thick black coffee in his hands. He adjusts the lapels of his jacket, a rare look of standard civilian vulnerability crossing his face as Lola approaches. Her head is still neatly wrapped in a crisp white medical bandage, a stark reminder of the lifestyle he drags with him everywhere.
She stops in front of him, her large eyes soft but resolute. She doesn't take the coffee. Instead, her hands move in fluid, quiet ASL.
*I can't keep running, Skipper.*
Skipper freezes, his jaw tightening into a disciplined line. "Lola, sweetheart, the mission in Cairo was a localized anomaly. The perimeter is secure. I’ve personally vetted the transport routes—"
Lola places a gentle, steady hand on his chest, cutting him off mid-brief. Her fingers move again, slow and deliberate.
*You are a commander. You belong in the trenches with your boys. I need a life that doesn't involve tactical extractions. I love you. But I’m staying in Europe.*
She leans up, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek, lingering just long enough for Skipper’s arms to twitch forward before he forces them to his sides, standing at absolute attention. Lola gives him one last, bittersweet smile, turns, and walks down the dimly lit corridor. Skipper doesn't move. He stares straight ahead at the brick wall, his chest rising and falling in sharp, controlled breaths. From the shadows of a nearby costume rack, Kowalski steps out. He isn't holding a clipboard for once. He walks over, takes one of the steaming coffee cups out of Skipper’s rigid hand, and takes a slow sip.
"Statistically speaking, Skipper," Kowalski says, his voice unusually quiet, devoid of his usual clinical detachment. "The probability of a clean break being the most efficient outcome for both parties was ninety-four percent. It doesn't... alter the biological sting of the event, however."
Skipper remains frozen for a beat longer. Then, he takes a heavy gulp of his own coffee, his eyes tracking the empty hallway. "Good intel, Kowalski," Skipper mutters, his voice gravelly but steady. "Secure the perimeter. We move out at midnight."
Further down the hall, away from the tactical briefing zone, Julien leans against a vanity mirror, admiring the glitter on his collar. The performance had been a triumph, and he's riding the high of being the world's most glamorous spectator. Sonya steps into the dressing room, her Eurasian features sharp under the harsh incandescent bulbs. She's still in her performance gear, radiating a dark, magnetic energy. She looks at Julien—vibrant, effortlessly confident, and entirely unique.
Without a word, she steps into his space, catches him by the lapels of his sleeveless tropical vest, and pulls him down into a sudden, deep kiss. Julien’s large golden eyes widen in genuine surprise. For a second, his hands hover in the air. Then, gently but with absolute certainty, he places his hands on her shoulders and, firmly and smoothly, pushes her back, breaking contact.
"Whoa, whoa, sister," Julien says, his voice lacking its usual theatrical pitch, replaced by a rare, grounded sincerity. He smooths down his vest, offering her a warm, apologetic smile. "That was a very beautiful and highly dramatic gesture, and frankly, my cheekbones deserve it. But I must throw up a giant red flag here."
Sonya blinks, her expression shifting from bold to confused.
"I am a taken man," Julien explains, lifting a finger to emphasize the point. He pauses, correcting himself with a fluid tilt of his head. "Well, I am not a man, obviously, but I am taken. Completely off the market. Locked down in a very exclusive, very high-end situation."
Sonya watches him, the tension leaving her shoulders as she realizes there is no malice in his rejection.
"But listen to me," Julien continues, stepping forward to pat her arm affectionately. "Your trapeze work tonight? Divine. The way you hold the room? Unbelievable. I appreciate the friendship we have made on this crazy tour more than all the designer luggage in Monaco. We are still a premier duo on the dance floor, okay?"
Sonya lets out a soft laugh, the rejection completely softened by his transparency. She nods, gives his shoulder a friendly squeeze, and slips past him into the hallway.
Julien lets out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, shaking out his hands to rid himself of the sudden serious energy. "Phew. The drama, Julien. It follows you like a persistent paparazzi."
"Is that right?"
Julien swivels around. Maurice is leaning against the heavy wooden doorframe of the dressing room. He has his arms crossed over his broad chest. He's been standing there the entire time, tucked just out of Sonya's line of sight. His expression is unreadable, but there's a distinct, soft warmth in his eyes that he usually reserves for rare, quiet moments.
"Maurice!" Julien gasps, immediately recovering his dramatic flair. "Did you see that? The local talent is practically throwing themselves at my feet. It is a full-time job being this magnetic."
Maurice doesn't roll his eyes. He doesn't sigh. He just walks into the room, his heavy steps slow and deliberate, until he's standing directly in front of his partner.
"I heard what you said," Maurice says in a low, steady rumble.
Julien's bravado falters for a fraction of a second. He looks up at Maurice, his posture softening. "Oh. Well. It is the truth. I am a very loyal socialite, Maurice. When I make a commitment to a premium-tier relationship, I do not stray to the lower-class options."
Maurice looks down at him for a long moment. A slow, genuine smile breaks across his face—the kind of smile he never shows the public, completely stripped of the bodyguard persona. He reaches out, his large hand gently resting on the back of Julien's neck, pulling him into a brief, solid forehead-press.
"You're an idiot, Julien," Maurice murmurs affectionately.
"A very handsome, highly sought-after idiot," Julien whispers back, leaning into the touch. "Now, come. We must go tell the New Yorkers that my replacement Amex is fully operational, and then you and I will celebrate my monogamy in the penthouse.