The video never surfaced, but Elliot felt it hovering over them anyway.

Waiting.

On Thursday morning, Dana called them into her office and lowered the blinds facing the production floor.

"There's a rumor going around," she said. "It involves the hallway outside the green room."

Elliot's stomach tightened.

Roman stood beside him with his hands in his coat pockets. "The security camera?"

"It recorded both video and audio."

"That system isn't supposed to record sound."

Dana gave him a tired look. "Legal is trying to determine whether anyone copied the file. Until production wraps, the studio wants you arriving separately and avoiding private contact on the lot."

Elliot looked at Roman.

"For how long?"

"Until we finish the show. Publicity will decide what happens after that."

"There isn't a story," Elliot said.

Roman finally met his eyes.

Dana noticed. "Then keeping your distance should be easy."

Roman nodded. "Understood."

Something in Elliot's chest dropped. He expected Roman to question the order or demand a list of everyone with access to the footage.

Instead, Roman buttoned his coat and left.

The following week was worse than Elliot expected.

Roman stopped waiting outside his apartment. There was no coffee in the cup holder, no breakfast balanced on the console and no message asking whether Elliot had read the rewritten pages.

On set, Roman remained flawless.

When the script called for Julian to touch Noah, Roman touched him. When it called for a kiss, Roman kissed him.

The moment Elena called cut, he stepped away.

By Tuesday, Elliot had started measuring the distance between them: three feet during rehearsals, two chairs at lunch and an entire production van after wrap.

Roman did not break the studio's rule once.

The accident happened while they were filming a chase sequence for episode seven.

The warehouse set had been built inside a converted shipping terminal. Metal walkways crossed above false concrete walls and rusted machinery. Banks of lights hung from heavy trusses overhead.

Elena reviewed Elliot's route. "Cross behind the column, take the corner wide and stop at the stairs. The floor is slick."

Elliot nodded. "Wide turn. Stop at the stairs."

Roman waited near the monitors with Priya, the stunt coordinator. He was supposed to enter several seconds later.

Somewhere above Elliot, metal creaked.

Nobody reacted.

The first take stopped when a background performer missed his cue. Elliot slipped during the second. By the fourth reset, his shirt clung to his back beneath the costume jacket.

He returned to his mark.

"Ready?" Elena called.

Elliot raised one hand.

The light above him shifted.

The sound vanished beneath the scrape of the camera dolly, but Roman heard it. His attention snapped toward the ceiling.

"Elliot!"

Elliot turned.

Roman was already running.

The impact drove Elliot sideways. His shoulder struck the concrete, forcing the air from his lungs.

Roman landed partly over him as the lighting rig crashed behind them.

Metal folded against the floor. Glass exploded across the set, followed by a shower of white sparks.

Someone screamed for the power to be cut.

Elliot lay stunned beneath Roman's weight. Then Roman moved, and Elliot saw the blood spreading through his gray costume shirt.

"Roman."

Roman pushed himself onto one elbow. His face had gone pale.

"Did it hit you?"

"Your arm."

"Did you hit your head?"

"You're bleeding."

A medic dropped beside them and pressed gauze against Roman's upper arm. Roman flinched but kept watching Elliot.

"I'm fine," Elliot said. He grabbed the uninjured side of Roman's shirt. "He needs an ambulance."

"It's already coming."

Roman glanced toward the fallen rig. "It looks worse than it is."

"Stop talking."

"Your shoulder—"

"Roman."

His name broke in Elliot's throat.

Roman fell silent.

Crew members surrounded them, some holding phones they pretended not to be using. The studio's warning returned to Elliot: distance, appearances, no more pieces of the story.

He tightened his grip and refused to let go.

Elliot climbed into the ambulance without asking permission.

Roman lay on the gurney with his arm wrapped against his chest. A dark stain slowly spread beneath the bandage.

"You didn't have to come," Roman murmured.

Elliot looked toward the doors. "Save your strength."

The ambulance hit a rough stretch of road. Roman's good hand slid across the mattress until it rested near Elliot's knee.

After a moment, he turned his palm upward.

Elliot placed his hand in it.

The hospital kept Roman for more than two hours. He received twenty-two stitches, X-rays and a tetanus shot. The wound had missed the major nerves and arteries, though his arm would remain weak for several weeks.

When Roman emerged wearing a sling, Elliot stood so quickly that coffee splashed onto his sleeve.

Roman noticed the stain. "You always were dangerous around hospital coffee."

"I'm taking you home."

"My driver is outside."

"Good. He can drive both of us."

Roman did not argue.

His apartment overlooked Coal Harbour. Elliot had expected something cold and perfect. Instead, books crowded the shelves, an old record player stood near the windows and worn running shoes had been abandoned by the door.

Roman sat on the sofa while Elliot found his medication.

"You don't have to stay," Roman said.

Elliot placed the water and pills on the table. "Take those."

Roman obeyed.

"You could have died."

"I saw where the rig was going."

"You ran underneath it."

"Under the edge."

"That isn't better."

Roman turned toward the windows.

Elliot sat on the floor with his back against the sofa. His hands had started shaking again.

Roman's good hand rested on the cushion near his shoulder. "Breathe."

"Don't tell me to breathe."

Roman let the silence remain.

Elliot pressed his hands against his eyes. "Why did you do it?"

Traffic moved far below them.

"I would rather it had been me," Roman said.

Elliot lowered his hands. "That isn't an answer."

"It's the one I have."

Roman carefully slid down and sat beside him. Their shoulders touched.

"I'm staying tonight," Elliot said.

"The studio told us to keep our distance."

"The studio can come over and stop you from tearing your stitches open."

"You don't owe me anything."

"I know."

Elliot helped him into bed shortly before midnight and tried sleeping on the couch.

He lasted three hours.

Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw the rig falling and blood spreading through Roman's shirt.

At three in the morning, Elliot returned to the bedroom. Roman slept on his back with his injured arm supported by pillows.

On his way out, Elliot noticed a closed door across the hall.

The room beyond was a study. An old cardboard box sat beneath the desk.

He should have left it alone.

Inside, Elliot found a program from their university production of The Seagull, a script he had lost during junior year and a poster from his first independent film.

There were ticket stubs from plays he barely remembered. A newspaper review of Low Winter. The jacket someone had placed over him when he fell asleep in the university library.

Roman's jacket.

At the bottom rested an unsealed envelope with Elliot's name written across the front.

The letter inside was dated the night before graduation.

Roman had written about Elliot biting his pen during auditions and always choosing seats with his back to the wall. He explained that he had rejected the role Elliot believed he had stolen and recommended Elliot instead.

The final sentence remained unfinished.

If I don't see you again, I need you to know that I—

On graduation night, Roman had waited behind the auditorium. Elliot had accused him of treating people like trophies and told him to go to hell.

By sunrise, Roman's number had been blocked.

Elliot returned the letter to its envelope and carried it into the bedroom.

Roman was awake.

"You found the box."

"I shouldn't have opened it."

"I should have thrown it away."

"Why didn't you?"

Roman looked toward the doorway.

Elliot waited.

"I couldn't," Roman said.

"You gave up that audition."

"It wasn't right for me."

"You told them to call me."

Roman did not answer.

Elliot placed the letter on the nightstand. "You loved me."

Roman's gaze returned to him. Fatigue had stripped away the distance he wore in public.

"I did."

The past tense landed harder than Elliot expected.

Roman drew a slow breath. "I still do."

Elliot gripped the edge of the mattress.

There should have been an answer. A confession or a rejection. Nothing came.

He removed his shoes and lay on top of the covers beside Roman, leaving several inches between them.

"I don't know what to do with that," Elliot said.

"You don't have to do anything tonight."

"And tomorrow?"

"We get through tomorrow."

Roman's good hand rested between them.

Elliot moved his own hand across the blanket until their little fingers touched.

Neither man moved closer.

Neither pulled away.

For that night, it was enough.