But this moment—Gomez Addams swooning over his beloved Morticia—looks more like a hostage situation than a moment of passion. The scene comes to its painful conclusion. Silence lingers, thick with secondhand embarrassment.
“Well,” I start, searching for a diplomatic way to phrase it, “that was . . . better than last time.” Barely.
Mia groans, covering her face. “It’s so awkward.”
Ethan sighs, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I don’t know what to do with my hands.”
I try to coach them patiently. “You two are overthinking it. You’re so focused on the action that you’re forgetting the feeling behind it. This isn’t about the mechanics of gestures. It’s about the emotional connection between Gomez and Morticia. They live for each other.”
Tristan’s voice drifts up from the back of the theater. “Maybe they need a visual.” He pushes off the wall and starts walking toward us.
“What are you doing?”
“Helping.”
“The only way you can assist in this scenario is by leaving,” I mutter.
He ignores me, turning to Ethan and Mia.
“If you don’t know how to sell a stage kiss, you’ve gotta watch people who do.” Then, before I can protest, he looks right at me. “Ligaya, want to help me demonstrate?”
The entire cast audibly gasps.
Someone whispers, “Oh my god.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
Tristan grins. “Come on, Director Torres. Let’s show them how it’s done.”
There is no reason for me to agree to this. None. But now all these kids are watching me. Waiting. Backing down from the challenge would negate months of asking them to venture beyondtheir everyday comfort zone. The entire point of drama is discovering what they can do on the stage. It’s acting, and nothing more.
“Fine,” I say, folding my arms. “But if you make this weird, all rehearsals will be permanently closed.”
Tristan chuckles. “Noted.”
I square my shoulders. “Alright, class, when you step into a scene like this, you’re not yourself anymore. You’re the character.”
“Right,” Tristan says, “which means you need to let go of who you were. Start fresh.”
He walks to me, deliberate without being eager. His gait is neither hesitant nor rushed. His confident eyes are locked on mine, those specks of green darkening. Suddenly, I forget how to breathe. My knees weaken. My spine tingles.
Tristan cradles my hand like he’s walking me to a dance floor, a thumb brushing knuckles. There’s a moment when my brain short-circuits, and I forget we’re not alone. My lips open slightly, anticipating his soft mouth and delicious taste.
The air shifts. Real, electric, holy-hell tension sizzles. And judging by the absolute silence in the room, I am not the only one who notices.
Tristan tilts his head, leaning in enough to make the kiss seem inevitable. His breath is warm against my skin, his thumb sweeping across my knuckles with practiced skill. Like he knows how a woman needs to be touched.
My every brain cell is broadcastingbad ideain neon letters, while my heart gallops to eliminate the distance.
What’s worse than being under the spell of this man?
Doing it on a freakingstage.
Abruptly, Tristan stops, steps back, and faces Ethan and Mia. “See? It’s all about intent.”
“Holy shit,” someone whispers.
I clear my throat. “Uh. Yes. Exactly. That.”
