Morning crept in shyly, like a guest unsure if they were still invited. The studio smelled faintly of wet concrete and promise. Daphne arrived early, wiping the window with her sleeve, revealing streaks of sky that looked undecided about sunshine.
Caius was already there, sitting cross-legged with his camera parts spread like puzzle pieces. “I’m pretending to fix something,” he said. “It makes me feel useful.”
“Try sweeping,” she said. “That’s more believable.”
He grinned, set the lens down, and joined her in silent work. Dust and small fragments of glitter from last night’s dance still clung to the corners like proof of something worth remembering.
When Mira entered, she was holding two envelopes. “One official, one emotional.”
“Which one explodes first?” Daphne asked.
“The official. Rent notice for the studio.”
“And the emotional?”
“A thank-you card from the couple who got engaged on our dance floor last week.”
Daphne blinked. “They got engaged?”
“Apparently, yes. During the power outage.”
Finn burst through the door, holding a half-eaten bagel. “That was *my* flashlight moment!”
Jamie followed, carrying a soggy cardboard sign that read *Happiness Sold Out.* “Found this outside. Feels symbolic.”
Mira sighed. “If symbolism paid rent, we’d be rich.”
Daphne looked at the rent notice. “How much?”
“Too much.”
“Translation?”
“Enough to make you consider selling organs.”
“Plural?”
“Yes.”
Caius stood, brushing off his hands. “We’ll figure it out.”
Mira crossed her arms. “That sentence should come with a financial plan.”
“Give us until tomorrow,” Daphne said. “I want to talk to the manager myself.”
Finn raised an eyebrow. “Charm offensive?”
“Charm strategic,” she corrected.
Jamie whispered to Mira, “That means she’ll bring cookies.”
“Then we might actually win,” Mira said.
By noon, the restaurant was busier than usual. The morning rain had turned into an afternoon glow, and the city seemed to forgive itself a little. Daphne moved between tables, smiling automatically, while Caius edited footage in the corner. The quiet between them wasn’t heavy, just aware.
When their eyes met, he gestured toward the camera. “Do you ever want to record this place?”
“All the time,” she said. “But some things disappear when you look straight at them.”
He nodded slowly. “Like truth in a comment section.”
“Exactly.”
A delivery man arrived with a box labeled “For the House of Joy.” Inside were paper lanterns, donated by a local arts group. Each had words painted on it: *Breathe, Begin, Stay, Dance.*
Jamie read them aloud. “They forgot *Nap.*”
Finn laughed. “That’s implied.”
Mira hung one near the window. “Maybe we use them for the next event.”
“We can’t host another until we fix the rent problem,” Daphne said softly.
“Then let’s fix it,” Caius said.
She looked at him. “You make it sound easy.”
“I make it sound possible.”
The words stayed between them, warm and frightening at once.
Evening came painted in gold and humidity. The restaurant lights glowed softer than usual, as if conserving courage. Daphne locked the till and gathered her things, but her steps led her back toward the studio instead of home.
The door was half-open. Inside, the room felt alive again—someone had turned on the lights. Caius stood in the middle, phone to his ear. His tone was quiet but sharp.
“I’m not taking the sponsorship,” he said. “Because it’s not about that anymore.”
A pause. Then, “I know what exposure means. It’s what people die of when they’re left outside too long.”
He hung up and looked up at her. “Sorry. Didn’t hear you come in.”
“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” she said. “But I’m glad I did.”
“They offered a partnership deal—studio branding, dance challenges, all that noise.”
“And you said no.”
“I said maybe,” he admitted. “Then I said no.”
She smiled, tired but genuine. “You’re learning.”
“Slowly,” he said. “Like yogurt.”
She laughed, shaking her head. “That joke’s evolving too.”
He walked closer. “You still plan to talk to the manager tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“Want me there?”
“Maybe. But don’t talk first.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’ll say something cinematic, and I’ll owe three months’ rent.”
He laughed quietly, the sound easing something between them.
The next day, the meeting didn’t go as expected. The manager—a woman in her sixties with the patience of a clock—listened to Daphne’s plea, then smiled faintly. “You remind me of my daughter,” she said. “She tried to run a bakery in this neighborhood once. Lasted a year.”
“I plan to last longer,” Daphne said.
“Then don’t rely on hope alone. Bring paperwork next time.”
When Daphne left the office, the sun hit her face like applause. She didn’t know yet if she’d won anything, but she felt still standing—and that counted.
That evening, she returned to the studio. The lights from the paper lanterns painted the walls in soft color. The others were waiting: Mira with her calculator, Finn with a broom, Jamie with a stack of mismatched chairs, and Caius with two mugs of coffee.
“Did we survive?” Finn asked.
“Not yet,” she said. “But we’re rehearsing the feeling.”
They laughed, and the sound filled the space like light learning how to dance again.
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