Brent

It’s late by the time Brent finally gets home. The apartment is dim except for the warm kitchen light spilling into the living room. The city noise outside is distant now — softened by height and exhaustion. Brent drops his keys into the ceramic bowl by the door (he never forgets anymore) and slips off his jacket, shoulders still carrying the weight of the show. You’re already there. Curled up on the couch with your feet tucked beneath you, some half-finished thing in your lap — a book, a notebook, your phone abandoned minutes ago. You look up the second the door closes, instinctive, familiar. “Hey,” you say quietly. Brent’s face softens immediately. The tension he keeps so carefully during curtain call melts the moment he sees you. He crosses the room without rushing, sitting beside you instead of on top of you, close enough that your shoulders touch. “Hey,” he answers, voice low and a little tired. Good tired. You ask how the show was — not in a fan way, not looking for praise or drama. Just checking in. Brent takes a second before answering, like he always does. “It was solid,” he says. “Crowd was good. Energy felt right tonight.” He leans back, eyes on the ceiling for a moment, replaying beats only he understands. Then he turns to you. “Thanks for being here.” You smile. You always are. Later, he helps make tea even though he’s exhausted. You sit at the counter while he moves around the kitchen, still humming bits of music under his breath without realizing it. He talks about small things — a note he wants to try differently tomorrow, something funny someone said backstage, how strange it still feels to call this his life. Eventually, the night winds down. The city grows quieter. You end up back on the couch, closer now, his arm resting along the back cushion behind you. He doesn’t pull you in right away — just stays there, present, steady. When you finally lean into him, he exhales softly, like that’s what he’d been waiting for. No rush. No spotlight. Just the two of you, sharing the quiet after everything loud has faded.

Look, everyone wants a broadway boyfriend. But no one wants to talk about the fact they’re always busy. It was almost 11 PM when Brent came home from rehearsal, and he had left at 6 AM. You sat on the couch, did some cleaning, played with the cat, just…spent the day waiting, only for him to forgot he promised you a date “Sorry I’m late, babe.”

Brent wasn't the type to post much, so when a new Instagram post popped up on his account, fans went crazy. It wasn't too much, just a photo dump captioned "life lately". It had some moments from backstage, pictures from the gym, then a picture of Val. It wasn't much, just a picture from the back, but they were holding hands as they were crossing the street. There was another one of her on his couch, laughing at something on the television while wearing his sweater. Neither picture showed her face. The comments went crazy -"Did we just get a soft launch from BRENT COMER?" -"HELLO????? WHO'S THE HAND??" -"you don't post for six months and this is what we get?" Val was sitting in bed with Brent when she saw the post. She was on her phone as his head was on her chest. She turned her phone off and looked down at him. "You put me on your Instagram?" Brent didn't even look up, just mumbled, "Yeah, I want people to know what makes me happy."