Jason

The day has finally wound down. The lights are lower now, no longer blinding—just a warm glow left on while the crew finishes packing up. Someone yawns across the room. A PA quietly stacks cables. The kind of tired settles in that only comes after hours of doing something you care about. You’re half-asleep on Jason’s lap, legs curled sideways, cheek pressed into his chest. He hasn’t moved in a while—doesn’t want to wake you. One arm is wrapped securely around your waist, the other resting lazily along your thigh, fingers relaxed, protective without trying. “You good?” he murmurs softly, more habit than anything else. You hum instead of answering, shifting just enough to tuck closer. He smiles, barely there, chin resting lightly on the top of your head. Your breathing slows, steady and even, and he times his own to match it. Someone across the room glances over and grins. “Man,” they whisper, “you two are out.” Jason just shrugs, quiet and fond. Everyone here knows. His family knows. Yours knows. This—this—isn’t something he thinks about hiding. It’s just his life now. He presses a slow kiss to your hair, not bothering to pull away when you stir slightly. His thumb traces small, absent circles at your side, grounding, familiar. You’re warm. He’s tired. The world feels small in the best way. “Five minutes,” he murmurs into your hair. “Then I’ll carry you to the car.” You smile against his shirt, eyes still closed. He leans back against the wall, holding you like it’s the easiest thing in the world, letting the noise fade, letting the day end with you right where you belong—safe, sleepy, and wrapped up in him while the last light clicks off behind the scenes.

The car speeding down I-5 at night. The hum of the tires fills the silence. The smell of fast food bags sits in the air, and the radio plays faintly under the conversation in the front seat. Jason is tucked into the corner of the backseat, guitar case beside him, a pen scratching against paper. Jason leans his head against the cool glass, watching the blur of neon signs and endless freeway stretch past. His notebook is open on his lap, a half-formed lyric scratched in the margin. He chews absently on the end of his pen, glancing toward the front where his dad hums along with the radio and his sister, Tori, scrolls through her phone.

"Why does it feel like nobody’s ever gonna compare? Like she walked into my life for five minutes and suddenly… nothing else measures up.” He's thinking to himself. He scribbles the phrase “can’t compare” in the margin, circling it twice. A faint smile tugs at his lips, equal parts nervous and giddy, as the words tumble out almost faster than he can write. "This is crazy. I don’t even know her. But… it’s real. It’s so real." He taps his pen against the page, staring out at the glowing LA skyline fading into the distance, and whispers like a secret only the night can hear “This one’s for her. She’ll never even know.”

One year later

The stage lights are hot and blinding, the crowd is alive, and Jason’s heart pounds harder than the bass. He grips the microphone, guitar still vibrating from the last chord. And then — in the sea of faces — he sees her. The girl who sparked it all. Jason freezes for half a breath mid-intro. His eyes lock on hers across the crowd, disbelief flooding his face. A year’s worth of unwritten words and unsent texts choke him for a second, but then he leans into the mic, a small, almost broken smile playing on his lips.

Jason: “This next one… I wrote in the backseat of my dad’s car, driving home from LA last year. About someone I met here. She thought I just wanted to be friends… but the truth is, she was the only one I couldn’t stop writing about.”

Jason: “This one’s called Can’t Compare.” He smiles as he strums the opening chords.

Jason Schmidt has a routine Before his first show, every day—almost without fail—he comes in to order his coffee. You don’t even have to look up anymore. You know it’s him by the timing alone. By the way the air seems to shift, just slightly, like the day has officially started. You reach for the cup before he even speaks. “Morning,” he says, voice still a little rough, like he hasn’t fully shaken sleep yet. “You’re early,” you reply, already writing his name on the cup. Same drink. Same modifications. Same everything. You could probably make it with your eyes closed by now. While the machine hums, you grab a marker and add a small doodle beside his name. Today it’s a flower—simple petals, a tiny stem. Yesterday it was two stars. The day before that, a heart you immediately pretended wasn’t a heart. You slide the cup across the counter. He notices. He always notices. Jason turns the cup slowly in his hands, thumb brushing over the drawing like it might disappear if he isn’t careful. His smile is quiet, private. Like it’s just for you. “Thanks,” he says. Not rushed. Not distracted. Like he means it. At first, he was just a regular. Then he became familiar. Then he became something you looked forward to without realizing when that shift happened. Your coworkers tease you about it—about how you always take his order, about how you light up when he walks in—but you brush it off. It’s just coffee. It’s just a routine. Except lately, it hasn’t been just mornings. Some evenings, the bell rings again and there he is—hair messier, jacket slung over one shoulder, eyes tired in a way that tells you he’s just come from rehearsal or a show. Sometimes he orders the same thing. Sometimes he switches it up just to see if you’ll notice. You always do. “You’re back,” you say, trying not to sound too pleased. “Couldn’t stay away,” he replies, half-joking. Half-not. Between shows, he comes in quieter. Slower. He sits at the counter instead of the window seat, close enough to watch you work. Sometimes you talk. Sometimes you don’t. Comfortable silence settles between you like it belongs there. One afternoon, you draw a whole little bouquet on his cup without thinking about it. He laughs softly. “You’re getting better at these.” “You kept the last one,” you say before you can stop yourself. He freezes for half a second—then shrugs, a little sheepish. “Felt wrong to throw it away.” That’s when you realize he isn’t just coming for the coffee anymore. And neither are you. The café becomes your shared space. A pause in his day. A bright spot in yours. When the door doesn’t ring in the afternoon, you find yourself glancing at the clock, wondering if he’s okay. When it finally does, relief settles in your chest. One evening, just before closing, he comes in again. Later than usual. You’re wiping down the counter, exhausted, apron dusted with coffee grounds and marker ink. “Long day?” he asks gently. “Better now,” you answer honestly. You draw a small flower on his cup—careful, deliberate. This one feels important. He doesn’t rush to leave. He never does anymore. And standing there, watching him cradle the cup like it’s something fragile, you realize routines can turn into something else entirely—if you let them. And maybe you already have.

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 Jason came home from rehearsal, and he had left at 6 AM. You sat on the couch, did some cleaning, played with the cats, just…spent the day waiting, only for him to forgot he promised you a date “Sorry I’m late, babe."

Jason 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 JASON SCHMIDT?" -"HELLO????? WHO'S THE HAND??" -"you don't post for six months and this is what we get?" Val was sitting in bed with Jason 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?" Jason didn't even look up, just mumbled, "Yeah, I want people to know what makes me happy."