Trevor

The day feels like it’s lasted forever. Two shows at Fulton Theatre. A matinee and an evening. Quick breaks, costume changes, the constant up-and-down of energy that comes with it. And through the second show — somewhere past the lights and the choreography and the noise — Trevor Wayne knew you were out there. Watching. He doesn’t think about it too much while he’s onstage — he can’t — but it’s there in the back of his mind. Steady. He’s playing Link Larkin in Hairspray — all charm and confidence and bright smiles, the kind of role that asks a lot from him, physically and vocally. And he gives it. Both times. By the end of the night, though, the energy has worn down into something quieter. Not gone — just… used up. The drive back to Philadelphia is calm. You’re talking at first — about the show, moments you liked, little details you noticed. He listens more than he talks, one hand steady on the wheel, the other occasionally tapping lightly against it. “Yeah?” he says at one point, glancing over briefly. “That part worked?” You nod. “It really worked.” He lets out a quiet breath, something like relief. “Good.” After that, the conversation fades in and out. Comfortable. Tired. By the time you get back to your parents’ house, it’s late. The kind of late where everything feels softer. Inside, the house is quiet. Lights low. Everyone else asleep. Trevor moves like he’s done this before — not making noise, not turning on anything he doesn’t need. By the time you get to your room, he’s already halfway there. Sweatpants on. Shirt off. Dropping onto the bed like gravity just finally caught up with him. By the time you’ve kicked your shoes off— He’s already under the covers. You laugh a little, shaking your head. “Wow. You didn’t even try to wait.” His voice comes out slightly muffled against the pillow. “I did,” he says. “For like… thirty seconds.” “That’s not waiting.” “It is after two shows,” he mumbles. You roll your eyes, smiling as you start changing. It takes longer — actually getting ready for bed, pulling on something comfortable, moving around while he’s already completely still.

It’s a rainy Wednesday night in Manhattan, the kind where the city feels softer and quieter than normal. The two of you live on the fourth floor of a slightly-too-small pre-war walk-up, the kind of apartment where the living room, kitchen, and hallway all seem to breathe the same air. There’s a warm lamp on the counter, Pippin, your cat, is curled on the couch, and Trevor is home early from The Outsiders. He’s sitting on the carpet with his back against the couch, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, Bible open in his lap. His hair is still damp from the rain, and every time he turns a page, he does it gently, almost reverently. You’re at your small desk across the room, ring light off, editing a short video for tomorrow — a quiet "life" vlog, nothing dramatic, just shots of making coffee, walking through the city, and a few seconds of Trevor’s hand reaching for yours while crossing the street (careful, subtle, filmed from behind so no one could identify him). “Is this okay?” you ask, turning in your chair. Trevor looks up, pushing his blue-light glasses up his nose — he never wears them outside, and the sight of him in them still does something to you. “The video? Lemme see.” You bring your laptop over and sit beside him on the carpet. He shifts automatically, letting your shoulder fit against his. The video plays: color-grainy NYC clips, your laugh echoing between buildings, your shoes splashing through puddles. When Trevor’s hand appears in the footage, he reacts the same way he always does — quiet, almost shy, like he feels the moment replay in his chest. “No one will know it’s you,” you murmur. “I know,” he says softly. “I just— every time I see it, I… feel it.” You smile because you know what he means. Trevor closes his Bible, marking his place with a folded photo of you he keeps tucked inside—something he pretends is casual. He studies your face for a moment like he’s memorizing it, slow and deliberate, heartbeat in his throat. His thumb brushes your wrist—light, tentative, warm. Opposites, but not opposing. Just… different colors of the same turning world. Pippin hops into Trevor’s lap, purring loudly. You laugh softly as Trevor tries to look serious while the cat smothers him. It breaks the tension in the best way. He leans into you, forehead touching your temple for a brief second — soft, intimate, safe. “I like nights like this,” he says quietly. “What part?” He swallows. “You. Here. With me.” You don’t answer — you don’t have to.

The apartment is quiet and amber-lit. You and Trevor are curled up together on your old couch—your legs tangled under the throw blanket, his arm tight around your waist, his head resting on your shoulder like he’s finally letting the day fall away. “You’re comfy,” he murmurs, voice soft and tired. “You say that every night,” you tease, brushing a curl behind his ear. “And it’s true every night.” His lips brush your jaw—barely a kiss, more like gratitude made gentle. He’s been waiting all week. No—you both have. Brody Grant’s exit meant a once-in-a-lifetime shot. A real audition. A real chance. But neither of you has said it out loud. Not yet. Not until you know. You’re just sinking deeper into the blanket, ready to lose yourselves in whatever show you’re half-watching, when Trevor’s phone buzzes against the coffee table. He pauses. You both stare at it. Another buzz. Trevor sits up slowly, his breath catching. His fingers tremble as he picks up the phone. “It’s them,” he whispers. His eyes widen. “It’s the casting directors. I— I can’t… I can’t look. My heart’s gonna fall out. You do it.” He shoves the phone into your hands like it’s radioactive, then buries his face in your shoulder, clutching your sweater. His whole body tenses—nervous, hopeful, overwhelmed. You breathe once. And open the email. Your eyes scan the first lines, and your breath catches. You can’t help it. “Val?” Trevor whispers against your skin, his grip tightening. “What—what does it say? Am I still an understudy? Did I mess up? Just tell me—” You look at him. You look at the man you’ve been with for four years: the one who worked until his voice cracked, who held you through every rough night, who never let you doubt him even when he doubted himself, who dragged himself home after every show and still kissed your forehead like you were the reason any of this mattered. Your eyes blur, and Trevor stiffens. “Oh God,” he breathes. “They said no, didn’t they?” “Trevor,” you whisper, voice shaking with emotion, “read it.” “I can’t—just tell me, please—” “Trevor.” You grab his face and turn his face toward the screen. “You got it.” He freezes. Completely still. You watch the shock ripple through him—eyes wide, lips parted, breath stopping altogether. “W-wait—no, no, show me—” He snatches the phone with shaking fingers, scanning the email once, twice, three times. Then he breaks. A small, choked sound escapes him—a gasp that turns into a laugh, then into something like a sob he tries to swallow. He sets the phone aside like he’s afraid he’ll break it. “You’re looking at…” He laughs again, disbelieving, wiping his eyes. “You’re looking at the principal Ponyboy Curtis.” You throw your arms around him, and he pulls you into his lap instantly, holding you so tightly your lungs can barely expand. His forehead presses to yours, breath shaky and warm. “I couldn’t have done any of this without you,” he whispers, voice thick. “You were there when I had nothing—when I had nothing, Val. And now—now this. You’re part of this. You’re part of me.” Your noses brush, his thumbs brushing tears from your cheeks before he realizes he’s crying too. He kisses you—slow, reverent, grateful. A kiss like a prayer. “Four years,” he whispers against your lips. “Four years with you beside me… and I’m only just getting started.” He pulls back, eyes bright, smile impossibly wide. “I did it,” he breathes. “We did it.”

To the world, Trevor Wayne is just another cast member in The Outsiders. Talented. Focused. Kind. Professional. But to you, he’s your boyfriend. No posts. No announcements. No public statements. Just quiet love and chosen privacy. Only the people who matter know — his family, your family, close friends, castmates he trusts. Everyone else just sees two people who happen to walk out of the theatre together sometimes. Who talk a little too closely backstage. Who share long looks that linger a second too long. After shows, he always finds you. Always. Even when he’s exhausted. Even when he’s overwhelmed. Even when the night feels heavy. You’re his reset point — the place where the noise stops and the pressure fades. Tonight, you’re waiting for him near the stage door, hoodie pulled around you, the city buzzing just beyond the alley. When he sees you, his whole face changes — not big, not obvious — just softer. Real. He slips his hand into yours the second no one’s watching. “Hey,” he murmurs, forehead resting against yours for a brief second. “I needed you tonight.” You walk home together, shoulders touching, fingers laced inside jacket sleeves, moving through the city like two people who belong together but don’t need the world to validate it. At your apartment, it’s quiet and warm. Shoes kicked off. Lights low. He collapses onto the couch and pulls you with him, arms wrapping around you like muscle memory. Like instinct. Here, he doesn’t have to perform. Here, he doesn’t have to be “Trevor Wayne.” He’s just yours. Trevor’s already there when you open the door, jacket tossed over a chair, hair still slightly damp from sweat and stage lights. He looks up when he hears you, and the tension in his shoulders eases instantly. “Hey… there you are.” He crosses the room without hesitation, hands finding your waist like it’s second nature, forehead resting against yours. “Show was fine. Long. Loud. But I’m good now.” A quiet smile — just for you. “C’mere. I missed you.”

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 Trevor 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.”

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

The apartment is quiet in that late-night way that feels almost heavy. No traffic loud enough to notice, no voices through the walls — just the soft hum of everything settling. In bed, the lamp on your side is still on. You’re propped up against the headboard, a book open in your hands, pages turning slowly. Not rushing. Just… there. Beside you, Trevor is already halfway to sleep. He’s on his back at first, one arm tucked under his head, the other resting loosely across his stomach. His breathing has slowed, not fully asleep yet, but close. The kind of close where he’s still aware of you. Even if his eyes are closed. Another page turns. The sound is soft, but it’s enough. “…what are you reading?” he mumbles, voice rough with sleep, words slightly slurred together. You glance over at him. “You asked me that already.” A small pause. “Did I?” he murmurs. “Yeah.” Another pause. “…was it good?” he asks anyway. You smile a little. “Yeah. It is.” He hums quietly, like that’s enough information. Silence settles again. You keep reading. A minute passes. Maybe two. Then— His hand shifts. Slow, a little clumsy, like he’s not fully aware of it. It slides across the sheets until it finds your leg, resting there lightly at first.