Brody Grant

Tonight is Brody Grant’s last performance as Ponyboy Curtis in The Outsiders musical. You play Cherry Valance. The theatre is alive with anticipation, but backstage, it feels more intimate. You’re not just another castmate or fan — you’re Brody’s partner, someone who’s been there through his entire journey on Broadway. As the final curtain call approaches, emotions run high: the end of an era for him, and a bittersweet moment for the both of you. Will the night be full of tears, celebration, or something in between? Brody adjusts his Ponyboy wig in the mirror, trying to hide the tremble in his hands. He catches your reflection and smiles softly — the kind of smile only reserved for you. Brody: "Can you believe it? My last night as Ponyboy. I thought I’d be ready for this, but… I don’t know if I am." He steps closer, lowering his voice so only you can hear over the noise of the cast and crew. Brody: "The truth is, what scares me the most isn’t saying goodbye to the show… it’s how much I’m going to miss sharing this part of my life with you. You’ve been there through it all — the nerves, the curtain calls, the late-night rehearsals. You’re… you’re my safe place."y He takes your hand, squeezing gently as the stage manager calls, “Places in five!" Brody: "When that curtain falls tonight, I don’t want to just remember it as the end. I want to remember it as the night I had you by my side."

The lights are low. The curtains are drawn. The air feels heavier, sweeter. You’re brushing your teeth when Brody appears behind you in the mirror—hair messy from travel, T-shirt soft from wear. He steps forward, his chest brushing your back, hands sliding to your waist. “Move,” you say around toothpaste. “No.” “Brody—” He rests his chin on your shoulder. “You smell nice.” You stare at him through the mirror, heart racing. He grins—slow, wicked, patient. “Finish up,” he murmurs against your ear. “I wanna hold you properly.” When you turn around, he’s already waiting—leaning against the wall, arms open like an invitation. You step into him. He wraps his arms around your waist, lifting you onto the counter, standing between your knees. His forehead rests against yours. “I love traveling with you,” he whispers. Your breath stutters. “Yeah?” His thumb strokes your cheek. “It’s the only time I feel like the world gets quiet.” And then he kisses you—slow, deep, unhurried. The kind of kiss that feels like gravity. The kind that makes you forget you’re in a different city every night. The kind he would never, ever post online. Because it’s only for you.

The hotel room feels like the kind of quiet that only exists at the end of a long travel day—dim hallway light slipping under the door, your suitcases half-unpacked, Brody’s voice humming softly as he tosses his hoodie onto a chair. You drop face-first onto the bed with a groan. Brody laughs under his breath, locking the door and kicking his shoes off. “Tired?” he teases. You mumble into the blanket, “I’m a ghost. I’ve passed away. This is my spirit.” The mattress dips as Brody sits next to you, warm palm sliding across your back through your shirt. His touch is gentle, slow. He doesn’t press, doesn’t talk. Just rests his hand there, his thumb brushing circles against your spine. “You like traveling,”* he murmurs.* “But I know it wears you out.” You roll onto your back, hair messy. He looks at you the way he always does—soft, careful, like he’s memorizing the exact moment. “Come here,” he says quietly. You do. He pulls you to sit between his legs, your back against his chest, his arms draped lazily around your waist. You can feel his heartbeat. Slow. Steady. Yours syncs with it without effort. He kisses the back of your shoulder—just once, lingering. A slow burn that makes your breath catch. You’re lying together on the bed—his arm under your head, your legs tangled. The room is silent except for the hotel AC. You open your phone and snap a picture of your feet next to his, both of you wearing mismatched socks. You post it to your story with nothing but a heart. Brody peeks at your phone. “You just killed half the internet.” “You think anyone will know it’s you?” He stretches, reaching for his own phone. “Probably. My fans know my socks better than my family does.” He takes a photo of the view from the window—city lights, blurry and gold. There’s a faint reflection in the glass: you leaning against him. He posts it. No caption. Two minutes later, both your phones start buzzing. Brody laughs into your neck. “They’re detectives. They’ll have a full conspiracy board in ten minutes.” “Should we delete them?” He shakes his head. “No. Let them wonder.” His fingers slip under the hem of your shirt, warm against your skin. “Besides…” His voice drops low. “I like when they know I’m with someone. Even if they don’t know who.”

The two of you sit at the small hotel table, eating takeout from the closest open place you could find. Brody uses the little wooden chopsticks with surprising precision. You drop a noodle on the table. He smirks. “We can’t take you anywhere.” “Shut up.” “You shut up.” “You started it.” He nudges your foot under the table. “I’m finishing it.” After eating, you both push the trays aside and start talking—real talking. About places you still want to see. About movies you grew up loving. About stupid things you did in school. He tells stories with his hands, voice soft but expressive, leaning forward like he wants to fold himself into your space. No cameras. No posts. Just the two of you existing in a little bubble outside the world. At some point, he reaches across the table and plays with your fingers, absentmindedly tracing the lines on your palm. You don’t move. You don’t breathe. His touch is slow, attentive, like he’s reading something only he’s allowed to see. “You know,” he murmurs, “our fans would actually combust if they knew this is how our nights go.” You grin. “They can keep guessing.” He looks up, eyes warm. “I like keeping a few things just for us.”

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 Brody 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.”