The Part Ivo Played

The delay notice came through mid-morning, one of the ordinary bulletins that scrolled across Tomas's monitor a dozen times a week — a shuttle connection pushed back, a docking window slipped, a route recalculated to account for traffic further down the line. What made this one different was the passenger manifest attached to it, which listed, instead of the usual mix of cargo crew and route workers, a family name repeated five times over, each with the designation performing arts, touring.

"Got a theater troupe coming through," Tomas mentioned to Sena, who was topping off the coffee station before the lunch rush. "Delayed connection. Looks like they'll be stuck here most of the afternoon, maybe into evening."

"A whole troupe? On our shuttle?"

"Small one. Five people, according to the manifest. Family outfit, by the look of the names." He scrolled further. "Says here they're headed to a settlement three stops down for some kind of festival performance. Guess they got caught by the same schedule slip as that produce hauler this morning."

"That'll be fun," Sena said, and went back to her coffee station without much more thought than that, because delayed travelers were about as unremarkable a feature of station life as the beacon lights outside, and a family of actors seemed no different in principle from a family of merchants or a crew of shuttle pilots waiting out a connection.

She had no idea, at that point, how much use the station's old common room was about to get.

They came through the restaurant's main door a little after noon, five of them, hauling a collection of battered cases and trunks that clearly held more than ordinary luggage, and it was immediately apparent, even before anyone said a word, that this was not a typical crew. The mother came first, a tall, sturdy woman with graying hair pulled back in a practical braid, moving with the brisk efficiency of someone used to managing both people and props at the same time, her eyes already sweeping the room and sorting it into useful categories — floor space here, seating there, somewhere to stack the trunks that wouldn't be in anyone's way. Behind her came the father, broad-shouldered and warm-voiced, already greeting the room with a booming, good-natured "Afternoon, all!" that turned a few heads and drew a few smiles, and who paused halfway through the doorway to admire the old fixtures along the ceiling with genuine, unhurried interest, as if he found something worth appreciating in every room he walked into. An older cousin or sibling followed, mid-twenties, hauling the heaviest trunk with easy strength and the slightly resigned air of someone who always ended up carrying the heaviest trunk, and behind him came the two younger members of the troupe — a girl of about fourteen with dark hair in two neat braids, carrying a smaller case with the confident posture of someone who'd been doing this her whole life, and a boy a little older, limping slightly and wincing with each step, supported lightly by the girl's free arm, and doing his very best to look as though the limp wasn't really there at all.

"Rough landing?" Sena asked, coming around the counter to meet them.

"Rough getting off the shuttle, more like," the mother said, setting down her case with a relieved sigh. "Deck plate shifted wrong under him coming down the ramp, and he came down wrong on it. Nothing broken, thank goodness, but he's not going to be doing any blocking work for a while."

"I'm fine," the boy said, easing himself into the nearest booth with a grimace that suggested he was not, in fact, entirely fine, though clearly not in any serious distress either, and attempting, with limited success, to lower himself into the seat as if his ankle weren't bothering him at all, a performance that fooled absolutely no one, least of all his mother.

"You'll be sitting with that leg up for the next several hours, is what you'll be doing," the mother said, in the tone of someone who had said this exact sentence to this exact child many times before, already reaching over to drag a second chair close enough for him to prop his foot on without being asked, which he accepted with a put-upon sigh but did not actually refuse. She turned back to Sena with an apologetic smile. "Sorry to descend on you like this. We got word our connecting shuttle's delayed something like six hours, and we've got a performance in three days we still need to rehearse for. Wondering if there's anywhere on the station we might borrow for an hour or two, so the day isn't a total loss."

"We've got a common room," Sena said. "Used to be some kind of observation lounge back when the station was newer, now it's mostly where we do meetings and movie nights and the occasional game night. It's not much, but it's got space and chairs you can move around."

"That sounds perfect, honestly. We've rehearsed in worse."

"I'll go grab Tomas, he can get the lights sorted and open it up properly," Sena said, and went to find him, while the troupe settled into the booth, the father immediately charming half the nearby tables with a booming recitation of some line or other that made a passing dock worker laugh out loud and set down his tray to listen a moment longer than he probably meant to, and the injured boy propped his foot up on the opposite bench with a long-suffering sigh that suggested this was far from the first minor mishap of his touring career, muttering something to Mira about how the last twisted ankle had at least happened somewhere with better food.

The common room, once Tomas got the lights humming properly on, needed a bit more work than any of them had first expected. He and the older cousin spent a good ten minutes hauling the folding chair rack back against the far wall to clear real floor space, stacking spare tables into the corner, and testing the light panels one section at a time until they found the combination that lit the room evenly instead of leaving one half in shadow the way the old wiring tended to do if you weren't careful about it.

"This used to flicker something awful," Tomas said, tapping the panel until it steadied. "Took me half a year to track down which relay was the problem. You'd think a station this size could afford better lighting."

"You'd think," the cousin agreed, hauling the last trunk into place, "but every venue's got its one bad relay somewhere. This one's not even the worst I've dealt with."

By the time the space was cleared, word had already begun drifting through the restaurant that something was happening in the common room, the way word always seemed to travel fastest through a place that didn't get many surprises, and a small trickle of curious onlookers had started finding excuses to wander past the open doorway — a couple of route regulars slowing their steps to peer in, one of the dock workers who'd laughed at the father's earlier recitation drifting over on his break to see what the fuss was, Sol glancing in twice from the kitchen doorway before finally abandoning the pretense and coming to actually watch.

"This is turning into a whole thing," Dani said, delighted, arriving at Nari's side in the doorway with her arms already crossed in the posture of someone settling in for entertainment. "We've had a station for years and never once had actual theater people rehearsing in the common room."

"It's not a performance, it's a rehearsal."

"Rehearsals are basically previews. Free previews. This is the best thing that's happened all week."

The mother, meanwhile, had opened the first of her trunks and was directing the unpacking with brisk precision — scripts sorted into a stack on one of the remaining tables, a set of wooden practice swords laid out along the wall, and a costume trunk set carefully to one side, its lid propped open to reveal a tangle of fabric that immediately drew several curious glances from the small gathering crowd.

"Problem is," the mother said, straightening up and surveying the room, "we've got a scene in the second act that needs two performers roughly matched in size, doing some fairly specific blocking — a bit of a mock duel, some movement around the stage — and our understudy for that role happens to currently have his foot up on a chair."

"I could still do it sitting down," the boy offered, from across the room.

"You could not do a sword-fighting scene sitting down, and even if you tried, I'd have a heart attack watching you attempt it," his mother said. She glanced around the small gathered crowd of restaurant staff and onlookers with the assessing eye of a director looking for a solution. "We really just need somebody roughly the right height and build to stand in for the blocking today. Doesn't need to know the lines by heart, just needs to be there so Mira's got someone to actually play the scene against instead of an empty patch of floor."

It was at this exact moment that Stirling, who had wandered over from the restaurant on some pretext of restocking a nearby supply cabinet, stepped forward with the calm, dignified confidence of someone volunteering for precisely the right task.

"I would be glad to assist," he said. "I have access to the full text of most classical stage works in my archive, including, I believe, the piece you are currently rehearsing. I could perform the role from memory, without need of a script."

The mother blinked at him, taking in the sleek silver-and-white frame, the black vest, the steady yellow eyes, with the polite but visibly startled expression of someone recalibrating an offer they hadn't expected.

"That's — very generous of you," she said carefully. "But the role does call for a certain amount of physical presence. He's meant to be a young man, close in size to my daughter here, and no offense meant, but you're a good deal taller than the part calls for, and considerably more metal than the part calls for."

"The text does not specify a composition requirement," Stirling pointed out, entirely serious.

"No, but the audience is going to notice pretty quickly if half our sword fight is happening several feet above where it's supposed to."

"I could adjust my posture to compensate for height."

"Stirling," Dani said, gently, from the doorway, trying not to laugh, "I don't think adjusting your posture is going to solve the metal part."

"That is a fair point," Stirling conceded, though he did not appear to fully abandon the position, tilting his head slightly as though still running the calculation. "I would also note that I am capable of memorizing the entire remaining repertoire in significantly less time than a human understudy would require, should that prove relevant to future scheduling."

"I'll — keep that in mind," the mother said, with the careful diplomacy of someone unsure whether she was being offered a genuine resource or gently tested, and Stirling, satisfied that his qualifications were at least on record, stepped back with the air of a man setting aside a good idea only reluctantly, though he did not look entirely convinced that composition shouldn't have counted for less than it apparently did.

The mother, recovering smoothly, turned her attention to the small gathered group with fresh appraisal, and her gaze landed, after a moment, on Ivo, who had come to see what the commotion was about and was now standing near the back of the room with a stack of extra chairs in his arms, entirely unaware that he had just become the obvious solution to everyone's problem.

"What about him?" she asked.

Ivo looked up, chairs still in his arms, with the specific dawning horror of someone who has just realized, several seconds too late, that he should have left the room when he had the chance.

"What about who?" he said.

"You. Right height, right build, close enough in age to my daughter that it'll read fine on stage. You wouldn't need to memorize much, we're only rehearsing the one scene right now." The mother looked him over with the practiced, unbothered assessment of someone who had spent years casting understudies out of whoever happened to be standing nearby. "What do you say?"

"I say no," Ivo said, immediately and with total conviction, setting the chairs down like he needed his hands free to properly refuse. "I'm not an actor. I don't do — acting."

"It's not real acting, it's just blocking," the daughter said, from where she'd been unpacking a case of props, looking over at him with mild curiosity rather than any particular pressure. "You just need to stand where I stand and say a few lines back at me so I've got something to react to. It's really not a big deal."

"It sounds like a big deal."

"This is going to be so fun," Dani said, already delighted, appearing at Ivo's elbow with the specific gleam in her eye that meant she had fully committed to a cause before anyone had asked her opinion. "Ivo, come on, when are you ever going to get to do something like this again?"

"Hopefully never."

"You'd be great," Nari offered, gently, from nearby. "It's just one scene. Nobody's expecting a whole performance."

"You'll survive," Sena added, with the calm, practical certainty of someone who had seen Ivo survive worse things than mild embarrassment. "It's an afternoon. You've done harder things than stand in a room and say some lines."

"That's not really the reassurance you think it is," Ivo muttered, but nobody seemed particularly moved by the objection. He looked around at the assembled faces — Dani's enthusiasm, Nari's gentle encouragement, Sena's unbothered confidence, the troupe girl watching him with open, unworried curiosity rather than any particular judgment, even a couple of the drifted-in onlookers watching with mild, friendly interest as though this were already settled — and felt the specific, sinking realization of someone who has just run out of allies in the room.

"Fine," he said, with the deep, put-upon sigh of a boy who knew he'd lost before he'd properly started arguing. "One scene. That's it."

"That's the spirit," the mother said, delighted, already turning to dig through one of her trunks. "Now. Let's get you into something appropriate."

The costume trunk, once opened properly, produced a cascade of fabric that made Ivo's expression sink further with every new item pulled out — a deep green tunic with wide sleeves, a length of dark fabric meant to serve as a cape, a wide leather belt with an ornate but clearly fake buckle, and, worst of all, a ruffled white collar that looked, to Ivo's eye, like something designed specifically to humiliate whoever had to wear it.

"Absolutely not," Ivo said, backing up a step. "I'm not wearing a ruffle."

"It's period appropriate," the mother said, entirely unbothered by his protest. "Every young gentleman in this piece wears one. It's not optional, I'm afraid, unless you'd like to be historically inaccurate in front of an audience."

"There isn't going to be an audience, it's a rehearsal."

"There's a decent chance a few people wander in," Sena said, from where she was helping sort through the trunk, glancing pointedly at the small cluster of onlookers already gathered along the wall. "I wouldn't count on staying private."

Ivo made a small, strangled noise of protest that nobody paid much attention to, and Dani, delighted beyond measure, pulled the tunic free from the pile and held it up against him with the assessing eye of someone dressing up a doll.

"Oh, this is going to be great. Put this on."

"I'm not — "

"Put it on, Ivo, or I'll put it on you myself."

He put it on, with the maximum amount of grumbling he could manage while still technically complying, disappearing behind a folding partition Tomas had set up in the corner of the common room and emerging a few minutes later in the green tunic, the cape hanging slightly crooked off one shoulder, the belt cinched too tight around his middle, and the ruffled collar sitting askew in a way that made him look less like a young gentleman from an old stage play and more like a boy who had lost an argument with a costume trunk, which was, in fairness, exactly what had happened.

"Perfect," Dani declared, clapping her hands together.

"I look ridiculous."

"You look great, actually, just — hang on, the belt's crooked." Dani tugged at it, which only seemed to make it worse, cinching it further off-center, and Nari stepped in a moment later, reaching for the cape instead and attempting to smooth it into place, though her adjustment mostly succeeded in dragging the collar further sideways in the process.

"That's not better," Ivo said, twisting to try and see himself, which only tangled the cape around one arm.

"It's a work in progress," Dani said, undeterred, tugging the belt the other direction, which did nothing except relocate the problem rather than solve it, and Nari, attempting to help further, only succeeded in creating a small pucker of fabric at his shoulder that hadn't been there before, the two of them working with tremendous enthusiasm and very little coordination, until Ivo, thoroughly tangled, finally spoke up.

"I think you're making it worse."

"We're making progress," Dani insisted, though even she seemed to be losing confidence in the claim.

It was Sena who finally stepped in properly, setting down the script she'd been glancing through and coming over with the calm, practical focus she brought to most tasks that needed doing right rather than done fast. She loosened the belt to a reasonable tension, straightened the collar so it sat properly rather than folding awkwardly against his neck, unwound the cape from his arm and reset the clasp so it draped evenly across both shoulders instead of dragging to one side, and smoothed the small pucker out of the fabric with two efficient tugs.

"There," she said, stepping back to look him over. "That actually looks like it belongs on you now."

Ivo looked down at himself, considerably less mortified now that the costume actually seemed to fit rather than looking like something he'd been ambushed by. "It doesn't look terrible?"

"It looks fine," Sena said. "You look like you're in a play, which, funnily enough, is the point." She gave the collar one last small adjustment. "Costume's the easy part, anyway. Lines are what you should be worried about."

Ivo's face fell all over again. "Right. Lines."

"Told you," Dani said, unhelpfully, and went to go find a seat before Ivo could throw anything at her.

The scene itself, when Sena walked him through the pages the mother had handed over, turned out to be short — a handful of exchanges between two young characters, some old-fashioned banter that built toward a brief bit of stage combat with wooden practice swords, nothing especially complicated, but written in language dense enough that Ivo stumbled over nearly every line on his first read-through.

"Nobody talks like this," he said, squinting at the page. "'Thou wouldst have me believe thy courage matches thy tongue.' Who says that? That's not a sentence a person says."

"People used to talk exactly like that, believe it or not," Sena said, sitting across from him at one of the common room's battered tables, script open between them. "It just sounds strange because it's old. Doesn't mean it doesn't make sense, once you break it down."

"Break it down how?"

"Well — what's the line actually saying, if you put it in plain words? Forget the fancy version for a second."

Ivo looked at the page again, working through it slowly. "I guess... it's saying he doesn't think the other guy's actually brave. Like, he talks a big game but doesn't back it up."

"Exactly right. So say it like that's what you mean, not like you're trying to survive a sentence that's too long for you." Sena tapped the page. "Try it again. Slower this time. You don't need to rush it just because it's unfamiliar."

He tried again, still stiff, still rushing slightly through the middle where the words tangled together, and Sena shook her head gently.

"Slower. You're saying it like you're trying to get it over with. Say it like you actually think he's a coward and you want him to know it."

Ivo took a breath, tried again, and this time the line came out with a touch more shape to it, more insult than recitation, and Sena nodded, satisfied.

"Better. See? Not that hard once you stop racing through it."

"It's still weird."

"It's supposed to be a little weird. That's half the fun of it." She turned the page, pointing to his next line. "Same idea here. What's it actually saying?"

He worked through that one too, more slowly this time, sounding it out in plain words first before attempting the line itself, and Sena let him take his time with it, not filling the silence, just waiting with the patience of someone who understood that rushing him would only set him back further.

"Better," she said, once he'd gotten through it. "You're starting to hear it instead of just reading it. That's the actual trick, if there is one."

They worked through it steadily, line by line, Sena patient in a way that surprised Ivo a little, given how briskly she usually moved through her shifts on the floor. She didn't rush him, didn't sigh when he got something wrong twice in a row, just walked him back through the meaning each time until the words started to feel less like nonsense and more like something an actual person, however old-fashioned, might actually say.

Nari, passing by with a tray of drinks for the troupe, paused long enough to catch one particularly tangled line and offer, gently, "That one goes 'thy courage,' not 'thine courage,' if that helps — you said it wrong the first time and then right the second, I think it just slipped."

"Thanks," Ivo muttered, adjusting it, and Nari moved on without making anything more of it, the small correction offered and received without ceremony.

Dani, meanwhile, hovered nearby with the enthusiastic energy of someone who wanted to help but had no actual notes to offer, settling instead for cheering him on after each attempt. "That was so much better that time! You sounded like an actual guy who's mad at someone!"

"That's literally what the line is," Ivo said, though he couldn't quite hide the small flicker of pride the comment gave him.

By the time the mother called everyone back together to actually run the scene, Ivo had the lines down well enough that he wasn't reading them cold anymore, even if his delivery remained stiff, and Mira, the troupe's daughter, watched him work through his final run-through with the calm, appraising patience of someone who had clearly coached nervous scene partners before.

"You're gonna do fine," she told him, matter-of-fact, tightening the strap on one of the wooden practice swords. "Just don't rush it. And look at me when you say your lines, not at the floor. It reads a lot better if you're actually talking to the person instead of the room."

"Easy for you to say. You've probably done this a hundred times."

"More like a thousand," Mira said, without any particular arrogance, just simple fact. "First time's always the hardest part. After that it gets easier." She handed him the second practice sword, testing its weight in his hand for him, adjusting his grip slightly with two fingers until it sat better in his palm. "You're holding it too tight. It's not going anywhere, you don't need to strangle it."

He loosened his grip, feeling faintly ridiculous, and Mira nodded approval before continuing.

"And breathe before you start. People forget to breathe when they're nervous, and then everything comes out too fast because you're trying to get through it on one lungful of air." She said it simply, without any particular weight behind it, the kind of practical advice clearly worn smooth from repetition. "You'll do fine."

"You keep saying that."

"Because it keeps being true," Mira said, unbothered, and went to help her mother clear the last of the floor space.

Word had, predictably, traveled further by the time the troupe was ready to actually run through the material properly, and the small cluster of onlookers along the edges of the common room had grown a little since the afternoon began — Sol, who'd slipped away from the kitchen during a lull with a dish towel still slung over one shoulder; the couple of route regulars who'd wandered over earlier now joined by a third; Chef, arriving a little later after checking that the grill could spare him for a few minutes, standing near the back with his arms crossed and an expression of quiet, unhurried interest.

The troupe began with two shorter pieces they already knew cold — the father delivering a booming monologue from some old adventure play that had the small audience laughing at his exaggerated flourishes, sweeping one arm wide enough that he nearly knocked over a stacked chair, catching it at the last second without breaking character, which only got a bigger laugh — and then a quieter scene between the mother and the older cousin that showed a gentler, more genuine side of the family's craft, warm and unhurried, drawing a few appreciative murmurs from the gathered onlookers.

Ivo watched all of this from the side of the room, still in his crooked-fixed costume, practice sword in hand, feeling his stomach twist tighter with every scene that passed, because every scene that finished meant his was one step closer.

"You okay?" Nari asked quietly, coming to stand beside him.

"No," Ivo admitted. "I think I'm going to be sick."

"You're not going to be sick. You've got the lines down. You've got Mira right there helping you through it. It's one scene, and it's going to be over in like two minutes."

"That's supposed to be reassuring?"

"A little bit, yeah." Nari smiled at him, gentle and genuine. "You've done harder things than this, Ivo. You'll be fine."

He didn't feel fine, exactly, standing at the edge of the small cleared space as the mother announced the next scene and gestured him and Mira forward, but there was something steadying in the fact that everyone watching — Dani practically vibrating with excitement near the front, Sena giving him a small, calm nod from her spot along the wall, even Chef's quiet, unbothered presence near the back — was clearly there to see him do fine, not to see him fail.

The scene started shakily. His first line came out too fast, swallowed halfway through, and he saw Mira's eyebrows lift slightly, not unkindly, a small signal to slow down that he caught and adjusted for on the second line, though his voice still came out stiffer than he wanted, his shoulders held tight, his eyes darting toward the floor more than toward her face.

"Thou wouldst have me believe thy courage matches thy tongue," he said, and it came out flatter than it had with Sena, more recitation than insult, and for a second he thought he saw the mother wince slightly from the sidelines.

But Mira, unbothered, delivered her line back to him with real energy, a challenge in her voice that seemed to demand something better in return, and something in Ivo shifted — not consciously, not with any real decision behind it, just a small instinct to actually respond to what she'd said instead of simply reciting his next scripted line at her.

His delivery sharpened. He looked at her properly this time, the way she'd told him to, and the next exchange came out with real shape to it, an actual rhythm building between them as they traded lines back and forth, moving through the blocking with the practice swords raised, the mock duel choreography simple enough that Ivo managed to keep pace with her without stumbling, though his grip on the wooden hilt was tight enough to leave marks on his palm.

He forgot a line halfway through the exchange, the words simply vanishing from his head at the worst possible moment, and there was a beat of silence just long enough for his stomach to drop entirely — but Mira, without missing a step, delivered a small improvised prompt disguised as part of the scene, tilting her head and repeating the first few words of the line he'd lost, and it came rushing back to him fast enough that he caught it and finished the exchange only a half-second late, close enough that most of the small audience probably hadn't even noticed the stumble at all.

The final exchange came together better than any of the lines before it, his voice steady now, his eyes locked on hers instead of darting toward the floor, the practice swords clashing together in the simple choreographed strike that ended the scene, and when it was over — when Mira lowered her sword and gave the small, formal bow that signaled the scene's end — there was a beat of stillness before the small gathered audience broke into genuine applause.

It wasn't a large crowd. It wasn't a standing ovation. But it was real, warm applause from people who had actually been watching, actually invested in whether he'd get through it, and Ivo stood there for a second in his crooked cape and ruffled collar, breathing hard, feeling something loosen in his chest that had been wound tight since the mother first pointed at him and asked what about him.

"Not bad," Mira said, quietly, just to him, as the applause settled. "You weren't terrible."

"I forgot a line."

"You recovered from it, though. That's the actual skill. Anybody can say the lines right when nothing goes wrong. Recovering when something does, that's the part that matters." She grinned at him, easy and unbothered. "You did fine. Better than fine, actually, once you stopped rushing."

Ivo felt his face heat up all over again, though this time it wasn't entirely from embarrassment.

"That was genuinely great," Dani said, descending on him the moment he'd stepped off the small cleared performance space, still in costume, cape now hanging properly thanks to Sena's earlier adjustments. "I mean it. You looked like you actually knew what you were doing."

"I forgot a whole line."

"Nobody noticed. I definitely didn't notice, and I was watching the whole time."

"Sena definitely noticed."

"Sena notices everything, that's just Sena," Dani said, unbothered, and Sena, arriving in time to catch the tail end of that, gave a small, satisfied nod rather than any correction.

"You did well," she said simply. "Recovered smoothly. That's harder than it looks."

"Thanks," Ivo mumbled, still faintly red, tugging awkwardly at the ruffled collar that he was extremely eager to remove as soon as possible.

Stirling, drifting over from where he'd been observing near the doorway, regarded him with something that might have been approval, though his tone remained as formally procedural as ever. "Your performance was creditable. I would note, for future reference, that my earlier offer to serve as understudy remains available, should a similar circumstance arise again."

"I think we're good, Stirling."

"Understood. I will update my protocols accordingly," Stirling said, with total sincerity, and returned to whatever restocking task had originally brought him over, leaving Ivo unsure whether he'd just been gently teased or genuinely filed away as backup talent for future theatrical emergencies.

Chef, who had watched the whole scene from his spot near the back without saying much of anything, made his way over as the troupe began gathering up their props and costume pieces, and set a hand briefly on Ivo's shoulder before nodding toward the restaurant.

"Come on," he said. "Get changed. I'll have something ready when you're done."

Ivo, glad of the excuse to shed the costume, disappeared behind the partition and emerged a few minutes later back in his ordinary clothes, feeling considerably more like himself, and followed Chef back toward the kitchen, where a plate was waiting on the counter by the time he arrived — a burger, simple and familiar, exactly the kind of thing that needed no explanation.

"You did good," Chef said, setting it down.

"I forgot a line," Ivo said again, because apparently he needed to keep confessing it until someone properly absolved him of it.

"Still did good," Chef said, without any further elaboration, and went back to the grill, and Ivo sat there for a moment with his burger in front of him, feeling the small, quiet weight of that plain, rare praise settle into place, more satisfying somehow than the applause had been.

He ate his burger, and didn't say anything else about it, though he sat a little straighter than usual for the rest of the evening.

The troupe departed a few hours later, once their connecting shuttle had finally cleared for docking, the mother thanking the staff warmly on her way out, the father delivering one last booming line of gratitude that made half the restaurant laugh, and Mira, pausing at the door long enough to give Ivo a small, genuine wave.

"You should keep practicing," she said. "You're better at this than you think you are."

"I'm really not planning on doing this again."

"That's what everyone says the first time," she said, grinning, and followed her family out toward the docking ring, leaving Ivo standing there with the specific, warm confusion of someone who had just been complimented by a stranger he was fairly sure he'd never see again, and who found, somewhat to his own surprise, that he didn't entirely hate the idea of proving her right eventually.

Dani caught him staring after the departing troupe and bumped his shoulder gently with her own. "You're thinking about doing it again, aren't you."

"Absolutely not."

"You're thinking about it so hard right now."

"I am not," Ivo said, with the same firm, unconvincing denial he'd used on every other piece of teasing that day, and went back to clearing tables, though later that night, folding towels in the kitchen, he found himself running through the lines one more time under his breath, just to see if he still remembered them.

He did. All of them, this time, without a single mistake.

He didn't tell anyone that part.