She shifted, bracing her shoulder against the doorframe as a sudden wave of lightheadedness swam through her. Her heart fluttered, too fast. Her throat was dry. She took another sip of hot chocolate, but it didn’t help. Her body craved sugar and salt, and her eyes burned with exhaustion she couldn’t shake. Yet when she’d tried to sleep on the couch earlier, her thoughts had spun in endless loops.
Nothing she’d done—no routine, no schedule, no therapy—had given her back control. Not over her dancing. Not over her future. Not even over her own body.
All she really wanted was a full night’s sleep. The kind that came from real peace. The kind that settled deep in your bones and didn’t vanish with the sunrise.
Her gaze drifted to the ballet bag she’d dropped earlier. It waited on the desk chair, silent and familiar. The pointe shoes were inside.
She crossed the room and picked it up. In the sitting room, she lowered herself to the floor between the fireplace and the Christmas tree. Her muscles protested, but the fire was warm.
She pulled out the new satin shoes, ribbons, elastic, and darning thread and needle. As Christmas music crackled from the speaker, she broke in the shoes. Stitch by stitch, she squashed the toe boxes, sewed the ribbons and elastics, and darned the platforms, her hands shaking just enough to frustrate her. She pricked her finger once. Licked the blood away.
The clock struck one a.m. She rolled her neck and winced at her stiff shoulders. She should go upstairs. Shower. Sleep. Cry, maybe.
Instead, she slipped the shoes onto her bare feet. The satin felt odd, and her fingers trembled as she tied the knots tight,then tighter. As if she could hold herself together with loops and ribbons alone.
Clearing a small space between the couch and kitchen island, she reached for her phone and queued upThe Nutcracker. The Sugar Plum Fairy variation filled the room.
She rose en pointe, arms lifted in fifth, head tilted in that serene, regal angle that masked every fracture beneath. The music swelled.
Tombé. Pas de bourrée. Glissade. Arabesque.
Her toes pressed into the platform, ankles straining. She turned in tight pirouettes, adjusting her spotting to the confined space. She marked the développés with her arms, pretending that Abe—her handsome Cavalier—was there to lift her.
No room for a full manège, so she translated the movement into a soft series of pas de chats and quiet retirés, her body burning, her breath shallow, determined to push on. And for a few glorious counts, she forgot her exhaustion, her fear, the creeping suspicion that she was running from her own life by pretending to reclaim an old one.
Then came the piqué turns. She reached for the passé relevé, ankle straining beyond its limit. Her breath caught. For a second, she hovered weightless, suspended as if the air itself held her.
Then her foot slipped. The platform shifted. Her balance tilted.
She pitched sideways. But she didn’t hit the floor.
Strong arms caught her mid-fall. Familiar arms that were warm, solid, and certain.
She blinked, her pulse racing, breath ragged, and found Abe looking back at her, eyes soft with sleep and worry.
He didn’t speak. Just held her there, steady and safe.
In the quiet between their heartbeats, she realized the truth she’d been dancing around for weeks. You can’t build a life together if you keep trying to survive it alone.
He held her against his hard body like he’d been standing there for hours, his expression unreadable but his arms steady.
His voice was hoarse. “You didn’t fall. I had you.”
She swallowed, realizing two things at once. He’d seen her dance the first time in weeks. And she didn’t mind being caught.
“Thank you.” Her words came out soft, barely audible.
“Can’t sleep?” He asked, quiet and calm.
“No.” With his help, she eased back onto her feet. The pointe shoes made it awkward. The music drifted through the room, like an echo she couldn’t catch.
He’d stripped off his shirt and wore only low-slung jeans. His chest rose and fell with each breath, powerful and bare. When she took a step back, he shoved his hands into his front pockets. It was an unconscious move that tugged his waistband lower and made the lines of his taut stomach flex beneath the firelight.
She shook her head. “I didn’t know what else to do. I had the urge to dance, so I danced.”
He stepped closer. “Do you want me to leave?”
“I don’t know what I want.” She rose en pointe again. Her ankle ached. Her hips protested. Her pride had left the room long ago. “I’m not who I used to be.”
