“It is,” I say. “PNB is one of the best companies on the West Coast. If I get it, I’ll have steady work, a visa sponsor.” I lift my left hand a little, flashing the glittering ring he gave me, between us. “A way to stay in the States that isn’t just… this.”
His gaze drops to the ring. Something flickers in his face—guilt, determination, something he doesn’t quite let surface before his jaw sets, and it’s gone before I can try to analyze it further.
“When you get it,” he says.
I blink. “What?”
“When you get it,” he repeats, like I’ve missed something obvious. “You were a principal with New York before your father got involved and you gave notice. You’re ridiculously talented. They’d be idiots not to hire you.”
“Easy for you to say. You’ve never seen me dance,” I remind him.
“I don’t have to,” he says. “Luka talks about you like you’re the second coming.”
“The second coming of what exactly?” I ask, amused despite myself.
“Ballet Jesus,” he says promptly. “Or whatever the ballerina version is. I haven’t Googled it yet.”
I open my mouth to list every reason this audition could fall apart—politics, timing, my name, my father’s shadow stretching longer than it has any right to—but the absolute certainty in his voice makes the words stick.
It’s not blind optimism. Not flattery.
Just belief.
He believes in me.
A man who doesn’t owe me anything. Who could have walked away but chose to stay.
“Thank you,” I say quietly.
His mouth softens. “Anytime.”
He nods toward my plate. “Eat a little more,” he nudges. “You danced for like three hours last night. Your body needs fuel if you’re going to go in there and shatter some ballet director’s soul.”
“I don’t usually eat before—”
“I know.” His smile tips crooked. “Tea and seltzer, I remember. But this isn’t a three-hour performance. It’s an audition. Your body can’t run on nothing. You have to give it something.”
“Sounds like you’re refueling enough for both of us,” I mutter.
But he isn’t wrong. My legs are heavy. And I want this. I want it in a way that scares me.
I pick up another piece of melon.
His grin widens. “Look at us. Compromise. That’s what married couples do.”
“We’re not a real married couple,” I remind him automatically.
“Sure we’re not,” he says easily, turning back to the sink with a smile still playing around his mouth.
I watch him—broad shoulders, damp hair, ridiculous apron, humming under his breath as he rinses his plate.
This is not the life I thought I’d have.
But standing here, barefoot on cool tile, coffee in hand, my husband in a stupid apron making too much breakfast…
It feels dangerously close to the one I used to see in the American movies my mother insisted we watch. The kind of life I never believed belonged to people like us.
I carry my empty plate to the sink.
