We’re married, and I don’t even have his number programmed in my phone.
“Okay,” I say, trying not to show how much comfort that simple ask gives me. “Good luck with… your third lunch of the day.”
“Appreciate it,” he says with a grin, and disappears down the hall.
The silence that follows is peaceful, not empty.
I trade the robe for black leggings and a fitted tank, scrape my hair into a bun so tight my scalp protests, and move into the living room.
Soft gray light pours in through the windows, washing the hardwood floor in a pale sheen. Beyond the glass, the city is fully awake now. Tiny figures move on the streets below, cars threading through the grid. From up here, it all looks quiet, almost peaceful.
I don’t trust it.
I connect my phone to the Bluetooth speaker and scroll through playlists until I find one I made years ago—warm-up tracks, all strings and piano and muscle memory.
A familiar sound fills the room, and my body responds automatically.
My bare feet slide and press against the floor, finding balance, control. My joints complain briefly, then fall in line. The soreness from yesterday starts to melt away.
The living room isn’t a studio, but it’s big enough. The window becomes my mirror. My reflection wavers in the glass, faint andghosted over the city beyond, like I’m dancing on two planes of existence at once.
I’m so focused on the sequence that I don’t notice him at first.
It’s the prickle on the back of my neck that gives him away.
I finish a long extension, leg lifted high, toes pointed, body aligned from fingertips to ankle… and turn my head.
Scottie is standing in the hallway, towel slung around his neck, hair still damp and curling. He’s in gym clothes, and for a split second my brain short-circuits.
His eyes are wide and glued to my ass.
“Can I help you?” I ask, lowering my leg with exaggerated control.
He blinks. “I—uh—”
“You’re staring.”
“I am, yeah.” He doesn’t even try to deny it. “Sorry. I just…” He gestures helplessly with one hand to my body. “You’re really… bendy.”
A laugh flies out of me, sharp and surprised.
He winces. “That sounded way less creepy in my head. I meant—flexible. Like, insanely flexible. I’m a professional athlete, and I’m ninety percent sure if I tried that, I’d end my career and my life in one move.”
“It takes years of training,” I say, amused, and a little flattered that not only does my body have the same effect that his body has on me, but that he’s complimenting my ability.
I know that I give the sport of hockey a hard time, but I am not naive enough to believe that what they do doesn’t take years of blood, sweat and tears to ascend to his level. It takes work and sacrifice, just as ballet does.
“I believe it.” His expression shifts, the initial shock fading into something else. Respect. Awe. “I’m heading out. I’ll leave you to it.”
“Oh… right.”
“I’ll see you later tonight?” he asks.
“Yeah, see you tonight.”
He heads for the front door of the penthouse and disappears behind it, the click of finality to our morning when he pulls the door shut.
I turn back to the window and catch my reflection again.
