Ivy's response came next, making my phone buzz in my hand.
Ivy
YES PLEASE. I have a Calc exam next week, and I'm also dying. Library Monday at 6? We can order pizza and suffer together.
You're a lifesaver. See you then
Two hangouts scheduled. Two friends reached out to. Two steps toward being less of an “uninterested guy.”
Daisy hadn't responded yet, but I tried not to read into it. She was probably busy with Jeremy, or sleeping, or just needed space. I could give her that.
I rolled out of bed, my hip giving its usual morning protest.The dull ache was familiar now, a constant reminder of everything I'd lost and everything I was still trying to hold onto. I did my morning stretches, going through the routine I'd developed over the past year, hip circles, gentle leg lifts, figure-four stretches.
My body had become a daily negotiation. What could I push today? What needed rest? How much dance could I squeeze in before my hip started screaming?
I thought about what Derek had said last night, about me turning him into my new identity, the way ballet used to be. Was I doing that? Was I just substituting one obsession for another?
But it felt different with Derek. Ballet had consumed every waking moment, every thought, every decision. It had been everything. Derek... Derek fit into my life. He didn't replace the other parts of me; he complemented them.
At least, that's what I told myself as I pulled on my pink workout set and headed to the studio.
The morning light filtered through the studio windows as I connected my phone to the speakers. Our shared playlist “You, Unofficially” started with a hauntingly beautiful acoustic cover of “Gravity” by Sara Bareilles.
Something always brings me back to you. It never takes too long.
I closed my eyes and let my body move, not thinking, just feeling. My arms extended in a port de bras that my body remembered, even if my brain sometimes forgot. My legs lifted in développés that didn't go as high as they used to, but still felt like flying.
This was meditation. This was therapy. This was home.
I worked through combinations, testing my limits. A turn sequence that made my hip twinge but not scream. A jump combination that I modified to protect the joint. A floorsequence that allowed me to stretch and strengthen without risking re-injury.
I was so lost in the movement that I didn't hear the door open.
“You're beautiful when you dance.”
I spun around, breathless, to find Derek leaning against the doorframe. He wore gray joggers and a Titans hoodie, his hair still messy from sleep. He looked soft and rumpled and perfect.
“You're early,” I said, pressing pause on the music. “It's only,” I glanced at the clock. “1:30. Shit.”
Derek pushed off the doorframe, walking toward me with that easy athlete's grace. “You've been dancing for four and a half hours?”
Had I? I looked down at my sweat-soaked clothes and felt a pleasant ache in my muscles. “I guess so.”
“Rosie.” His voice was gentle but concerned. “That's a lot.”
“It's not nearly what I used to do,” I said defensively. “When I was training seriously, I'd do six to eight hours a day.”
“But you're not training seriously anymore. Your hip,”
“My hip is fine,” I snapped, then immediately regretted it. “Sorry. I just... I need this. The dancing. It's the only time my brain shuts up.”
Derek studied me for a long moment, then nodded. “Okay. But will you at least take a break? Drink some water? Let me look at your hip?”
“You're not a physical therapist.”
“No, but I've spent enough time with them to know when someone's pushing too hard.” He grabbed my water bottle from the corner and handed it to me. “Drink. Then let me see.”
I wanted to argue, but the concern in his eyes stopped me. I drank the water, realizing I was desperately thirsty, and then sat on the mat.
