And maybe that's what surviving looks like.
But Elijah crosses my mind like always. I have him to thank for the way he never tried to compete with the grief, never tried to rush it or understand it. He just stood beside me in it.
He fell for me without asking me to be less broken first.
I roll my shoulders back and shake my arms out, loosening the last of the tension clinging to me.
Then I move.
The music takes over the way it always has, sliding under my skin and pulling the strings. I let it lead. My body follows without hesitation, without doubt. The studio fades at the edges until it's just me and the lyrics consuming me.
I leap, pushing off the floor hard enough to feel the air catch me. I land and turn straight into a spin, then another, faster, letting the bass thrum through my chest. My hair whips against my back, breath burning in my lungs, heart pounding in time with the music.
Dance fuels me. It always has.
Every ache, every memory, every piece of love I still carry for Dad—I pour it into the movements. Into the stretch of my arms, the arch of my back and the height of my jumps. This is mine. This feeling is freedom.
The song begins to slow, the final notes softening, and I spin once more before my feet settle against the floor. My chest risesand falls heavily, sweat trailing down between my collarbones, skin flushed and alive.
And then I hear clapping.
I glance up, breath still uneven.
He's standing there in the doorway.
Elijah.
My heart stumbles over itself at the sight of him.
He's clearly just come straight from work—dark grease smudged across his cheek, cap turned backwards, sleeves tight around his biceps. His work shirt stretches across his chest, the outline of muscle impossible to ignore. Oil stains mark the material, rough and real and completely him.
There's a plastic bag dangling from one hand, the aroma reminding me I haven't eaten recently, even if Elijah was unaware of the fact that he brought it anyway, purely because he likes to feed me.
Glancing at his other hand, I notice a bouquet tucked away.
“Hi,” I breathe, unable to even attempt to tone down the happiness in my voice. It rushes through me, warm and sudden, a different kind of high enveloping me than the one dancing gives me.
It's deeper, more consuming and only ever present when I am near him.
“Hey,” is all he says, his eyes burning holes into my soul.
He sets the plastic bag down on the floor without breaking eye contact and stalks toward me, like a predator who has set his sights on his next meal. Before I can even open my mouth, he leans down and kisses me. His lips press against mine without hesitation, his hand cups my jaw, and I melt into it without thinking. The way he kisses me is all-consuming, and I feel myself light up from the inside out.
I swear I could kiss him and hours could pass by unnoticed, still, it would never be long enough. I would never tire of the wayhe feels when his lips are on mine. He pulls back just enough so that his forehead leans briefly against mine, and blood rushing in my ears is all I hear. My body is on fire when he steps back, reaching for the bouquet under his arm. “I brought these,” he says as he hands them to me. “And your favourite questionable sweets are over there.” he nods toward the bag.
I grin. “They are not questionable.”
“They’re dyed plastic disguised as food,” he replies easily.
Twizzlers. He hates them. Claims they taste like plastic, which isn't true because I remember chewing on my dolls when I was little, and it is nothing like that. And yet he still buys them for me every single time he sees them.
Because he knows I love them.
This man is dangerous. It's not in the physical sense that he's dangerous; it's the way he has slowly attached himself to me, and what was once a hatred so deep I couldn't see a way out of it has become something akin to obsession; he's slowly becoming someone I can't see myself without. I’m falling for him in a way that feels irreversible, and I can't even stop it.
Truthfully, I don’t think I want to.
“Can I keep you?” I ask lightly, tilting my head.
