6. Amelia
Chapter 6
Amelia
R eaching out and grabbing the water bottle beside my bed, I empty it with a few quick gulps, but my mouth still tastes like sandpaper.
I didn't even drink that much.
You mixed wine with tequila. What did you think was going to happen?
Yeah, that'll do it.
I slide out of bed, and my oversized T-shirt skims my thighs as I make my way into my bathroom. The cool tiles against my bare feet help ground me, but nothing could've prepared me for the train wreck staring back at me when I flip on the light. One look in the mirror and I'm laughing like a lunatic because holy shit, I am one hot mess. My hair is all over the place, and while drunk me apparently remembered to try and remove my makeup, she half-assed it like everything else. Traces of mascara cling to my eyes, making it look like I lost a fight with a Sharpie.
I slip on a pair of fluffy socks and tie my hair back into a loose ponytail. With a groan, I drag myself out of my bedroom, still half-asleep, and shuffle toward the kitchen like a zombie.
The only thing keeping me upright is the thought of coffee, because there's no way I can function like a normal human being until the caffeine kicks in.
But as I round the corner into the kitchen, I stop and take in Tobias, who's standing right where I need to be. I completely forget why I came in here because he's shirtless again—because of fucking course he is—and my hungover brain can't handle this level of unfairness this early in the morning.
He's leaning over the countertop, his forearms resting on the marble, while his head dips just enough to make his shoulders flex. His black shorts hang low on his hips, and the large phoenix tattoo across his back ripples as he straightens up. When he turns to look at me, his lips pull into that familiar half smirk as he takes in every messy detail—the wild hair, the oversized T-shirt, the socks. I must look like I've been chewed up, spit out, and left for dead, and judging by his expression, he finds it hilarious.
"Morning, Firefly." His eyes drop to my bare legs for a fraction of a second before he rubs his jaw and stands to his full height.
Desperate for coffee and far too aware of him, I tiptoe around the kitchen to get myself a mug, but he gets there before I do. He reaches up, his arm stretching above my head, and grabs my favorite—the one with the different phases of the moon on it.
His scent hits me as he steps closer, enveloping me in something unfairly intoxicating—fresh soap and pure, clean masculinity.
"They really do make these too high for someone as short as you," he teases, handing me the mug. "Is that why you're constantly on tiptoes?"
I roll my eyes before elbowing him lightly in the ribs, and he jerks away laughing. "I'm pretty sure it's just a habit now. I don't even realize I'm doing it."
He steps back and perches on a stool at the kitchen island. "How are you feeling anyway?"
"Meh," I mumble, too drained to put any effort into sugarcoating just how crappy I feel. My head's trying to split itself in half, and my entire body feels like it's been dipped in concrete.
"That good, huh?"
"I've survived worse." The words come out flat, but it's true.
"Two Christmases ago—I remember."
My stomach tightens, instantly transporting me back to a night I'd rather forget. "We agreed never to discuss that again."
It was the year my cheating ex Danny dumped me on Christmas Eve, leaving me heartbroken and humiliated. The aftermath was messy—I got wasted and ended up sprawled across the bathroom floor, hurling everything, including my pride—but Tobias was the one who held my hair back when I fell apart.
"Do you ever hear from that prick?"
"No, thank God. What the hell was I thinking?" I sit down opposite him, resting my elbows on the cool surface.
"Boring and blond not your type, Mills?"
Never has been.
"I don't have a type. Same as you."
"Too many beautiful women in this world for me to have a type."
"And you've probably slept with most of them." He starts to laugh before he lifts his mug to his lips.
"Speaking of," he says as he sets his mug back down. "I won't be here tonight. I've got a date."
I arch a brow at him. "You don't date."
"Not true."
"Oh yeah? So where are you taking her?"
"Her place." The way he says it, so casual and smug, makes me roll my eyes.
"You're so predictable."
"Hey, I asked her if we could go out. She refused." His grin grows wider as that cocky smirk comes out to play.
"Well, enjoy. I'm going back to sleep." I stand up and head down the hallway before crawling back into my bed.
I pull the blankets up to my chin and flip through the TV channels, but it's always the same shit—rich kids who act like their lives are more complicated than they really are and reality shows where everything is perfectly scripted to keep you mindless and entertained. Still, I let it play in the background, watching as my mind slowly numbs until, eventually, sleep pulls me under.
A few hours later, after a long, hot shower and some much-needed carbs, I'm finally starting to feel human again. The hangover has eased, and I no longer resemble a swamp rat that's been dragged through hell.
Sliding into shorts and a cropped tee, I slip my feet into my worn ballet shoes and make my way into my studio—my little sanctuary, the place where I feel most at peace and where any chaos in my mind immediately quiets.
The faint scent of lavender coming from the diffuser in the corner of the room lingers in the air, and for a moment, I just stand here, taking in the silence and appreciating the stillness.
Wooden floors creak softly beneath my feet, and wall-to-wall mirrors stretch along one side, reflecting every angle and making the room seem larger than it actually is. The ballet barre beneath the mirrors is the heart of the room— my heart . I've spent countless hours here pressing, pulling, stretching, and perfecting, and the sight of it never fails to remind me why I love this.
Before I moved in, Tobias gave me a tour of the apartment over a video call. I remember watching as he panned the camera around, showing me every room, but it wasn't until he swung the view into the closet that I realized just how big it was.
It took some convincing, but I eventually persuaded my mom to let me transform most of the closet into a practice studio.
I begin my warm-up, gently twisting my neck from side to side. My shoulders follow, rolling back in slow circles, and I stretch my arms up toward the ceiling, feeling the pull in my muscles. As I move to my legs, I take my time to ensure my body is fully awake, slowly stretching down until my palms rest flat against the floor. Once I feel the warmth spreading through my body, I walk over to the mirrors and position myself in front of the ballet barre. I grip the smooth wood as I lift one leg, pressing into a deep stretch and feeling the tight pull of my hamstrings. When I lower it back down, I inhale deeply, allowing my mind to relax and sink into the calm that dancing brings me.
Ever since I can remember, ballet has been my world. I'm pretty sure I was taken to a class way before I could even tie my shoelaces, and from that moment on, I never stopped.
My dad used to love watching me dance. He was my biggest supporter, always sitting front and center, his eyes lighting up with pride as he watched me twirl and leap across the floor. His words, telling me how proud he was, still cling to me as if it were only yesterday.
Those memories used to hurt.They used to leave an ache in my chest so sharp I thought it might never fade.
Not anymore.
Now he's here in every pointed toe, every graceful arc, and every breath I take when I dance. It's like he never left—like he's still sitting in that front row, watching his little girl fly.
Mom's always "supported" me—air quotes absolutely necessary, because while she's great at playing the part, she doesn't actually believe I can turn dancing into anything more than an overpriced, time-consuming hobby. Sure, she throws money at it, acting like that somehow compensates for her lack of faith, like it's her way of saying, See? I care. But actions without belief are just empty gestures, and I've stopped pretending they mean anything more than that.
Ever since she married David, she's developed this habit of throwing money at anything that even remotely looks like a problem. You lose your father? You get whisked away to the Bahamas for a "grieving vacation," complete with cocktails and sunshine while your mom sips mai tais by the pool.
Then, when the school bully calls you the "kid with the dead dad," you receive an all-expenses-paid pamper day at the most expensive spa around. Because clearly, a cucumber facial and a hot stone massage will fix that emotional trauma right up.
And when you get accepted into one of the best dance companies around, you no longer have to worry about where you'll live and how you'll afford it. Nope, that's all covered as long as you don't mind being babysat by your stepbrother.
I walk over to the speaker, pressing play, and the familiar opening notes of Sergei Prokofiev's Romeo and Juliet sweep through the room. I've lost count of how many times I've danced to this piece, but it always takes hold of me the same way.
As I move, I lose myself completely; my mind empties, and there's nothing left but the notes and the way my feet burn against the floor.
I don't know how long I've been dancing, but when I finally stop, my chest rises and falls with heavy breaths. My legs carry me to the barre, where I rest my hands against the cool wood, grounding myself.
That's when I see them—those hypnotic, ice-blue eyes locked on me in the mirror.
Tobias .
He stands in the doorway, arms folded across his chest, his tattoos stretching over his biceps, as he watches me with an intensity that steals the last of the air from my lungs. His proud smile slowly curves, but it's his eyes that hold me in place as he stares at me as if he's seeing me for the first time.
"How long have you been standing there?" I ask, my breath still coming in short bursts.
"Long enough to know I should've seen you do this before now."
Tobias has never watched me dance before. Not really. He's had plenty of chances, but he rarely ever came home long enough to see much of anything.
"You can really fucking dance, Firefly."
I laugh, keeping my gaze locked on his reflection in the mirror. "Thank you," I reply, taking note of his clothes.
He's freshly showered, and if his slightly damp hair didn't give it away, the scent filling the room certainly would.
"You heading out?" I ask, my eyes tracing over him.
He nods, casually leaning against the doorframe. "I'll be home late, so if you hear someone creeping around, it's only going to be me, so don't come out swinging anything at me, okay?"
"You're not staying over?" I turn to face him fully as the question slips out before I can stop myself.
"Definitely not."
"Wow," I mutter, rolling my eyes. "What an asshole."
"I'm not going there to cuddle, Mills. We both know what it is."
"Don't you ever get bored of having meaningless sex?"
He raises an eyebrow, and I immediately wish I hadn't asked. "You haven't had sex with me. Trust me, there's nothing boring about it." He pushes off the wall with a cocky chuckle. "See you tomorrow."