CHAPTER forty-nine #15
Betsy circles us, muttering corrections like she's narrating a National Geographic documentary on ballet dancers.
"Caroline, chin up. Up—good. Adam, watch your timing. She can't fly if you're late."
Caroline-me executes a développé and lands neatly in his hold. Adam catches my waist on cue, steadier this time.
Keith's voice booms. "Lift... now. Yes! Yes, that's it! Keep her centered!"
My muscles tremble, but I push through the arabesque.
"Caroline," Betsy shouts, "your foot! Point! I want it so pointed it cuts through the air!"
"It is pointed!" I fire back mid-spin.
We hit the final lift—my body rising, breath suspended, sweat dripping down my spine—and for the first time today, the move feels effortless.
Not perfect.
But real. Strong. Beautiful.
Betsy claps sharply. "YES. THAT. AGAIN."
I nearly collapse out of Adam's arms. "Again?" I gasp.
"We're artists," Betsy says without blinking. "Suffering is part of the craft."
Keith chuckles. "Five-minute water break, or they'll pass out and ruin my floors."
I drop onto the marley like someone sniped me. Adam flops beside me like a dying starfish.
We both stare at the ceiling.
"Remind me why we do this again," he wheezes.
"Because we hate ourselves," I mutter, wiping sweat from my forehead.
Betsy tosses us towels. "No—you do it because you're good. And because this performance is going to be the best thing this showcase has put on in years."
Keith nods. "You two have chemistry. The good kind. Not the kind where someone's going to drop someone on their head."
Pride warms in my chest, even through the exhaustion.
Adam nudges my shoulder. "Hey. We actually nailed that lift."
I grin tiredly. "Yeah. Miraculously. For two sweaty disaster humans."
"We'll take it," he laughs.
"Break's over! Back to work!" Betsy calls.
Adam and I groan in perfect unison.
I drag myself up, grabbing his arm for balance. His dramatic wince makes me snort.
"You're killing me, Pennington."
"Good. If I go down, you're going down with me."
We return to our starting marks—exhausted, sweaty, and half-dead...but we're getting it.
Piece by piece.
And the showcase is coming. Fast.
We reset to the starting marks after the break—my thighs screaming, Adam shaking out his arms dramatically like he's preparing for battle.
"Alright," Betsy calls, clapping once. "Places. And Adam—your hands on her waist need to be higher. No slouching. Caroline, you're leaning into him like you're trying to fuse ribs. Give me length!"
Adam snorts. "You say that like she isn't literally attached to me for half this dance."
"Adam," Betsy snaps, "less talking, more dancing."
He smirks at me, then slides behind me into our opening pose—his palms settling at my waist, his chest brushing my back, breath warm near my ear.
"Ready to suffer some more?" he whispers.
I elbow him lightly. "Shut up and count."
We move through the first few steps, the music swelling around us.
"Hold!"
Betsy's voice snaps through the studio like a whip.
Adam and I freeze mid-transition—his hands at my ribs, my back arched into him, our faces close enough that I can count his eyelashes.
I'm bracing for Betsy's inevitable critique when a different voice cuts through the room.
Smooth. Sharp. Territorial.
"I'd watch where you put your hands, man."
My heart does a full Olympic-level flip.
All four of us whip our heads toward the doorway.
Zach is leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, gray hoodie hanging loose, hair messy like he just ran a hand through it in the hallway.
His stormy gray eyes flick from Adam's hands... to my body... back to Adam.
He is not amused.
But God, he looks stupidly gorgeous while being unamused.
"Hey, Westbrook," Adam says, tone way too cheerful, tightening his grip on my waist just to be chaotic. "Didn't see you there."
"No?" Zach lifts a brow. "Then move your hands before I help you see."
Adam grins—the reckless kind—and drags me a fraction closer, like he's just begging to die today. "Relax. I'm just doing my job. We're just working on our chemistry, right, Care?"
Before I can answer, Zach pushes off the doorframe, stepping inside the studio with that slow, dangerous walk that says I do not like this guy touching my girl.
"Careful," Zach says, voice low. "Chemistry can explode if you handle it wrong."
Adam's smile widens. "Is that a threat?"
"It's a public service announcement."
Keith tries—and fails—to hide his laugh. Betsy openly rolls her eyes.
I smack Adam's chest. "Stop antagonizing my boyfriend."
"Ow," he whines dramatically. "You wound me."
"You'll live."
I pull away from him—not roughly, just enough to show I'm done playing referee—and cross the room toward Zach.
His expression softens the second our eyes meet.
God, I missed him.
I practically launch myself into his arms. He catches me effortlessly, hands sliding around my waist as he lifts me an inch off the ground.
He presses his forehead to mine, voice dropping. "Hi, baby."
"Hi," I whisper back, cupping his jaw. "Missed you."
Adam calls from behind us, "Okay, you two are disgusting."
Zach flips him off without even looking away from me.
I laugh, burying myself further into Zach's chest. "Ignore him. He's being dramatic."
"I know," Zach murmurs, brushing a stray curl behind my ear. "Still wanna fight him a little, though."
"I HEARD THAT." Adam says.
Zach smirks. "Good."
Our mouths crash together, familiar and hungry, and everything else just... drops away. It starts soft, then deepens the second his fingers slide into my hair, tugging me closer until there isn't an inch of space left between us.
Someone behind us groans.
Someone else mutters, "Jesus, get a room."
We don't even flinch.
We never really do.
I used to wonder why we're like this — why kissing him in front of people feels as natural as breathing. But maybe it's because we spent so long pretending we didn't want each other. Years of acting like he wasn't the person I fell asleep thinking about. Years of swallowing it down.
Now that we finally have each other?
Yeah, we're not hiding a damn thing.
If our public display of affection makes people gag, that's their problem. We're not hurting anyone — except maybe their eyes. And honestly? That's between them and their retinas.
His kiss softens, then deepens again, like he's reminding me he's here, he's mine, he's allowed to touch me now. And God... it feels so good.
When we finally break apart, breath mingling, his forehead rests against mine, and my chest feels warm and full and a little dizzy.
This — this — is why we never care who's watching.
We've waited too long to love each other out loud.
"Rehearsal's done for the night, right?" he asks, glancing over at Betsy. "Can I steal her now?"
I follow his gaze and immediately spot the clock on the wall.
"Holy crap," I whisper. "It's past nine?"
No wonder my legs feel like noodles.
Betsy waves a hand. "Yeah, go. We'll run it again next week. Rest. All of you."
Keith nods. "Good work today, Pennington."
Adam salutes me with his water bottle. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."
"Which is nothing," I shoot back.
We all laugh.
Zach steps in just then, and before I can reach for anything, he's already grabbed my dance bag and the little luggage I packed for the trip—the one I brought because I'm staying at his place tonight. We're leaving early tomorrow morning to drive to Naples for Thanksgiving.
Sam already went home earlier today—Charlene swung by Miami first to visit her sister before heading north. Her sister's family can't join this year; they're flying to California to spend the holiday with her husband's side. So Sam ditched us with zero guilt and told us not to be late.
Zach slings both bags over his shoulder like they weigh nothing.
I turn to the others, forcing my tired arms to wave. "Happy Thanksgiving, guys!"
"Happy Thanksgiving!" they echo back.
Zach's fingers lace with mine as he leads me toward the door — warm, familiar, claiming.
And as we step into the hallway, he leans down to murmur against my ear, low and soft:
"Missed you."
God.
My insides do a full somersault.
I bite back a smile — try to, anyway — but it's useless. It spreads across my face like a lovesick idiot, warm and stupid and completely out of my control.