Chapter 5
An hour later, Daphne stood in the bedroom doorway, stirring her hot chocolate even though the marshmallows had long since melted.
Damian lay motionless in the big bed, swaddled in every blanket she’d found.
Abe was slumped in the leather chair beside him, fast asleep under his parka, boots on, one foot propped awkwardly on the mattress.
The fire hissed low in the hearth, casting flickers of amber across the floor.
Outside, storm winds rattled the windowpanes, clawing the glass, desperate to get in.
Her toes were cold. Her fingers ached from their trek. But it wasn’t the physical discomfort that kept her standing there. It was the weight in her limbs. The strange, sinking stillness that felt less like rest and more like defeat.
She’d eaten nearly all the chocolate fudge brownies Lily had left them. She hadn’t even been hungry. Just… empty. Her brain buzzed, but her body moved with an unusual sluggishness and her lungs hurt like she was trying to breathe underwater.
She’d turned into a ghost. Pale. Floating.
Unseen. Just like last week, when she’d locked the studio door and attempted the Sugar Plum Fairy adagio without anyone watching.
A quiet test. A hopeful one. She’d told herself she was ready.
Six months of training. Manhattan physical therapy four times a month.
Yoga. Pilates. The gym in Milltown. Hours and hours of repetition.
And she hadn’t danced like she used to. Not even close.
She shifted, bracing her shoulder against the doorframe as a sudden wave of lightheadedness swam through her.
Her heart fluttered, too fast. Her throat was dry.
She took another sip of hot chocolate, but it didn’t help.
Her body craved sugar and salt, and her eyes burned with exhaustion she couldn’t shake.
Yet when she’d tried to sleep on the couch earlier, her thoughts had spun in endless loops.
Nothing she’d done—no routine, no schedule, no therapy—had given her back control. Not over her dancing. Not over her future. Not even over her own body.
All she really wanted was a full night’s sleep. The kind that came from real peace. The kind that settled deep in your bones and didn’t vanish with the sunrise.
Her gaze drifted to the ballet bag she’d dropped earlier. It waited on the desk chair, silent and familiar. The pointe shoes were inside.
She crossed the room and picked it up. In the sitting room, she lowered herself to the floor between the fireplace and the Christmas tree. Her muscles protested, but the fire was warm.
She pulled out the new satin shoes, ribbons, elastic, and darning thread and needle.
As Christmas music crackled from the speaker, she broke in the shoes.
Stitch by stitch, she squashed the toe boxes, sewed the ribbons and elastics, and darned the platforms, her hands shaking just enough to frustrate her.
She pricked her finger once. Licked the blood away.
The clock struck one a.m. She rolled her neck and winced at her stiff shoulders. She should go upstairs. Shower. Sleep. Cry, maybe.
Instead, she slipped the shoes onto her bare feet. The satin felt odd, and her fingers trembled as she tied the knots tight, then tighter. As if she could hold herself together with loops and ribbons alone.
Clearing a small space between the couch and kitchen island, she reached for her phone and queued up The Nutcracker. The Sugar Plum Fairy variation filled the room.
She rose en pointe, arms lifted in fifth, head tilted in that serene, regal angle that masked every fracture beneath. The music swelled.
Tombé. Pas de bourrée. Glissade. Arabesque.
Her toes pressed into the platform, ankles straining. She turned in tight pirouettes, adjusting her spotting to the confined space. She marked the développés with her arms, pretending that Abe—her handsome Cavalier—was there to lift her.
No room for a full manège, so she translated the movement into a soft series of pas de chats and quiet retirés, her body burning, her breath shallow, determined to push on.
And for a few glorious counts, she forgot her exhaustion, her fear, the creeping suspicion that she was running from her own life by pretending to reclaim an old one.
Then came the piqué turns. She reached for the passé relevé, ankle straining beyond its limit. Her breath caught. For a second, she hovered weightless, suspended as if the air itself held her.
Then her foot slipped. The platform shifted. Her balance tilted.
She pitched sideways. But she didn’t hit the floor.
Strong arms caught her mid-fall. Familiar arms that were warm, solid, and certain.
She blinked, her pulse racing, breath ragged, and found Abe looking back at her, eyes soft with sleep and worry.
He didn’t speak. Just held her there, steady and safe.
In the quiet between their heartbeats, she realized the truth she’d been dancing around for weeks. You can’t build a life together if you keep trying to survive it alone.
He held her against his hard body like he’d been standing there for hours, his expression unreadable but his arms steady.
His voice was hoarse. “You didn’t fall. I had you.”
She swallowed, realizing two things at once. He’d seen her dance the first time in weeks. And she didn’t mind being caught.
“Thank you.” Her words came out soft, barely audible.
“Can’t sleep?” He asked, quiet and calm.
“No.” With his help, she eased back onto her feet. The pointe shoes made it awkward. The music drifted through the room, like an echo she couldn’t catch.
He’d stripped off his shirt and wore only low-slung jeans.
His chest rose and fell with each breath, powerful and bare.
When she took a step back, he shoved his hands into his front pockets.
It was an unconscious move that tugged his waistband lower and made the lines of his taut stomach flex beneath the firelight.
She shook her head. “I didn’t know what else to do. I had the urge to dance, so I danced.”
He stepped closer. “Do you want me to leave?”
“I don’t know what I want.” She rose en pointe again. Her ankle ached. Her hips protested. Her pride had left the room long ago. “I’m not who I used to be.”
“Neither am I.”
“I don’t know if I want to go back to the ballet company.” Her voice cracked. “But I’m scared.”
“I’m scared too.” He took her hands and squeezed. “So let’s start new. Let’s start now.”
Her lashes fluttered. “With you?”
He met her eyes, steady and open. “If you’ll let me.”
She didn’t answer. But she didn’t pull away either.
She didn’t know how long they stood there. Her on shaking toes, him anchoring her with nothing but those strong hands and that maddeningly stubborn heart.
Eventually, she lowered back onto the balls of her feet. Her arches ached, but not as much as her heart.
He didn’t let go and the music ended, leaving vibrations in the air around them.
“Come here.” His voice sounded rough around the edges.
He led her toward the couch, gently guiding her down beside him. Outside, the storm howled. The fire hissed and popped. But inside the cabin, there was only silence.
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, hands clasped. She curled up with her feet beneath her, wearing pointe shoes. She could see the tension in his shoulders. The weight he always carried, and the weight tonight had added.
“I don’t have a ring,” he said.
She touched his shoulder.
“It’s in the bathroom, and I didn’t think it would come out like this.” His voice broke. “Not in the middle of a blizzard, not while Damian is in the next room, not while you’re trying to dance in pointe shoes alone, in the dark.”
A pause. The fire popped again.
“But the truth is,” he went on, staring at his hands. “I’ve wanted to ask you since the moment I found you on a flooded road.”
She dropped her hands into her lap. “That day we met.”
“Exactly.” He turned toward her now, eyes tired. “I love you, Daphne. All the pieces of you. Even the broken ones. Maybe especially the broken ones. I don’t want to wait for perfect timing. I just want to start.”
Her eyes burned. She stared down at her fingers curled into the fabric of her sweater. “You don’t want to save me?”
“No.” His answer was immediate. “I want to be beside you. That’s different.”
Her heart ached. She wanted to say yes. She wanted to leap into him and never look back.
But her body was sore from the cold, and her brain was foggy with old ghosts of Nutcracker ballets past. She couldn’t even balance properly on her toes.
How could she stand beside someone like Abe?
A man who was strong and loving and brave?
His hand brushed hers. Not insistently. Just there.
“I want to,” she whispered.
“You don’t have to say anything tonight.” He kissed her fingers, then stood.
The emptiness he left behind rushed in faster than she expected.
“I set up the guest bed upstairs for you. I found one last quilt, and it’s warmer up there.”
She blinked up at him. “You’re not coming?”
He gave her a half-smile. “Not until you make up your mind.”
That shouldn’t have hurt. It was respectful. Kind. Safe.
But it did hurt.
She took off her pointe shoes and followed him up the stairs.
He pulled back the quilt on the old bed and waited while she slipped beneath it despite the fact she was dressed in clothes instead of her nightgown.
His touch was gentle as he tucked the blanket around her shoulders. Like she was breakable. Or precious.
She closed her eyes, holding back something thick and tight in her throat.
“Goodnight, Daph.”
She heard his steps retreat down the stairs and the creak of the couch as he settled onto it.
Then she was alone.