Chapter Thirty
I ’m staring at my front door when Petra’s third knock arrives—a sharp three-beat rhythm that suggests patience wearing thin. I exhale slowly, gathering myself.
She stands there wrapped in camel-colored wool, her blue eyes performing an immediate diagnostic scan of my face. She’s not anxious, but she’s got that edge people get when they’ve spent all day preparing for impact.
“I tried to keep myself busy,” she says, stepping inside. “But I couldn’t stop thinking about this. About whatever it is you wanted to talk about.”
I could tell her. Probably should tell her.
Full disclosure, clean conscience, all that moral high ground stuff.
But Claire got into Parsons on merit. The crisis reversed itself.
The lie became retroactively true. What would exposing it accomplish now except hurt?
Sometimes the kindest thing you can do is shut up.
So, I do what I’ve apparently become expert at: I improvise.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about things lately,” I say, forcing my face into something reassuring. “About what’s worked for me, what’s made me better. And I realized—” I take a breath that I hope looks contemplative rather than panicked, “I need to refocus on ballet.”
For a second, Petra just blinks, processing this anticlimax. Then relief floods her face so fast I almost feel guilty for not having an actual crisis.
“Oh my god, Liam.” She exhales like she’s been holding that breath since this morning. “That’s it? You had me thinking this was something so much worse.”
I manufacture a small laugh, the kind that appears charmingly oblivious rather than actively deceptive. “Yeah, sorry about that. Didn’t mean to make it sound so dramatic.”
She shakes her head, physically unwinding the tension she’d wrapped herself in. Her bag drops and she steps closer, her hand finding my chest like she needs physical proof I’m not dying or leaving or revealing secret children.
“You scared me,” she admits, searching my eyes. “I thought—” she stops, shaking her head. “Doesn’t matter. I’m just glad you’re okay.”
I nod as I cradle her waist, anchoring myself with her. “So, you’ll keep teaching me?”
“Of course. I told you I wouldn’t let you slack off, didn’t I?”
“I mean,” I venture, testing waters I already know are frozen, “I was hoping you’d be a little easy on me now that we’re—” I gesture between us, indicating our upgraded relationship status.
Her eyes narrow. “Oh, so that’s how it is? You think just because we’re together, you get special treatment?”
“I was thinking I could at least negotiate some softer corrections,” I tease.
“That’s cute,” she says. “But no. No special treatment. If anything, I’m going to be harder on you.”
I groan dramatically, earning another laugh.
Her hands slide up to my shoulders, fingers finding the back of my neck with the familiarity of established intimacy.
“Though,” she murmurs, voice dropping to that register that makes my brain short-circuit, “maybe you can convince me to go easy on you after training sessions.”
My pulse accelerates. She’s dangerous like this—teasing, in control, knowing exactly what effect she has on me.
“Is that right?” I ask, liking where this is headed.
She hums agreement, leaning in, closing the distance between confession and distraction. Then she kisses me, slow and deep.
I waste no time pulling her in, gripping her waist, lifting her with the ease that comes from ballet-enhanced strength. She gasps softly into my mouth as I carry her toward the bedroom, movements swift but unhurried, like I’ve been planning this redirect all day.
She clings to me as I lay her down, my hands reacquainting themselves with her body, every curve memorized but still worth exploring, every soft sound she makes filed away like evidence of something simple in a complicated world.
Petra has this ability to pull me under, to make everything else in my life disappear. For now, it’s just this. Just her. Just us moving together with the rhythm we’ve learned through repetition and intimacy.
She gasps my name, soft and breathless. It’s the best review I’ve ever gotten.
There’s something different tonight, more consuming, like we’re both clinging to this moment as insurance against future catastrophes.
By the time we collapse into the tangle of bed sheets, I feel both weightless and impossibly heavy.
“So,” Petra murmurs as she curls into me, her voice rich with satisfaction and approaching sleep, “what’s the plan?”
I blink, brain still rebooting. “Plan?”
“For ballet,” she clarifies, chin tilting up to look at me with eyes that expect competence. “We should make a clear training schedule, not just wing it, if we’re going to keep you moving like an actual dancer.”
I smirk, though inside I’m marveling at how completely she’s accepted who I am. “You’re really not going to let me get away with anything, are you?”
“Not a chance,” she whispers, pressing a kiss to my collarbone.
I exhale, letting myself sink into this—her weight, her warmth.
If she knew how close I came to destroying everything tonight.
If she understood that her sister’s entire future balanced on a lie that just happened to become true.
If she realized I was choosing to keep her in this state of not knowing because the truth would hurt more than help.
But she doesn’t know. And maybe—definitely—she doesn’t need to.
I pull her closer, pressing a kiss to her head.
“Then let’s get to work,” I murmur, because committing to ballet is easier than committing to honesty.
Petra smiles, nestling deeper into my arms with the trust of someone who believes they know the whole story. “That’s the spirit.”
And then I hold her, this woman who teaches me to move in ways that shouldn’t be possible, while I practice the most complex position of all: maintaining balance on a foundation of selective truth, hoping the whole structure doesn’t collapse when she discovers what I’ve chosen not to tell her.
Tonight, I’ve chosen her peace over my conscience. Tomorrow, I’ll probably make the same choice. And maybe that’s its own kind of love: protecting someone from a truth that would hurt them even when keeping it hurts you.