15. ControlCrumble #4
“I know, right,” Nik remarks, his eyes flicking to mine.
I don’t realize that my mouth hangs open in awe. I quickly shut it. “It’s beautiful,” I murmur.
“Well, well, well. It’s nice to see you again, Nik. Where have ya been?” A woman in a forest-green apron, a white wash rag tucked into her hand, comes bustling over to greet him.
“Louise,” Nik greets, smiling warmly in her direction. “Been a little busy lately.”
“Well, you remember the rules—sit anywhere you’d like, and I’ll send Terri over to wait on ya.” She winks at him.
“Thanks, Louise,” he answers, then lightly rests his hand on my back. “Let’s go sit there.” He points to a table tucked into the back corner with his free hand, guiding me effortlessly.
Once we’re seated, a wave of panic hits me like a punch to the chest. I was distracted in the car. Nik came for me, apologized, and offered to make it up to me. But now I realize we’re at a place that serves… food. And not just any food. Sweet food.
A waitress with a pencil tucked through a brown bun, and the same forest-green apron approaches. “Hey, Nik, long time no see! What can I get for y’all tonight?”
Nik’s eyes lock with mine. “Do you trust me?”
Trust. The word tangles in my thoughts. Here, he has control.
And I… I don’t. Not with the menu, not with the sugar, not with him.
Giving in to one feels like giving in to the other, and that thought makes my blood curdle.
I give a slight dip of my chin, because saying more will be like handing him a piece of me I’m not ready to share.
The corner of his mouth lifts, but there’s something else in his eyes. Something quiet, knowing. “Hey, Terri. Two Goddess Green teas and two Dragon’s Breath croissants, please.”
Terri snatches our menus and walks off. An icy current runs up my spine.
Croissants. Sugar. So much sugar. My throat tightens, my fingers grow cold.
I can’t eat it. I won’t. I haven’t earned it—not today or ever lately.
A banana and some yogurt have been my indulgence; anything else feels like breaking every rule I’ve built for myself.
And yet… Nik looks at me, patient and gentle, like he can see the storm inside me. My heart betrays me. Why does his calm make me ache for something I’m not allowed to have? I refuse to let him see how much I want to be reckless—want to taste it, want to let someone in.
“What… what are those?” I ask, my voice wavering.
“The green teas are a blend of apricot and lychee,” he explains, “and the croissants are the best I’ve ever had, filled with bittersweet chocolate and a sweet-and-spicy cinnamon-chili cream.
There’s a light dusting of cocoa powder on top.
” His smile vanishes the moment our eyes meet.
“Are you feeling okay? You look a little pale.”
I fight to steady my breathing, to flatten the anxiety coiling in my stomach. “I’m… fine,” I respond, voice tight. “Just… tired,” I add, hoping the lie sounds convincing.
He reaches across the table to tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear, and my resolve wobbles. The sugar isn’t just sugar. This is the first time I feel safe enough to want something for myself, and it’s because of him. My walls seem to dissipate in his presence.
When the drinks and food are set before us, my resolve shatters completely. My chest burns, my breaths come in short, panicked bursts, and my thoughts spiral out of control. I’m hyperventilating, unable to stop the storm in my mind.
The world narrows. The café melts away. I’m ten again, standing on my tiptoes in our kitchen. My fingers brush the edge of the cookie jar, and sweet, warm smells fill my nose.
“Eleanor! Step away from that!”
I froze. My mother’s voice cut sharper than any knife, sharp enough to make my knees tremble. Her eyes were narrow, the lines in her face harsh.
“Do you think a ballerina has time for treats? You’ll ruin your lines, your posture, your… everything!”
I clutched the counter, my heart hammering in my chest. I could feel the warmth of the cookies, the promise of chocolate and sugar, but fear rooted me in place. I ground my teeth, my stomach twisting. Every bite I wanted to take was a test, one I would fail.
“You know better, Eleanor. You’re a dancer. You have to be disciplined. That body isn’t just yours—it’s your career, your purpose. And if you can’t control yourself, you’re nothing.”
Tears pricked at my eyes, but I didn’t dare let them fall. I nodded, silently vowing that I would never disobey, that I would control everything I could. My body, my food, my habits. Because it was the only way to survive her.
My hands shake and I fight for air. Nik’s voice is distant and warm, but I can’t hear him. I can only hear the repetition of my mother’s words, my ten-year-old self trapped in that kitchen, learning the rules of survival: control or crumble.
I shove my chair back and stand. “I’ll be right back.” I dash toward the bathroom without a second look.
I slam the door behind me, pressing my palms to the cool surface, knowing that when I step out, nothing will ever feel the same.