Chapter 69 Where the Music Should Be
WHERE THE MUSIC SHOULD BE
Nate
“I thought giving her space was respect. It was fear.”
Nate stood at the center of a floor too clean to hold the mess he felt like making.
Hands on his hips, sweat slick down his spine, chest heaving like he’d skated ten miles with a weight vest and a grudge.
He hadn’t meant to stay this late. Hadn’t meant to push himself to the edge again.
But something about the silence made it easier to breathe than his apartment ever did these days.
He danced. Not well. Not choreographed. Just movement.
Just rhythm. Just body and gravity and that tight, sour ache under his ribs that never really left anymore.
The steps weren’t for the next show, or even for Holly.
They were for the part of himself he didn’t know how to fix.
The part that still saw her every time he closed his eyes.
He landed a sharp Cha Cha lockstep and stopped dead, bending over with his hands braced on his knees so that sweat dripped from his curls onto the floor. His breath scraped in and out, too loud in the empty room, and the burn in his thighs felt righteous, punishing.
He looked at his reflection in the mirror and didn’t see a pro athlete. Didn’t see the tough guy who’d once dropped gloves on national TV without blinking. Just a man trying not to drown in a love he hadn’t been brave enough to fight for until it was already slipping through his fingers.
“You do realize you can’t bully hardwood into submission,” a familiar voice interrupted, bone-dry and impeccably unimpressed.
Nick Marlowe stood just inside the doorway, one shoulder resting lightly against the frame as if he’d always intended to be there.
All black, of course. Fitted. Effortless.
A man who looked composed even under fluorescent lighting.
He held a Gatorade between two fingers like he was considering whether Nate had earned it.
Nate straightened, dragging in a breath that burned on the way down. “You stalking me?”
Nick’s gaze moved over him without hurry. Took in the sweat, the tremor in his legs, the absence of music. Filed it away.
“Simply assessing the damage,” he said, then he tossed the bottle in a clean arc.
“Must be a weird Brit thing.” Nate caught it one-handed and twisted the cap off, drinking like he’d been stranded in the desert of unrequited love and repressed emotions.
Nick pushed off the doorway and stepped fully into the studio, not invading the space, just occupying it.
He didn’t pace or fidget, he just stood there and watched Nate like a director assessing a rehearsal that had gone on too long.
“You’re dancing without music,” he observed. “That’s rarely a sign of stability.”
Nate wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Didn’t realize I’d booked a psych assessment.”
“You didn’t.” Nick’s mouth curved faintly. “On the odd occasion I just feel generous.”
Silence stretched, deliberate. Nick held out, as though letting Nate feel seen. Then, almost lazily, he lifted a brow. “You going to fix it, or just go home with a participation trophy?”
Nate’s jaw tightened. “It’s not that simple.”
“It rarely is.” Nick folded his arms, studying him with unnerving calm. “She looked broken in that promo shot. So did you. That’s not choreography, it’s bloody heartache.”
“She left.”
“Oh well-spotted,” Nick tossed back sarcastically. “People do that when they’re overwhelmed. Doesn’t mean they don’t care.”
Nate huffed a bitter laugh under his breath. “Doesn’t it?”
“No.” Nick met his gaze and held it. “It means you don’t wait for a bloody invitation when it matters.”
Nate turned away, tossing the Gatorade onto a nearby chair harder than necessary.
“What if I say everything I’m supposed to say,” he muttered, “and it doesn’t change anything?”
Nick didn’t move. Didn’t soften. He considered the question like it was choreography that needed tightening, like there was a right answer and a wrong one and neither involved panic.
“Then at least you’ll know you tried,” he pinned Nate with a pointed look. “You can’t half-lead someone and expect them to trust you enough to follow, that’s not how partnership works. On a floor or off it.”
Nate glanced at Nick, feeling a shift.
Nick’s eyes narrowed, almost like he felt it too. “Love isn’t certainty,” he went on, tone cool, almost detached. “It’s choosing to know each other. Properly. Even when it’d be easier to keep your pride intact.”
Nate didn’t answer because his chest already knew he was hearing the truth. Because somewhere beneath the tailored calm and the cutting commentary, Nick Marlowe spoke like a man who’d learned that lesson the expensive way.
Nick straightened his cuffs, as if satisfied the rehearsal was over. “For God’s sake, try it with music next time,” he added, as though Nate had massively inconvenienced him, silently cutting his heart open in a deserted rehearsal studio close to midnight. “It’s less tragic.”
And then he turned, leaving Nate alone with the mirrors… and a choice.