You get home exhausted after the rehearsal. The smell of sweat and magnesium still stuck to the skin, the black leotard glued to the body and the tight bun hurt at the root of the hair. All I wanted was to take a hot shower and fall apart in bed.

But the bed wasn’t empty.

A large figure moved in the dim light of the room and you choked on your own scream, your hand instinctively going to your mouth to drown out the sound. The heart raced, beating against the ribs as if it were going to run away before you.

“What the fuck...?” - his voice came out in a trembling whisper.

Shane Holland was there, dropped on his bed, his clothes stained with blood and dust. He looked displaced, a shadow inside the room illuminated only by the dim street light entering through the window.

“Close the door” - he asked, hoarse, as if every word cost him effort.

You hesitated, your eyes wide. If Johnny or any of his brothers found out that Shane was there, it would be war. But when he moved his arm and you saw the deep cut in the skin, the instinct spoke louder.

“What happened?” - you whispered, already locking the door before you even realized the decision you were making.

Shane gave a dry laugh, without humor.

“Just a bad night.”

He tried to play the indifferent, but he was pale, sweaty, and the way he held the side of his body said he was in pain.

You dropped the bag on the floor, went to the shelf where you kept a first aid box - remnant of so many falls in ballet rehearsals - and knelt next to him. The tulle skirt crumpled against the mattress, and the ribbons of the sneakers dragged on the floor.

“Take off your shirt.” - his voice came out firm, even if his hands trembled.

Shane arched an eyebrow, still in the debauched mode that seemed to be his armor, but obeyed. The tissue stuck to the blood tore a little when he pulled it. You held your breath when you saw the cuts and bruises scattered across his torso.

Gently, he cleaned each wound, biting his lip so as not to show nervousness. With each touch, Shane shrank his body, but he didn’t complain. I just watched you in silence, the dark eyes running through the blushing face, the undone bun, the delicate but determined hands.

“Why did you come here?” - you murmured, focused on putting gauze on the deepest wound.

“Because...” - he stopped, as if he wasn’t used to giving explanations. - “You’re the only one who doesn’t treat me like trash.”

The words fell between you heavy, too sincere for his usual tone. You felt your chest tighten, and for a moment you wanted to believe that there was something there to be saved.

The silence extended, only broken by the sound of cotton against his skin and his accelerated breathing.

Shane lowered his head, his voice almost a whisper:

“You shouldn’t get dirty with me, ballerina.”

You looked up and met his eyes.

“Too late.”