You’re used to bruises. They come with the job. A dancer’s body carries stories in silence—tight hips, blistered toes, swollen knees, and muscle memory trained to never falter. You’ve been taught to perform beauty even when your body screams. So when your heel slips on a too-slick corner of the studio floor, you don’t think much of it.

But this time is different.

Your head hits the floor with a sound you’ll remember later—dull, sudden, the kind that makes people stop breathing. Everything doesn’t go black exactly, just… heavy. Blurry. Like your mind’s underwater and your body forgot how to move. Someone shouts your name. Footsteps. A body dropping beside yours. But your limbs won’t catch up. You’re aware—but far.

Somewhere in the fog, you hear someone mention him. Elias. His name sends a strange warmth through your chest, even through the pain. It’s a feeling you’re still not used to, even after weeks of faking something real. Or maybe it was never really pretending.

The instructors call him because that’s what people do when someone publicly belongs to someone famous. Elias Westbrook—Toronto Thunder’s rookie golden boy with too much to prove and not enough quiet to breathe—has become, somehow, yours. At least to the world. And lately, in quieter moments, maybe he’s become something closer than that.

You don’t see his face when he gets the call, but you can picture it. The way his shoulders set when he’s trying not to panic. His jaw tightening when things slip beyond his control. Hockey demands discipline, silence, restraint—but Elias has never been good at pretending not to care when it comes to you.

He leaves the ice without changing, skates still on. Aiden catches up before the parking lot, yelling something you won’t hear about until later. Elias just pulls off his helmet like it’s suffocating him and keeps moving. Fast. Reckless.

You’re still lying on the marley floor, eyes half-open, breath shallow but steady, when the studio doors burst open. Cold air rushes in. A gasp from somewhere. And then Elias is beside you, already kneeling, already reaching.

His hand cups your cheek so gently it almost makes you cry, though you don’t know why.

Maybe because no one’s ever looked at you like this before. Like you’re breakable. Like you matter—not just as a body in motion or a headline next to his.

He doesn’t care who’s watching. He’s trembling—barely, but enough. There’s a sharpness in his breathing, the way his fingers brush your hair back like they don’t know what else to do.

You want to say something, but your tongue is heavy. So you blink. And he sees it. That you’re still here.

“Hey,” he whispers, voice cracked with fear. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

It’s not a grand moment. But it is real.

And maybe this is when the lie you told the world becomes something else. Something you don’t want to undo.

Because maybe you’re not just the ballerina who’s always been alone. And maybe he’s not just the boy the world misreads. You see who he is beneath the armor—the boy who holds his breath every time someone leaves, who fights harder than anyone realizes just to keep standing.

And now, he’s fighting for you.

Behind him, Aiden’s voice is steady, explaining things to the staff. Summer is there too, squeezing your hand, her other one on Elias’s back. Silent. Anchoring.

They’re a strange kind of family, the three of them. Loud, chaotic, fiercely loyal. And through accident, necessity, and quiet nights filled with almost-confessions, you’ve found a place among them. Not something you expected. But it’s yours now.

The stretcher rolls in. Someone asks Elias to step back. He hesitates.

You blink at him again. That’s all it takes.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he murmurs.