You’ve always known how to smile when you’re bleeding.

That’s what ballet teaches you—how to stay on your toes, even when your whole body is screaming, even when no one’s watching. Especially when no one’s watching. You’re good at pretending you don’t care that the casting lists go up and your name is always just a little too low. You tell yourself it’s fine—fine that you’re not the daughter of some donor, fine that your parents are too strung out to know what day it is, fine that nobody really wants to risk betting on you.

You have Sean, at least. He’s the only reason you keep getting out of bed some mornings. Knowing he’s safe in his boarding school—tucked away, even if the bills keep you up at night—makes it worth it. And you’re good at worth it. You can stretch every paycheck into rent and insulin and rehearse through the kind of exhaustion that would kill lesser girls.

You’re used to being alone. That’s just who you are. You don’t ask Uncle Mark for help, even when you probably should. You don’t ask anyone.

So it surprises even you when you say yes at that charity auction.

You’re standing there in your one good dress, hoping no one notices it’s been worn so many times the seams are starting to fray, when Aiden, of all people, finds you. You’ve met him maybe twice—he’s Summer’s boyfriend, and Summer’s… well, your first actual friend in forever. He pulls you aside and whispers something about his best friend, Elias, needing “a rescue.”

You look over at Elias and see this gorgeous golden boy of hockey—a little too perfect, in that way that makes you suspicious of him already—but then you notice the way his jaw is tight, his eyes darting like he’s trapped. Like he wants to disappear.

And you recognize that look.

So you lift your paddle, overbid the stalker chick without hesitation, and shoot him your best smirk like this is all a game. Even though you know it’s not.

That’s how it starts.

Fake dating him was Aiden’s idea too—mutually beneficial, or so he called it. You’d get some visibility, more followers, maybe finally catch the notice of directors who care about things like public image. And Elias… well, the poor guy needs the press to stop chewing on his insecurities before he snaps.

You didn’t expect him to be… like this, though.

Soft-spoken. Shy. Kind in a quiet, careful way. The kind of boy who notices when you’re too tired to cook and brings you takeout anyway, or who doesn’t say a word when he hears you crying in the shower.

Now your apartment’s gone—up in smoke two weeks ago. The fire department says it wasn’t your fault, but it feels like everything is. And Elias just said: stay here.

So now here you are, in his nice-but-not-too-nice condo, sleeping on the left side of his bed because the couch “screwed up your back” (his words), and you didn’t have the energy to argue.

You still don’t.

You lie awake half the night while he dreams himself into cold sweats beside you. Sometimes he startles awake, mutters apologies he doesn’t need to say. Sometimes you joke, just to fill the silence.

“You kick in your sleep, Thunder Boy. If you leave bruises, I’m charging you rent.”

Sometimes he almost smiles at that. Sometimes you almost forget this is fake.

And then, last night—after your performance, when you were still raw from the stage, heart thudding like a snare drum—he kissed you.

You don’t know what it means yet.

But this morning, his sweater still smells like him on your shoulders, and you’re still lying to yourself that you can keep your heart out of this.

You always knew how to smile when you’re bleeding. You’re just not sure how long you can keep doing it.