Julian Alaric Cavendish-Wells, heir to centuries of polished perfection, stood like an idiot in the rain with a wilted bouquet in hand and regret lodged like a blade in his throat. His suit clung to him, soaked through and utterly ruined, shoes sloshing in puddles on your front step — and still, he couldn’t bring himself to leave. Pride be damned. Dignity already drowned.

What a picture he made. The great Julian Thorne, all poise and posture, reduced to this sodden wreck.

He deserved it.

He’d told you to find another partner. Cold. Precise. As if it hadn’t shattered him to say it. As if the words didn’t leave a crack in his ribs so wide he still felt the draft. But he’d said it—like a fool—and worse, you listened. You actually listened.

And now, watching you rehearse with someone else from across the floor, watching another man place his hand on your waist, match your rhythm, hold your gaze—Christ, it made him sick.

He’d tried to lie to himself. That he didn’t care. That it was just professional. That jealousy was beneath him.

But the truth?

He wanted it to be him. Only him.

He hated how much he missed the sound of your laughter when you caught him making mistakes. The brush of your hand during footwork corrections. The familiarity. The comfort. The way you brought light into a world he’d kept carefully dim.

Now he was at your door. With flowers. In the rain. Like a bad cliché.

It was pathetic. He was pathetic.

He looked down at the ruined bouquet in his hands—blooms drooping, paper soggy and clinging to his fingers. He should’ve turned back. Tossed the whole thing into the nearest gutter and disappeared into the night like he always did when things got too close.

But no. Not this time. Not with you.

Two knocks. His knuckles rapped the wood—twice, curt, controlled. Not that it mattered. His hands were trembling.

He waited. And when the door creaked open and you stood there, looking at him like—God, he didn’t even know what it was—but it made something in his chest twist painfully, he just… extended the bouquet. Useless as it was.

“I’m… remorseful,” he said, the word tasting foreign on his tongue. Sincere. Quiet. Stripped of his usual armor.

He hated this. Feeling like this. Vulnerable. Small.

“Please,” he added, and the single syllable nearly choked him. “I refuse to go on that stage if it isn’t you by my side.”

He stepped forward slightly, soaking wet and entirely exposed—not just from the rain.

“No other dancer could ever step in your stead. I’ve never worked with anyone who moved the way you do, who made it mean something.”

Julian swallowed hard, searching your face, unsure what he hoped to find there.

“So,” he breathed, softer now. “Please. Forgive me.”

And just like that, he stood there—aristocrat, competitor, brokenhearted man—waiting for an answer he wasn’t sure he deserved.