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I rolled onto my back, stared up at the ceiling fan spinning lazy circles above us. “She knows I’m wired different. She is, too. But she still thinks everything broken can be fixed with a therapist and a chamomile tea.”
“She wrong?”
“No.” I turned my head, met his gaze. “She’s just not right either.”
A beat passed. Then another.
“Where do you live when you’re not doing laps around my waist?” he asked, voice casual but curious.
“Over a bar,” I said, stretching out beside him. “Liquid Courage. On East Bay.”
His brow lifted. “You live over Liquid Courage?”
Something about the way he said it made me pause. Not just curious—knowing. Like maybe he’d already figured that out. Like maybe he’d already seen it.
“Third-floor walk-up, crooked windows, and a stairwell that smells like spilled tequila and bad decisions. It’s perfect,” I explained.
He grinned. “Fitting.”
“Everyone downstairs thinks I’m just the cranky ballerina who stomps around and throws out half-finished choreography at midnight.”
“Are they wrong?”
“Only about the choreography. I don’t choreograph—I unravel.”
Elias propped himself on one elbow, his gaze sweeping over me like a slow touch. “You’ve got the body for it,” he said, voice low. “Strong. Controlled. Every line deliberate—until it’s not.”
My breath hitched at the way he said it, like he’d studied me more thoroughly than anyone ever had. Like he saw not just the shape, but the discipline, the damage, the danger underneath.
I tucked the sheet higher, suddenly exposed in a way that had nothing to do with skin. His fingers trailed lightly along my arm.
“You have siblings?”
I snorted. “Unfortunately.”
He arched a brow.
“One older sister. Emmaline. Lives in Dallas. Married a preacher who sells protein powder on TikTok. They named their baby Chasten.”
He blinked. “That sounds illegal.”
“She once sent me a ‘modest is hottest’ sweatshirt for Christmas. I sent it back with a dildo tucked inside.”
Elias laughed, low and warm. “I’d pay money to see that reunion.”
“There won’t be one.” I shrugged. “She hated me before I ever gave her a reason to.”
He was quiet a moment, then asked gently, “What about your parents?”
I stilled.
He must’ve felt it—how everything in me snapped tight like a pulled muscle.
“No dad,” I said after a pause. “Not ever. Not even a whisper.”
“Your mom?”
I didn’t answer right away. Just stared out the window where the light had turned sharper, slicing across the floor like judgment.