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followingthebutterflies7 · 2 days ago

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Pas de Deux

Pianist!Spencer Agnew x !Ballerina!Reader

Word Count: 11k

Summary: You’ve spent five years resenting Spencer Agnew for ruining your future, so of course he ends up as your accompanist for the most important performance of your life.

Warnings: Angst, miscommunication, emotional conflict, verbal arguing, and onstage humiliation.

A Note: This story was written from a request. Thank you so much for the idea and for trusting me with something so beautiful!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You were fifteen years old, and the future was a spotlight waiting just for you.

Everything about the day felt big. Too big for your small frame, too loud for your racing heart, too heavy for even your strongest arabesque.

The lobby of the regional ballet conservatory was swarmed with bunheads in sleek black leotards, each stretching, whispering, warming up in elegant little corners like they belonged there. You kept your headphones in as long as you could, drowning out the soft buzz of ambition that hung in the air.

But nothing could drown out the pressure.

You were the favorite. Everyone knew it. Everyone said it. Your teacher had whispered it on the ride up: “They’ll see what I see. Just dance like you always do.”

Your name was circled on every judge’s list before you even arrived. This scholarship — full tuition, elite coaching, international exposure — was the kind of opportunity girls dreamed of. The kind of thing that changed lives. That launched careers.

You had never wanted anything more in your life.

You had one shot.

And you were ready.

You sat in the wings of the rehearsal studio, nerves folded deep beneath your fifth position. You could already hear the piece in your head, the swelling crescendo of your entrance, the softness in the adagio, the crisp staccato for your turns. You’d rehearsed it so many times your body moved to the rhythm before the music even started.

But then he walked in.

You noticed him because he didn’t belong.

Where everyone else moved with the quiet tension of dancers and instructors, he strolled in like he had nothing to prove. Tall, lean, maybe seventeen at most, dressed in a black dress shirt with the sleeves rolled past his forearms and dark slacks like he was playing at being older. His brown hair flopped across his forehead, wild and unbothered. He carried a messenger bag over one shoulder and a thick folder of music under one arm.

“Is that the accompanist?” someone whispered behind you.

“He’s… young.”

You watched him approach the piano and slide onto the bench without even adjusting the stool height. He flipped open the sheet music with one hand and ran his fingers lightly along the keys. He was confident, casual, and completely unaware that your future might depend on him.

Your teacher gestured for you to take the floor.

You nodded, brushing imaginary lint off your skirt as you stepped into the open studio, heart thudding against your ribs like it was trying to get out. You avoided looking at the judges’ table. You didn’t need to see their pens.

You did glance at him though. The pianist. Just briefly.

He met your eyes.

And smirked.

“Ready when you are, ballerina,” he said. His voice was smooth. Unconcerned.

You blinked, thrown off by the audacity. “I’m ready,” you said, sharper than intended.

He shrugged lightly, turned back to the keys, and began to play.

At first, it was perfect.

The music bloomed around you like spring air. It was delicate and warm, lifting you into your first arabesque with a grace you could feel in your bones. You moved as if the music were part of you, your limbs pulled by something invisible and ancient, like you were born to do this. Your teacher’s voice echoed in your mind: “Dance with intention. Let them feel your story.”

You gave it to them. Every note. Every breath. Every controlled landing and whisper of a turn.

And then—

The rhythm slipped.

It was subtle — a missed half-beat, a rush of notes that came just a touch too early.

You felt it like a fault line cracking beneath your feet.

Your muscles tensed in panic. You tried to adjust mid-phrase, angling your body to catch up to the tempo. But your next pass of turns, a series of quick pique pirouettes into a fouetté combination, demanded split-second timing.

You launched into the sequence anyway, willing your body to ignore the glitch in the music.

But then another error.

The accompaniment tripped over itself again. Too fast, not enough space between counts. And your foot clipped the floor at the wrong moment. Your balance broke. The turn wobbled. Your arms faltered. Your final spin dissolved into a shaky landing with your supporting foot sliding out just an inch too far—

And you fell.

Not hard. Not dramatically.

But enough.

Enough that the judges’ pens stopped moving.

Enough that your teacher made a small, strangled sound in the back of her throat.

You finished the routine anyway, because you were trained to, ending in your final pose with a trembling chest and a tight smile like nothing had gone wrong. You dipped into your bow.

And fled the room.

You didn’t cry at first.

You sat stiff-backed in the dressing room hallway, still in your rehearsal skirt, your pointe shoes digging into the arches of your feet. Your eyes burned but stayed dry, your shoulders squared like a soldier post-battle. Your teacher stood beside you, arms crossed, whispering that it wasn’t the end of the world, that these things happen, that you were still brilliant.

But you didn’t hear her.

All you could hear was the voice of one of the judges during the pause after you’d left: “Such a shame. She had it. But that fall…”

Your body pulsed with humiliation. You wanted to disappear. You wanted to go back. You wanted to blame someone.

And then he appeared.

He turned the corner with the same slow stride, rolling up his sheet music like he was heading to lunch instead of walking away from someone’s ruined future. He spotted you and hesitated.

“Hey,” he said, stopping a few feet away.

You looked up, barely able to see him through the fog of rage in your eyes.

“I… messed up,” he admitted, shifting awkwardly on his feet. “Sorry about that.”

You blinked. That was it? “You think?”

He winced slightly. “It was a small mistake. I didn’t realize it would, like, totally throw you off.”

Totally throw you off. Like this was your fault.

You stood slowly, the fury inside you sharper than any pointe shoe seam. “Do you do this often? Sabotage auditions for fun?”

He raised an eyebrow. “What? No. It wasn’t personal.”

But it felt personal. It felt cruel. It felt like the sound of a door slamming shut on your future.

You laughed, a cold, bitter sound. “Right. Because messing up a dancer’s scholarship solo is just something you accidentally do on a Monday.”

He gave a half-shrug, defensive. “It was one run-through. You’ll do fine in the real—”

“That was my audition.” Your voice cracked.

For the first time, something like understanding flashed in his expression. But it was too late. The damage was done.

You stepped past him, spine rigid.

He muttered under his breath as you brushed by, just loud enough for you to catch:

“God, dancers are dramatic.”

You didn’t look back.

But from that day on, his name — Spencer Agnew — became synonymous with betrayal. He was the boy who smiled as your dream slipped through your fingers.

And whether he meant it or not, you knew one thing for sure.

You would never forgive him.

~~~~~~~~~~

Five years later, you thought you’d finally moved past it.

You’d danced in summer programs across the country, earned a place at one of the top ballet conservatories in the region, fought through injuries, competitions, burnout, and nights that smelled like tiger balm and tears. And slowly, quietly, you’d begun to feel like the audition, that audition, no longer defined you.

But the second you walked into Studio 4C, you felt it. That shift in the air. The static before a storm.

The room looked the same as always. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors, pale gray marley floor, the baby grand piano tucked neatly in the corner like it belonged there. You’d danced in this space a hundred times. But today, it felt wrong.

And then you saw him.

Spencer Agnew was sitting at the piano, right hand resting on the keys, left elbow propped lazily on the fallboard as if he owned the place. His fingers idly trailed through a few bars of something fluid and showy, Ravel maybe, or Debussy. It was gorgeous. Subtle. Smooth.

It made your stomach twist.

Your feet stalled mid-step. Your bag slid off your shoulder and hit your thigh with a dull thud.

No. No no no.

Not him. Not now.

He looked up at the sound of your entrance, and for a split second, his brows lifted in faint surprise, then smoothed into a slow, infuriating smile.

“Well,” he said, leaning back. “If it isn’t my favorite ballerina.”

Your throat went dry.

Spencer had changed.

Gone was the lanky, floppy-haired teenage boy who’d tripped over your music and ruined your life. This Spencer looked… older. His jaw had sharpened, his posture was looser but more confident. He wore a fitted dark shirt rolled at the sleeves, exposing strong forearms and long fingers that still rested on the piano keys like they belonged there. His hair was still messy in that casually artful way, curling just slightly over his ears — and you hated how annoyingly good it looked on him.

He had the gall to look cool.

“How unfortunate,” you muttered under your breath.

“Surprise,” he said brightly, spreading his hands. “Didn’t expect me, did you?”

Your ballet mistress stepped into the room behind you, clipboard in hand. “Ah, you’ve met! Spencer will be subbing in on accompaniment for your solo coaching. His sight-reading’s strong, and he’s available for the whole block. Lucky us.”

You forced a tight smile. “Lucky indeed.”

“Always happy to be of service.” Spencer dipped his head in mock humility. It infuriated you.

“What the hell are you doing here?” you asked flatly.

Spencer gave an exaggerated shrug. “Playing the piano. Conservatories tend to hire pianists for that.”

“I meant here. With me.”

Your teacher looked up sharply. “Is there a problem?”

You shook your head too quickly. “No. No problem.”

Lie. A huge problem, actually.

He was the boy who destroyed your shot at a scholarship. The arrogant little prodigy with a smirk full of knives who had ruined the most important performance of your life and walked away without a scratch. And now he was sitting there like fate had decided it was funny.

The piano keys clinked gently under his fingers as he warmed up. “Relax,” he said, voice low enough for just you to hear. “I’ll try not to sabotage you this time.”

You inhaled sharply. “Try harder.”

He grinned.

Your teacher clapped her hands. “Alright. Let’s begin.”

You tried to focus. You really did.

But from the moment he touched the keys again, it was impossible not to notice.

He’d gotten better. Way better.

His playing was sharper now. Not just technically flawless, but fluid. Emotional. He didn’t just keep tempo; he shaped the music like it was clay in his hands. You hated how effortlessly the notes curved around your movements, how each chord seemed to anticipate your breath.

Worse, he knew it.

Every time your eyes flicked toward the piano, he met your gaze with a look that was just this side of smug. Not overtly arrogant; no, that would’ve been easier. It was the subtlety of it. That little twitch of his brow when your foot slipped half an inch out of alignment. That slight head tilt when your timing was off by a beat.

The worst part? You were off.

You were hyperaware of him. Of his hands, his eyes, his rhythm. You overcorrected your placement. Held your extensions a second too long. Turned your head too late in your chaînés. Everything felt tight, mechanical, wrong.

After the third time you lost count mid-sequence, your teacher clapped her hands sharply.

“Stop. Breathe.”

You nodded, blinking hard. “Sorry.”

“Again. From the top.”

Spencer started playing before you were ready.

The tempo was correct, but barely. It was just the tiniest bit fast. Enough to make you fight for it. Enough to make you work.

You narrowed your eyes and forced yourself into the movement, toes slicing the floor, chest lifted like you had something to prove. Your legs obeyed. Your arms remembered. But your brain screamed through every beat.

When the phrase ended, your teacher finally stepped away to grab notes from the office.

The moment the door closed, Spencer leaned forward slightly on the bench, fingers still resting casually on the keys.

“Careful,” he murmured. “You’re slipping.”

You turned toward him, arms crossed. “I’m fine.”

He tilted his head again. “If you say so. Could’ve sworn your fifth position was a fourth.”

Your jaw clenched. “Glad to see you’re still the same arrogant little—”

“Oh no,” he cut in smoothly. “I’m much worse now.”

You stared at him, breath caught in your throat.

He gave you a slow, mocking smile. And for a moment, the memory of that smirk from five years ago slammed into your chest like a second fall.

Your teacher returned with her notes and called for a water break. You turned away, grabbed your towel, and retreated to the corner with your bottle, pretending your hands weren’t shaking.

He didn’t speak again until the end of the session.

You were gathering your things, drenched in sweat and still fuming, when he walked past you toward the door, lifting his satchel over his shoulder.

“Hey,” he said quietly as he passed.

You looked up sharply.

He stopped just long enough to look over his shoulder, eyes meeting yours.

“This time,” he said, “I promise not to screw up the ending.”

You blinked.

Before you could answer, he was gone.

And you were left alone in the studio, staring at the door, furious with how much your heart was pounding.

~~~~~~~~~~

Your solo sessions used to be your sanctuary.

Just you, the mirrors, your coach, and the music. No distractions, no competition, and no one to please but yourself and the quiet voice in your head demanding more.

But now?

Now every step you take echoes under the sharp scrutiny of him.

Spencer Agnew.

He was back for good, apparently. Not just subbing, but contracted as a full-time rehearsal accompanist. The conservatory was “so impressed” with his playing over the next several weeks that they extended his position. Word around the studios was that he had studied composition in Europe, toured with a small chamber ensemble, and his skills were “like magic.”

Magic.

That’s what they called it. His timing. His instinct.

You called it manipulative.

Because every time he played for you, and only you, felt like he was challenging you. Pushing the tempo by half a breath. Dragging a phrase just enough to throw your landing. Emphasizing flourishes where you needed clean precision. Never enough to complain about… just enough to keep you on edge.

Which is exactly where he wanted you.

“Again, from the arabesque,” your teacher said, standing off to the side of the studio with her arms crossed. “You’re late on the second step-up.”

“I’m not late,” you muttered to yourself. And, of course, Spencer had heard you.

“She’s not wrong,” Spencer called from the piano. “Unless we’re redefining 'on time' to mean half a count behind.”

You whipped your head toward him. “Are you seriously commenting on musicality right now?”

He just raised an eyebrow, like of course I am.

You turned back to center, jaw clenched. Fine. He wanted a war? He could have one.

The music started again, crisp and controlled. You danced like your body was a blade. Sharp lines, clean transitions, emotion stripped away in favor of precision. And still, you felt him watching. Not just watching, measuring. His gaze was like a metronome clicking against your spine.

You made it to the final pirouette and landed a perfect fourth.

Only then did he speak.

“Well,” he said lightly, “someone’s been practicing.”

Your lips tightened into something between a smile and a snarl.

“Or maybe your tempo didn’t sabotage me this time.”

“Tempting,” he said, not looking up from the keys. “But where’s the fun in that?”

Later, while your teacher reviewed notes with another student, you stayed behind to rehearse alone. She gave you a ten-minute block to run the full variation with Spencer.

Just you and him.

The moment the door closed behind her, the air shifted. Less formal, more dangerous.

“Don’t worry,” he said, leaning back with one hand on the keys, “I’ll play it straight this time. Wouldn’t want to derail your entire future again, ballerina.”

Your head snapped toward him. “Do not joke about that.”

He tilted his head, feigning innocence. “Joke? That was an apology.”

“It wasn’t funny then, and it’s not funny now.”

“No,” he said slowly, “but you were. Storming off in your little rehearsal skirt, cursing my name like I’d committed a war crime. I think I still have a bruise from the death glare you gave me.”

You wanted to scream. Or laugh. Maybe both.

“You ruined the most important performance of my life,” you said, low and furious. “And you smiled. You smiled.”

His grin faltered. Just slightly.

Then he looked down at the keys. “Yeah. I did.”

For a split second, something real passed between you. The air shifted again. Less mockery, more weight.

Then he rolled his shoulders and launched into the opening bars.

You weren’t ready.

The music pulled at your nerves like thread — not rushed this time, not taunting. Beautiful. Gentle in places, powerful in others, tailored perfectly to your phrasing. He matched your breath, your pauses, your accents. It wasn’t accompaniment, it was a conversation.

And that made it worse.

Because you realized, with a pang of frustration, that when he wasn’t trying to annoy you…

He played for you like he knew you.

Like he remembered every single beat of that variation. Every flourish. Every fall.

And he was giving it back to you.

By the time you reached the end, breathless and sweating, he finished the last chord and let the silence sit between you.

You turned, chest heaving, unsure what to say.

He rested both hands on his lap, gaze soft but unreadable.

“That,” he said finally, “wasn’t so bad.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Are you complimenting me?”

He gave a dramatic shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe. Try not to let it go to your head.”

You walked past him, grabbing your water bottle. “Try not to let your face go smug.”

“You like my face.”

You froze.

He didn’t look at you when he said it. He just reached down, packed up his folder of sheet music, as if he’d just said anything else.

You scoffed. “Keep dreaming, Mozart.”

And walked out of the room before he could see the heat creeping up your neck.

~~~~~~~~~~

The cast list hadn’t even gone up yet, and already the studio hallways were humming with ambition.

It was in the extra pointe shoe shavings littering the corners, the way barre stretches lasted a little longer, how every dancer had started wearing their nicest leotards, not out of vanity, but quiet warfare. Because everyone knew what the end-of-year ballet would be.

The hints had been everywhere: the pas de deux assignments, the Prokofiev playing between classes, the way the artistic director said “star-crossed” in that wry tone of hers last Thursday.

Still, when the email finally landed, and the announcement was posted in crisp font on the main board, your chest clenched like it hadn’t already been bracing for impact.

Romeo and Juliet.

You read it three times. Slowly. Hoping the letters might rearrange themselves into something else. Something simpler, something that didn’t feel like falling off a ledge.

But they didn’t.

Of course they picked this.

Of course it had to be Romeo and Juliet, a ballet drenched in yearning, heartbreak, and tragedy. A ballet where the music was too beautiful, and the movement too exposed. A ballet where Juliet had to fall in love… and then fall apart.

Every girl in the company was already whispering about it. Who had the look. Who had the lines. Who could be Juliet.

You weren’t whispering.

You were already working.

You arrived early the next morning and requested a studio. The smaller one, the one with the warped floorboard near downstage right and a mirror that always distorted your port de bras if you stood too close. You didn’t care. You just wanted space. You needed to move. To own the role before anyone else did.

But when you opened the door, you nearly turned right around.

Spencer sat at the upright piano, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, flipping through a massive score. He looked up the moment you entered, and his face broke into a grin that made your stomach twist.

“Well,” he drawled, “look who’s already gunning for the role.”

You dropped your bag without answering.

“Let me guess,” he said, pencil twirling between his fingers. “You’re here to fight for Juliet.”

“I’m here to rehearse,” you said coolly.

“Same thing, isn’t it, ballerina?”

You stretched in silence, trying not to let his presence get under your skin. You told yourself it didn’t matter. That he was just the accompanist. That he had nothing to do with casting.

“Nice leotard,” he added casually, eyes flicking up from the keys.

You didn’t look at him. “Watch it.”

He smirked. “Just saying. It screams ‘tragic romance.’” You glared at him in the mirror.

He started playing a few minutes later. Simple scales at first. Then, of course, he eased into one of the balcony motifs. That wistful, aching piano line.

Your stomach turned. Not because it wasn’t beautiful. Because it was.

Because he made it beautiful.

Because when Spencer Agnew played Prokofiev, it wasn’t accompaniment. It was confession.

“You know,” he said without looking up, “Juliet’s hard to pull off without softness.”

“I can be soft,” you shot back, rising into a controlled developpé.

“Can you?”

You turned sharply. “I’m perfectly capable of emotional depth.”

“I’m sure you are,” he said, dragging the phrase just enough to throw off your next cue.

You missed the transition. Caught yourself. Fumed.

“You’re doing it on purpose,” you muttered.

He grinned. “Maybe.”

The next morning, he was there before you again.

“Don’t you have anything better to do?” you asked, setting your bag down.

He played a cheerful little flourish. “Not when I know you’ll be here glaring at me like I just insulted your ancestors.”

“Maybe because you keep sabotaging my phrasing.”

“I’m helping you develop grit.”

You rolled your eyes so hard your neck cracked.

That rehearsal was a warzone. He rushed the music. You fought the tempo. He added little flourishes just to mess with you. You cursed under your breath in the middle of a turn and nearly rolled your ankle.

At the end of the session, he stood, arms folded, watching as you mopped sweat from your collarbone.

“Bit dramatic for just a Juliet audition, don’t you think?”

You turned slowly. “You do realize you’re not even in this show, right?”

He raised a brow. “You do realize you’re funnier when you’re angry?”

You wanted to slap the smirk off his face. But you also kind of wanted to laugh.

On the fourth day, you stayed late.

Your teacher had gone. The lights were dim. Your calves were burning. But you couldn’t get the Juliet solo to land the way you wanted it to. The weight of it, the breath between notes.

You thought Spencer had left with everyone else. But when you turned back to restart the variation, there he was. Still at the piano. Quiet. Waiting.

“You don’t have to stay,” you said softly.

“I know.”

A pause.

“Why are you?”

He looked at you, and for the first time, there was no smirk. No sarcasm.

“Because,” he said, “you’re better when someone’s playing for you.”

You blinked.

He hesitated. “You dance like you’re trying to outpace silence. But when I play, you listen.”

You swallowed. “You’re saying I need help?”

“I’m saying you’re better when the music breathes with you.” A beat. “And I like being the one who gets to do that.”

You stared at him.

He looked away.

You laughed. “God, you are insufferable.”

He smiled faintly. “I get that a lot.”

You nodded, turned back toward center.

“From the top?” you asked.

He lifted his hands. “Always.”

By the sixth day something had shifted.

You still insulted him. He still mocked you. But it didn’t sting anymore. Not really.

You rolled your eyes and he grinned. He rolled the tempo and you chased it. You called him a menace and he said, “You like having an audience.”

You told yourself you were focused on Juliet. But every time he played for you, matching your breath, your fall, your rise, it felt like a duet.

And one afternoon, after landing your final arabesque, weightless and still, you heard him exhale.

“Beautiful,” he whispered. You turned.

He looked startled, like he hadn’t meant to say it aloud.

You didn’t say anything.

You just looked at him for one second too long… then turned back to the mirror.

And danced the final eight counts again. This time, without missing a beat.

~~~~~~~~~~

The cast list went up on a Thursday morning.

You arrived before the building was even fully open. Your hair still damp, ballet bag slung over your shoulder, nerves crawling down your spine like ants.

The hallway was quiet, the air sharp with cleaner and anticipation. You walked swiftly across the wooden floor, past the framed photos of past productions, and straight to the bulletin board.

Your heart pounded like a timpani.

You scanned the list.

Juliet. Then— your name.

The letters didn’t look real at first. You blinked twice, like your eyes were playing tricks on you. Then a breath escaped your lips, shaky, giddy, and stunned.

You stepped back from the board, chest rising and falling too fast. You didn’t squeal or spin or cry. You just stood there and felt it settle into your bones.

Juliet.

You were going to be Juliet.

And for the first time since you were fifteen, you felt like you’d finally taken back something that had been stolen from you.

You had worked for this.

You had bled for this.

And now it was yours.

It wasn’t until your eyes fell to the next line that your stomach turned slightly.

Romeo – Ethan Drake

Of course.

Ethan was a good dancer, he was talented, charming, maybe too charming. But you didn’t have time to worry about him. You had bigger things to focus on. You were Juliet. And you had rehearsals to dominate.

Spencer was already at the piano when you entered Studio 4C for your lesson later that morning. He didn’t look up right away, he just kept flipping through the Romeo and Juliet score like he couldn’t sightread it perfectly if he wanted to.

“Well?” he said without lifting his head. “Who landed the tragic heroine role?”

You dropped your water bottle a little harder than necessary.

“Me.”

He paused.

Then turned, slow and deliberate, and gave you a smile that wasn’t teasing. Wasn’t smug.

It was something else entirely.

“Of course it is,” he said.

You stared at him.

It was stupid how much that look did to you.

“Don’t act surprised,” you said, suddenly unsure.

“I’m not,” he replied simply. “You were the best. Everyone knew it.”

You looked away before the heat reached your ears.

~~~~~~~~~~

Later that afternoon you had your first full-cast rehearsal. Your first pas de deux with Ethan.

The mirrors caught everything. Every touch, every lift, every too-confident smirk he gave you between phrases. He was strong, sure, and very aware of where his hands landed. His smile lingered a little too long when he caught you. His compliments came too easily.

Spencer played without looking up.

At least, not at first.

But you felt the shift. The slight change in pressure, the clipped phrasing, the way the tempo sharpened every time Ethan laid a hand on your waist.

After rehearsal, you grabbed your towel and passed by the piano to grab your things.

“You two seem cozy,” Spencer said, barely glancing your way.

You turned slowly. “Excuse me?”

He shrugged. “He’s just… a lot of arm. Not much partnering finesse.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Funny. That’s not what the faculty said.”

“Faculty likes flash.”

“Where is this coming from?”

Spencer looked up. For a moment, he didn’t answer.

Then: “Just… be careful.”

You stared at him. “Why?”

The silence between you buzzed.

Then he said, more quietly, “You deserve better than someone who performs when he should be supporting.”

You grabbed your bag. “Thank you for your concern, Spencer, but I think you should stick to playing the piano, and I’ll stick to ballet.” It came out harsher than you intended.

“You’re right. I’m sorry” Spencer looked back down at the keys, not meeting your gaze. “Goodnight, ballerina.”

The apology caught you off guard. “It’s alright,” you whisper. “Goodnight, Spencer.”

~~~~~~~~~~

You weren’t sure when the rhythm started.

But it did.

You rehearsed daily — solos, transitions, early versions of Juliet’s choreography — and Spencer was always there. On time. Already warming up the piano. Already flipping to the right page before you even spoke.

There was less sarcasm now. Not gone, never gone, but softened at the edges. Gentler.

He still teased you, but there was something warmer behind it. Something fond.

You tried not to notice the way his hands looked when they rested against the keys between takes. Or the way he always caught your eye when he finished playing, not demanding praise, but making sure you were okay.

When you danced the bedroom scene for the first time — delicate, emotional, painfully exposed — you stumbled out of a lift too soon. You cursed under your breath and went to reset.

“You’re rushing the goodbye,” Spencer said quietly, almost gently.

You blinked. “I’m not.”

“You are,” he said. “You don’t want her to feel it. So you’re rushing.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but then closed it.

He wasn’t wrong.

You ran it again. Slower. This time, letting the hesitation bleed into your fingertips.

When you stopped, Spencer was watching you with that unreadable expression again, something caught between admiration and something softer.

He didn’t say anything.

But the music swelled a little differently next time he played it. More open. More intimate.

Like he understood you.

~~~~~~~~~~

Of course it was too good to be true. The next day was a bad rehearsal.

You tripped on your skirt, hit your elbow on the barre, and somehow forgot an entire transition phrase in Juliet’s variation. You collapsed onto the floor dramatically and groaned into your hands.

“Just bury me,” you muttered.

Spencer looked over the top of the piano. “If I bury you now, who’s going to fight the Montagues?”

You cracked a smile.

He grinned. “I’ll play your funeral march if you insist, but it’s in 3/4 and honestly, you don’t deserve a waltz after that fall, ballerina.”

You threw your towel at him. He dodged it easily.

You started laughing. Really laughing.

He did too.

It was the first time in days that the pressure lifted from your shoulders.

And in that moment — breathless, barefoot, sprawled on the studio floor — you realized you were beginning to enjoy this. Not just the dancing.

Him.

You were starting to enjoy him.

~~~~~~~~~~

The next Juliet rehearsal was worse.

You didn’t know how to explain the feeling of walking into Studio 4C with Ethan already warming up by the mirror. He was all confidence and swagger, tossing you a wink like this was already his story to tell. Ethan was cocky. Looser now that casting was set. A little too comfortable.

“Ready, Juliet?” he said, offering a too-slick smile. You just nodded and stepped into first position.

Spencer was at the piano. Silent. Focused.

The moment Ethan placed his hand on your waist, Spencer’s playing shifted. Just a little. A fraction tighter. A shade colder. The warmth was gone from the chords. It wasn’t accompaniment anymore, it was punctuation.

Sharp. Clinical. Exact.

The tender phrases were gone. No swell. No softness.

Ethan’s hands were good, strong and practiced, but his grip lingered. When he lifted you during the balcony phrase, his fingers spread a little too wide across your ribs. When he corrected your arm in the final phrase, his hand skimmed the back of your neck.

You felt Spencer’s gaze across the room. Heavy.

After rehearsal, you sat on the bench, wrapping your foot, when Spencer finally approached.

“Are you alright?” You asked, still focused on your foot. “Your playing seemed—”

“I think he’s wrong for you.” Spencer interrupted. You looked up. He was staring at his sheet music, not looking at you.

“Professionally or—?”

“Both. He’s too comfortable with you.”

“He is my partner, Spencer.”

“That doesn’t mean he needs to hang off you like a backpack.”

You frowned. “Why do you care?”

He looked at you then, really looked. “Because he’s not watching you. He’s watching himself. There’s a difference.”

You stared at him.

He shrugged. “But what do I know? I’m just the guy on the bench.”

You stood up, frustration flaring. “No. You’re the guy who’s always just on the bench. Watching. Judging.”

“Because I’ve seen you work your ass off for this, and he’s going to coast through it on charm and abs.”

“Maybe that’s what I want.”

He went still. “You don’t.”

You crossed your arms. “You think you know me now?”

“I know you better than he does.”

The silence that followed was heavy.

He stared at you.

You stepped back.

Then you said, quietly: “I thought we were past this.”

He blinked.

“So did I,” he said, voice rough.

You shook your head, heart in your throat. “But you’re still just waiting for me to fail. Aren’t you?”

He didn’t answer. So you left.

You left him standing there, music folder under one arm, jaw clenched like he was trying not to say everything that had suddenly become true.

~~~~~~~~~~

The two of you didn’t speak during rehearsals anymore.

You stopped saying hello. He stopped greeting you.

He still played for you. The notes were perfect but the music was restrained now. It felt hollow, empty of the life he used to pour into it. There was no teasing, no lingering phrasing, no glances over the piano lid.

You danced through rehearsals like your body was a shield. Like your limbs weren’t connected to your heart anymore.

Ethan joked. Grinned. Offered to grab coffee. He kept smiling. Kept touching. Kept acting like the tragedy of Juliet had nothing to do with loss.

But you felt it anyway.

Because somewhere along the way, you’d started to lose Spencer.

And every time Spencer glanced up from the piano, you felt the weight of what you’d lost. And the part of you that had trusted him, that had believed in him, cracked quietly beneath your ribs.

~~~~~~~~~~

Two weeks passed in silence.

Not literal silence. The studios still rang with music. Dancers still laughed in the halls. Ethan still cracked jokes and complimented your hair. The choreographers still clapped, the faculty still took notes, the mirrors still reflected every line of your body.

But between you and Spencer?

It was quiet in all the wrong ways.

He didn’t joke anymore.

He didn’t correct you, or tease you during water breaks, or offer a single sarcastic comment when you came in ten minutes late to rehearsal on Wednesday.

He didn’t even look at you anymore.

And it was driving you crazy.

You tried to pretend things hadn’t changed. That nothing had cracked.

That Spencer’s eyes didn’t avoid yours now. That the teasing, the sidelong glances, the private jokes between phrases—none of it had mattered.

But it had.

You felt it in your bones. In your shoulders, in your feet, in your gut.

In the hollow space he left behind when he stopped looking at you like you were his favorite song to play.

He still showed up to rehearsal, every day on time, always at the piano. But he didn’t ask how you were anymore. Didn’t needle you about your spacing or roll his eyes when you took your time adjusting your skirt before a run-through.

Now he just… played.

Not badly. Never that. The notes were always perfect.

But they felt empty.

Like music without a pulse.

Like you weren’t dancing with him anymore, just alongside him. Separated by a pit of silence you couldn’t cross.

Ethan, on the other hand, was louder than ever.

He made jokes at the barre, cracked smiles when you messed up, and whispered compliments in your ear right before every lift. His hands were steady, practiced, confident—maybe too confident. He always held on just a second too long.

He was everything a partner was supposed to be.

And yet… your body never settled into his.

Not the way it did with the music. With Spencer.

You tried not to look toward the piano, but you always did. Every time Ethan touched you like he knew you, like he owned the choreography, your eyes flicked to the man behind the music.

Spencer never looked back.

Even when Ethan spun you off axis and you stumbled, Spencer didn’t flinch.

Even when Ethan’s fingers brushed too high on your ribs, Spencer didn’t adjust the tempo like he used to. Like when he played for you, with you, through you.

Now he just turned the page and kept going.

You hated it.

And you hated that it hurt so much.

Because you hadn’t realized how much you’d come to rely on the rhythm of him. His wit, his quiet encouragement, the way he once rolled his eyes when you landed something perfectly, just to hide the little grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

It was stupid. He wasn’t your friend.

He was your enemy. Your rival. The boy who cost you a scholarship, who mocked you every chance he got, who said too much with too little and got under your skin like no one else ever could.

But you missed him.

Oh, how you missed him.

And the worst part?

You didn’t know how to get him back.

You tried to ignore it.

You tried to focus on Ethan, on the staging, on remembering that Juliet doesn’t look distracted in Act I.

You practiced harder than you needed to, ran through solos twice when once was enough, smiled through sore ankles and gritted your teeth every time Ethan touched you with just a little too much familiarity.

You told yourself it was fine.

But your dancing was off.

You felt disconnected, like you were performing through glass. The choreography was there, but your heart wasn’t. The timing felt wrong, even when Spencer played it perfectly.

And still, he never said a word.

You began to wonder if he even cared anymore.

~~~~~~~~~~

After rehearsal one evening, you stayed behind to stretch.

Spencer was packing up. He moved slowly, carefully sliding his scores into a worn leather folder, tucking away loose pages that had once been scattered across the piano when it was just you and him in a room, laughing about key changes and teasing each other over phrasing.

Now?

Now, you weren’t sure you even knew him anymore.

“I liked it better,” you said quietly, “when you made fun of me.”

He paused.

Didn’t look up.

“I’m trying to be professional,” he said, tone clipped.

“Since when have you ever been professional?”

He finally looked at you.

His eyes were tired. Not angry. Just… resigned.

“Since you stopped trusting me.”

You opened your mouth.

Closed it again.

Because what could you say?

That you didn’t mean it? That it scared you how much you’d started to trust him? That watching him pull away made your chest ache in ways you couldn’t name?

Instead, you just nodded once.

And let him walk out.

~~~~~~~~~~

Another night, after rehearsal, you sat alone in the middle of the studio. Everyone else had left. The lights were still on, humming above you, and the piano was still there in the corner. Closed. Cold.

You stared at it like it might say something. Like it might open up and spill out a melody just for you. Something soft. Something meaningful.

It didn’t.

You wrapped your arms around your knees and pressed your forehead down. You thought you’d feel proud, being Juliet. Powerful. Triumphant.

Instead, you felt wrong.

Spencer hadn’t said your name in days. Hadn’t met your eye. Hadn’t stayed after.

When you danced now, you felt like your lungs were half-full and someone had turned the music into math.

Even the solo work suffered. Your teacher started giving you corrections that made no sense, telling you your arms were “technically fine” but “not telling a story.”

You wanted to scream. Or cry. Or rewind three weeks to when Spencer called you insufferable and smirked like you were a riddle he liked being confused by.

That night, you couldn’t sleep.

You stared at your ceiling with your headphones in, the Prokofiev score looping quietly, each movement triggering a memory — the balcony scene where his eyes had met yours just before the music rose, the final duet where his tempo shifted to match your heartbeat.

You missed it.

You missed him.

You hadn’t even realized you were holding something with him until it slipped through your fingers.

You rolled over and squeezed your eyes shut, trying not to think about the way he’d looked at you the last time you danced alone, like you were something more than a girl playing a role.

~~~~~~~~~~

In rehearsal the next morning, Ethan kissed your temple during a lift. He did it without asking.

The studio applauded. Your director smiled.

You forced a laugh and turned to bow.

You didn’t look at the piano.

You couldn’t.

Later, in the hallway, you passed Spencer as he was leaving. He was walking fast, eyes on the floor. You opened your mouth. Maybe to say hi, maybe to ask what was wrong, maybe to apologize for… something.

But he walked right past you.

Not cold. Not angry.

Just gone.

You stood in the hall long after he left, holding your water bottle like it might anchor you. You had the role. The stage. The spotlight.

But it didn’t feel like a victory.

Not anymore.

~~~~~~~~~~

Spencer heard you before he saw you.

The soft tap of your pointe shoes as you crossed the marley floor, the familiar rustle of your warm-ups, the quiet breath you always took right before placing your hand on the barre. You were always early. Always composed. Always sharp.

But ever since casting went up, you��d been different.

Colder. Distracted. Quieter than usual and somehow louder at the same time, the kind of loud that came from silence. From a look not held. From a joke left hanging. From words not said.

You had been cast as Juliet.

He wasn’t surprised.

He’d played for your audition run-through, watched you move with such purpose he’d almost stopped playing just to watch. He’d stayed behind that night, long after your teacher left, and played the balcony theme to an empty room and wondering what it would sound like if he could play it just for you.

But now you had a Romeo.

And it wasn’t him.

Spencer had known Ethan was going to be trouble the moment the cast list dropped. Not because he was unprofessional or weak — he was fine, as dancers went. Strong, good lines, decent lift form. But Ethan smiled too much. Laughed too loud. Held your waist like he thought he’d earned it just by being paired with you.

Spencer hated it.

He hated the way Ethan looked at you like you were choreography. Like you were his.

And he hated the way you let it happen.

Because a week ago, you would’ve turned to Spencer mid-run and raised your eyebrows at every fumbled grip. You would’ve whispered snarky commentary under your breath, mouthed “kill me” from center stage. You would’ve rolled your eyes at Ethan’s winks and said something biting, then smiled after like you were daring Spencer to match you.

But now?

Now you barely looked his way.

When you entered the studio, you greeted your teacher. You stretched. You danced.

You didn’t look at the piano.

You didn’t look at him.

And Spencer didn’t know how to fix it.

He still played. Every rehearsal, every variation, every difficult cue. But he held back now, not because he wanted to, but because he didn’t know where the line was anymore.

Before, his music had been a conversation. A call and response. He played for you, and you answered.

Now it felt like shouting into a void.

You didn’t even hear it.

The worst moment came during a pas de deux run-through.

Ethan had missed his grip. Spencer had seen it coming — the angle was wrong, the transition too fast — and he’d tightened the tempo instinctively, hoping to help. You stumbled, barely recovered, and smiled through it like nothing happened.

But Spencer saw the flicker of embarrassment flash across your face. He saw the apology in your posture. And then he saw Ethan laugh.

You didn’t say a word.

Neither did Spencer.

But the rest of the piece, he played like his hands were made of glass. No nuance. No tenderness. If you noticed, you didn’t show it.

After rehearsal one night, he heard your voice from down the hall.

Ethan’s too, louder and cockier. He was talking about his followers, about the bow choreography, about how the kiss at the end “would kill.”

Spencer didn’t hear your response. He didn’t want to.

He sat alone at the piano after everyone left, hands still, heart aching with everything he didn’t know how to say.

He missed you.

Oh, how he missed you.

Not just the rehearsals or the sparring or the way you used to roll your eyes when he flirted — he missed the way you used to see him. The way your gaze would catch his after a phrase landed just right, the way your laugh sounded when you were too tired to pretend to hate him.

You’d started to let him in. He had started to care.

And then he said the wrong thing. Or didn’t say enough. Or didn’t fight hard enough to stop Ethan from stepping in. He didn’t know.

All he knew was: you were slipping through his fingers, and it felt exactly like the moment five years ago when you’d walked away from him in the hallway after that audition.

Only this time, he couldn’t blame the tempo.

This time, he couldn’t say it was an accident.

He’d had the chance to be something better.

And he let you think he was the same boy you’d never forgiven.

~~~~~~~~~~

You had done this a hundred times before.

Pre-show ritual. Hair pinned. Lashes glued. Pointe shoes prepped and crisscrossed and knotted three times for good luck. Your Juliet costume hung beside you like a ghost — delicate, pale, heartbreak stitched into every seam.

The theatre was a hive of motion. Technicians ducking under ropes, dressers carrying hangers like weapons, dancers stretching against the walls, cracking jokes just a little too loud to hide the nerves.

You sat in front of the dressing room mirror, the lights hot on your skin, the room too loud and too still all at once.

You pressed your hands to your thighs to stop them from shaking.

It was the kind of nerves that didn’t come from fear. Not exactly. It came from knowing that tonight meant something.

This performance was more than an ending.

It felt like a test.

And you weren’t sure you were going to pass.

Someone knocked on the doorframe. “Ten minutes ‘til house opens.”

You stood and smoothed your skirt automatically, slipping into your rehearsal wrap as you grabbed your water bottle and headed into the corridor. The hallway backstage was narrow and buzzing — cast members zipping past, stage crew rolling carts, someone shouting for a missing pair of tights.

You needed space.

Just a moment.

You turned down the side hallway that led toward the pit entrance. It was quieter here, the hum of the orchestra warming up echoing faintly through the stage floor above. You weren’t even sure why you were walking that way. Maybe you just wanted to hear the music again before you had to dance to it.

And then you saw him.

Spencer.

Leaning against the wall by the pit door, sleeves rolled, collar open, music folder tucked under one arm. He hadn’t gone down yet.

He was alone.

And before you could turn around, he looked up.

For one suspended moment, neither of you moved.

Your throat went tight.

His eyes flicked across you — your wrap, your makeup half-finished, your hair still braided into Juliet’s innocence. You wondered what he saw. If he saw you, or just the character you’d become.

Then, softly: “Hey.”

You nodded, arms crossing loosely in front of your chest. “Hey.”

He hesitated, straightened slightly. “You look… ready.”

You gave a small, forced smile. “Hope so.”

Another pause.

You wanted to say something. Anything. But instead, silence settled between you again, loud and aching.

Spencer looked down at his folder. Then back at you.

He didn’t smile.

But his voice was soft when he said, “Break a leg.”

You blinked.

The words landed like a whisper against a bruise.

“Spencer—”

But he was already moving past you, careful not to touch your arm as he passed. Just close enough that you felt the warmth of him.

As he reached the door to the pit stairs, he paused.

Didn’t turn around.

Just said, quiet and steady, “You’re going to be beautiful.”

And then he disappeared.

You stood there for a long second, staring at the spot where he’d been, heart cracking open in your chest.

And when the stage manager called, “Fifteen minutes to places,”

You turned.

And went to become Juliet.

~~~~~~~~~~

The theatre buzzed like it was alive.

Hundreds of people, velvet seats filled, playbills crinkling in eager hands, voices murmuring with anticipation. You waited behind the curtain, Juliet’s gown soft and breathless around your ankles, arms crossed tightly over your ribs.

It wasn’t nerves.

Not just nerves.

It was knowing what was coming, and feeling powerless to stop it.

You had danced Juliet a hundred times in rehearsal. You had lived in her skin, wept in her tomb, floated in her balcony dreams. You knew her. But tonight, your chest felt empty.

Not because of the story.

Because of the silence.

Because Spencer hadn’t spoken to you since that moment backstage.

You hadn’t said anything either.

And now here you were, about to bleed onstage in front of a full house, and the only person who could read your heartbeat in music wouldn’t even look at you.

The curtain rose.

You stepped into the light.

The opening scene passed in a blur. Your lines were clean, your port de bras soft, your footwork precise, but it was like dancing underwater. Spencer’s music reached you in waves: perfect, polished, impersonal.

And then Ethan entered.

Loud applause. Showy smile. He winked at the audience like it was all about him — because for Ethan, it was.

The partnering began.

At first, it was small things.

His hand gripping too high on your ribcage, knocking your balance in an arabesque. His pirouette spot catching the wrong direction and making you over-rotate on a turn. His grip during a lift coming late, forcing your weight to fall back into your ankle to avoid falling entirely.

You covered it.

You always covered it.

But Spencer would’ve caught those missteps — adjusted tempo, softened phrasing, caught your weight in the music. Ethan just kept smiling like it didn’t matter.

And the audience didn’t know the difference.

But you did.

You were drowning in it.

The show continued.

The balcony pas de deux began, and your stomach twisted.

This was the moment. The moment Spencer used to play like a secret. The one you used to breathe with — heart syncing to every downbeat like your body belonged to it.

But tonight?

The notes were beautiful.

And empty.

Spencer didn’t look up from the pit once.

And Ethan?

Ethan missed the first cue.

You reached for him as scripted, and his arm wasn’t there. He’d stepped half a beat late — and you faltered. You caught yourself, barely, turning it into a flourish that looked intentional, but it wasn’t.

Your heart pounded.

You tried to refocus. Re-center. But it kept happening.

He turned you late in a promenade, forcing your knee to twist to keep up.

He pulled into a lift too early — you weren’t ready, your leg faltered mid-air, and your skirt tangled in his hand.

He smiled through it all like nothing was wrong.

But everything was.

And then, worst of all, he dropped your hand in front of everyone.

A transition in Juliet’s variation, a supported balance into a turn, and he simply… let go. Your hand slipped through his fingers mid-step, and you stumbled.

Not slightly.

Not gracefully.

Your body jerked forward, toe catching the marley floor, arms flailing for balance.

A gasp rose from the audience like a wave.

You finished the turn on your own, forced a recovery, willed your spine to straighten like it hadn’t happened. But your cheeks burned. Your chest ached.

And Spencer?

Still playing.

Still not looking.

But the music shifted. Barely. Almost imperceptibly.

A tremor.

As if he had seen.

And had no idea what to do about it.

You danced the rest in a daze.

The tomb scene was a blur of pain — your knee still throbbed from the stumble, your breathing came too fast. You lay across the stone slab, chest heaving, eyes full of tears you didn’t let fall.

And then Ethan leaned in and kissed your temple.

Not in the choreography. Not something you had agreed on. Just something he did.

Possessive. Smug. Like he’d claimed you.

You wanted to scream.

Instead, you lay still.

Spencer played the final notes.

The last chord echoed, soft and hollow, and the curtain dropped.

The audience erupted in applause.

But you didn’t hear it.

You were already moving — offstage, through the wings, into the hallway, ripping the pins from your hair, trying to pull the Juliet costume from your shoulders because it felt like it was suffocating you.

Someone called your name. A stagehand? A castmate?

You didn’t stop.

Out the backstage doors.

Into the rain.

It was pouring — cold and sudden, soaking through your leotard and tights, mascara streaking down your cheeks before you even knew you were crying.

Not just because of Ethan.

Not just because of the stumble.

Because you’d tried so hard.

And still, it hadn’t been enough.

Because Spencer hadn’t looked at you.

And you had danced your heart out for someone who never even saw it break.

~~~~~~~~~~

Spencer should have looked away.

That was the mistake.

Not the missed cues or the ruined partnering, those were Ethan’s. Not the heartbreak painted across your face, that was just consequence. No, the mistake was that Spencer let himself look at you.

Really look.

From the moment you stepped onstage, he was gone.

He tried not to be. He really tried.

He sat at the piano in the pit, sheet music perfectly arranged, fingers moving with quiet, professional precision. He was barely breathing through the overture, eyes fixed on the notes, not daring to glance up even when you took your opening pose.

But he could feel you.

He always could.

And when you started to dance, the muscle memory took over — his hands shaped the phrasing around your breath, the way they had for weeks. He knew your rhythm better than his own. He had spent days molding the score to your instincts, matching your tempo before you even set it.

And then Ethan walked onstage.

And something shifted.

The cues were off.

Not enough for the audience to notice at first. Not enough to ruin anything outright. But Spencer could feel it. The way Ethan’s hand jerked too quickly during the turn. The way he forced your pacing in the lift, made you land early and recover with too much weight in your ankle.

You were correcting it all like a professional.

But you were dancing like someone being held hostage.

And Spencer’s fingers stuttered, just once, on the keys.

He caught it. Nobody else noticed. But he felt it.

He felt you.

By the balcony pas de deux, Spencer’s jaw was clenched so tight it ached.

He didn’t want to look.

But when Ethan missed the first cue and you stumbled—

His eyes snapped up.

He saw the hesitation in your wrist. The flicker of shock in your eyes. The half-step recovery you made to save the turn. And worst of all, the way Ethan smiled through it, like your stumble had never happened.

Like he didn’t even care.

Spencer’s heart dropped.

He kept playing.

He had to.

But everything in him screamed to get out of the pit and fix it. Take the music with him. Stop the show. Push Ethan offstage and take his place if he had to. Because how dare he—how dare he touch you like that and not treat it like something sacred?

You danced with your whole soul.

And Ethan treated you like a stage prop.

And Spencer had never hated anyone more in his life.

Then the tomb scene.

He saw it coming before it happened. Ethan jumped the cue for the lift. Spencer's hands hovered for one half-beat too long over the keys, waiting to see if you’d catch it.

You didn’t.

You couldn’t.

You stumbled — not badly, not dangerously, but visibly. Spencer heard the audience gasp. He watched your face freeze.

And he knew.

He knew you’d be blaming yourself.

He knew you’d think you were the problem — not the missed timing, not the dropped hand, not the smug bastard who kept improvising and dragging you down with him.

You lay back against the tomb like Juliet was giving up.

And then Ethan kissed your temple.

Spencer nearly stood from the bench.

It wasn’t in the choreography. It wasn’t respectful. It wasn’t earned.

And it wasn’t his place to stop it.

But god, he wanted to.

He played the final notes with fingers gone cold.

And the second the curtain dropped, he shoved away from the piano, his stool screeching against the floor.

He didn’t wait to hear the applause.

He didn’t bother with his folder.

He ran.

Backstage was chaos. Hugs, flowers, congratulations. People called his name, but he didn’t stop. He scanned the wings, the hallway, your dressing room door. Nothing.

Then someone shouted, “She went outside!”

And his stomach plunged.

He bolted through the back door.

And there you were.

Running barefoot across the loading dock, soaked to the skin in white silk and heartbreak.

“Wait—hey—stop!”

You didn’t stop.

You didn’t even look at him.

Spencer’s lungs burned as he chased after you, feet slipping slightly on the rain-slick pavement. His hair stuck to his forehead, his jacket clung to his back, but he didn’t care.

He just needed to reach you.

“Please,” he gasped. “Don’t walk away.”

You turned — eyes blazing, cheeks wet with tears and rain, the night turning everything silver around you.

And that’s when he knew.

He had already lost you once.

He would not survive doing it again.

~~~~~~~~~~

The rain hadn’t let up.

It pelted the pavement in sheets, soaking through your hair, your skin, the silk and mesh of Juliet’s costume clinging to your body like a second, ruined skin. Your makeup was gone. Your pointe shoes, long abandoned, were somewhere in the dressing room, and your bare feet slapped hard against the asphalt as you paced the back lot of the theatre, trying not to sob out loud.

You hadn’t made it far.

Just enough to be alone.

Just enough to fall apart without anyone watching.

Except someone was.

“Wait—hey—stop!”

You froze.

The voice cracked through the downpour like lightning.

You turned, breath caught in your throat, heart already hammering before you even saw him.

Spencer.

He was running toward you — dress shirt plastered to his chest, jacket half-on like he’d grabbed it mid-sprint. Rain streamed down his face, dripping from the ends of his curls, his eyes wide and wild and fixed on you.

You took a step back.

“Don’t.”

“Please,” he said, his voice sharp and desperate as he caught up to you. “Don’t walk away.”

You shook your head, the lump in your throat threatening to explode. “What do you want, Spencer?”

“I want to talk to you!”

“Now?” You laughed, a ragged, broken sound. “After everything? After that disaster? You want to talk?”

“I—yes!” His hands flung outward, helpless. “I’ve been trying to—”

“You’ve been ignoring me!” you shouted, louder than the rain. “You barely looked at me for a week and then sat there like a ghost while I fell apart onstage!”

“I didn’t know what to do!”

“Then you should’ve stayed in the pit and shut up!”

He stepped forward. “You think I wanted to watch that happen? You think I enjoyed watching him drop you like that? Throw off your timing? Let go of you in front of the entire damn auditorium?”

You flinched. “Don’t you dare act like you care—”

“I do care!”

The words hit you like thunder.

He froze, eyes locked on yours, chest rising and falling with each breath like he couldn’t believe he’d said it either.

You stared at him, the rain turning everything silver around you.

“No,” you said quietly, shaking your head. “You just wanted to be right. You never liked Ethan. You were waiting for me to crash so you could say I told you so.”

“That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” Your voice cracked. “Isn’t it easier to believe I messed it all up because I didn’t listen to you? Just like last time—”

“Don’t bring that up.”

“Why not? You ruined one performance and now you’ve ruined another—”

“I didn’t ruin anything!” he shouted. “You think I sabotaged you tonight? I was the only one trying to hold it together!”

You stood there, shaking, rain running down your neck. “Then why didn’t you stop him?”

“Because I didn’t think I had the right!”

Silence.

All at once, the fight drained from your limbs. You blinked, lips parting. “…What?”

Spencer ran a hand through his soaked hair, voice breaking as he finally looked at you — really looked at you.

“Because I already broke something once,” he said. “Back then, during your audition, I was stupid. I was arrogant. I thought I could wing it, thought I had it all under control, and I messed up. I never meant to hurt you, but I did. And when you looked at me like I’d cost you your future, I believed it.”

You swallowed.

“I’ve been trying to make up for it ever since,” he said softly. “Playing everything perfectly. Staying quiet. Letting you hate me, because I thought that was what I deserved.”

He stepped closer.

“But this time? This time I saw him hurting you and I still didn’t say anything — because I was so scared that if I interfered, you’d think I was trying to sabotage you again.”

You felt something give way in your chest.

“I watched you fall,” he whispered, “and I hated myself for it.”

The wind shifted. You didn’t realize until then that your fists had been clenched at your sides, trembling.

You exhaled shakily. “I thought we were friends.”

“We were.”

“Then why did it feel like you disappeared the second I needed you?”

Spencer’s voice cracked. “Because I realized I didn’t want to be your friend anymore.”

The words hung in the space between you like a secret you’d both been hiding.

“I was jealous,” he admitted. “Of him. Of how he got to touch you, hold you, dance with you. I was jealous of every rehearsal I didn’t get to be in, every moment you looked at him instead of me. And it made me sick, because I had no right.”

You stared at him, your breath hitching.

“I pushed you away,” he said, “because I was falling in love with you, and I didn’t know how to be near you without telling you everything.”

Time stopped.

The rain blurred around you like a curtain falling.

“You—” you began, but your voice faltered.

His eyes searched yours. “I never stopped playing for you. Not even when you stopped listening.”

Your chest crumpled.

You took one step forward, and then another.

“You’re an idiot,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“You drive me insane.”

“I know.”

“I’m still mad at you.”

“I deserve it.”

You were still shaking when you reached for him.

It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t graceful. Your fingers curled into his soaked shirt like you needed something, someone, to hold you up, and Spencer didn’t hesitate. His arms wrapped around you in an instant, one at your waist, the other sliding up your spine until your bodies pressed flush together, like the only way to stay standing was to do it as one.

Your forehead touched his first.

Then your nose brushed his.

And for one suspended heartbeat, neither of you breathed.

The rain poured around you like a curtain falling — cold, silver, roaring in your ears.

He was so close.

You could feel the heat of his breath, the tension in his grip, the way his chest heaved against yours like he was barely holding it together.

And then—

Then you kissed him.

It wasn’t gentle.

It wasn’t shy.

It was desperate. The kind of kiss that spoke in screams and sobs and every word you didn’t say onstage. The kind of kiss you give someone after you’ve broken their heart and they’ve broken yours and somehow, somehow, you’re still standing here anyway.

Your lips crashed into his, teeth knocking slightly, hands fisting into the fabric at his shoulders. His fingers gripped you like you might vanish again, one hand cupping the back of your head, thumb stroking behind your ear even as his mouth devoured yours.

You gasped against him, and he chased the sound, tilting his head, deepening the kiss until your knees nearly buckled.

You tasted rainwater and salt and something achingly familiar.

And he kissed like he’d been dying to, like he hadn’t allowed himself to imagine it until now. Like this was something sacred. Like you were.

You pulled back just a little, breathless, your forehead pressed to his, lips tingling, eyes locked on his mouth like you weren’t sure it was real.

And he looked at you, really looked, as if he was memorizing every inch of your face. Every freckle, every flutter of your lashes, every way your mouth trembled from everything that had come before.

He brushed a strand of wet hair from your cheek, and you leaned into his hand without thinking.

“You came after me,” you whispered.

He nodded. “I’d chase you anywhere, ballerina.”

And then you kissed him again.

Softer this time.

Slower.

Like forgiveness.

Like beginning.

Like the promise of something neither of you had ever dared let yourselves hope for.

You curled into him, and he held you tighter, like he could anchor you there, in this exact moment, forever.

Your lips were swollen, your breath uneven, your hands still knotted into the fabric of his shirt.

But you weren’t trembling anymore.

He pressed his forehead to yours again, eyes closed, rain dripping from his lashes like tears he hadn’t let fall.

“I missed you,” you whispered.

His breath hitched. “I never stopped.”

You stayed like that for a long moment. Wrapped in each other, soaked to the bone, but anchored in something that finally felt real.

Not borrowed from a script.

Not rehearsed or choreographed.

Just real.

And when you pulled back to look at him again, there was no audience. No music.

Just the two of you.

Soaked. Breathless. Steady.

And somehow, finally, on the same page.

He smiled. Soft. Crooked. A little broken still.

You smiled back.

And this time, neither of you looked away.

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