Page 34 of Tension
I set the phone down and return to the window, the water still cool in my hand. The city sparkles faintly under the low clouds, and I stare out at it like it might have answers. Like it might tell me who I’m supposed to be.
Should I quit? Should I walk away before I lose everything again? Because I can feel how much she means to me already, and it’s too much, too fast, and too dangerous. She could be the reason I spiral, but she’s also the reason I feel alive.
Vaeda doesn’t offer me anything toxic and doesn’t encourage my weaknesses, but the way she sees me, the way she challenges me? It lights something inside me I thought I lost. I press my palm to the window, hoping the chill brings me back to reality, and breathe deeply. My chest hurts. I don’t want to let go of this, of her, of the studio, but if I keep holding on, it might break me.
I close my eyes and whisper into the night, “What the hell am I doing?”
The answer doesn’t come, and only the ache remains.
THIRTEEN
Vaeda
The morning sun barely filters through the gauzy curtains of our penthouse, but I’m already awake. Gerardo is still asleep, his breathing even beside me, but my body won’t rest. My mind won’t stop replaying last night. Mateo’s eyes. That electricity.
I slip out of bed quietly, not bothering to change out of my leggings and oversized sweatshirt, the crop top underneath bunching under my chest. My ankle still throbs from wearing heels for too long, but I ignore it, grabbing my keys and jacket, then heading out the door before I have time to talk myself down.
Fusion Core is silent when I arrive, a stark contrast to the rushed activity on the streets. This close to Christmas, everyone is scrambling to complete their shopping. The cold fluorescent lights blink on as I walk in, the scent of floor polish lingering in the air. It’s my day off, and yet somehow, here I am. There’s a comfort in the studio I can’t find anywhere else. It’s routine anddiscipline. The one place where my body still listens to me, even if only for a little while.
I settle behind my desk first, sorting through paperwork and registration forms we’ve neglected since the competition prep began. My ankle pulses, and I curl my toes, trying to stretch it without drawing attention to the pain, though no one is here to see me anyway.
After a while, the stillness becomes too much, so I pull off my sweater and leave the desk to walk onto the floor, the familiar squeak of my sneakers echoing across the space. My hands find the sound system out of habit, fingers scrolling until a piano instrumental sounds through the speakers. I stretch slowly, biting back a wince. Then I start to move.
It’s not a routine, nothing polished or planned. Just muscle memory and emotion, pouring out of me one step at a time. My body knows how to speak this language, even when my mind is exhausted. Even when my ankle screams.
I dance through the ache, letting it blend with the frustration, the confusion. Every extension, every turn is sharper than it should be, a reflection of everything I don’t say out loud.
I’m breathless and shaking when I finally stop, one hand on the mirror to steady myself. The studio falls quiet again, the music fading to a whisper. That’s when I hear the door, and I turn sharply, startled when I see him.
Mateo stands in the doorway, framed by the soft glow of the corridor light behind him. His coat is unzipped, cheeks pink from the cold, and his expression is unreadable.
“I was out walking,” he explains, his voice hesitant. “Saw the lights on. Didn’t think anyone would be here.”
My pulse stutters. “I wasn’t expecting company.”
He steps slowly inside, like he isn’t sure if he should be here. “I can see that.” I brush my fingers through my hair and nod,turning slightly so he can’t see the way my hand is trembling at my side. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“You didn’t.” The lie tastes bitter. “I was just... clearing my head.”
He glances at the mirror, our eyes meeting. “I get that.”
The silence stretches between us, thick with fear and anticipation. I can’t break the contact, and the intensity there knocks the air from my lungs.
“You look like you needed it,” he says gently.
“Yeah,” I reply, forcing a small smile. “I did.” And now, standing in the same room with him again, I’m not sure I can keep pretending that I don’t need more than just the dance.
MATEO
Vaeda leans against the barre, her arms crossed, the hint of exertion still glowing in her cheeks. Her hair is pulled back in a loose twist, and a sheen of sweat glistens along her collarbone. My eyes travel downward, over her braless chest and bare midriff, drops of sweat clinging to her porcelain skin. She’s toned to perfection, her abs flexing with each labored breath. My eyes glide back up, and I find her watching me like she always does, like she sees more than she should, more than I want her to.
“Did you ever find that Hip-hop class I suggested?” she asks, her voice casual, but her eyes are filled with heat.
I shake my head. “No.”
She arches an eyebrow. “No?”
“I was waiting for you.” The words hang there, more honest than I meant them to be, but I don’t take them back.
