Page 52 of Tension
I blink. “What?”
“The hip-hop class. It starts in ten.” She grins, thumb hooked toward the door as she pulls out a key and unlocks it. “Come on in.”
For a second, I hesitate, but then I hear myself say, “Yeah, I am.” And I follow her inside.
The studio smells like hardwood polish and traces of vanilla from someone’s perfume. The mirrored wall reflects my hesitation as I find a spot near the back corner, rolling out my shoulders and slowly easing into a stretch. My ankle gives a slight protest, but I push through it. The music playing overhead is just a warm-up beat, but already it makes something loosen inside my chest.
People trickle in. Men and women in sweats, sneakers, cropped shirts, and beat-up dance shoes. Most of them are young. A few smile at me. I give a tight nod, keeping my head down as I fall into a deeper lunge.
Then I feel it. A prickle of energy in the air. A current I recognize without needing to see it. I look up with instinct more than thought, and there he is.
Mateo steps into the studio casually, eyes half-lidded, headphones slung around his neck, dressed in black joggers and a fitted tee that clings to the ridges of his chest and shoulders. He doesn’t see me at first, focused on tying the laces of his sneakers, but I see him and I can’t breathe.
The noise of the studio fades until all I hear is my pulse pounding in my ears. My fingertips tremble where they rest on the floor. Then he straightens, his gaze sweeping the room, distracted, until it lands on me like a lightning strike. His whole body goes still as shock washes across his face, raw, exposed, and real. His lips part like he might say something, but then someone walks in front of him and the moment breaks.
The instructor’s voice booms, calling us to the center. I force myself to stand, joints stiff from more than just stretching. Mateo doesn’t move right away, then he drifts into the line beside another dancer, keeping a distance from me, but not so far that I can’t feel him there.
The music starts, hard beats, pulsing rhythm, and the instructor throws us into movement. It takes everything I have to follow along. My body is capable, trained, but my head? My heart? They’re in pieces. The bass drives through the floor and into my ribs, demanding I keep up.
Halfway through the final routine, I feel a presence behind me, then I feel his hands. Light, hesitant, and familiar.
Mateo slides in behind me with a confidence that belies the aching look he gave me earlier. His palms graze my hips, his chest brushing my back as we mirror the movement together, caught in a moment no one else sees.
His breath ghosts over my neck as we fall into step, synchronized and seamless. The rhythm grows more sensual,and his grip firms slightly, guiding the arc of my hips into his. My hands find his at my waist without thinking, grinding myself into him as my body forgets to care about everything else. There’s no instruction here. No choreography. Just memory, desire, and regret.
I tilt my head back slightly, just enough to feel his exhale on my skin as his fingertips tighten, then drop away. By the time I turn to face him, the song is over and he’s walking away. No words. Not even a glance. Just the hollow echo of the door closing behind him.
And I let him go.
Even though my legs threaten to collapse beneath me.
TWENTY-ONE
Mateo
Ishouldn’t have touched her.
The door of the studio clicks shut behind me as I step into the piercing light of late morning, the sun sitting low but still fierce above the skyline, fighting the chilly January day. It feels as though the sun can’t fully reach me here at ground level as the buildings block it from view most of the time, but in those breaks, when the sun kisses my cheeks, it feels a lot like hope.
I shouldn’t have danced with her, but the second I saw Vaeda in that studio, her silhouette lit in the mirror, eyes locking with mine like a fuse, I forgot every rule I’ve been clinging to. I’d been building distance. I told myself I was done letting her pull me back under, but then she showed up.
She’s never come back to that studio since our first time there. I’ve been going for weeks. It became my sanctuary. It was uncomplicated and all mine, but the second she stepped into the room, that illusion fractured.
I move fast down the street, my sneakers hitting pavement harder than necessary, trying to outrun the heat still buzzing inmy veins. I can still feel the brush of her back against my chest, the way her breath hitched when I touched her hips. Every step of that dance felt like falling again, and I’m not sure I have anything left to catch myself with. I don’t want to want her. Not like this. Not in this endless agony of almost being mine and then never going to happen.
My building comes into view, the sun reflecting off the large glass panes like a beacon directing me home, but it no longer feels like home. I don’t know if it ever did. I’ve been here since late August, in preparation for the new school year, which puts me at six months. I’ve been in New York for six months and it still hasn’t really sunk in that this is home.
The doorman straightens as I approach. “Afternoon, Mr. Sanchez.”
I nod silently, pulse still racing. He’ll call my father, like always. Maybe he’ll say nothing, or maybe he’ll tell him I looked distracted, tight-jawed, like I was about to spin out. Or maybe he’ll say I was quiet. Controlled. Back home before lunch on a Saturday. Either way, it’s a report I didn’t ask for.
I head to the elevator and press the button, and the glow of the floor numbers blinking back at me feels hollow. By the time the doors open and I step inside, I already know the afternoon is shot. There will be no studying. No rest. Just the echo of her.
When I get to my apartment, I drop my keys and bag, then freeze in the center of the room. Light pours through the floor-to-ceiling windows, draping gold over everything. It should feel warm and safe, but it doesn’t. All I feel is the emptiness where she should be, and if Vaeda’s the only thing making me feel whole, then I’ve already relapsed in the worst way.
The textbook is open in my lap, pages lined with notes, highlighter strokes, and scribbled margin questions, but I haven’t absorbed a single word in the past hour. My mind keeps drifting to the studio, to the heat of Vaeda’s body when we moved together and the way she didn’t stop me.
I shift on the couch, trying to force focus, but I’m fooling myself. Closing my eyes, I try to breathe through it, grounding myself with the familiar texture of the throw blanket under my palm and the low buzz of traffic outside.
