Page 62 of Healing Eleanor

“You—stay,” he says, pointing at me as he walks toward my end of the room.

My heart sinks somewhere into my stomach.

Everyone filters out of the room quickly. Once we’re alone, Nik’s gaze grips mine with a focus that is almost unsettling. Maybe he is frustrated with me.

“Tell me, what did you do wrong?” he asks, hands settling on his hips.

I lift my chin, more prideful than I should be. “Aren’t you supposed to tell me that?” I arch a brow, challenging him.

A dry smile cuts across his face. Unamused. “I saw your face the moment it happened. Don’t play games, Eleanor. Tell. Me. What. You. Did. Wrong.”

I exhale sharply through my nose. “My hip caught, okay? There—happy?”

He shakes his head, a humorless laugh slipping out. “No, I’m not happy. You’ve been doing the same thing all week, and you still haven’t fixed it.”

I drop my gaze and shrug. Of course I failed. Again. I’ll never be good enough. Not for this program. Not for anything.

Then, softly, he says, “Let me help you.”

I blink, caught off guard. “What?”

“Let me help you,” Nik repeats, his tone easing. The edge in it softens, but doesn’t totally disappear. “You’re not incapable, Eleanor. You’re just terrified of not being perfect. And that fear is sabotaging you.”

I bristle, arms folding across my chest like a shield. “I’m not afraid.”

His brow rises slightly, skeptical.

I hate how easily he sees through me.

He steps closer, still respectful, giving me space, but close enough that I can catch the faintest trace of cologne and sweat. “You push so hard to get everything right that you don’t give yourself room to learn. Your hip isn’t locking up because you’re weak. It’s locking up because you’re bracing for failure before you’ve even started the move.”

I avert my gaze, jaw clenching. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I think I do,” he whispers.

The silence that envelopes the room is thick, heavy, and nearly unbearable.

Then he adds, “I see how hard you’re trying. I see it, Eleanor. But you don’t have to prove anything to me. You’re already here.”

A lump forms in my throat. Already here. Those words ricochet inside my head like a distant bell tolling through a dense fog.

Nik comes up behind me. “I’m going to guide your hips. Is that alright?”

I let the silence stretch before giving a faint nod.

His warm, steady hands rest gently on either side of my hips. “Now, relax. Stop fighting the movement. Let the energy spiral from the ground up. Don’t force it—feel it.”

I inhale slowly, and try again.

This time, the rond de jambe à terre flows smoother. Not perfect. But smoother.

His breath comes out in a puff, just beside my ear. “Good. Again.”

We run through the movement several times before it starts to feel natural. His hands remain steady, firmly guiding my hips, and correcting my alignment as we go. But his closeness makes it nearly impossible to concentrate.

“Here,” he says quietly, brushing his hand along my ribs and arm before gently taking hold of my wrist. “Try loosening this.” He gives it a slight shake. “It’ll help your movement here.” His other hand lightly squeezes my hip for emphasis. “When you’re not obsessing over perfection or failure, everything flows more freely.”

I nod, trying to absorb his advice without focusing on the way his hands feel on my body.