Page 75 of Healing Eleanor

“Everything good?” Dillon asks, studying me. “You look like you’re about to throw up.” He laughs.

“I might,” I admit, because it honestly doesn’t feel far off. “I actually wanted to ask you something… kind of strange.”

He bunches the towel in his hands. “Oh?”

My eyes settle on him. “Are you and Eleanor… together?”

He chokes on his spit, coughing. “I’m sorry, what?” Once he gathers himself, he roars with laughter. “Not with the way you look at her. I’m sure not.”

That throws me off. “What do you mean?”

Dillon throws his head back, cackling. “Oh, come on. During class, your eyes stay on Eleanor the entire time. I’m surprised you even realize you’re running it.”

Heat blooms in my neck, creeping up to my cheeks. “That is absolutely not true.”

“Oh?” Dillon’s laugh fades, his expression growing more serious. “In fact… I’m actually a little worried for you.”

Worried for me? My plan was to warn him about dating a dancer in the same class, and now it somehow revolves around me? Maybe I need to write I don’t want a girlfriend on my forehead. “Why are you worried for me?”

He throws the towel over his shoulder. “I mean, I see the way you look at her, Nik. All the years we’ve been friends, I’ve never seen you look at another girl like that.” He pauses, weighing his words. “And I’m worried because she’s your student, and there’s no way Kasper would let you date a dancer.”

My eyes nearly bug out of my skull. What is with everyone? “Well, good thing I have zero desire for a girlfriend. I was coming to tell you to be careful with dating a dancer.”

A small smirk tugs at his lips, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Nik, I don’t think someone as beautiful as her would date someone who looked like me.” He takes a steadying breath. “And anyway… I don’t think you’d be coming to me if you didn’t feel an inkling of something for her. Just food for thought.”

Dillon is quiet and observant by nature. Never the loudest in the room, but always the most aware. A foster kid from Ireland, defying everything life threw at him. A worship leader with a voice capable of silencing an entire crowd. The very definition of kind. But I also know how he feels about his burn scars—the ones tracing beneath his jaw, curling around his ear, running down his forearms—and the way his mind spirals around them.

“You could have anyone, Dillon,” I say, meaning every word.

He shrugs, a quick smile plastered in place. “Well, lucky for you, I don’t like her like that.” He spins on his heel and starts for the door. “But Nik,” he adds, glancing back and walking backward a few steps. “I think you do. And I’ll say it again. Be careful.”

Then he’s gone, not giving me a chance to respond.

As the door clicks shut behind him, a crack of thunder booms, followed by the sky unleashing a torrent of rain. Fat drops splatter across the windows as the wind whips leaves into the air. I usually don’t mind fall, but I can do without the rain. It’s relentless this time of year, a constant nuisance. Add bad New York drivers to the mix, and it usually spells disaster.

I linger in the quiet studio, watching the storm rage outside. Tree branches knock against the windows, warning me this will get ugly fast. I start breaking down the freestanding barres, putting them away. The later I leave, the worse the drive home will be.

Once all the lights are off, I grab my things and head for the garden exit at the back of the studio. But a tug in my gut makes me pause. A nagging feeling tells me to go out the front door, something I rarely do. But the feeling refuses to leave me.

When my instincts speak, I usually listen. Suppressing my annoyance at the detour, I climb back up the stairs, pass rows of empty studios, and walk by the now-vacant reception desk until I reach the front door.

The wind and rain hit me with a force that makes me shield my face. Irritation prickles at me. I really don’t want to be out here. All I care about right now is getting home. As I turn to make my way back inside, I see her.

Eleanor.

She’s curled up on the bench beside the door, drenched and shivering. Strands of hair escape her bun and plaster to her face while she clutches a thin, inadequate shawl around her shoulders.

My breath catches in my chest. Part of me wants to rush over and pull her into the nearest warm corner, but another more cautious part hesitates, unwilling to cross a line. I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen anyone look so small, so exposed. The sight hits me harder than I expect.

“Eleanor?” My voice is swallowed by the rain.

She doesn’t move at first, folded in on herself, shoulders shaking. The shawl does little to protect her, and a flare of frustration rises in me. How can someone so strong on the inside be so defenseless on the outside?

I step closer, careful not to overwhelm her, my shoes splashing in puddles. “Eleanor,” I say a little louder this time, waving my hand in front of her face so she’ll notice me.

Her head lifts slightly, and for a fleeting moment, our eyes meet. Water drips from her hair onto her lap, and I have to fight the urge to reach out and brush it away.

Something in her gaze… so vulnerable, defiant, and aching makes my stomach twist into a million knots. I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that walking away isn’t an option.