Page 39 of Until We Come Home

Once she was gone I switched off the harsh overheads and left just the wall sconces on, put on something slow, and improvised for a while, no counts, no mirror, just dancing until I felt loose again. Now I’m sitting on the hardwood in black leggings and a skintight cropped tee, stretching out my hips, while the sky fades to deep blue beyond the arched windows and the city lights come on below.

One of the perks of teaching here is that I get the space to myself at night, even if the building never really empties out. There’s always a company rehearsal running late somewhere, or an adult open class, muffled bass thumping through the wall from down the hall. But this room is empty and mine, and there’s something peaceful about dancing in it with nobody watching.

Tonight it’s Lark’s piece. We have a shoot at a beautiful spot in Dark River coming up for one of her ballads. I’m incredibly excited, but there’s one tricky transition that keeps throwing me off.

The problem is the second half of the move. It’s a partnered lift, the biggest moment in the whole piece, and I haven’t done it since LA.

Dante, the other dancer in this particular video, is flying up the day or two before we shoot for rehearsal. It ought to be plenty of time, but I’d feel considerably better if I could squeeze in a bit more practice first. My lifts are admittedly a little rusty.

I’m standing in the center of the studio debating whether to wander down the hall to see if any of the Meridian company dancers are still around to help me test the sequence when a knock sounds at the studio door.

Mateo pushes it open, black hair a little mussed, tall and solid in a gray T-shirt and black cargo pants. He’s balancing a warm takeout bag that fills the studio with the smell of lemongrass and grilled meat. We’d planned on grabbing a late bite together, and when my eyes catch the clock, I realize I’ve kept him waiting for nearly half an hour.

“Oh my God,” I gasp, pressing my hands to my face. “I am so sorry, Mateo! I got swept up and lost all track of time.”

“I had a feeling,” he says, smiling as he steps inside, not looking the least bit bothered. “So I figured I’d just bring the restaurant to you. I grabbed us a mountain of Thai food. Ready to take a break and eat?”

Over the last two years, I’ve opened up to Mateo about my past struggles with food during my classical ballet days, and he’s subtly taken on the role of giving me gentle reminders to care for myself. I’m in a much healthier place now, focused on fueling my body properly, but it’s sweet how attentive he is.

“That is absolute perfection,” I say, giving him a grateful smile. “I’m actually starving. Thank you, and sorry again for being so flaky.”

“Don’t be,” he tells me, his tone soft as he sets the bag down. “You’re an artist. Getting lost in your work is part of what makes you so incredible at what you do.”

He settles onto the hardwood floor against the wall, stretching his long legs out, and begins pulling the containers from the bag. I drop down beside him on the floorboards, the two of us facing the wall mirror, our reflections sitting side by side in the warm studio light.

“So how’s the prep for the Dark River shoot going?” he asks, handing me a container.

“Good, but I keep getting a bit stuck on this one section. Not the end of the world, but mildly annoying,” I say, popping the lid. “Oh, by the way, I checked with Captain Barnes and he said I am more than welcome to join the calendar shoot tomorrow. As moral support, of course.”

The benefit always sells a firefighter calendar, each station gets a month, and since Mateo’s in town for it this year, he’s been roped in with the rest of Station 7. I have nothing to do with it. But there’s no way I’m missing a chance to sit on a bumper and watch him squirm through it.

He tips his head back against the wall. “I still have no idea how I got talked into this.”

“Because you’re hot, and it’s for charity, so you felt too guilty to fight that hard against it,” I say cheerfully, stabbing a fork into my food. “Look, relax, it’ll be a fun time. Tell you what, I’ll sneak in a flask for you. Help loosen the mood.”

“You better.” He laughs. “I think I’ll need it by the time they get to the shirtless ones.”

I grin at him and go back to my noodles, and that’s when I notice the long scrape running down his wrist, angry and fresh under a couple of butterfly bandages.

“How on earth did you get that?” I ask, pointing with my fork.

He glances down at his arm as if he'd forgotten the injury was even there. "Oh. We had a call yesterday. Got into a bit of a tight spot. I didn’t notice at the time, but I think this happened when I dove through the window.”

I swallow. “Aren’t you in like, full gear or something?”

He flexes his hand, turning his arm to inspect the scrape. “There’s a gap between the glove and the cuff if you’re not careful, and I wasn’t. There was still some glass in the frame I guess.”

Cold settles over me. Mateo has talked about calls in the past, always long after the dust settled, always delivered in that steady, unbothered tone, and every single story makes my chest squeeze. He's built quite the reputation, the guy with the most rescues under his belt, the legend the rest of the station talks about, and I know exactly how he earned it.

He charges in while everyone else calculates the risk. He treats his own safety like an afterthought on every scene. It isn't a death wish, I know that much. It’s more like a carelessness, like he never once stops to put himself on the list of people worth getting out safely, and I hate it more than I’ve ever told him.

“How bad was it?” I ask, forcing a light, breezy tone to hide the sudden panic. “You’re okay?”

“It was a bit dicey, but I'm fine.” He smiles at me. “Pulled an older guy out right before the second floor flashed, so it was worth it. Rebecca was furious, though, since I technically bypassed orders to get in there. Barnes has been out of town, but I'm sure he'll give me hell tomorrow before the calendar shoot.”

“Have you considered being a little more careful?” I ask, eyeing him over my container. “Just a wild thought.”

He gives a lazy shrug. "I am careful. We just have very different definitions of the word."