Page 150 of Healing Eleanor

He shakes his head, pulls off his coat, and drapes it toward me. “Here.”

I take it, and the streetlamp reveals his face fully for the first time. A gash splits his lower lip, crusted with blood, and bruises darken along his jaw. My hand lifts instinctively, then falters halfway, afraid to hurt him.

“What happened to you?” I whisper, desperate to reach him, to comfort him.

He glances at my hand, frozen halfway between us. “Nothing.”

“That isn’t nothing, Nik.” My voice is pleading.

He snaps his head away, letting out a sharp, ragged exhale.

Lily is right. This isn’t the Nik I know. This cold, distant version of him is a stranger, and I have no idea how to reach him. I don’t know grief, or how to help someone drowning in it. All I have are my instincts, and they beg me to comfort him.

I set my hand gently against his back, careful and hesitant. “Nik,” I breathe into the cold.

He flinches, straightens his back, and turns to me. “You should go home, Eleanor.”

I try not to take it personally, but I can’t pretend it doesn’t sting. A little voice in my head insists he only likes me when I’m weak, sick, and distant. That maybe he won’t want this version of me, the one who wants to stay, and be strong enough for him too.

I shove that thought back. It isn’t true. Nik is steady, kind, and cares for people in ways I’ve never been shown. But tonight, the cracks of his pain bleed through, the weight of his grief pressing down like bricks. And I hate that I’m a part of what buries him.

Leaving him here alone is out of the question. “I’m not leaving,” I say, clutching his coat tighter around me.

Nik jolts to his feet, his bloodshot eyes locking on mine. “Fine. But we’re not staying out here—not while you’re wearing that.” His eyes drop to my flimsy pajamas. “My keys are in the right pocket,” he adds, nodding toward his coat.

I dig them out and pass them to him, pushing myself up a little awkwardly, trying to steady my weight on my boot.

We move toward the back door in silence. He slows his pace so I can keep up, though he never once reaches for me. He glances back every few steps, as if to make sure I’m there. But the look on his face is wary, as if my touch might scorch his skin.

The building’s warmth hits me at once, and I can finally breathe. My lungs aren’t iced over anymore. We climb the steps to Studio B, and it takes me longer than I’d like, my hand gripping the banister to keep myself upright. Nik waits, never offering a hand, but never moving ahead without me either.

He doesn’t bother turning on the lights in Studio B. Only the streetlamps outside spill a dim glow across the worn marley floors. Snow falls past the windows in heavy sheets, and I feel a surge of anxiety at the thought of being snowed in.

Nik sighs, his gaze fixing on the storm. “Looks like we’re not leaving anytime soon.” He lowers himself onto the floor by the window, eyes lost in the falling snow.

I linger in the center of the room, fumbling with my fingers. The heat presses in too close, so I shrug out of Nik’s coat and drape it over the podium, setting my purse beside it.

I draw in a breath, taking in the studio I haven’t seen in a month. I thought I’d feel longing, but there’s none. The familiar scent of rosin and sweat don’t thrill me anymore. It sours in my chest, tangled up with my mother and the eating disorder that still consumes me.

I turn toward the mirror, and grimace at my reflection. Wrinkled pajamas, snow clinging to my boot, hair knotted from the wind. But when I meet my own eyes, I don’t see the hollow sadness I expect. I’m still too thin, yes, but my face, once dulled, holds the faintest trace of glow.

A hollow tug lives in my gut, like something’s missing—a small, persistent emptiness. I push it aside for now and turn toward Nik. He’s still watching the snow, shoulders hunched, arms perched on his knees.

I can’t take his grief away or replace what he’s lost. Maybe I can’t fix anything big, but I can offer a sliver of what used to make him happy.

I step closer, but he doesn’t look at me. I extend my hand. “Dance with me?” I ask, my voice small and almost shy.

I know it might be a ridiculous move, but I’ll try anything.

His eyes lift to mine, then to my waiting hand. “You are literally in a boot from a dance-related injury,” he states, a wry smirk tugging one corner of his mouth. “And there’s no music.”

I swallow my embarrassment. “We don’t need music. I’m not asking you to be the Cavalier in the Nutcracker. I just want you to take my hand and do something that used to bring you joy, Nik.”

He studies my hand, then my face. His eyes soften. “Fine.” He takes my hand and rises from the floor.

We go to the center of the studio, and he slips one hand into mine while the other curls around my lower back.

“Put your feet on top of mine,” he murmurs in my ear.