A Pas de Deux in Hell

by Hibbb84

Summary:

In the world of ballet, every misstep carries weight, and every note can break a heart. Charlie Morningstar longs to dance beyond her shadowed reputation, while a new pianist (whose past hides more than anyone knows) haunts the academy with his presence. Between biting critiques and unexpected guidance, Charlie’s admiration grows… perhaps too much, and she is not the only one falling. Between music and motion, ambition and obsession, a dangerous and beautiful duet takes shape: two souls pulled toward perfection, and each other.

Chapter 1: Overture: Shadows in the Spotlight

Notes:

Hi people!! This is Hib (@hibbb84). I'm finally starting a new project, and it's so great: Hazbin Hotel.
(Apologies in advance for any typos or weird grammar, english is not my first language)

I love Ballet, so this is in Fact a Ballet Charlastor AU.

I hope y'all like this first chapter!!.
Enjoy!

Charlie had danced for as long as she could remember. Not the clumsy, stumbling steps of a child pretending to follow music, but the careful, instinctive movement that seemed to live in her bones. She didn’t run through the house; she leaped and twirled at the slightest hint of a piano note or violin chord, her tiny feet finding rhythm in every sound. Music was more than something to move to—it was a pulse she could not ignore, a language she understood before she could even speak.

Her father often told her she was just like her mother, graceful, determined, unstoppable. “You don’t run, Charlie. You leap,” he would say, as she spun in the sunlight streaming through their Manhattan apartment. Even at five years old, she felt a strange mixture of pride and fear at the weight of his words, as though each leap was a promise she needed to keep.

Her first real glimpse of a dance studio came not as a student, but as a visitor. Lucifer had taken her to pick up her mother from practice, and Charlie could hardly contain herself. The polished wooden floors gleamed under the bright overhead lights, mirrors stretched from wall to wall, and music swelled, vibrating through the air like electricity. And then she saw her mother. Lilith Morningstar, tall and strong, moving with a power that made the air itself seem to shimmer. Charlie’s small hands shot up, her voice bursting with excitement. “Mommy! Mommy!”

Her father’s hand pressed gently to her shoulder. “Charlie, quiet,” he said. “You’re going to interrupt mommy’s concentration.”

Charlie tilted her head, confused. Interrupt? Concentration? The words sounded alien in her five-year-old mind. But even as her excitement softened to curiosity, she could not look away. Lilith was a force of nature, a whirlwind of elegance and strength. Charlie didn’t know then how much it would shape her life, or how the same discipline and fire would haunt her own steps years later.

Lilith had not come from privilege. She had grown up in the Bronx, in a cramped apartment, under a mother whose love was harsh and a father who was often absent. Somehow, against every expectation, she had captured the attention of Lucifer Morningstar, a man born into wealth and power, disinherited for daring to love someone outside his class. But Lucifer had rebuilt his fortune, climbed to the top, and now stood as governor of New York City. Together, he and Lilith had Charlie.

From the outside, Charlie’s life seemed perfect. She attended prestigious schools, mingled with Manhattan’s elite, and never wanted for anything. But perfection had a hollow ring. She disliked the arrogance and entitlement she saw in her classmates, the way privilege masked effort. In the studio, it was different. There were no titles, no social class distinctions, only practice, work, sweat, and the unspoken rules of talent and perseverance. Here, envy and pressure existed in a more tangible, biting form.

Everyone wanted to stand out, to be seen, to be chosen, and the fight for recognition could be cruel.

Her mother had hesitated when Charlie first expressed interest in dance. “She’s so young,” Lilith had said. “Do we need to start now? I didn’t do it until I was nine.”

Her father had smiled, patient but firm. “And you also told me that you wished you could have started earlier. The sooner she begins, the more time she has to grow. Dance will challenge her, push her, and demand everything, but she won’t face it alone. We’ll be there every step of the way.”

And so, Charlie had begun, not as the governor’s daughter, not as the daughter of a famous retired ballerina, but simply as herself.

Each day in the studio, every ache in her muscles, every fall and stumble, was a step toward proving that she was not just Charlie Morningstar, she was Charlie.

Her mother retired from ballet when Charlie was nine. At thirty-five, Lilith Morningstar left the stage as a legend of ABT. The tickets to her final performance sold for over two hundred dollars apiece. (if you could even get one). The theatre had been packed with critics, celebrities, and aspiring dancers who wanted to witness a farewell that would be remembered for decades. Lilith bowed that night to a roaring standing ovation, and the city spoke of her for weeks afterward.

Retirement did not pull her away from dance for long. Within a year, Lilith opened her own studio, a modest space compared to the grandeur of Lincoln Center, but alive with passion. What made it extraordinary wasn’t its size, but its doors: they opened to everyone. Children from Park Avenue danced beside children from the Bronx; the wealthy trained alongside those scraping together bus fare just to attend. Lilith adjusted the class fees according to each family’s income, a rule that raised eyebrows among the elite but earned her deep respect in the communities she had come from.

Yet Charlie was not her mother’s student.
And that puzzled everyone.

Parents whispered between classes, older students exchanged glances, and younger ones asked bluntly:
“Why doesn’t your mom teach you? Isn’t she the best?”

Lilith’s answer was always the same: Professional boundaries matter. She would not bring family into her classroom, would not give her daughter special treatment, or harsher treatment, just because they shared blood. Lucifer supported the decision fully.

But for Charlie, it meant something else:
If she succeeded, it had to be earned.
No shortcuts. No legacy privileges.

So she worked harder. Twice as hard as anyone thought she needed to. With a governor for a father and a ballet icon for a mother, expectations clung to her like a second skin. She didn’t want applause for being their daughter; she wanted applause for being herself.

Her persistence paid off sooner than anyone expected.

At twelve, she was selected out of every ballet school in New York City as one of the 3 performers who would dance as Clara in The Nutcracker. It was a dream role, especially for a first major theatre performance. She had only been en pointe for a year, and yet she danced with a maturity that made the audience forget her age. Her debut night was a triumph. Critics wrote about her promise; reporters called her a prodigy; her parents threw a celebration after the premiere, filled with congratulations and camera flashes.

Confidence bloomed in her like a rising curtain.

But theatre has its shadows.

On her third performance, during a series of turns, her foot slipped. It was small—barely a second—but enough. She fell. The audience’s collective gasp struck harder than the floor. Charlie pushed through, dancing to the end of the act with a trembling but determined smile.

Behind the curtains, the applause still echoing, her mentor, Madame Katerina Volkov, a stern former Bolshoi dancer, unleashed her fury.

The fifteen-minute intermission was split mercilessly: ten minutes of sharp, precise scolding for “humiliating herself in front of a full house,” and five minutes to pull herself back together. Charlie stood in front of the mirror, trying to steady her breathing, cheeks flushed with shame, rosin dust clinging to her tights like frost. She had been corrected firmly before, every good dancer was, but something about that particular reprimand pierced deeper.

By the next performance, her fourth night, confidence had turned fragile. Her hands shook as she tied her shoes. The stage lights felt harsher, the music sharper, every eye heavier. The fall no longer lived in her body; it lived in her mind.

She broke. Quietly. In the dressing room, tears slipped down her powdered cheeks.

A soft voice interrupted her spiral.

“Here.”

Charlie looked up to see one of the girls from the Angel Corps offering a small block of rosin and a handkerchief. She had dark hair, kind eyes, and a steady expression that didn’t pity—only understood.

“Accidents happen,” the girl said gently. “It won’t be your last. It doesn’t have to define you.”

Charlie blinked, stunned by the sincerity. “I’m—sorry you saw that,” she whispered.

The girl shook her head. “Cry if you need to. Then go out there and dance, the show must go on.”

Her name was Vaggie. Charlie would remember that moment long before she realized that Vaggie would become her closest friend in the academy.

Time, however, has a way of stretching even the brightest memories thin.

By seventeen, the magic of her Nutcracker debut was no longer a crown, it was a target on her back. What had once been awe in the eyes of her peers had hardened into scrutiny. In the halls of the NYCB, admiration curdled fast into resentment, especially for a girl who carried a famous last name.

The shift had begun slowly. Whispered comments during barre, a smug glance when she wobbled in an arabesque, polite smiles with sharp edges. But the moment her acceptance into the Academy went public, the tension ignited. Overnight, students who once asked her to rehearse with them began avoiding her; others whispered loud enough for her to hear.

“She only got in because of her parents.”
“Money twirls faster than talent, apparently.”

When the Academy released a formal announcement reaffirming that admissions were based on merit alone, it wasn’t the comfort it was meant to be. If anything, it magnified the issue, like a reminder that people believed she needed defending.

Charlie kept a folded print of that announcement in her ballet bag, tucked behind her pointe shoes. At first, it had been a reassurance. Then it became a ritual: she would read it right before class, as if reminding herself she belonged there, no favoritism, no special treatment. But over months, the ink felt less like encouragement and more like proof that someone, somewhere, was still doubting her.

One chilly autumn afternoon, as she traced the sentence for the hundredth time—“The New York City Ballet Academy maintains equal standards regardless of background or socioeconomic status”—a familiar voice interrupted her.

“You need to stop reading that,” Vaggie said, plucking the paper from her fingers before Charlie could react. “You’re feeding the beast. If you keep reminding yourself that people think you’re only here for your last name, you’ll start believing it too.”

Charlie sighed. “It helps me stay grounded.”

“No, it helps you stay miserable,” Vaggie corrected flatly. She folded the paper once, twice, then shoved it back into Charlie’s hands. “You don’t owe anyone proof. Least of all them.”

Before Charlie could reply, a voice floated from behind them, laced with amusement.

“Oh, don’t look so tragic, Morningstar. It’s not that personal.” A tall boy in warm-up clothes leaned casually against the barre, stretching his feet. His curls were tied in a loose half-up style, the ends dusted—literally—with glitter that caught the studio lights.

Charlie knew him; everyone did. Angel, one of the most effortlessly charismatic dancers in the male program, he literally grow up in this specific dance school. A natural-born performer who treated the academy like a stage and the world as his audience.

“They just needed to shut up a few insecure brats,” he continued with a wink. “Trust me, the announcement wasn’t about you, it was about everyone else choking on their own envy.”

Another dancer approached him, adjusting his long dark hair into a tight bun. His posture was prim, his accent unmistakably British. “Quite right. They treat me like dirt as well, and I came all the way from London for this place. Royal Ballet rejected me before I even had the chance to audition—‘We regret to inform you…’ blah blah, you know how it goes.” His attempt at nonchalance faltered under the sting of the memory.

Charlie blinked. “Really? Royal never even—”

“Considered me, yes. But here, at least, they gave me a chance.” He stuck out a hand with an earnest, overly formal bow. “Sir Pentious. A ridiculous stage name, I’m aware, but I’m determined to earn the ‘Sir’ one day.”

Charlie shook his hand, biting back a smile. “Charlie. But I guess you already knew that.”

“Darling, everyone knows that,” Angel said, stepping between them with a playful flick of his wrist. “Angel. Some call me Angel Dust—and before you ask, it’s not that kind of dust.” He spun gracefully on his heel, glitter scattering from his hair like a trail of fairy magic. “I played every fairy role under the sun as a kid, and my costumes… well.” He gestured to the shimmer clinging to his warm-ups. “It stuck—literally and metaphorically.”

Sir Pentious cleared his throat. “He forgets to mention he still sprinkles glitter on his rehearsal clothes. It’s become a personality trait.”

“It’s branding,” Angel corrected.

Charlie laughed, genuinely, freely, for the first time that day. The knot in her stomach loosened just a little.

From that afternoon on, the four of them grew toward each other the way dancers learned to move in sync, slowly, instinctively, until it felt natural.

By the time they were adults, friendship had become routine in the best way. After exhausting rehearsals, it was almost a given that they would spill out of the Academy together and let the pressure melt somewhere far from mirrored walls.

Some nights, they grabbed cheap dinner at the tiny Dominican spot near Lincoln Center that Vaggie loved, grease, plantains, and laughter cutting through the nightly fatigue. Other times, Angel dragged them to Brooklyn, insisting the best parties were the ones held in basements, rooftops, or cramped walk-up apartments where half the guests were dancers, drag queens, or upcoming artists. Angel knew everyone: bartenders, bouncers, DJs, that one guy who always had a couch free “for performers only.” He belonged to the city in a way the rest of them envied.

And on the calmer nights, when their muscles ached too much to dance anywhere other than a studio, they crashed at Vaggie’s NYU dorm. The room was tiny, the bed squeaked, the radiator hissed like it held grudges, but it felt safe. Sir Pentious always brought tea from his dorm “to maintain the morale of the troops.” Angel sprawled dramatically across the floor, complaining about midterms at John Jay like it was a Greek tragedy.

Sometimes, when her parents weren’t home, Charlie invited them to the Morningstar penthouse, a sprawling Upper East Side apartment with floor-to-ceiling windows and a view that looked fake even in person. Angel and Pentious would wander around in awe every single time, making dramatic oaths about how they would “gladly die for this level of luxury.” Charlie would roll her eyes, amused, because to her it was just... home.

A home she didn’t feel entirely part of.

Because while her friends talked about rent, dormmates, and supermarket ramen like badges of independence, Charlie went back each night to marble floors, a silent elevator, and a bedroom bigger than Vaggie’s entire dorm. She didn’t have stories about bad roommates or learning to do laundry at 2 a.m. in a shared building basement. She didn’t have the freedom to decorate a peeling studio apartment with thrifted furniture or invite people over without her parents knowing.

She envied them, not for what they had, but for what they were allowed to struggle through on their own.

Sometimes, Charlie wished she could have a dorm like Vaggie and Sir Pentious, cramped and chaotic and hers. Or a little apartment in Brooklyn like Angel’s, loud and messy and alive. Her own space. Her own life. Her own identity.

Instead, she lived like a guest in her own home, slipping in late after rehearsals, showering, collapsing into bed, and starting all over again the next morning. She barely spent time there. The penthouse felt like a museum, beautiful, curated, and quiet.

Too quiet.

Still, when she sat cross-legged on Vaggie’s floor eating instant noodles, or stumbled half-asleep out of a basement party with Angel and Pentious, sharing a scarf because they forgot jackets, Charlie felt something warm and real. Like this was growing up. Like this was hers.

She held those nights close, even if she didn’t know yet how much she’d need them to survive what came next.

By the time those memories resurfaced again, Charlie was 22 and in her senior year of college, juggling her Political Science major with her longtime love for ballet. Vaggie, now 21 and a Marketing major, had managed to balance rehearsals, exams, and part-time work with a discipline none of them fully understood but always admired. Sir Pentious, 22, Economics major with a flair for dramatics that spilled into everything he did, was still as ambitious as ever. And Angel, 23, was set to be the first among them to graduate with a degree in Criminal Justice, a choice he made mostly because he didn’t feel the need to study ballet again in college after already surviving it once at the academy. If he had to suffer through essays, at least they’d be about crime instead of choreography.

The four of them were passed out around Angel’s tiny apartment after a night out, heels abandoned, makeup smudged, and limbs draped over furniture that definitely wasn’t meant for sleeping, when the email notification tone pierced the silence around 7 a.m.

Angel was the first to stir. Or rather, his phone did, buzzing nonstop on the hardwood floor.

He squinted at the screen; his eyes widened, and then—
“Oh. My. GOD.”

Vaggie groaned into a couch cushion. “Angel, if this is about a meme, I swear—”

“It’s the casting list for Sleeping Beauty.”

Those four words sobered everyone instantly.

Vaggie shot upright so fast she got dizzy. Sir Pentious searched blindly for his glasses. Charlie’s heart climbed into her throat.

Angel unlocked his phone, scrolled, then gasped so dramatically it echoed.

“No freaking way.”
His voice cracked—then turned into a shriek.
“I GOT PRINCI—PAL. I’M FREAKIN’ AURORA’S PRINCE!”

Chaos erupted. Vaggie lunged at him first, nearly tackling him. This was his first-ever principal role. Pentious wrapped them both in his long, lanky arms. Charlie joined the hug, smiling so widely her cheeks hurt.

They were loud, tired, unwashed, and absolutely euphoric for him.

Sir Pentious found his name next. “Second lead! Ha! Perhaps New York does have taste after all.”
Angel smacked his arm. “After you threatened to defect to London last semester? Please.”

Vaggie scrolled, muttering under her breath. “Please don’t let it be corps de ballet… please… please—OH. Oh! Okay, that’s… actually decent. Fairy of Song. Not bad. I really thought they’d punish me for skipping rehearsals during finals.”

Charlie smiled at her. “Vaggie, that’s great.”

Vaggie nudged her. “See? Maybe this is the season we all rise.”

Charlie took the phone last.

Her thumb scrolled… and scrolled…
Names flew past—leads, alternates, soloists, fairies, attendants, even understudies—

Nothing.

Her stomach dropped before she found it.
Bottom of the list. Beyond minor. Barely a dance role at all.

“Court Lady #6.” Not even a named variation. Two entrances. One short waltz behind the main dancers. A role most dancers got when they were fifteen.

Charlie exhaled, steady. Expression calm—too calm.

Angel’s grin faded. “Babe… are you kidding me? Court Lady Six? They could’ve at least made you number three.”

“It’s fine,” Charlie said, voice thin but practiced. “Really. It’s whatever.”

Sir Pentious frowned, sitting straighter. “With all due respect to the Academy’s precious image, this is absurd. Yes, fine, you come from money, but you’ve worked harder than most dancers this season. Your applications for Aurora and Lilac Fairy were excellent. Objectively excellent.”

Angel crossed his arms. “Someone’s scared of Morningstar privilege rumors. They’re over-correcting again. It’s pathetic.”

Charlie wished it didn’t sting, wished it didn’t feel like the fall from her Nutcracker mistake all over again, but it did. A tiny fracture inside her, familiar by now, formed again.

Vaggie moved closer, placing a hand on her arm. “Next season, okay? You’ll climb again. You always do. And this one will pass.”

Charlie nodded, but something inside her whispered:

Will it? Or have they already decided who you are?

She swallowed the thought. Smiled. Told her friends she was happy for them, because she was, truly, but the heaviness didn’t leave her chest.

Not this time.

Two months had passed since the casting email, and the rehearsals were finally reaching their last stretch before the premiere. Charlie’s small role hardly gave her visibility, but she practiced tirelessly. Even at Columbia, if no one else was in the classroom, she would slip in, pop in her AirPods, and move through the steps as if the stage were hers. Every pirouette, every arabesque, every delicate gesture—she rehearsed alone, hoping to perfect what she could control.

Vaggie and she arrived a little late that morning, as they often did, but the studio was quiet. No one had started dancing yet, so they took a few minutes to warm up, adjusting pointe shoes and stretching.

Carmilla Carmine, one of the professors, finally gathered everyone. Her tone was apologetic, but commanding.

“I want to apologize for the delay this week,” she began. “With the premiere so close, I know time is precious. But there’s been a change. Our pianist, Zestial, has retired.”

A collective murmur of disappointment swept through the dancers. Zestial had always stayed late if anyone needed extra practice, patiently adjusting tempo, correcting phrasing. He had been an institution in himself.

Carmilla continued, “However, we have someone to take his place. Please welcome our new pianist.”

The sound of a cane tapped from the hallway, deliberate and measured, growing louder as it approached the studio door. Heads turned automatically. A man, older but striking in his bearing, stepped into view. His presence was magnetic, handsome in a sharp, almost intimidating way, and a wave of whispers rippled through the room.

Charlie leaned toward Angel, whispering, “Why is everyone acting like that?”

Angel’s eyes were wide. “I've been forgetting that you got here later than I did . He… was supposed to be a legend. I remember when I was a kid in the adult class, you know? When professors want you to get excited about the future. He was preparing for his permanent principal debut in Swan Lake. Everyone was talking about him; he was going to be brilliant. But… he never danced that night. Something happened. He never really came back as a dancer.”

Charlie’s chest tightened as she looked at the cane he carried, the slight shadow of pain it suggested. Her stomach sank with sympathy.

Carmilla’s voice carried through the whispers. “Mr. Alastor has joined us not just as a pianist, but as someone with an intimate knowledge of ballet, particularly the repertoire we perform here. You will not need to teach him exact tempos or melodies—he already knows them.”

Alastor’s gaze swept across the room, calm, unreadable. His voice was measured and quiet. “It is good to be back at the studio after all.”

And that was it.

He walked to the piano, the cane barely necessary for balance, though he moved with careful precision. It was obvious he could navigate the studio with ease if he chose, his body still capable, still disciplined, despite the shadow of past injury.

A hush fell over the dancers as he sat at the piano and began to play. Every note was precise, elegant, and commanding. Even without speaking, the room seemed to bend to his rhythm.

Rehearsal began.

Charlie, Vaggie, and Sir Pentious sat together on the floor by the barre, catching their breath and adjusting their shoes. Across the studio, Angel practiced alongside Emily, the current permanent principal dancer for Sleeping Beauty. Emily was everything Charlie admired and envied: graceful, effortless, and magnetic. She moved with a clarity and precision that made every pirouette, every arabesque, look easy. Her family was wealthy, yes, but unlike Charlie, that never seemed to get in the way; she had been promoted to permanent principal with a flawless record of performances, and everyone loved her for it.

Charlie couldn’t help but stare, the tiniest pang of envy curling in her chest. She wished, just for a moment, that she could glide across the stage like Emily, flawless and untouchable, that the world would see her for what she was, not the shadow of her name. It was unfair, she thought. But the music was ready to continue, and reality pulled her back.

“Girls!” Carmilla’s voice cut through the quiet. “Charlie, you and the other ladies. Come, now. You will practice with the corps.”

Charlie exhaled, steadying herself. She already knew the choreography; she had practiced it alone countless times. But as she stepped forward, Carmilla’s eyes swept over her and the other girls, sharp and calculating.

“Too stiff,” Carmilla said flatly, voice cold. “No emotion! Smile, da! Do not dance like machines, but like dancers. You might not be the center of attention, but you still need to do it perfectly, and im not seen that yet.”

Charlie’s cheeks burned, but she didn’t stop. The critiques landed heavier on her than the others, and for a moment, she felt the familiar knot of inadequacy. But she danced anyway, every muscle memorizing the steps, every motion precise, despite the sting. She let the embarrassment roll over her like a winter chill, temporary, but real.

When rehearsal ended, the group was buzzing with plans. Vaggie, Angel, and Sir Pentious were talking animatedly about a restaurant nearby that offered a discount on drinks if they arrived before 8:00. “Come on, Charlie! Friday night. Why not?” Vaggie urged.

Charlie opened her mouth, about to agree, but the sharp memory of Carmilla’s critique stopped her. She nodded politely, declining. They exchanged knowing glances. “Ok, but don’t overdo it,” Pentious said gently, shrugging. They left together, leaving her alone in the empty studio.

The silence was thick, but inviting. Charlie decided to connect her phone to the speaker and play the music for her part. She needed to practice, uninterrupted.

Then the door opened. The sound of a cane echoed across the studio, louder than it should have been. Charlie’s stomach twisted as the new pianist stepped inside.

“I… I was just going to practice,” she said softly.

He tilted his head slightly, voice smooth and calm. “I am well aware.”

Charlie blinked, unsure if it was a question or a statement. She focused on connecting her phone, but the process took longer than expected. Before she could finish, he sat at the piano and began to play her part, flawlessly, as if he had known it all along.

Charlie froze, listening, and then rose from the bench. Her gaze met his over the music, the tip of her ears warming. He played through to the final note without a hint of hesitation.

When the last note echoed and faded, he turned in his seat, cane tapping softly against the floor. “Do not lose more time,” he said, voice measured, eyes sharp but not unkind. “Get in position.”

Charlie’s face flushed faintly, a mixture of nerves and something she couldn’t name. She straightened, drew in a breath, and moved to her starting mark, ready to dance.

Charlie moved to her mark, the faint echo of Alastor’s piano notes filling the empty studio. Her role was small, but she treated it as if the stage were hers. Each plié, each delicate lift of her arms, was precise, practiced countless times in empty classrooms and mirrored studios.

The sound of his fingers on the keys was mesmerizing. Every note was exact, controlled, yet somehow alive, carrying subtle shifts that Charlie hadn’t expected. She found herself dancing not just to the rhythm, but with him, letting his interpretation guide her movement, as if he could hear the slightest hesitation and adjust the tempo to challenge her.

She could feel his presence before she even looked at him. When she finally did, he was still at the piano, posture straight, fingers moving with elegant authority. His eyes flicked toward her briefly, not in judgment, but assessing, calculating. And in that moment, something odd and thrilling coursed through her.

“Keep your shoulders down,” she heard in her mind the faint echo of Carmilla’s critique, but under Alastor’s playing, it felt less like a reprimand and more like a suggestion she wanted to follow. He was quiet, but every keystroke spoke volumes.

Charlie spun lightly, keeping her small waltz flowing. For all the embarrassment of being Court Lady, something inside her lifted. Her pirouettes felt sharper, her gestures cleaner, each motion almost pleasing him. She wasn’t sure why that thought even mattered, but it did.

When the piece ended, the last note hanging in the air, Alastor turned back, and his eyes met hers again. No words were exchanged, just a faint tilt of his head, a quiet acknowledgment that she had kept up.

Charlie felt her heart flutter, a warmth rising in her cheeks. She had danced perfectly, but not for Carmilla, not for the other dancers, not even for herself, not fully. She had danced for the music, for the piano, for the man at the keys.

A small, involuntary smile tugged at her lips as she lowered her arms, trying to look composed. She didn’t want to admit, even to herself, how much it mattered that he was there, that his playing had guided her every step, that he had made her want to be better.

Alastor stood, cane tapping lightly against the floor, and said softly, “Well done. Do not waste the next measure.”

Charlie’s pulse quickened. She straightened again, forcing herself to inhale, exhale, and prepare for the next run. Even in her smallest role, she felt something unfamiliar: a spark of exhilaration, of challenge, of… connection.

And in the quiet of the empty studio, as the piano began the next phrase, Charlie realized she would follow that music anywhere.

For the next hours, Alastor played without a word. Eight more times, each run through her small waltz, and each time Charlie felt herself improve, almost imperceptibly, yet undeniably. The notes from the piano seemed to carry her movements, correct them, guide them. She found herself speaking softly under her breath, almost unconsciously.

“Now… start.”

“Again.”

“Faster.”

Each cue was hers, but the music bent to her will only because of him. And still, he didn’t say a word—just played, precise, unflinching, yet almost… encouraging.

The clock on the wall caught her eye: 11:30 p.m.

Her heart sank. She needed to leave, go back home, but she couldn’t just walk away without saying something. She took a hesitant step toward him, the soft padding of her pointe shoes almost inaudible against the wooden floor.

“Um… sir, Mr. Alastor,” she began, voice slightly trembling. “Thank you… for staying. I—I’m sorry for keeping you so late on your first day here.”

He paused mid-motion, lifting his gaze from the keys to meet hers. The corner of his mouth curved into a faint, polite smile, one that was both amused and genuine. “Not a problem at all, my dear. It reminds me of the old good days. There is… a certain charm in staying late for a student so determined.”

Charlie blinked. His words, calm and measured, seemed to settle something in her chest. She let out a small breath. “I… I hope I’m doing it well. I don’t want to mess it up again tomorrow.”

He straightened slightly, the cane tapping softly against the floor as he rose. “You are doing… very well,” he said, his voice precise but courteous, each word deliberate. “Do not trouble yourself unnecessarily. Ballet, like music, is a matter of timing, grace… and persistence. You have both, more than you know.”

Charlie’s brow furrowed slightly, confused. “But… how would you know? You were playing the piano against the wall—”

He gave a slight chuckle, dry but not unkind, tipping his head with a subtle nod. “I can hear your steps. I know the rhythm, the beat. I know when you are aligned… and when you are not. Music tells me everything, Miss Morningstar, ”

Her heart skipped a beat. His words carried no exaggeration, no flattery. They were simple, factual, and somehow far more meaningful than any praise she had received before.

Alastor straightened fully, took up his cane, and tapped it lightly against the floor as he began toward the door. “I will expect to hear the same dedication tomorrow at practice. Good evening.”

And with that, he left the studio, the echo of his footsteps and cane fading into the hallway.

Charlie stood still for a moment, the soft glow of the late-night lights reflecting off the polished wood floors. A small, almost shy smile tugged at her lips.

She felt a flicker of hope; hope that she had improved, hope that tomorrow she would move with the music instead of against it, and perhaps, hope that Carmilla’s critiques would sting less.

The next day had arrived faster than before.

Saturday schedules were always the most intense: 12 p.m. to 6 p.m. Two hours in the studio, four hours on the actual stage.

Charlie arrived early—she always did—hoping to run her part before the others filled the room with chatter, nerves, and noise.

The studio was quiet, the air still cool from the night before. She set her bag down, slipped off her warm-ups, and began stretching on the floor. Hamstrings, hips, back—slow movements, letting her body wake and unfold. After ten minutes at the barre, she reached for her pointe shoes… and sighed.

Dead. Completely dead.

The box was flattened, the shank soft. She expected it, rehearsal weeks always killed her shoes, but it still annoyed her. This pair hadn’t even lasted two days.

“Great,” she muttered, grabbing a new pair.

She began the familiar routine: bending the shank, softening the box, and then, whack.
She hit the shoe against the wall to break it in.

The sound echoed like a gunshot in the empty studio.

She froze, because she heard something else.
Steps. Tap.
Steps. Tap.

A cane.

Her breath caught. Mr. Alastor was early too.

The door eased open, and he entered with the same composed presence as last night. His posture was straight, his expression pleasant but unreadable.

“Good morning,” Charlie said quickly, a little breathless.

He nodded politely, offering a small, controlled smile before moving toward the piano. “Good morning, Miss Morningstar.”

She resumed hitting her shoe—whack, whack, whack—winced at how absurdly loud it sounded, and blurted, “Sorry! I know it’s loud.”

Alastor’s fingers paused briefly on the piano lid. “My dear, if breaking in shoes were the most disruptive noise I’d heard in a studio, I would consider myself quite spoiled. Do carry on.”

The comment made her grin. She finished breaking the shoes, then pulled out her ribbons, elastic, thread, and needle. Stitching was second nature by now—quick, clean, precise. She hummed softly as she worked.

Right as she finished sewing the second shoe, she reached into her bag to cut the ribbons and froze.

“…I forgot my scissors.”

Of course she did.

She checked her phone. A message in the group chat:

 

Sir Pentious: We’ll be a lil late. Angel insisted we “celebrate his future fame” and now we are hungover in Brooklyn.

 

Charlie groaned. So much for borrowing Vaggie’s scissors. She needed to practice before class. Desperate, she tried biting through the ribbon with her teeth like a feral raccoon.

She was so focused that she didn’t hear the footsteps approach until the cane tapped right beside her.

She looked up.

Alastor was standing over her, offering a small pair of silver scissors, held delicately between gloved fingers.

“A dancer,” he said with a playful lilt that absolutely fit his mysterious charisma, “should never forget her equipment. It rather ruins the mystique of professionalism, wouldn’t you agree?”

Charlie nearly died of embarrassment.

“Th-thank you—really—sorry, I don’t know why I’m like this,” she rushed out, cheeks burning as she took them.

“You are quite welcome,” he replied, amused but gentlemanly.

He turned to leave, and she panicked; she hadn’t properly introduced herself yesterday. So she stood, extended her hand, and forced out:

“I’m—well—you know who I am, but I’m Charlie. I mean—Charlie Morningstar.”

He raised an eyebrow with a soft hum of amusement. “Yes. I am aware.”

Right. Her name. People knew it. She always forgot her life wasn’t normal.

“Sorry, that was stupid. Of course, you knew. Um… then—what is your name?” she asked, even though she obviously knew it was Alastor.

He gave a light chuckle—the kind that could be either charming or unsettling depending on the lighting—and replied,

“You already know that as well.”

Her face heated even more. “Right. Yes. Sorry. I just wanted to be polite.”

He began to walk away, cane tapping softly. And only once he had taken three steps, he spoke without turning back:

“Alastor Hartfelt. A pleasure, Miss Morningstar.”

Her eyes widened. Somehow, hearing his full name made it feel… real. More personal.

Before she could respond, the door swung open and voices flooded in, the other dancers. She glanced at the clock.

11:50 a.m.

She’d lost her chance to practice alone. But strangely, she didn’t feel tense about it anymore.

She looked toward the piano, where Alastor was settling into position, hands poised elegantly over the keys.

For the first time since the cast list had come out, Charlie felt she might not be facing this battle alone.

The rest of the class began to trickle in, chatting quietly as they slipped off coats, changed shoes, and claimed spots at the barre. Moments later, Professor Carmilla entered the studio with the sharp click of heels that immediately killed every whisper in the room. In one swift motion, everyone rushed to stand at the barre, backs straight, chins lifted, hands properly placed.

Charlie swallowed. Angel, Vaggie, and Sir Pentious still weren’t there.

Carmilla gave Alastor a short, cold gesture with her hand. “Music.”

He obeyed, settling at the piano. Carmilla began calling out exercises, her voice clipped and strict, counting with the tempo. “And— pliés… one, two, three, four— up. Shoulders down. Posture. Again.”

She walked through the rows with the sharp gaze of someone hunting for mistakes. Whenever she paused behind a student, their muscles tightened with dread. Charlie felt her approach, she braced for correction, sure she was next, when the studio door swung open with two sharp claps.

Rosie entered, warm smile softening the tension instantly. “Sorry to interrupt, dears!” The music stopped; even the air stilled. “Carmilla, I need a word. It’s important.”

Carmilla’s jaw tightened. “It had better be. You are stopping my class.”

“It may take a few minutes,” Rosie admitted with an apologetic smile.

Carmilla’s jaw tightened. “So what would you have them do? Stand there like furniture? They need direction.”

Rosie glanced at Alastor. “Perhaps Alastor can continue the exercises until we’re done?, He is not just a pianist after all. He was one of my peers when I was still in the company.”

Carmilla scoffed with a pointed look at his cane. “He can hardly—”

Alastor rose smoothly, cane in hand, posture controlled.
“My dear Carmilla,” he said with a pleasant, razor-thin smile, “I assure you, I am far from incapacitated. Ballet technique does not vanish simply because one is no longer on stage.”

A quiet murmur spread. Carmilla rolled her eyes. “Fine. Do as you please.”

With that, she followed Rosie out, leaving the door half-open behind them.

A strange, charged silence took over the room.

Alastor moved away from the piano and toward the old speaker system. “We shall continue,” he said, adjusting the volume. “Do keep up.”

Just as he pressed play, the studio door burst open, Vaggie, Angel, and Sir Pentious rushed in, breathless, scrambling to join their places. Charlie’s heart dropped with second-hand embarrassment.

Vaggie whispered at lightning speed, “What did we miss??”

Charlie barely had time to whisper, “He’s teaching—” before music filled the room.

Only… it wasn’t Carmilla’s traditional piano tracks.

It was faster. Sharper. Something older, yet electrifying.

Instinct kicked in; everyone moved automatically, surprised but obeying.

Alastor walked with his cane behind each row, voice slicing cleanly through the music. He didn’t know students’ names, so his feedback was rapid, impersonal, and brutally precise:

“Higher turnout.”
“Control your port de bras—your arms are noodles, not silk.”
“Feet—point, don’t stab the floor.”

Students stiffened, not because he was rude, but because everything he said was true. Painfully true.

He paused by Emily for a mere second, eyes narrowing in assessment.
“…Wonderful.”

A ripple of understanding spread. Of course, she was the principal ballerina, she was just perfect most of the times.

Charlie felt him before she saw him, his presence settling beside her like a shadow.

The exercise shifted to relevés on pointe, balancing on one leg, fully extended.

“That leg is not high enough,” he said to Charlie, loud enough for several nearby dancers to hear.

She lifted higher, trembling. The shake in her supporting foot worsened.

“And the shaking,” he added, tone almost bored. “Control. You are not a newborn deer.”

Her face tightened, but she fought to maintain it. He leaned closer.

“And smile. The audience should never see the strain. A dancer suffers, silently.”

Why was he still here? Why her?

Her leg burned. She tried for another inch, desperate to satisfy his demand.

Without warning, his hand gently, yet firmly, lifted her leg higher into full extension.

Gasps whispered across the barre. It wasn’t unheard of; Carmilla did the same constantly. But coming from him—the sudden contact, the intensity—caught Charlie completely off-guard. As soon as he let go, she lost balance and came down clumsily, wobbling to regain footing.

A single beat of disapproval.

“Do not disappoint on the next attempt.”

The music shifted into a calmer track, allowing everyone to breathe, barely. Whispers fluttered in the corners of the room, adrenaline buzzing through the students. Some were intimidated. Some were thrilled. A few seemed awakened by the challenge.

But no one was ignoring him now.

Carmilla and Rosie were gone for ten long minutes, ten minutes that Alastor did not allow to go to waste. By the time the studio door finally opened again, every dancer was flushed, sweating, and silently praying for mercy.

Alastor saw the professors return and struck his cane twice against the floor—sharp, commanding. Several dancers startled.

“Warm-up is concluded,” he announced, turning down the radio. Only then did everyone dare to breathe.

Rosie took one look at the exhausted class and chuckled.
“Well! This is the most winded I’ve seen all of you in ages. Someone’s been slacking on intensity, hmm?” she teased, giving Carmilla a pointed smile.

Carmilla scoffed. “Warm-ups are not meant to turn dancers into factory machinery. I prepare my students to perform with expression. A dancer must tell a story, not simply move through steps like a metronome.” She faced the dancers, clapping once for attention. “Gather. This is important.”

Angel, Sir Pentious, and Vaggie drifted toward Charlie as everyone reassembled.

Angel fanned himself dramatically. “If this isn’t about a water break, I’m passing out on purpose.”

Vaggie nodded, rubbing her calf. “I’m still hungover. That warm-up nearly killed me.”

Sir Pentious muttered, massaging his temples. “That man just declared war on our joints. And he was brutal with you, Charlie!”

Angel leaned in. “Yeah, babe—did you piss him off? Did you step on his cane or something? It was giving ‘new personal enemy’ vibes, and he literally just got here.”

Charlie didn’t answer. Her stomach twisted. It was to help her improve… right?

Carmilla waited for silence before speaking.

“We have unfortunate news. Loona—our Lilac Fairy—arrived today with her foot in a cast. Admirable dedication, but reality is reality. She will not be able to perform.”

A stunned hush fell across the room.

“We didnt oversee this, so e must recast immediately. Anyone who auditioned for Lilac Fairy will report with Professor Rosie to Studio B. She will reassess, and the role will be reassigned. The rest of you will continue rehearsals here before we move to the theater.”

Vaggie’s hands landed on Charlie’s shoulders. “Charlie, this is your chance.”

Angel lit up. “Girl, this is it. No more Court Lady nonsense. Lilac Fairy is a solo. Take it!”

“And we shall escort you to the line if we must,” Pentious declared, and they did, gently pushing Charlie into place with the other candidates.

Rosie counted heads, then turned to Carmilla. “Carmilla, dear, may I borrow Alastor for this evaluation? A second pair of trained eyes would be valuable. And who better than someone with a professional background?”

Carmilla exhaled sharply. “At this rate, the company will need to hire a new pianist. This one seems determined to play professor.”

Alastor let out a soft, polite laugh. “No need to be so stern, my dear. It is only my second day. Besides, field work is splendid for the legs.” His tone was light, refined, and just cheeky enough to irritate her without breaking decorum.

Another long sigh from Carmilla. “Ok. Just this once.”

Alastor rose. As he stepped forward, Charlie noticed, only because she had been watching, that his cane slipped for half a second. His balance wavered. But he corrected instantly, posture untouched, expression unchanged. No one else reacted.

Rosie began leading the group toward Studio B. Charlie’s pulse pounded in her ears. Her throat tightened.

As Alastor approached to follow, a single icy thought stabbed through her: She was the one he had corrected the most during the warm-up, where he made it clear to everyone that her flexibility, stretching, and efforts were not good enough for the class. Why would they ever choose me now?

The seven girls filed into Studio B. Rosie motioned for them to sit against the wall.

“All right, ladies,” she began, clasping her hands. “Don’t be nervous, well, actually, be very nervous. The premiere for your group is Wednesday night. Class One opens this production for a reason—you’re the strongest dancers we have. But that also means whoever gets this role has to train like hell for the next few days. Understood?”

A few girls swallowed hard. Charlie nodded, though her pulse was racing.

One by one, Rosie called dancers forward. Alastor sat slightly behind her, posture straight, listening, observing every step with unsettling stillness. He spoke only occasionally, leaning toward Rosie to murmur brief comments as each girl finished. Some left the center with relief, others with dread.

Charlie sat against the cold studio wall, knees drawn slightly in, hands fidgeting with the ribbons of her pointe shoes.

With each passing dancer, Charlie’s stomach coiled tighter.

You can do this. You know the steps. You’ve practiced this a thousand times in the past.

But the voice in her head was louder: Remember what he said. Your legs weren’t high enough. You shook. You weren’t graceful. You’ll embarrass yourself. You need to be better now

The Lilac Fairy variation was demanding, especially the jumps and extensions, the intricate balance that Alastor had criticized just minutes ago. Charlie swallowed. She tried to breathe. She tried to clear her mind, but her body tensed as Rosie’s voice cut through the room.

“Charlie Morningstar, position, please.”

The studio seemed to shrink. The barre against the wall became a distant memory. All that existed was the floor beneath her, the music waiting, and her own heartbeat hammering in her ears. She straightened her back, planted her feet, and raised her arms, focusing on the melody she knew so well.

She danced.

Every step, every turn, every leap, she poured all the grace and passion she had into the motion. Her feet brushed the floor like whispers, then soared into extensions that made her feel weightless. One minute and twenty seconds stretched into an eternity, every muscle, every fiber of her body trembling in effort and concentration.

When the final note fell, she stayed poised, chest heaving, gaze fixed forward. The room was silent, the only sound her rapid breaths.Then she caught sight of them: Alastor, murmuring quietly to Rosie, who nodded in agreement. Their whispered conversation made her stomach tighten further. She didn’t know what they were saying, but the gravity in their expressions told her: the decision was not yet made.

“Thank you, Charlie,” Rosie said warmly. “You may sit.”

Charlie returned to the wall, heart pounding so hard it hurt. Rosie and Alastor rose.

“We’ll step outside to discuss,” Rosie announced to the group. “Then we’ll let you know our decision. For now, return to Carmilla’s class and continue rehearsing your original roles.”

Back in the main studio, Vaggie was in the center rehearsing her part, Carmilla circling her with pointed corrections.

“Again! More grace, Vaggie! Tell the audience a story with your arms, not just your steps!”

Angel was across the room practicing with Emily, while Pentious worked alone, muttering counts under his breath. Charlie sank down near the barre. For a moment, she didn’t move. Of course she didn’t get it. Why would she?

After a short minute, she forced herself up and quietly practiced her tiny background choreography beside the barre. Court Lady #6. Again.

Ten minutes passed.

The door opened. Rosie and Alastor stepped in. The room stilled.

Rosie smiled. “We have made our decision.” She paused, letting the silence stretch. “Your new Lilac Fairy will be… Charlie Morningstar.”

For a heartbeat, no one reacted. Shock froze the air.

Then Angel cheered first, clapping wildly. Vaggie and Pentious joined in, rushing toward her. Emily, the principal dancer whose effortless grace had been the standard for years, smiled and joined in, setting a precedent. The room followed, applause filling the air, but Charlie could barely register it.

Her legs were weak, her chest tight. She felt as though she were suspended in midair, a fragile figure caught between disbelief and joy.

Carmilla nodded once, assessing Charlie with new eyes. “After Vaggie, you will rehearse the Lilac Fairy variation. Prepare.”

Rosie approached Charlie, resting a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t worry, dear. You’ll do wonderfully. We chose you for a reason.” She gave her an encouraging wink before exiting.

Alastor remained.

He stepped closer and tapped her opposite shoulder lightly. The touch was gentle, almost tender, but his words were anything but.

“Do not make us regret our decision, Miss Morningstar.”

Pressure crashed down on her chest like a weight.

She had never felt more terrified in her life.

Notes:

Ballet Dictionary! (if you didn't know what i was talking about)

ABT: American Ballet Theater (ballet company)
Bolshoi: The Bolshoi Theatre and Ballet (Russian ballet company)
NYCB: New York City Ballet (dance company)
Relevés: "raised up," describing the movement of rising up onto the balls of the feet
On pointe: To be on the tips of your toes.
Port de bras: "movement of the arms" and refers to the graceful and coordinated movement of the arms and hands from one position to another.

Chapter 2: Allegro: Under His Tempo

Notes:

Episode 3 and 4 (especially 4) got me on a chokehold, like WE MULTISHIPPERS GOT FEDDDD

Never thought I would get Charlastor crumbs, platonic Radiorose and Radiostatic on one chapter only, it felt so unreal xd

Anyways, here's a new chapter!! enjoy!!

Charlie’s turn came right after Vaggie, just as Carmilla had promised.

By then, she had already been rehearsing her part quietly by the barre, repeating movements she hadn’t touched in over two months. The Lilac Fairy was never a role she expected to revisit, not after Loona had claimed it so effortlessly, but who was gonna know she would break her feet?. Remembering the choreography had felt like chasing ghosts, but somehow, when Rosie called her and the other girls to do the quick audition earlier, her body had remembered what her mind had long buried.

Still, that miracle wouldn’t be enough. She knew that now.
If she was going to prove she deserved the role, she’d have to break her back for the next four days, and she was ready to do it.

“Morningstar. You’re up.”

Charlie swallowed. She stepped into the center of the studio, nerves buzzing under her skin. The music started. She danced with the desperate precision of someone who couldn’t afford a single mistake. Her lines were clean, but her breath was unsteady,  each movement felt heavier than the last.

By the time Carmilla clapped to end the session, Charlie’s legs were trembling.

“Good,” Carmilla said sharply. “But not enough. You have a lot of work to do.”

Charlie bowed her head, murmured a “Yes, ma’am,” and went back to the barre to keep drilling the turns on her own.

The 2 hours passed in sweat and repetition. Whenever she wasn’t in the center, she kept moving, pliés, stretches, rises on pointe beside the barre until her feet burned. The ribbon of her new shoes was already fraying, but she didn’t dare stop. Every second felt precious now.

By the time Carmilla announced they’d move to the theater for full-scene rehearsal, the fatigue hit her all at once. If this had been any of her old background parts, she would’ve been calm, maybe even joking. But the Lilac Fairy wasn’t a background role; it demanded grace, control, and authority. Four days to learn it felt like a punishment disguised as an honor.

On the walk to the theater, Vaggie noticed the shift in her expression. Without saying much, she reached over and took Charlie’s hand, squeezing it lightly.

“Hey. You’re gonna be okay,” she said softly. “You’re a great dancer. You’ve been ready for this for longer than you think.”

Charlie smiled, a little shakily. “Thank you. Really.”

Her gratitude caught in her throat when she caught sight of Alastor crossing the stage with Professor Rosie. The two stopped midway, glancing at the rows of empty seats as if seeing ghosts of an audience already waiting. Rosie said something quietly to him, and he nodded, expression unreadable. Alastor tapped his cane once against the stage floor before walking toward the piano. His movements, even with the limp, had an eerie rhythm, like he still followed music no one else could hear.

Charlie and Vaggie slipped backstage, joining Pentious and Angel, who were sprawled dramatically near the costume racks. The chatter was low, filled with that strange mixture of nerves and boredom that always lived behind curtains.

Charlie leaned on the wall, lost in thought. It was odd how someone she had known for barely two days could occupy so much of her mind. She tried to focus on stretching, but her mind betrayed her. Why was she thinking about him? She barely knew anything about this man, only that his name was Alastor Heartfelt, that he was a pianist, that he understood ballet like it was carved into his bones... and that he was very Ha—

She stopped herself mid-thought, cheeks flushing.

Angel caught it instantly. “Ohhh, what’s that look for?” he teased, leaning toward her with a grin. “You thinking about something naughty, princess?”

“Angel!” she hissed, face going red. “Not here, seriously!”

Vaggie crossed her arms. “She's right, people are going to think we’re insane.”

“Please,” Pentious chimed in, smirking, “people already think that.”

They all snorted softly, trying not to laugh too loud as the stage lights flickered back to life. Charlie exhaled, a small smile breaking through her nerves. For a fleeting second, the pressure faded, replaced by the warmth of her friends’ teasing.

But then Alastor’s voice echoed faintly from the piano.
“Let’s begin.”

And just like that, her pulse quickened again.

Alastor was the one who played for the entire rehearsal.

Carmilla had decided that today they would run the entire performance, start to finish,  no pauses, no excuses. The theater’s lights were dim except for the stage, where the dancers rotated in and out of the spotlight as if already performing for an invisible audience.

Charlie waited patiently for her cue, reviewing each movement in her mind. Her heart raced when her turn finally came. She stepped onto the stage, lifted her chin, and tried to steady her breathing as the opening notes of the Lilac Fairy variation echoed through the theater.

At first, everything went well;  her body moved as though remembering an old friend. But halfway through, something shifted. The melody beneath her feet felt… off. Slower, heavier. Her steps began to slip from the rhythm, her body hesitating against the music until she had no choice but to stop completely.

A sharp sound, Carmilla’s hand slicing through the air. “Stop.”

Alastor’s fingers froze mid-phrase.

“What’s wrong?” Carmilla asked, her voice calm but cold.

Charlie, breathless, took a moment before speaking. “I— I’m sorry, ma’am. The tempo… it felt slower than usual. I remember when Loona rehearsed this part before her injury, it was faster.”

Rosie crossed her arms, having a small smile in her face that did not indicate happiness but high expectations. “Even if that’s true, you should’ve continued, Miss Morningstar. In the premiere, you won’t be able to stop the orchestra to ask them to change tempo. You have to adapt.”

Charlie lowered her gaze. “Yes, ma’am.”

Before the silence could stretch too long, Alastor spoke up from the piano, his tone smooth and courteous.
“My apologies,  it was my fault. I’ve played quite a number of scores today, and I seem to have lost my sense of tempo for a moment.”

Carmilla and Rosie exchanged a brief look. Rosie raised an eyebrow; Carmilla shrugged. “Fine. Let’s go again,” she said, waving her hand for him to continue.

Charlie reset her stance, inhaled deeply. The next moment, Alastor’s hands fell on the keys,  but this time the tempo was much faster, too fast. It almost felt like a mockery.

Her heart skipped a beat, but she tried to keep up,  every turn, every extension, now off-balance. Her foot slipped slightly on the landing, the rush of embarrassment flooding her face before she could recover.

“Stop!” Carmilla snapped again. “Enough.”

Charlie froze mid-movement.

“Go to the back,” Carmilla ordered. “Rehearse that passage until you can do it without thinking. You should’ve adapted, just as one of your professors said. We don’t have time to waste on mistakes like this.”

Charlie’s chest ached with humiliation as she stepped offstage. A few dancers whispered. One laughed under their breath. She didn’t look back.

Angel, Vaggie, and Pentious caught up to her behind the curtains, their faces soft with sympathy.

“Hey, hey,” Angel said gently. “Don’t let it eat you alive, sugar. You literally got this role today. Give yourself a break.”

Charlie shook her head, untying and retying the ribbons on her pointe shoes with trembling fingers. “I don’t have time to take breaks. I need to get this right.”

Vaggie frowned. “Charlie—”

But she was already with AirPods on and scrolling through her phone, searching for the track of the variation. “I’ll practice it backstage until they call me again,” she said firmly. “I can’t mess this up.”

She put her phone on the floor, hit play, and walked toward the far corner of the backstage area, away from the noise, away from the whispers.

The faint echo of the piano followed her still, the phantom of Alastor’s tempo haunting every step she took.

Charlie practiced alone backstage, her reflection multiplying endlessly across the dim mirrors. Every step she took echoed faintly through the empty theater, the soft drag of her slippers filling the silence between breaths. She tried to focus on her footing, on keeping her arms fluid and her balance steady, but her mind kept circling back to him, Alastor. The way he had corrected her that morning in front of everyone, the faint smirk, the sharpness in his tone. It wasn’t cruel, exactly, but it had stung.

Why was he picking on her? She had been nothing but kind to him, and it's only been, again, two days. He had seemed polite, almost charming, with that crisp, old-fashioned way of speaking. But once rehearsal started, something changed. His whole attitude just feels completely off and almost burlesque. Like what he did just now. She had felt humiliated.

But then she stopped, took a breath, and remembered what Angel had said about him when he arrived: He could have been a legend, Charlie. He knows what he is doing. Maybe that was it. Maybe he wasn’t mocking her, maybe he was pushing her to improve. The thought settled her heart a little. She lowered her head, fixing her stance once more, and tried again, and again ... and again.

Charlie was called one more time for the second run of the show, and by the time it ended, the clock struck six. The others cheered, another long rehearsal done, but Charlie didn’t feel ready to leave. She gathered her things slowly, smiling as her friends waved goodbye, and told them she’d stay a little longer. Two more hours, she thought. Just two more to get everything right.

The studio was quiet when she returned, the air heavy with the faint scent of rosin and floor polish. She set her bag down and tried once again to connect her phone to the speaker. It blinked stubbornly, refusing to pair, the same way it had yesterday. She huffed, too focused on the screen to notice the soft tap of shoes and the faint click of a cane entering the room.

“You should know by now,” came Alastor’s smooth, amused voice from behind her, “that this speaker refuses to go easy on you.” Charlie’s head snapped up, startled, her cheeks warming. He gave a small grin. “In any case, I could just play it for you again.”

She hesitated. Every instinct told her to decline; she wanted to practice alone, to prove to herself she could do this, but before she could even form the words, the familiar melody had already filled the room. Her body reacted before her thoughts could catch up.

Charlie’s chest was still heaving from the last run, and her mind was spinning. Something clicked mid-dance; this was the right tempo. The one she remembered from Loona’s rehearsals, the one she had on her phone playlist. Her eyes widened in disbelief. So… he did it on purpose. Both the slow, awkward version and the rushed one had all been deliberate. Her heart thumped in her chest. Why? What did he gain from embarrassing her like that?

She followed him with her gaze as he rose from the piano, cane in hand, and began walking toward the small closet at the side of the room. She opened her mouth before thinking and blurted out,

“Mr. Alastor… why did you play it wrong both times? Didn’t you know the exact tempos for almost all of the ballet pieces here? Why… why make me look foolish?”

Alastor didn’t immediately answer. Instead, he rifled through the neatly stacked disks in the closet, selecting and inspecting each one with methodical precision. Finally, he retrieved the correct disk, slid it into the radio, and adjusted the volume. “In ballet,” he said, not even turning toward her, “it is not enough to dance with perfect timing. A true dancer must be prepared for any circumstance, tempo changes, and unexpected shifts. You must deliver grace and strength in equal measure, no matter what the music—or life—throws at you.”

Charlie’s eyebrows knitted together as she absorbed his words. She felt the sharp sting of her own earlier frustration, quickly replaced with the slow burn of understanding.

He had tested her. He had forced her to adapt, to find her footing when everything seemed off. Her chest tightened, part admiration, part exhaustion. She swallowed, nodded, and silently acknowledged that perhaps she had judged him too quickly ... 

Alastor gave her a brief, almost imperceptible nod and then tapped his cane against the floor—one sharp, deliberate tap. “Now, let's start from the beginning,” he said. It was not a suggestion; it was a command. Charlie’s eyes widened, but she understood. This was her cue. She moved into position, her muscles tensing, her mind focusing with laser-like precision. The realization hit her in a rush: this was no ordinary rehearsal. This was tailored for her, crafted to push her boundaries and force her to rise to a level she had not yet reached.

The music began, crisp and exact, the tempo she remembered. It was steady, unwavering, and perfect. Charlie inhaled, letting her body absorb the rhythm. Each plié, each pirouette, every leap and turn felt charged with new energy, her movements sharper, more deliberate.

It was as if the music itself carried her forward, and yet, behind it, the presence of Alastor, watching and judging in silence, added a tension that made every step more precise.
The final note faded, echoing faintly through the empty studio. Charlie caught her breath, lowering her arms with a sense of cautious pride. For the first time today, she felt… almost confident. Maybe—just maybe—she had done it right.

Charlie stood there, breathless, waiting for something, maybe approval, maybe a nod, or even just a polite “good work.” Instead, Alastor exhaled sharply through his nose, resting one hand over the top of his cane.

“That,” he said at last, “was dreadful.”

The words struck her like a slap. Charlie blinked, lips parting slightly, but no sound came out. Alastor, meanwhile, stepped toward her, unhurried, voice as smooth as ever but cold, cutting. “Your phrasing was uncertain. You dragged the adagio like it was a funeral march, and when the tempo lifted, you seemed to forget your own limbs. Your wrists, far too soft. Your head placement is misaligned. And those steps just before the diagonal, sloppy, uncentered.”

She stood frozen in place, her chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. His words didn’t sound like anger, or even disappointment—they sounded like fact. Cold, polished fact.

He didn’t stop there. Alastor stepped closer, the soft tap of his cane echoing across the wooden floor as he spoke. “The Lilac Fairy is not a mechanical creature, Miss Morningstar. She commands serenity. Authority. Grace. Yet you dance as though you’re begging for approval from the floor beneath your feet. Where is your center? Where is your intent?”

Charlie’s lips parted, but nothing came out. She felt her mind empty, her heartbeat roaring in her ears. Carmilla had said she was doing good. Good. Not perfect, but good enough to make her believe she was gonna be able to improve and be good enough for the premiere. So why did this feel like her world was collapsing all over again?

He continued dissecting her movements in precise order, her arabesque too low, her wrists too tense, her turns too rushed. Each word tightened the knot in her stomach. Her hands trembled slightly against her skirt. She stared at the floor, nodding faintly, though half of what he said melted into a blur of technical words and harsh truths.

Finally, after what felt like hours, his voice softened slightly, but not enough to comfort.
“Are you listening, Miss Morningstar?”

Her head snapped up, startled. Her eyes met his for the first time since the music stopped. The warmth in them was gone—only an analytical sharpness remained. “Yes…” she whispered. “I’m listening. I just— I don’t know where I’m failing. I know the choreography, every step of it, I—”

“That,” Alastor interrupted smoothly, “is precisely your problem.”

She frowned. “What?”

“You know the choreography,” he said, walking closer, his cane clicking against the floor in steady rhythm, “but you don’t know how to dance it. You mimic. You do not embody.”

Charlie’s throat tightened. The words hit harder than she expected. She swallowed, lowering her eyes again as he made his way back to the front of the room (where the radio was) to see her better.

“I will play the music again,” he said simply, “and I will stop you when correction is needed.”

She nodded, almost automatically, and walked back to her position. The music began anew.
One, two, three seconds—

“Stop,” he said. “Hold that pose.”

Charlie froze mid-movement. Her arms hung in place, her breath caught in her chest. Alastor walked toward her, his cane tracing a light pattern on the floor as he studied her form. Then, with its polished tip, he pointed to her elbow.

“Up,” he said.

She adjusted.

“Not that high. There.” He tapped again, just below her wrist.

He circled her slowly, his steps deliberate, never hurried, his voice low and sharp. Each correction struck with clinical precision, her shoulders down, chin higher, turnout deeper. When he reached her back, he placed the cane lightly against her spine. “Your axis is collapsing,” he murmured. “Straighten.”

It went on like that, one correction after another, each more demanding than the last. Ten times he stopped her, ten times she tried to fix herself, her body trembling with exhaustion and nerves. The variation was barely a minute and twenty seconds long, but under Alastor’s scrutiny, it stretched into eternity.

When he finally stopped, Charlie’s breath was ragged. She stood still, staring at the floor as if it might swallow her whole. “Why…” she said, her voice almost breaking, “why did Professor Rosie and you choose me, then? If I’m that bad?”

Alastor leaned on his cane, regarding her with faint amusement. “Because, Miss Morningstar,” he said, his tone cool and unhurried, “the rest didn’t even stand a chance.”

Her gaze snapped up, but before she could speak, he smiled faintly.
“You were the least terrible of those dreamers.”

The words struck her harder than any physical blow could. Something between shame and determination burned inside her chest. And in that moment, as Alastor turned back the front again, Charlie realized what kind of teacher, what kind of man, she was truly dealing with.

The radio’s soft hum filled the studio as Alastor adjusted the dial with his gloved hand. The faint crackle of static vanished, replaced by the opening chords of The Lilac Fairy’s variation, a recording so clear it almost sounded like a full orchestra was hidden behind the mirrors.

“Again,” Alastor said, cane in hand, stepping back toward the center of the room. His voice carried that same steady, gentlemanly tone, smooth but commanding. “From the top, Miss Morningstar.”

Charlie inhaled. Her legs ached, her spine burned from holding her posture so long, but she obeyed. The melody swelled. She began to move.

He didn’t stop her this time, not yet. Instead, he spoke over the music, his words following her every motion like a shadow.

“Don’t think of your feet, think of the line. Allongé, not rigide. You’re closing your arms too soon. Breathe between your transitions.”

She adjusted mid-step, trying to keep the rhythm while following his instructions.

“Don’t look down. A queen never looks at her feet.”

His cane struck the floor lightly in time with the music. Tap. Tap. Tap. The sound was sharp but steady, almost like a metronome.

“Arms higher. Think of reaching, not lifting. Let it come from your chest, not your shoulders. Again—good. Hold that. Now—turn.”

Charlie tried to listen to him, to keep the tempo, to feel every instruction sinking into her body, but soon she felt her mind split in two, the part that was dancing and the part that was listening. Every time she tried to concentrate on one, she lost the other.

Her turn came out uneven. She missed the exact moment she was supposed to land on the beat.

She heard him sigh. “You’re distracted,” he said, not angry, but disappointed, as if it were self-evident. “You’re thinking too much of what you see and not enough of what you hear.”

Charlie stopped mid-pirouette, panting softly. “I’m trying,” she said, a faint crack in her voice.

Alastor tilted his head, eyes glinting with something unreadable. “Then stop trying and just listen. Don’t dance for the music, Miss Morningstar—dance with it.”

Charlie tried to do what he said, to move before the sound reached her. It felt unnatural, dizzying, but suddenly, her motion aligned perfectly with the melody, like she had fallen into the stream rather than walked beside it.

By the time she reached the end, her heart was pounding. Sweat trailed down her temples, but her pulse was calm, steady.

Alastor didn’t say “good.” He only nodded once, then rewound the record.

“Again.”

Charlie blinked. “Again?”

He looked at her, a glimmer of dry amusement in his crimson eyes. “You didn’t think mastery came from endurance alone, did you, my dear?” The sentence hung in the air like a challenge. He pressed the button again, resetting the track. “From the beginning. And this time, don’t look at me. Don’t look at yourself. Just move.”

The second round began. This time, he didn’t just speak, he commanded.

“Arms higher. Extend. That’s not a full développé, it’s hesitation in disguise. Turnout, Miss Morningstar,  and for heaven’s sake, control your landing, grace, not gravity.”

Charlie’s breath came in bursts. Every time she thought she was following, he pointed out something else, some invisible thread she hadn’t noticed before.

By the third round, he stopped her again, barely halfway through.

“No,” he said, rapping the floor lightly with his cane. “I’ve already told you, this port de bras is lifeless. Are you hiding from the music? Because that’s what it looks like.”

She bit her lip, shame and exhaustion mixing in her chest.

“I’m not—” she tried, but he cut her off.

“Then prove it.” 

He stepped forward again, with that mysterious smile, gesturing with the tip of his cane. “Here. Feel this line,” he said, drawing an invisible arc in the air beside her. “You’re supposed to sing with your arms. Every movement is an extension of the melody, not an echo. Right now, you’re behind the beat by a full demi-mesure. Again.”

She went again. He stopped her again. And again.

By the fourth round, her lungs were burning. Her hair clung to her neck, her legs trembling beneath her.

Finally, Alastor exhaled, lowering his cane. “Enough,” he said quietly. “You’ll collapse if I keep this up. Go drink some water.”

Charlie didn’t hesitate; she crossed to her bag and took a long sip, trying not to let her shaking hands show. When she turned back, Alastor had rewound the record once more.

“This time,” he said, “I won’t interrupt. No corrections. No words. You’ve heard everything I had to say. Let’s see if you were listening.”

Charlie nodded, swallowing hard.

The music began again, and she moved.

There were no interruptions, no footsteps pacing behind her, no cane tapping in warning. Only the melody, the echo of his instructions threading through her mind, anticipates the music, breath between transitions, grace, not gravity.

Her body obeyed. Every correction replayed in her memory, translating into instinct. She danced through exhaustion, through fear, through the weight of his silence.

When the final note faded, she stood motionless, chest rising and falling, eyes fixed on her reflection.

Alastor, still by the radio, looked at her for a long moment before finally speaking. “It was… okay,” he said, his tone as flat as a verdict. “Better. But not good.”

Charlie blinked, unsure if she should feel relieved or crushed.

“You’ll need far more than a few nights to master that variation,” he continued, adjusting his tie. “The premiere is Wednesday, isn’t it?”

She nodded.

“Then I’d suggest you stop hoping for miracles and start practicing like your career depends on it, which, in your case, it does.”

Despite the words, there was no cruelty in his tone, only certainty.

Charlie, somehow, found herself smiling faintly through her exhaustion. “Thank you, Mr. Alastor,” she said softly. “For staying this late and helping me.”

He paused halfway to the door, turning his head slightly. “I’m not sure what you’re thanking me for,” he said. “I only did what any sane person would do, Miss Morningstar. After all, no one wants to watch the school’s legacy crumble under mediocrity.” He gave a soft, sardonic chuckle. “But, well, glad to be of use, I suppose.”

And with that, he left the studio, cane clicking lightly against the floor.

For a long while, Charlie remained where she was, staring at the door he’d gone through. Her body hurt, her mind was drained, but somewhere under all of it, a fire was starting to burn.

If he thought she was the least worst, then she’d make damn sure to become something else entirely

The next day.

Charlie woke up late, nearly eleven. Sunlight pressed through the tall windows of her Upper East Side apartment, drawing soft lines across the white sheets tangled around her legs. Her muscles still ached, her calves especially, and the memory of Alastor’s corrections echoed faintly in her mind: “Extend. No, not like that — breathe into the movement, don’t just mimic it.”

She sighed, pushing herself up slowly. “Okay,” she whispered, rubbing her eyes. “It’s fine. It was just a hard session. Today is rest day.”

She crossed to the window, pulling open the curtains. The city shimmered below her, a mosaic of cars, honking horns, and people who didn't know whether to wear a sweater or shorts. Everything looked calm and ordinary. Maybe she could let herself be ordinary for one day, too. A quiet coffee shop, her favorite book, and an iced matcha latte. Just Charlie, not the dancer who had to fix everything in three days.

She got dressed in soft jeans, a long pink blouse, and a beret she didn’t even like that much but had bought because it made her feel like a Parisian. She checked herself in the mirror, adjusting her hair. She looked… fine. But as her gaze lingered on her own reflection, something inside her shifted.

Her arms,  still sore, ached in a familiar rhythm. Her feet remembered the count of the music. And suddenly, the thought of spending the day reading felt wrong.

She couldn’t relax. Not yet.

Alastor’s voice replayed in her head, low and precise:

“You know the choreography, Miss Morningstar. You simply don’t know how to perform it.”

The words burned.

Charlie exhaled, pulling her blouse off in one swift motion. “Fuck,” she muttered to herself. “Fine. I’ll go back.” She changed into her training clothes again. The plan for matcha and quiet bookstores was gone. The studio was calling instead.

When she went downstairs, the smell of coffee and toasted bread filled the dining room. Her parents were still at the table, the morning paper half-folded in Lucifer’s hands, and a half-finished cup of tea in Lilith’s. They both looked up when she appeared at the foot of the stairs.

“Well, look who decided to wake up,” Lucifer said with a small grin. “We were going to check if you were still alive.”

Charlie gave a tired smile. “Yeah, sorry. I got home late last night.”

Lilith, ever the observant one, tilted her head. “We know, honey, but why that late? I thought you were just doing background rehearsals.”

Charlie hesitated, unsure of how to say it. “Actually… they picked me for the Lilac Fairy. The original girl got hurt.”

For a moment, there was silence,  and then Lilith stood up, her expression transforming into genuine delight. “The Lilac Fairy? Oh, sweetheart, that’s incredible!” She came around the table and pulled Charlie into a hug. “I knew they’d see your potential eventually.”

Lucifer joined in, wrapping his arms around both of them. “My little star,” he said warmly, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “I’m proud of you.”

Charlie smiled,  a real one this time. Their warmth grounded her, even if part of her still doubted she deserved the praise. “Thanks. I… still have a lot to work on, though. I was actually thinking of going back to the studio today, you know? to keep practicing.”

Lilith nodded, understanding instantly,  the way only another dancer could. “Of course you are. But you should eat something first. I made oatmeal for when you woke up.”

Charlie looked at the steaming bowl waiting for her. “I can take it to go. I’ll eat when I get there.”

Lucifer folded his paper, standing up. “I’ll drive you. You can eat on the way.”

Charlie blinked. “Dad, you don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he interrupted gently, giving her that reassuring mayor’s smile,  the same one he used for cameras, but warmer.

She gave in, nodding. “Okay. Thanks, Dad.”

As she grabbed her bag, Lilith touched her arm softly. “Don’t push yourself too hard today, alright? Rehearse, but remember, no amount of perfect lines will save a dancer who’s burned out.”

Charlie gave a small, grateful laugh. “Yeah. I’ll be careful.”

She wasn’t sure she meant it, though.

Because as soon as she stepped into the elevator with her dad by her side, her pulse quickened, not with nerves, but with anticipation. She wasn’t going to rest. Not until the variation was hers.

Charlie arrived at the academy just past noon. The streets were quiet for a Sunday, only a few pedestrians passing by as she stepped out of her father’s car. Lucifer adjusted his sunglasses, keeping his head low so no one would recognize him. Even dressed casually, he carried the unmistakable aura of someone used to being watched, someone who could draw attention just by existing.

“Alright, my little star,” he said, smiling faintly from the driver’s seat. “Have a great day. And… remember what your mother said,  don’t overdo it today.”

Charlie nodded, clutching her dance bag. “I’ll try.”

He raised a brow. “You’ll try?”

She grinned weakly. “You know me.”

Lucifer chuckled and shook his head. “That I do. Just  be smart about it, okay?”

“Promise.”

She waved as she stepped inside, the heavy glass doors closing behind her. For a moment, the city noise vanished. Only the faint smell of rosin and floor polish lingered in the empty halls.

The academy was deserted, no students, no chatter, just her own footsteps echoing softly. The silence felt sacred, like she was trespassing in a cathedral. Charlie always loved the building this way, stripped of all its competition and gossip, left only with mirrors, light, and possibility.

She unlocked her usual studio and flipped on the lights. The walls glowed softly under the afternoon sun. Setting her bag down, she took a deep breath. “Okay,” she whispered. “Let’s do this.”

She’d brought everything: three extra pairs of pointe shoes, needles, thread, scissors, elastic, ribbon. It was tedious work, but sewing the shoes helped her focus. She sewed fast, neat, and precise, her hands moving with practiced ease. One pair for today, two for rehearsals, and one saved for Wednesday, premiere night. Just thinking the word premiere made her chest tighten.

When she finished, she set up her phone speaker — which, of course, refused to connect again — so she switched to her iPad. She placed it on the floor to record, hit play, and took her position.

The familiar music filled the room, echoing faintly against the high ceilings. Charlie’s body moved almost automatically, muscle memory taking over. Every correction Alastor had given her the day before replayed in her mind like ghostly whispers:

“Don’t collapse into the port de bras,  breathe through it.”
“Lift, not up, but outward, like you’re drawing light from your fingertips.”
“The Lilac Fairy doesn’t rush. She commands.”

Round after round, she danced. Six times in total. Each time, she tried to polish her techniques to find grace in control, not just passion.

By the sixth run, her breath came in sharp gasps. Sweat clung to her back. She stopped the music and bent down to pause the recording on her iPad. Her legs trembled faintly. She grabbed her water bottle, twisted the cap,  empty.

“Of course,” she murmured, rolling her eyes.

She slipped out into the hallway, her footsteps soft against the wooden floor. The fountain was a few doors down, near one of the smaller practice studios. As she filled her bottle, a sound drifted through the corridor,  faint at first, but distinct.

A piano.

Not the bright, militant rhythm of rehearsal pieces,  something else.

The melody floated like a sigh, gentle, melancholic, full of yearning. It rose and fell in uneven breaths, as if someone were trying to say something they couldn’t quite put into words. There was sadness in it, yes, but also warmth. Hope, fragile but alive.

Charlie froze. The sound pulled her forward before she even decided to move. Her shoes made almost no noise as she followed the melody, down the hall, past the classrooms and the closed studios, until she reached one door that was slightly ajar.

Inside, Alastor sat at the piano.

He was turned away from her, his back straight, shoulders still. The afternoon light painted a gold outline around him as his hands moved effortlessly across the keys. He wasn’t the cold instructor from yesterday, not the perfectionist who cut her down with surgical precision. This Alastor looked human. Focused, yes, but not rigid. The music was coming from somewhere deep inside him, spilling out in a language more honest than words.

Charlie leaned quietly against the doorframe, captivated. She felt every note in her chest, the ache, the longing, the beauty. It was strange to hear something so emotional from someone so composed.

When the melody reached its end, the silence that followed felt heavy, like the last page of a story you don’t want to close.

Charlie exhaled softly, realizing she’d been holding her breath. Maybe she should leave. This wasn’t her moment to witness.

But before she could turn,  she heard “You know, Miss Morningstar,” he said, still not turning back to her, his tone calm but edged with amusement, “if you intend to eavesdrop, it is terribly impolite to stand there without saying a word.”

Charlie froze, caught completely off guard.

Her first instinct was to run,  to close the door quietly and vanish before he could turn around,  but that calm, unhurried voice left no room for escape. He knew. So, gathering what little courage she had left, she stepped inside, the wooden floor creaking softly beneath her pointe shoes.

“I’m— I’m sorry,” she blurted, her voice small in the large, empty room. “It’s not like I was trying anything, I just…” She hesitated, clutching her water bottle like a lifeline. “I couldn’t help it. The melody—it was beautiful.”

Alastor finally turned his head toward her, still seated at the piano. His crimson eyes caught the light for a brief moment, and that familiar, unreadable smile curved across his lips. It wasn’t mocking this time, nor was it kind, it was something in between. The kind of smile that made you wonder if he was genuinely pleased or just amused by your discomfort.

Charlie felt her cheeks warm. She shifted her weight awkwardly. “What’s the name of it? I’ve never heard anything like that before. It’s… it’s kind of sad, but also…” she searched for the right word, “…hopeful?”

For a brief moment, Alastor seemed genuinely taken aback by her question. He blinked once, as if no one had ever asked him why he played something. Then, with a faint chuckle, he said, “Well, I can’t say I’m much of a fan of modern Hollywood. Far too loud and predictable for my taste. But once in a while, something manages to capture that old charm—La La Land, for example. A rather curious film about dreams and love and all the ways they fail us.”

Charlie tilted her head slightly. “I don’t think I’ve seen that one. Or maybe I did, but I don’t remember.”

Alastor gave a small nod, pressing one finger against the piano keys, producing a soft, single note that hung in the air like a sigh. “Then I’d recommend you watch it. It’s… somewhat inspiring. But that’s all I’ll say.”

She smiled faintly. “Alright, I will.”

The silence between them stretched again, not awkward but weighted, the way still air feels before the first drop of rain. Then, as if to brush away sentiment, Alastor straightened his posture. “So,” he said, his tone returning to its familiar briskness, “I assume you’re here for what I think you are.”

Charlie nodded, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Yeah. I took what you said yesterday seriously. I’ve been practicing all morning, well, since noon, and trying to apply all your corrections.”

That earned her a different kind of smile from him. It was faint, subtle, but real, a small, approving curve that lit his expression in a way she hadn’t seen before. And somehow, it made her heart flutter.

“As you should,” he said simply, rising from the piano bench. He reached for his cane, leaning it lightly against his palm. “It’s expected of any dancer who values her craft. Never let yourself fall behind. Excellence isn’t optional, it’s survival.”

He adjusted his coat, his cane tapping lightly on the polished floor as he began walking toward the door. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I was just about to head home for the day.”

Charlie watched him go, something in her chest tightening as his tall figure reached the doorway. It wasn’t fair, after all this, after finally seeing this more human side of him, she didn’t want him to just leave. She had wanted to thank him properly, to prove she had listened, to show she wasn’t just the “least terrible” of her group.

“Wait—!” she blurted before she could stop herself.

Alastor paused mid-step, turning slightly, the light catching his sharp profile.

Charlie’s voice faltered. “I—I just… could you maybe… watch me once? Just one time? So I can make sure I’m doing everything right before continuing on my own?” Her hands fidgeted with the hem of her warm-up shirt. “Just one last correction.”

For a moment, she thought he might laugh or brush her off. But instead, Alastor tilted his head, studying her expression carefully. Then, with a quiet sigh that sounded almost like reluctant amusement, he said, “Very well, one last correction.” The corner of his mouth twitched into a smirk. “Lead the way.”

Charlie’s heart skipped. She nodded, quickly grabbing her bag and leading him down the hall toward the larger studio. As they walked, the soft, steady rhythm of his cane against the wooden floor echoed like a metronome, calm, precise, inescapable.

They both entered the studio. He stood in front of the mirror, waiting for her to play the music. And when the melody finally reached the queue, Charlie got into position to begin the variation. She was a little nervous, but confident she would do a thousand times better than yesterday.

The final chords of the piano drifted into silence, hanging in the air like the last breath of a spell. Charlie held her final pose, arm outstretched, chin lifted, heart hammering under the weight of her own expectation. A fine sheen of sweat traced the edge of her jaw, catching the light of the rehearsal lamps.

Alastor’s cane tapped once against the wooden floor. “Better,” he said finally, his voice smooth yet restrained. “There was improvement from yesterday.”

Charlie didn’t dare move. She wanted to smile, to feel that small spark of pride bloom inside her chest, but she knew better than to celebrate too early.

“Your port de bras has gained precision,” he continued, circling her like a patient shadow. “The transitions were less hesitant. The variation began with control this time.”

Her lips parted, hope flickering like a candle’s edge.

“But,” he added, his tone flattening into something cool and exacting, “it is still not good enough for a professional dancer.”

The words struck hard, slicing through the brief silence. Her shoulders tensed.

“You still have three days, Miss Morningstar,” Alastor went on, stopping directly in front of her. “Three days to perfect the Lilac Fairy. Do you understand the opportunity you’ve been given?” His crimson eyes glinted under the light, sharp and unreadable. “Most dancers spend years waiting for a big role. If you wish to prove you deserve it and you are not just a substitute, then treat it as though your future depends on it, because, in this world, it often does.”

He adjusted his gloves methodically, gaze never leaving her. “There was improvement today. Impressive improvement. But improvement alone is not excellence.”

Charlie swallowed hard, her voice barely a whisper. “Yes, sir.”

He gave a curt nod. “Good afternoon. And good evening, Miss Morningstar.”

The rhythmic sound of his steps echoed as he crossed the room and left. The door closed with a soft thud that seemed louder than it should have.

Charlie stood in silence, her reflection staring back at her from the mirrored wall, flushed cheeks, trembling hands, and eyes that burned with something that wasn’t defeat, not yet.

She refused to waste another second, so she stayed. Every step, every spin, every arabesque became a promise to herself. The clock struck five by the time she finally stopped, her muscles screaming and her body drenched in sweat, but her heart beating steady. The Lilac Fairy was meant to embody grace, poise, and light, and Charlie was determined to become her, no matter what it took.

The following day blurred into another marathon of movement and correction. She stayed after the company’s rehearsals again, long after others had gone home. The janitors passed her with quiet nods, the echo of her pointe shoes bouncing off the walls as she drilled the same sequence over and over. Her body ached, her toes throbbed, and yet, every time exhaustion whispered enough, she saw his face in her mind, Alastor’s calm, unreadable expression, his quiet smile that never told her if she was succeeding or disappointing him. The thought alone kept her going.

By Tuesday, she wasn’t alone anymore. The academy hummed with restless energy as everyone prepared for the upcoming performance. Charlie joined her friends in one of the smaller studios, Vaggie, Pentious, and Angel, all rehearsing their own sections. The room filled with laughter, bits of music, and the rhythmic scrape of shoes against the floor. Emily, poised and radiant as always, was there too—Aurora herself—working alongside Angel, who was set to be the male principal for the pas de deux. Between runs, Charlie caught herself glancing toward them, watching how easily Emily floated through each lift, every turn, her movements effortless, born for the stage. But instead of discouragement, it lit something inside Charlie, a hunger to earn her place beside them.

All she wanted was to deliver a performance that proved she belonged here. To show the academy that she was more than background filler, more than a smiling face lost in the crowd. Every movement became a quiet declaration: she was ready for more. And when her turn came during the next company run, and she felt Alastor’s gaze settle on her from across the room, maybe he was not even looking at her since he was at the piano, but still, she knew he expected perfection, then perfection she would become. She would slay her part, no matter how much it hurt.

The air in the dressing room smelled faintly of roses and hairspray, thick with the quiet electricity that filled the halls before a performance. Costumes hung on metal racks, shimmering under the fluorescent lights; the soft rustle of tulle and silk echoed like whispers of nerves. Charlie sat before the mirror, her heart thrumming faster than the ticking clock on the wall. Forty-five minutes until curtain. Her reflection looked calm enough, except for the trembling hands and the single finished eye glittering in lavender shadow and fine liner.

She dabbed more powder on her cheeks, hoping it would steady her breathing. Vaggie had promised to return soon with their comfort food, just something small to eat before the show—something normal to distract from the storm in her stomach. So when a knock sounded on the door, she smiled faintly, already ready to tease her friend for taking so long. “Come in,” she called, expecting Vaggie’s familiar laugh.

But when the door opened, it wasn’t her.

A tall figure stood framed in the doorway, dressed impeccably in his dark attire, the low lights catching faint gleams of his cane’s polished handle. Alastor’s red eyes were calm as ever, his smile precise and unreadable. “I hope I’m not interrupting your makeup session,” he said lightly, his tone polite but edged with that ever-present amusement.

Charlie froze halfway through drawing the line on her other eye, suddenly aware of how ridiculous she must look, half-finished face, hair pinned in tight curls, tutu skirt brushing against the chair. Her cheeks flamed pink. “Oh! N-no, it’s fine—I’m still getting ready, that’s all.” She instinctively brought a hand up to cover the unfinished side of her face.

He nodded, clearly unfazed, leaning just slightly on his cane. “Understandable. I merely stopped by to wish you luck. You look like you might need it.”

Charlie blinked, uncertain if that was meant as an insult or encouragement. But since his tone carried no venom, just that usual air of factual detachment, she decided to take it as the latter. “Thank you,” she said softly. Then, with more courage, she added, “And also… thank you for everything you said the other day. The corrections, the advice helped me a lot. I mean it. You made me notice things I never realized before, and I’m… really grateful that you were here. Whether as our pianist or as… an occasional mentor.”

For a heartbeat, Alastor didn’t respond. His gaze flicked away, to the rows of mirrors, to the pale reflection of light on the tiled floor, as if the sincerity in her words caught him off guard. “Yes, well…” He tilted his head, hiding a faint twitch of expression that might have been the ghost of a smile. “You’re welcome, I suppose.”

Then, just as quickly, he straightened, his usual composure returning. “Now,” he said, voice lower, almost teasing, “enjoy these last few minutes of joy, Miss Morningstar. Because once you step onto that stage…” His smile curved, sharp and deliberate. “It’ll be absolute hell out there.”

Charlie couldn’t help it, she laughed softly, nerves and thrill blending together. “I’ll keep that in mind,” she said, her voice steadier than before.

Alastor inclined his head in farewell, cane tapping once against the floor before he turned and left the room, the echo of his steps fading down the corridor. The door clicked shut, leaving Charlie staring at her reflection again, half-made up, heart racing, and suddenly more certain than ever that she could face whatever came next.

Later

The murmur of the audience was a distant wave beyond the curtain, a soft, restless sea of expectation. Charlie stood at the edge of the stage, heart pounding so violently that she could feel it through the satin of her costume. The orchestra tuned one last time, the notes rising and blending in the dim light like a spell. Then, silence, just for a heartbeat, before the music began.

Her cue.

She stepped onto the stage, the light hitting her face with blinding warmth. For a second, everything else disappeared: the whispers, the panic, the months of self-doubt. Her arms lifted as if pulled by the melody itself, graceful, weightless, a vision of poise she didn’t know she was capable of. Every step, every port de bras felt like breathing underwater, smooth, free, and impossibly alive. The Lilac Fairy was no longer just a role. She was the embodiment of every night Charlie had doubted herself, every bruise, every tear, every correction that stung like truth.

She danced as if she finally understood the meaning of her own body.

When the last note of her variation fell, she landed her final pose in perfect stillness, the air ringing with the echo of the music. For a long second, no one moved. Then applause erupted, a sea of clapping hands that seemed to crash around her, flooding her with warmth she could hardly contain. Her heart was flying, trembling in disbelief. For the first time in her life, she felt like she had accomplished something real—something that wasn’t about expectations or legacy, but about her.

Backstage, Vaggie was the first to grab her in a tight, breathless hug. “Charlie! Oh my god, you were incredible! That was ... that was it, you nailed it!”

Charlie laughed, breathless, still dazed from the stage lights. “Do you think so? I just,  I can’t believe it’s over ... at least for today.”

“Don’t celebrate yet,” Vaggie teased, smoothing out her own tutu as she spoke. “You still have the group sections, remember? But honestly, if you keep this up, they’re going to lose their minds by the end. You’ve got this.”

And she did. Every dance after that flowed easier, freer. The nerves dissolved, replaced by something close to euphoria. Her body moved in perfect rhythm with the others; the steps she once feared now felt natural, almost effortless. When the final curtain fell, and the cast took their bows under a shower of applause, Charlie thought her heart might burst. The academy had seen her tonight, really seen her, and she felt alive in a way that words couldn’t capture.

Backstage was chaos in the best way. Laughter, hugs, a thousand congratulations echoing off the walls. The entire cast came together in a tangle of arms and tulle, a giant, exhausted group hug. For a few golden moments, there was no hierarchy, no stress, just shared relief and joy. Then one by one, everyone began retreating to their dressing rooms, ready to peel off their costumes and makeup, to breathe again as themselves.

When Charlie and Vaggie entered theirs, the room was filled with the faint scent of perfume and powder. Costumes hung neatly, mirrors reflected the soft golden bulbs around the frame, and on the vanity table, someone had left a bouquet. Pale lavender roses, tied with a black ribbon.

“Oh!” Vaggie exclaimed, setting down her dance bag. “Someone’s popular tonight.” She reached for the small card nestled among the petals. Her eyes widened slightly as she read the front. “It’s for you, Charlie.”

“Me?” Charlie blinked, stepping closer. Her fingers trembled as she took the card, turning it over to read the message. For a moment, her breath caught, the world narrowing to those sharp, carefully written words.

You were not bad today, but could’ve been way better.
— A.

She felt her heart stutter in her chest. She knew who send it.

“Who’s it from?” Vaggie asked, grinning. “Oh my god, don’t tell me you have a secret admirer already?”

Charlie’s lips parted, but no sound came. She stared at the note again, her pulse quickening, unsure whether to laugh or feel insulted, or something entirely different, something that warmed her chest in a way she couldn’t explain. Finally, she managed a smile, gentle but nervous. “It’s from my parents,” she lied, carefully folding the note back into the bouquet. “They couldn’t come tonight, but… they must’ve sent these ahead.”

“That’s so sweet of them,” Vaggie said warmly. “You’re so lucky, you know? Not everyone gets that kind of support.”

“Yeah…” Charlie murmured, glancing at the flowers again, her reflection faint in the mirror behind them. “I know.”

She traced the edge of the ribbon with her fingertips, feeling her pulse there, quick and unsteady. Outside, laughter and music filled the corridor as the cast celebrated. But Charlie barely heard it. Her thoughts lingered on the man behind the initial, on his cool voice and unreadable eyes, on the note that was half praise, half challenge.

Her first bouquet after a performance, and it came with a reminder.

She smiled to herself, half nervous, half thrilled, and whispered under her breath, “Guess I’ll have to be better, then.”

And in her chest, her heart beat faster still.

Chapter 3: Adagio: The Weight of Grace

Notes:

New chapter cause I was really inspired after watching Giselle (the ballet) on live!!

So I hope you guys like it!!!

Enjoy!!

The last notes of Sleeping Beauty echoed through the theater like a sigh. The applause thundered across the hall, shaking the velvet curtains, and for a fleeting moment Charlie felt suspended in that sound—weightless, alive. The performance had ended, and with it, a chapter she wasn’t entirely ready to let go of.

After six weeks of performances, The Sleeping Beauty had finally reached its end. One and a half months of perfection and exhaustion, bruised toes and whispered cues, sleepless nights spent going over every movement until her reflection became a stranger. And yet, standing there after her final bow, she felt a pang of sadness. Tomorrow, the costumes would be returned, the sets dismantled, and the endless rehearsals replaced by something new. It always happened this way: one ballet ends, another begins, but this time she couldn’t help but feel that she was slipping back into the shadows, into background roles again. The Lilac Fairy had been her first taste of something greater, and now it was over. She hopes her luck hasn't run out yet.

By the time she and Vaggie got back to their dressing room, the air was filled with laughter and the sound of zippers and hangers clinking. They were both still half in costume, half in conversation, talking about how good the crowd had been tonight, when a sudden knock on the door startled them.

Angel burst in, already changed into his usual street clothes, ripped jeans, oversized hoodie, and a grin that looked ready to start trouble. Pentious followed behind him, still wearing half of his royal costume, the cape trailing awkwardly.

“Girls, hurry up!” Angel announced, clapping his hands like a director calling for action. “I wanna introduce you to my best friend in the entire world, Cherry!”

“Cherry?” Vaggie asked, one brow raised, fixing the pins in her bun.

“Yeah! She came to see the show, and she loved it!, She literally just texted me saying that we were awesome,” Angel said, practically bouncing. “She just moved to the city, literally a block away from me in Brooklyn. Tattoo artist full-time, works at a smoke shop on weekends, she’s the coolest person you’ll ever meet. If you ever want a tattoo or, you know, a discount on some cigs, she’s your girl.”

Vaggie laughed, shaking her head. “I’ll pass on the smoking. I need my lungs intact if I want to keep dancing. But a tattoo… maybe, i always wanted something small on my back.”

Charlie smiled softly, pretending to think about it. “Yeah, I agree, a tattoo would be cool.”
(She wouldn’t admit it out loud, but she already smoked, quietly, privately, never around her friends, and of course, she was not an addict. It was her own secret kind of rebellion, the only one she allowed herself, especially if she reached a certain point of stress.)

Pentious crossed his arms. “Hold up, how come we’ve never heard of her before? You’re always talking about yourself, Angel, but not once have you mentioned Cherry.”

Angel grinned. “Because she’s been in L.A. for college! But she just transferred to John Jay last minute, so she’s back here, and thank god. I mean, I like my college friends, but none of them are as special as you guys or her.” He leaned closer with mock seriousness. “But don’t ever say that in front of my John Jay group, alright? I got a rep to keep.”

Vaggie laughed, shaking her head. “Your reputation, huh?”

“Exactly,” Angel said proudly. “Anyway, she’s waiting outside the theater. I told her I’d bring you all. So hurry it up! Pentious, you too, go get your royal behind changed.”

Pentious rolled his eyes, but Angel was already dragging him out by the arm, muttering something about fashionably late entrances.

Vaggie chuckled. “He never changes.”

“Nope,” Charlie agreed softly, looking at her reflection one last time before reaching for her coat. “And honestly, I hope he never does.

She and Vaggie had changed back into their street clothes, chatting about the tiny celebrations that awaited them outside. Angel and Pentious were already out front, texting impatiently that they’d found Cherry—the mysterious friend Angel had promised to introduce.

“Come on, Charlie,” Vaggie said, adjusting her coat. “They’re probably already freezing out there.”

Charlie smiled weakly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. But then, something caught her eye.

Down one of the long backstage corridors, barely visible under the dim yellow lights, was a flicker of crimson. A faint swish of red fabric disappearing around the corner, followed by the soft, rhythmic tap of a cane against the floor.

Her breath hitched.

That sound. That color. She would’ve recognized it anywhere.

“Hey, um—Vaggie?” Charlie started, forcing a shaky laugh. “I think I need to use the bathroom real quick. My stomach’s… kinda killing me.”

Vaggie frowned, concern softening her face. “You okay? I can wait for you—”

“No! No, no, it’s fine.” Charlie waved her hands quickly. “I’ll meet you outside. Promise.”

After a second’s hesitation, Vaggie nodded. “Alright, don’t take long.” And she was gone, her footsteps fading toward the exit.

As soon as the coast was clear, Charlie turned and walked, then half-ran, down the corridor, her heart hammering with every step. She didn’t know why she was doing this. What would she even say? Thank you? Sorry? Something? Anything?

When she reached the studio hallway, she stopped abruptly.

There he was.

Alastor stood by the door of one of the practice rooms, slipping his cane against the frame as he closed the door behind him. The overhead lights caught faintly on his glasses, hiding his eyes for a second. But when he turned, he smiled, sharp and knowing, as always.

“Ah,” he said. “Miss Morningstar. Didn’t expect to see you wandering the halls so late. Am I interrupting your… post-performance routine?”

Charlie froze, realizing she still had faint traces of glitter on her cheek and half-tamed curls escaping her bun. “Oh—no! I mean—yes, I mean—uh, not really.” She flushed hard and laughed nervously. “I was just… getting some air. I guess.”

He tilted his head, his grin faint but warm. “Hmm. Well, congratulations, nonetheless. You did well tonight.”

“Just… well?” she asked before she could stop herself.

He arched a brow, clearly amused by her sudden challenge. “Would you prefer I said magnificent?”

She hesitated, biting her lip. “I mean, I thought maybe you’d say great, or something.”

“Good,” he corrected. “Your performance was good.”

It shouldn’t have stung, but somehow it did.

He noticed the way her shoulders tensed, the flicker of disappointment in her eyes. “You were a substitute, were you not?” he added calmly. “You weren’t meant to have the role. You were given a chance and you took it. You should be proud of that.”

“I am,” Charlie said quietly. “I just… I don’t need to be reminded that it wasn’t supposed to be mine.”

He inclined his head slightly, almost apologetic. “A fair point.”

Silence settled between them for a moment, filled only by the faint hum of the stage lights overhead.

Then Charlie took a slow breath. “Actually, I know it's been a while, but I… never got to thank you properly. For the flowers.”

For the first time, Alastor looked surprised. “Ah. You did receive them then.”

“I did.” She smiled softly. “It was a nice gesture from you, Mr.Alastor.”

His expression shifted, almost imperceptibly. Something gentler, less guarded, crossed his face. “It was simply what any gentleman should do when a woman finds passion in her craft,” he said. “And when she accomplishes something she’s worked for.”

Charlie felt her chest tighten. “That’s… sweet of you.”

He chuckled quietly. “Sweetness doesn’t suit me, I think.”

“It does tonight,” she said before realizing how it sounded. Her face went crimson.

Alastor’s grin grew, though he looked away briefly, as if hiding a laugh. “Then perhaps tonight is an exception.”

She tried to respond, but her words tangled together into half-sentences and nervous chuckles. “I—uh—thank you again, I’m sorry, I’m just… tired, I think.”

“Then allow yourself to be,” Alastor said simply. “Rest, Miss Morningstar. You’ve earned it. But next week, be ready for The Nutcracker auditions,” he said, straightening his tie. “It’s the best season of ballet. The one everyone fights for. Be ready for that fight if you want a solo. Because this time, no one will simply hand it to you.”

His tone wasn’t cruel, just factual, steady, like the ticking of a metronome.

As he started to walk away, Charlie’s voice followed him, small but clear. “Did you always get the part you wanted?”

He stopped mid-step, turning just slightly, his cane angled against the floor. For a moment, the silence stretched so long she thought he wouldn’t answer.

Then he said, softly:
“In some of them, yes. In others… I made sure I did.” He tipped his hat with that familiar, haunting smile. “Goodnight, Miss Morningstar.”

And then he was gone, his steps fading into the echoing corridors, leaving Charlie standing there in the dim light, her heart thudding unevenly, unsure if what she felt was admiration, fear… or something far more dangerous.

By the time Charlie made it outside, the air had already turned crisp, the kind of early-autumn chill that made her pull her coat a little tighter. The crowd outside the Lincoln Center was thinning out, with dancers, families, and students scattering into the glowing Manhattan night.

She spotted Vaggie first, standing with Angel, Pentious, and someone new, Cherry, a girl with short hair dyed a vibrant rose-pink and tattoos curling up her arms and chest like living vines. The girl was laughing about something Angel had said, and even from afar, Charlie could tell her energy filled the space like static.

“Finally!” Angel exclaimed, running over and looping an arm around her shoulders. “I was about to send a search party for you, sweetheart. You take longer than Vaggie fixing her eyeliner!”

Charlie laughed, her nerves finally loosening. “Sorry, I got caught up. You know how backstage gets.”

Angel grinned, gesturing dramatically toward the stranger. “Anyway, let me introduce you. This here is Cherry! My favorite troublemaker, my ride-or-die, my better half from Brooklyn!"

“Angel, I swear,” Cherry said with a laugh, “for a second I thought you were lying. I didn’t think you actually hung out with the mayor’s daughter.”

Charlie chuckled softly, waving her hands. “Oh, I wouldn’t go that far. I mean, yeah, technically, but… I’m just Charlie. I can barely keep up with this city like everyone else.”

Cherry smirked. “Well, you seem cooler than I expected. Points for that.”

Vaggie chuckled, “She’s full of surprises.”

As they all started walking toward the edge of the plaza, Charlie caught a small glance at Pentious. He hadn’t said much, barely anything, actually, but his gaze kept drifting toward Cherry. It wasn’t subtle.

Charlie smiled to herself. It was kind of cute. Cherry had that effortless, untamed energy that pulled eyes her way. Her tattoos peeked just above her shirt collar, delicate but bold, like vines curling over her skin.

Then Charlie noticed something else.

Cherry’s right eye, the one that stayed half in shadow, looked… off. Not in a bad way, just different. The color was dulled, almost cloudy, like it caught the light wrong. A blind eye, maybe. Charlie felt a quiet pang of curiosity but said nothing. It wasn’t her place.

“So!” Cherry clapped her hands once, excitement sparking. “You guys were phenomenal. I don’t know a damn thing about ballet, but I know when I’m watching art. And damn, Angel, you killed it up there!”

“Ugh, I know I did,” Angel said with a dramatic sigh, pretending to flick imaginary dust off his shoulder. “Principal dancer, babe. I was glowing.”

“You were,” Cherry teased, bumping her hip into him. “I’m proud of you, honestly. All of you. That was beautiful.”

“Thank you,” Charlie said, her voice soft. She still felt light from the performance, like her body hadn’t quite returned from the stage.

“Oh! Before I forget,” Cherry continued, “there’s this place in Bushwick, one of my roommates knows the guy throwing a party tonight. You should come! It’s nothing fancy, just a warehouse thing. But the music’s good, and everyone’s chill.”

Angel gasped dramatically. “See? This is why I missed you. Always bringing the right kind of chaos back into my life.”

Cherry rolled her eyes. “You just want free drinks and bad decisions.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Angel teased. “Anyway, yes, one hundred percent we’re going. I need to shake off all this performance stress before I combust.”

Vaggie rolled her eyes but smiled. “You just want an excuse to drink.”

“Maybe,” he said, twirling his hair. “Also, we can crash at my place again. I don’t trust the subway at midnight, and I’m not losing my favorite people to rat knife fights.”

Vaggie nodded immediately. “Honestly, yeah, sounds perfect. I’m not trying to risk getting stabbed for the F train tonight.”

Pentious nodded faintly, still too distracted to form words, and Charlie laughed under her breath.

“I’ll come,” she said. “I just need to text my mom, let her know I’m alive and not lost in the city somewhere.”

“Good girl,” Angel said, already fishing out his phone. “Now, let’s get outta here before I freeze my tail off.”

They started walking toward the street, the city lights flickering on the wet pavement, all of them laughing about something dumb Angel said. For the first time in weeks, Charlie felt that glow of calm, no stage, no pressure, no cane tapping down the hall. Just friends, noise, and the night stretching ahead of them like a promise.

They need to make a quick stop at Angel's apartment to leave their stuff and change into something more club-themed

Angel’s apartment in Brooklyn looked like an explosion of silk and sequins had gone off in the middle of a thrift store, and Charlie loved it. Clothes were draped over lamps, shoes lined the windowsills, and the faint smell of incense and hair spray lingered in the air.

“Make yourselves at home, dolls,” Angel said, tossing his keys onto the counter and kicking off his heels with a sigh. “If it sparkles, it’s clean. If it smells like smoke, don’t ask.”

Charlie and Vaggie laughed, exchanging glances as they dropped their dance bags near the couch. Their feet ached, their hair was still stiff from performance gel, but for the first time all night, they could breathe.

Angel flung open his closet like a magician revealing his trick. “Alright! Closet raid time. I’ve got crop tops, corsets, vintage leather, glitter suits, and more skirts than Macy’s during Pride Month. Take your pick, ladies.”

“Why do you have so many feminine clothes?” Vaggie teased, running a hand over a sequined jacket.

Angel grinned. “Because, babe, I contain multitudes. Some nights I’m alpha as hell, others I’m a total femboy. Gender’s a costume, and I’m a performer.”

Angel had a ton of different outfits, bright colors, flowing fabrics, and a subtle shimmer that could be dressed up or down depending on his mood. Charlie picked a soft, fitted off-the-shoulder top with a metallic sheen and a pair of sleek black pants that allowed her to move easily, while Vaggie snagged a slightly oversized jacket and leggings that showed off her lithe form.

Angel gave them both a smirk. “You’ll look fabulous,” he said, striking a pose, “but don’t outshine me. I like my crown shiny.”

Cherry and Pentious were already seated in the living room, casually sipping water and waiting. Cherry didn’t have to change or anything; she went to the ballet with the clothes she liked the most, comfortable, effortless, in clothes that spoke of tattoos and inked skin more than stage glamour. Pentious, meanwhile, looked sharp, his black jeans and crisp white shirt lending him a quiet elegance that balanced the chaos around him.

Once Charlie and Vaggie had changed, the group piled into the train again, laughing over near misses with other passengers and dodging backpacks and commuters in a tight space.

The subway ride to Bushwick was short but loud, packed with late-night chatter, a street musician’s trumpet echoing down the platform, and the metallic hum of wheels on track. For the first time in weeks, Charlie wasn’t thinking about choreography or posture. Just the pulse of the night.

When they arrived, the warehouse looked exactly like she imagined it would, graffiti-covered walls, flickering string lights, and a low thrum of bass that vibrated through the concrete. The air outside smelled like cheap beer and smoke.

There was a line forming down the block, a crowd of leather jackets and glitter eyeliner, but Cherry just waved at the security guard like she owned the place. He nodded and unclipped the rope.

Inside was chaos.

The music hit like thunder, pulsing through the ground, bodies moving in rhythm under the haze of colored lights. A projector splashed grainy visuals across the wall—slow-motion film reels, melting clocks, abstract art that made no sense but looked beautiful. The scent of alcohol, sweat, and something faintly sweet filled the air.

“Chill, my ass,” Vaggie said, shouting over the music. “This is pandemonium!”

Angel laughed, already dragging them toward the bar. “You say that like it’s a bad thing! Come on, let’s drink before my soul sobers up.”

Cherry leaned over the counter to talk to the bartender, a tall guy with tattoos up his neck. They spoke like old friends, exchanging laughs before he started lining up shot glasses. The liquid gleamed gold under the neon lights.

“Top shelf tequila,” Cherry announced, sliding the glasses toward them. “Nothing but the best for my new favorite crew.”

Angel picked up his shot, raising it high. “Alright, my darlings. Here’s to us, may our toes stay pointed, our careers stay funded, and may the Nutcracker give us the parts we deserve!”

Everyone laughed, glasses clinking.

“To Cherry,” Pentious added shyly, eyes lingering on her. “For bringing us here. This… is actually really fun.”

Cherry laughed, tossing her hair back. “You’re fucking cute, you know that?”

Vaggie and Charlie couldn’t hold their laughter, and even Angel rolled his eyes with a grin.

“God, you’re already flirting?” Angel groaned. “At least wait until I’m drunk enough to pretend I’m not watching.”

Cherry winked. “Too late for that.”

“Alright, on three!” Angel said, raising his glass again. “One, two—”

“Three!” they shouted together.

The shots had done their work. The heat still lingered in Charlie’s chest, a slow burn that made her limbs feel both heavy and impossibly light at the same time. Laughter, music, and neon lights blurred together into a haze of color and sound. She swayed in her barstool, finishing the last of her margarita with a deliberate, almost ceremonious sip. The glass was cold against her fingers, condensation dripping down, and she couldn’t help but smile to herself, this was indulgence, pure and unashamed. She knew she had overdone it, probably more than she should have, but the truth was, this wasn’t her first wild night. She could handle herself. Sitting here, perched on the high stool, she felt perfectly fine.

Her attention shifted when she saw Angel lean over the bar to order another round, though also sneaking a water on the side. The faint smirk on his face told her he was somehow still in control, not yet carried off by the chaos that had consumed the rest of them.

Charlie tilted her head, squinting through the haze of her vision. “Where’s Vaggie?” she slurred, worry creeping into her voice despite the warmth of the alcohol.

Angel didn’t even flinch. “Relax, she’s fine. Went to the bathroom with some girl,” he said, grinning mischievously, “and they kinda… lost themselves there.” Charlie blinked, processing the words. Of course. That explained a lot.

She nodded, suddenly calmer, though she added, “Okay… just, make sure she’s… safe?” Angel waved her concern away like a feather caught in the wind, chuckling softly. “And Pentious? Cherry?” she asked next, her voice quiet in the loud hum of the warehouse.

Angel leaned back, eyes rolling dramatically. “Those traitors? Gone. Snuck off a few minutes ago. I think they’ve been giving each other looks all night like, I-want-to-fuck-you vibes, so I let them be.” He winked, clearly enjoying the secret knowledge. Charlie let out a soft laugh, her lips curling despite herself, and nodded. “Alright… I’ll… wait here for you?”

Angel’s gaze shifted somewhere across the room, caught by someone, some fleeting distraction. “Yeah, stay put. I’ll be back for you. Don’t wander too far,” he said, though the grin tugging at his lips suggested he didn’t mind if she did. Charlie gave a lazy, drunken nod, the edges of her consciousness already starting to fray in that blissful, dizzying way that alcohol always promised.

She shifted in her stool, boredom and the lingering effect of the shots pressing down on her. Standing up, she wobbled, almost lost her balance, but managed to right herself against the bar. The cool night air whispered through the warehouse doors, and she felt an almost magnetic pull toward it. She stumbled outside, letting the chaos of the party fade behind her, the bass pounding through the walls replaced by the subtle hum of the city streets.

The air hit her cheeks, crisp and real, carrying smells of asphalt, garbage, and faint coffee from somewhere nearby. She sat on the curb, letting her head tilt back against the cold concrete, her chest rising and falling with the rhythm of her drunk, spinning thoughts. She fumbled in her purse for a cigarette, her fingers clumsy as she tried to light it, but the lighter refused to cooperate. She sighed, tossing the cig back in, and let herself just sit there, letting the dizziness wash over her.

Somewhere a block away, as the streets returned to their quiet, ordered selves, a melody reached her ears, a soft, steady jazz tune, muted but warm, drifting from an open doorway. It was smooth and grounding, a stark contrast to the frenetic chaos she’d left behind. Her mind, foggy and liquid, latched onto it instantly. Without thinking, she pushed herself upright, letting her unsteady legs carry her forward. Step by step, guided by the gentle pull of the music, she wandered toward it, letting it call her, as if the world had suddenly narrowed down to nothing but the soft glow of the bar and the promise of calm inside.

The neon sign above the entrance flickered: The Blue Note. The city felt different here, quieter somehow, less hungry, less wild. Charlie stumbled slightly on the cracked sidewalk, laughed at herself softly, and kept going. Her hand brushed against the doorframe as she stepped in.

Inside, the change was almost startling.

Gone was the pounding bass and blinding lights of the warehouse. The air here was warm, golden, humming softly with the steady pulse of a live jazz trio in the corner. The light flickered over brass instruments and lazy plumes of smoke curling from half-forgotten cigarettes. The crowd was older, calmer, but not sober. Their laughter was slower, looser, their smiles just as blurred by alcohol as hers, though they wore it better, dressed in dark shirts and sequins, pressed jackets and cocktail dresses that shimmered faintly under the dim light.

Charlie stood at the threshold for a moment, swaying slightly in her metallic off-shoulder top, unsure what to do with herself. Her head was spinning, but her heart had calmed. Everyone here seemed to know their place, sitting close, whispering over drinks, tapping a foot to the beat. She, in contrast, looked like a lost spark from another fire entirely.

Someone brushed past her on their way out, and she stumbled sideways to get out of the way. Her hand pressed against the wall for balance, and then her eyes caught on a familiar face across the room.

Without thinking, she called his name. “Alastor!”

He turned at once, eyes widening slightly as recognition set in. The surprise flickered into something unreadable when he took in her state. Charlie, flushed and tipsy, hair mussed, eyeliner faintly smudged, looked nothing like the composed young woman he’d spoken to hours ago in the quiet corners of the theater.

“Well,” Alastor said with a small, incredulous smile, leaning on his cane. “I didn’t think the night was still that young for you, Miss Morningstar"

Charlie blinked, the words echoing in her head before she giggled, replying far too bluntly, “Same for you.”

Alastor laughed quietly under his breath, a sound low and almost fond, and stepped forward, his hand landing gently on her shoulder. “Come, sit down before you fall over, my dear,” he said, guiding her toward the bar. She let him, letting the solid weight of his arm steady her.

He signaled to the bartender. “A glass of water, please.” Then, turning back to her, he studied her with a patient amusement. “Now, where on earth are you coming from? Judging by that outfit…” His eyes briefly flicked over the shimmer of her top. “...I’d wager a party.”

Charlie’s laugh came out small and unguarded. “You’d win. My friends from the academy dragged me there. It was... a lot.” She lifted a hand, motioning vaguely, her bracelets clinking. “I just needed some air. And maybe… too much tequila.”

“I see,” he said lightly. “I’m now quite aware of that last part.”

She grinned crookedly, taking the first sip of water he handed her. “What about you?” she asked, leaning her chin into her hand. “What are you doing here? This isn’t exactly... your proper hour to be out either.”

For a moment, Alastor hesitated. He rarely spoke about himself, especially not at this hour, and especially not to someone who looked like she might forget half of it by morning. But something in her tone, unguarded, honest in its drunkenness, made him relent.

“One of my old friends thought it would be good fun to set me up on a date,” he said after a beat, his voice softer now. “A blind one.”

Charlie’s expression changed instantly, the hint of curiosity cutting through her haze. “And?”

He gave a small, sardonic laugh. “It didn’t go quite as planned. As soon as she saw the cane, she made her excuses and left. So—” he gestured faintly toward the band, “—I stayed for the music. I do love jazz, after all.”

Charlie frowned, the reaction spilling out of her mouth before she could stop it. “That’s... so shitty,” she said, voice too loud for the gentle room. “What a bitch.”

Alastor blinked, startled, before his lips twitched into a restrained smile. Her bluntness was almost endearing in its sincerity. She looked at him with bleary defiance, cheeks flushed from drink and something else entirely.

“You’re perfect the way you are,” she said suddenly, the words tumbling out unfiltered.

It took her a heartbeat to realize what she’d said. Her eyes widened, mortified, and she snatched her glass, downing the rest of the water in one go. “I—uh—sorry,” she mumbled quickly, voice a jumble of nerves now that the haze of boldness cracked. “I should... go back. My friends are probably worried. I shouldn’t have—uh—said that.”

Alastor closed his eyes briefly, his smile small and unreadable. “No need to apologize, dear,” he said softly, then stood, leaning slightly on his cane. “But I’m walking you there.”

Charlie blinked, confused. “You don’t have to—”

“I insist,” he said simply. “It’s hardly proper to let a young lady in her... current state wander the streets alone at this hour.”

Her shoulders slumped in defeat, the tiniest smile ghosting over her lips. “You really are... too much of a gentleman,” she murmured.

He offered her his arm, and despite her clumsy balance and fogged mind, she took it. Together, they stepped out into the night again, the faint hum of jazz fading behind them, replaced by the cool, distant buzz of the city.

The night had grown colder, the city’s hum thinning into something quieter. A soft drizzle clung to the air, catching on the faint glow of streetlights as Alastor and Charlie stepped out of the bar.

Heads turned when they were outside. It wasn’t the usual kind of attention, just curious stares, glances that lingered too long. Charlie felt them before she even noticed them. She knew how it looked: her small figure, the metallic shimmer of her top catching every bit of light, her youth written in her cheeks, no matter how much makeup or poise she wore. And Alastor, sharp, dignified, the cut of his coat immaculate, the glint of his cane catching the light, it made him look older than he was. The contrast was striking. Unusual.

When they stopped at the crosswalk, the silence between them felt comfortable, almost gentle, until a pair of voices behind her cracked it open.

“Christ,” someone muttered, laughter slurred. “She must really need the money.”

Another snickered. “Right? I mean, sure, he’s handsome, but look at the cane. I’d die before letting a cripple climb on top of me. You’d have to do all the work.”

The words hit like cold water.

Charlie froze, her spine stiffening, blood rushing to her face. For a second, she thought she might’ve misheard. But the ugly laughter that followed made her stomach twist.

Without thinking—without any thought at all—she turned around. “Excuse me?” she snapped, voice sharp enough to cut through the street noise. “What the hell did you just say?”

The two women blinked at her, caught off guard.

“Yeah,” Charlie said, stepping closer, eyes blazing, every ounce of exhaustion and tequila fusing into fury. “What if I am sleeping with him? What if it’s none of your business? You jealous or something? Because clearly you’ve got too much time to be loud about other people’s lives.”

Her words came too fast, too fierce, and too raw. The people around them started watching. The signal light changed from red to green, the white figure blinking on.

“Charlie,” Alastor’s voice came low, firm. Not angry, just quiet, steady. He stepped forward, his hand wrapping gently but firmly around her arm. “Enough.”

She turned toward him, still trembling, but his expression silenced her. There was no embarrassment in his eyes, no shame, only the calm, measured patience of a man who’d heard far worse and chosen silence as his weapon.

He guided her forward as they crossed the street. His grip was stronger than before, not rough, but deliberate, anchoring her, steering her away from the scene. She didn’t fight it.

By the time they reached the opposite curb, the adrenaline had drained out of her. The city lights blurred at the edges, her throat burned, and all that heat inside her crumbled into something fragile.

“I’m sorry,” she said suddenly, the words cracking out of her. Her voice trembled as tears filled her eyes. “I didn’t— I shouldn’t have said that. I don’t know what’s wrong with me—”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Alastor said softly. He kept his gaze ahead, not wanting to embarrass her further. “It’s the drink talking, that’s all.”

She shook her head, sniffing, wiping her tears with the back of her hand. “No, it’s not. I just— I didn’t like what they said about you.”

“I know,” he said, his tone gentle now. “And I appreciate the... enthusiasm. But next time,” he added, with a faint smile that almost sounded like a sigh, “perhaps defend my honor with a touch less tequila in your system.”

That drew out a small, broken laugh from her, half embarrassment, half relief.

They reached the warehouse again. The thump of music still rolled faintly from within, echoing against the brick walls. Alastor glanced toward the entrance, where a bored security guard leaned against the railing.

“She’ll stay outside for a bit,” he said, pulling a few folded bills from his wallet and slipping them discreetly into the guard’s hand. “Keep an eye on her until someone comes out for her.”

Charlie’s head lifted at the sound of money being exchanged, her expression twisting when she caught sight of the bills. “You just, gave him a hundred?”

“Consider it an investment in your safety,” Alastor said simply. Then, unbuttoning his coat, he draped it around her shoulders. It was heavy, warm, smelling faintly of rain and something spiced, cedar, perhaps, or tobacco.

She looked up at him, eyes red-rimmed, lips parting as if she wanted to say something else. But he only smiled, a small, knowing curve of his mouth.

“Rest well, Miss Morningstar,” he said quietly. “I expect to see you in the studio on Monday. After tonight, I believe you’ve earned a long, very sober weekend.”

And with that, he tipped his hat faintly, turned, and walked off into the night, his cane striking the pavement in soft, rhythmic echoes, steady as a metronome, until he disappeared down the street.

Charlie stood there under the dim streetlight, his coat wrapped around her shoulders, the faint warmth of it sinking into her skin. Somewhere behind her, the bass from the party pulsed on, oblivious. But she didn’t move yet. She couldn’t.

She just stood there, breathing in the scent he left behind, and the weight of a night she would remember far too clearly come morning.

A couple of hours later.

Charlie woke to the faint hum of morning voices and the smell of something frying. Her head throbbed, a dull, rhythmic ache, and her tongue felt dry as paper. The soft light leaking through the half-drawn curtains stung her eyes. For a moment, she didn’t even know where she was. Then she noticed the faded posters on the wall, the clutter of makeup, hairbrushes, and cigarette packs scattered over a dresser. Angel’s apartment.

She was on the floor, wrapped in a blanket that smelled faintly of detergent and perfume. Her body ached from the hardwood, and when she sat up, the room spun once, then steadied. Across the living room, she saw movement: Angel in a pink satin robe, flipping pancakes on the stove, Vaggie leaning against the counter with a mug of coffee, and Cherry half-asleep at the table scrolling through her phone, Pentious next to her. Looked like the last 2 were able to change clothes and come back.

When Vaggie turned and saw Charlie stirring, her eyes lit up.
“There she is,” she said, setting her mug down and hurrying over. “You’re alive.”

Charlie groaned softly, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders. “Barely.”

Vaggie helped her to her feet and guided her to the kitchen table. “Come on. Sit. We’re about to have breakfast.”

As Charlie sat down, the room filled with chatter, too bright, too fast for her foggy head, but warm all the same.

Angel turned with a grin, spatula in hand. “Well, well, Sleeping Beauty herself wakes at last. You should’ve seen yourself last night, sweetheart. Out cold on the sidewalk, wrapped in some random dude’s coat.”

Cherry laughed, pushing a strand of pink hair out of her face. “Wait, what? You fell asleep outside? That’s dangerous”

Charlie froze, clutching the mug Vaggie handed her. “I—uh—yeah,” she said, trying to sound casual. “I just… wanted some air, I guess. Got a little sleepy.”

Angel’s expression softened. “You scared the hell out of me. I came out and there you were, passed out with that coat. Thought someone had, like, kidnapped you and dumped you there, or worse.”

She forced a small laugh, looking down into her coffee. “Sorry… didn’t mean to worry anyone.”

Cherry leaned forward, her tattoos peeking out from her loose T-shirt. “So, did you at least have fun before all that?”

Charlie hesitated. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “It was fun. Just… a bit much.”

Angel flipped a pancake onto a plate with a dramatic sigh. “A bit much is the definition of last night. I mean, Cherry and Pentious vanished to go to a motel, Vaggie was making out in the bathroom, and I—well—got ditched by every cute guy I tried to flirt with.”

Pentious, who had been sitting cross-legged on the couch, looked up indignantly. “We did not vanish. We left responsibly, knowing how things were going. And yes, I walked Cherry home like a gentleman.”

Cherry smirked. “And then you tripped on the stairs and scared my roommate, like a gentleman.”

Vaggie burst out laughing, nearly spilling her coffee. Angel rolled his eyes and passed around the pancakes.

Then he turned to Vaggie, a teasing glint in his gaze. “Speaking of last night, Miss I-Don’t-Need-Anyone—care to tell us what that was about?”

Vaggie choked on her coffee. “Oh my God, Angel—”

“Oh, come on!” Angel laughed. “You were gone for hours. Don’t tell me it was because there was no toilet paper.”

Vaggie turned bright red, half laughing, half mortified. “Okay, fine! I just wanted to have fun, alright? It’s not exactly easy being a lesbian at NYU. Everyone assumes I’m straight, and the ballet academy’s not much better. So… I took my chances.”

Cherry leaned her chin on her hand, eyes sparkling. “So? Did it pay off?”

Vaggie grinned, shy but proud. “Her name’s Lute. From Queens. I got her number.”

Angel snapped his fingers in mock applause. “At least someone got lucky.” He sighed dramatically. “The guy I kissed vanished like Cinderella at midnight. Didn’t even leave me a shoe.”

“You’ll find someone,” Pentious said earnestly. “Clubs like that aren’t exactly a great place to meet people anyway.”

Cherry nodded. “True, but hey, it was a fun chaos.” She looked toward Charlie again, head tilted. “You sure you’re okay, though? You still look a lil gone right now.”

Charlie offered a soft smile. “I’m fine. Really. I don’t remember much after leaving the dance floor. I think I just needed air.” She paused, glancing around the apartment. “By the way, where’s the coat?”

Angel set a plate down in front of her. “Washed it. It was kinda—uh—gross. Figured I’d clean it up since you basically claimed it now.”

Charlie’s stomach twisted. Claimed it.

“Thanks,” she murmured. She picked at her food, trying not to think about the warmth that coat had carried, or the man who had placed it over her shoulders in silence.

Angel plopped down beside her, sighing contentedly as he buttered his pancake. “Alright, everyone. Let’s make a toast.”

He raised his mug. “To surviving hangovers, to new hookups, and to not dying in Bushwick.”

Laughter filled the small apartment, bouncing off the walls. Charlie joined in, smiling, though part of her mind still lingered somewhere else, on a quiet jazz bar, a cane tapping against wet pavement, and the faint scent of cedar still clinging to the coat now hanging in Angel’s laundry room.

The soft hum of a piano drifting from another room mixed with the faint squeaks of pointe shoes against the wooden floor. Charlie arrived at the academy around two thirty in the afternoon, the last traces of the morning rush at her university still clinging to her like static. Her backpack was heavy because of her huge laptop and a notebook, but her body felt heavier.

She slipped into her usual corner of the studio, laid her things beside the mirror, and lowered herself into a split. Her hands rested on her ankles as she leaned forward, breathing slow and steady. The quiet of the room wrapped around her, until she heard it.

A familiar, rhythmic tap echoed from the hallway.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Her chest tightened at the sound. Alastor.

He always arrived early, earlier than most instructors, even when he didn’t have to. Something about that steadiness comforted her, though today it only made her feel small. She could still feel the ghost of Friday night clinging to her: the warmth of the tequila, the sharpness of her voice when she snapped at those people outside, the look in his eyes before he handed her his coat.

She didn’t even dare look toward the door when the tapping stopped.

“Good afternoon, Miss Morningstar” his voice came, smooth as ever, polite and effortless.

Charlie froze halfway through her stretch. “Good afternoon,” she replied softly, almost automatically.

She straightened up and glanced at him. He had already settled at the piano, his posture calm, his expression unreadable. The faint afternoon light from the tall windows caught on his glasses, obscuring his eyes.

She stood, brushing her palms against her thighs, her pointe shoes clicking softly against the floor as she approached. The sound filled the empty room, sharp, delicate, and impossible to hide.

“Um…” she began, voice trembling despite her best effort. “About Friday… I just wanted to apologize. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, or to—”

Alastor lifted a hand, the gesture smooth and quiet, cutting through her stammer without cruelty.
“There’s nothing to worry about, Miss Morningstar,” he said with a faint, amused smile. “You’re young. You have every right to enjoy yourself. Consider the matter forgotten.”

She swallowed, nodding, though the heat in her cheeks refused to fade.

“Still, I… I’m sorry,” she said again, barely above a whisper.

He tilted his head slightly, and for the first time that afternoon, his gaze softened.

Then she remembered the coat. “Ah—right!” she blurted, suddenly rushing back to her bag. She fumbled for a moment, pulling out a clean tote, inside which she’d carefully folded the coat that had kept her warm that night. It still smelled faintly like his cologne.

She carried it to him and offered it with both hands. “Here. I… wanted to return it properly.”

Alastor looked at the bag for a moment before taking it. His smile was different this time, smaller, quieter, but genuine. “Thank you,” he said simply, his voice lower now. “I’m glad it found its way back.”

Charlie tried to say something else, but he’d already turned slightly toward the piano again, adjusting the sheet music on the stand.

“Now,” he said, clearing his throat, “you’d better keep warming up. It’s going to be a long day. Everyone will be practicing for their Nutcracker auditions—this Friday, yes?”

She nodded quickly, grateful for the shift in topic.

“Then,” he said, pressing the first soft chord, “let’s make sure you’re ready to earn that spot you want.”

The sound of the piano filled the studio again, graceful, commanding, and Charlie exhaled quietly, sinking back to the floor to stretch again. The shame was still there, lingering beneath her ribs, but now there was something else too, a quiet promise she couldn’t yet name.

By the time the clock struck three, the studio had begun to fill with movement and chatter.

Vaggie was the first to arrive, her hair still slightly damp from the cold outside. She threw a smile at Charlie before plopping down beside her and pulling her shoes from her bag.

“Morning,” she mumbled, already starting to tighten the ribbons around her ankles.

Charlie, still in a split, leaned forward on her elbows. “You mean afternoon,” she teased lightly.

“Barely,” Vaggie replied with a half-smile.

A moment later came Pentious and Angel, arguing about something that had probably started on the train ride over. They made their way straight to their favorite corner—the one near the long mirrors, where the light hit just right in the afternoons.

“Careful, you’ll blind yourself if you keep staring at your reflection,” Vaggie teased as she finished tying her ribbons.

“Darling,” Angel said, grinning at himself in the mirror, “I’m just checking that beauty like this still exists in daylight.”

Pentious rolled his eyes but didn’t argue, stretching his arms along the barre beside him. The room smelled faintly of rosin and sweat, the familiar perfume of effort and nerves.

Charlie was still on the floor, one leg extended in a perfect split, her elbows resting on the wood, her chin propped on her hands. She was half-listening to Vaggie and half-absorbed in the silence that settled between each laugh. Every so often, her gaze flicked toward the piano, never directly, always from the corner of her eye. Alastor sat there, posture perfect, adjusting sheets, his face calm as stone. 

“You okay?” Vaggie asked, not looking up from her shoes.

“Yeah,” Charlie said too quickly. “Just… thinking.”

Before Vaggie could press further, the studio door opened again. The air seemed to shift.

“Positions, everyone,” came a sharp voice from the doorway.

Professor Carmilla entered, tall and striking in a dark turtleneck and long skirt, her expression already unreadable. Behind her followed Professor Rosie, hands clasped, smile tight. The energy in the room shifted immediately, laughter dropped off mid-sentence, whispers stilled, and the sound of shoes scattering filled the air as everyone scrambled toward the barre.

But Carmilla lifted a hand.

“Not yet,” she said. “Center, please.”

A murmur of confusion swept through the class as they crossed the floor to stand before her. Charlie joined the group, heart beating fast from anticipation rather than effort. Even Alastor had turned slightly on his piano bench to face them, one hand resting idly on the keys.

Carmilla looked over the dancers slowly, her gaze lingering on each face long enough to make everyone straighten their backs a little more.

“You all know,” she began, “that The Nutcracker season is the most important time of the year for New York City Ballet. Every seat will be sold out, every performance full, and not only from new yorkers but from people from all over the world. That does not, however, mean we get to relax. The reason audiences keep returning is because we never give them less than excellence.”

Her tone was measured, steady, but there was weight behind every word.

“This year,” she continued, pacing slightly, “we have another matter to address. As of last week, Emily—the company’s permanent principal—has accepted an offer from the Royal Ballet in London.”

A ripple of surprise moved through the students. Charlie’s breath caught.

“So,” Carmilla said, folding her hands behind her back, “that means the position of permanent principal is now open.”

Even the air seemed to pause.

Rosie added softly, “And with that, the role of the Sugar Plum Fairy in The Nutcracker, which is mostly reserved for our principal, will also be open for casting.”

Now everyone’s attention sharpened. Angel’s eyebrows shot up. Pentious whispered a curse under his breath. Vaggie was just speechless, and Charlie felt her pulse in her throat.

Carmilla let the tension build before speaking again. “Whoever earns the Sugar Plum role this season will not only perform it, she will compete for the permanent principal position against the top dancers of Classes Two, Three, and Four. And whoever triumphs will be publicly announced as the new permanent principal when Swan Lake premieres next year.”

The words landed like thunder.

“So,” Carmilla finished, her eyes narrowing slightly, “I expect Class One, this class, to claim that position. If not, I will be forced to reconsider whether I made the right choices bringing some of you here in the first place.”

A thick silence followed. No one dared move.

Charlie felt the floor shift beneath her feet, not physically, but in meaning. This wasn’t just another show. This was everything. A chance not just for a solo, but for a crown.

Alastor’s words from earlier echoed in her mind.

Be ready for that fight if you want a solo. Because this time, no one will simply hand it to you.

She looked down at her hands, then back at the mirrored wall. Around her, the other dancers were whispering, tension sparking like static between them. But in her chest, a slow, burning certainty was starting to form.

She wanted that role.

For herself.

To prove she was more than what people saw.

To prove she was excellence.

Chapter 4: Variation I: Rising Flames

Notes:

HIIIII
NEW CHAPTER!! The last episodes of Hazbin were sooooo good, especially on music, so I had to give a huge update to this fanfic.

Enjoy!!

The whole class was very excited and expectant, especially the female dancers; it was a unique opportunity. It was very strange that Emily, being a young dancer with the title of permanent principal, had left the company as soon as she had the chance. But then again, the Royal Ballet in London wasn't just any dance school or company; it was one of the most prestigious in the world, even more so than the one in New York (their own company), so people understood.

Charlie was on edge; she never thought an opportunity like this would come her way so soon. But this was her reality, and she had to make the most of it.

Rosie clapped her hands together. “All right, everyone,” she said, her usual warmth laced with authority. “Since The Sugar Plum Fairy is the centerpiece of the production, we’ll begin with the Pas de Deux. Carmilla and I want to see who among you understands the spirit and the precision this role requires.”

Carmilla crossed her arms. “And remember,” she added, “whoever you pick today will be your partner for Friday's audition. So, choose wisely, both your effort and your partner.”

A pulse of excitement ran through the class, half thrill, half fear. Rosie gave them five minutes to choose their partners—the Cavalier and the Sugar Plum.

“Five minutes, no more than that,” she said. “You already know each other; you must know by now who is more convenient for you.”

The room burst into motion, whispers and laughter bouncing off the mirrors as dancers began pairing up. It was like watching chess pieces move at speed, some instantly drawn to the best players, others hovering uncertainly, searching for their match.

Charlie turned toward Angel, hope already blooming in her chest. But as she saw the crowd of girls forming around him, her confidence dimmed. Of course, everyone wanted him; he’d been last season’s principal male dancer. His reputation alone could lift any partner into the spotlight.

Just as she was about to turn away, Angel looked past the crowd and caught her eye. A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Alright, alright, calm down, ladies,” he said, raising his hands dramatically. “You’ll all have your chance to be carried like precious jewels, but today, I already have my Sugar Plum.”

The chatter broke into a mix of groans and giggles.

Charlie blinked. “Wait—what?”

Angel turned fully toward her, a playful tilt to his head. “You heard me, princess. I’m dancing with you.”

“Are you ... are you serious?” she asked, her voice caught between disbelief and laughter.

“Dead serious,” he said. Then, lowering his tone, “You want that role, don’t you?”

Charlie nodded, slowly.

“And I want the Cavalier. So let’s work for it, together,” he added with a wink, “You’re my friend. I’m not letting anyone else lift you, plus you’re one of the best here, even if you forget it sometimes.”

Her chest filled with warmth and relief. “Thank you, Angel,” she whispered.

He flicked his wrist dramatically. “Don’t thank me yet. I’m going to make you suffer through every balance and turn. You’ll hate me by the end of the week, but we will get selected.”

Charlie smiled, shaking her head. “You’re impossible.”

“I prefer ‘devastatingly talented,’” he said.

By then, the rest of the class had settled into pairs. Vaggie and Pentious had claimed their usual corner, already stretching together, laughing under their breath. Rosie called for attention again.

“Everyone, to the center, please.”

The room shifted, lines forming around the floor until all pairs were seated or kneeling in a half circle, facing the front. Carmilla stood beside the piano, tablet in hand, while Alastor was in his usual seat waiting for any order. 

“Before we start,” Carmilla said, “we’re going to look at an example of the pas de deux. You all must know it by now, since I make you watch the rehearsal every year, but I want you to remember not just the steps, the story behind them. The Sugar Plum Fairy is not just elegance. She is a command disguised as grace.”

Rosie smiled faintly. “That’s one way to put it,” she said, "The public sees this part of the performance as the beauty of an ideal romance, something so unique and perfect that it leaves the viewer with their heart in their hand, so have in mind that it is always good to have a great example of that vibe. "

“Alastor,” Carmilla continued, glancing his way. “You know the piece, right?”

Alastor’s expression didn’t shift. “It would be an insult to Tchaikovsky if I didn’t.”

A few students chuckled nervously. Rosie’s grin widened. “Have a little more faith in him, Carmilla. You’re talking to someone who’s a master in both fields.”

“Mm,” Carmilla muttered, rolling her eyes as she connected the tablet to the projector.

Rosie stepped closer. “Play the one from twelve years ago,” she said. “You know, the one where I danced it.”

“Oh, that one,” Carmilla replied dryly. “We’re really doing this again? I don’t need your ego taking up more space than it already does.”

Rosie just laughed, light and easy. “It’s for educational purposes. The students need to see what the standard is” she said with so much confidence "Also, a fun fact, it was considered one of the best ones in the world at that time."

Carmilla sighed and tapped on the screen. The projector flickered to life, and the first notes of the Grand Pas de Deux filled the room, echoing softly through the speakers.

At first, no one breathed. The ballerina on screen glowed in soft stage light, grace carved into every movement. Rosie, younger, but unmistakable. Every extension, every lift, is a study in control and emotion.

But then, as the camera turned, Charlie’s breath caught.

The Cavalier in the video, tall, poised, with sharp, elegant control, was someone she recognized.

Alastor.

The room filled with a small chorus of gasps. Even Angel’s brows shot up.

Charlie couldn’t tear her eyes from the screen. The Alastor she knew, measured, reserved, eyes always hidden behind calm detachment, was completely different in that video. He moved with such fluid strength, every gesture a conversation between power and devotion.

Rosie looked proud, maybe a little wistful. Carmilla, of course, looked unimpressed, but didn’t stop the video.

When the final note ended, silence lingered for a few seconds before someone whispered, “That was him?”

Charlie’s heartbeat was a quiet storm. It made her wonder, not for the first time, what had happened to him, to that version of him. The one who could move like that. The one who didn't need a cane to walk.

Alastor, ever composed, opened the piano lid and said, “Shall we begin?”

Carmilla clapped her hands once. “Everyone up. Positions for the pas de deux.”

Charlie stood, her pointe shoes whispering against the floor. Angel gave her a grin, offering his hand to start the first lift.

But as she placed her palm in his, her eyes flicked once more to the piano where Alastor was, he give a quick turn, and his eyes met hers for a small moment.

For a fleeting second, she wondered if he remembered that stage the way she remembered every moment that led her here.

Alastor’s hands descended.

The first notes flowed like water,  steady, elegant, commanding. The melody filled the room, echoing against the walls and carrying that old-world charm that made even their smallest steps feel grander. Carmilla began calling counts in rhythm:

“Five, six, seven—arms!—turn!—lift!”

Charlie’s body responded to instinct and repetition, but every time her partner’s grip faltered, she could feel the music pulling her attention back to the pianist. His phrasing was deliberate, too deliberate, like he was watching through the sound, adjusting for her movements. She hated how aware she was of that.

Angel caught her waist, turned her for the lift, and nearly lost timing.

Carmilla’s sharp voice cut through:
“Stop. Absolutely terrible. Everyone is still half asleep.”

The music halted. Charlie froze mid-pose, breath still halfway out of her lungs. Carmilla strode closer to them, arms folded. “That looked like two people trying to survive, not dance. Do it again, and this time, try not to make me regret giving you a spot in this class, both of you.”

Charlie nodded quickly. “Yes, ma’am.”

Alastor didn’t say anything; he was backwards, listening to everything. His fingers just returned to the keys, the corners of his mouth hinting at something unreadable. When Carmilla stepped back, he began again, this time softer, gentler, as if daring her to focus.

They went again. Then again. Three more times. Each run is less clumsy, more grounded, though still far from what Carmilla wanted.

By the fourth, the pianist’s tempo slowed slightly, giving all the male dancers just enough room to lift and set their partners down without stumbling. Carmilla watched with a critical eye, but she didn’t stop them until the end.

As the final notes faded, her voice came quieter, which was, somehow, worse.
“Better. Not great, but better." she check the clock "Okay, it's 6 pm already, so the men will go with Rosie now; She’ll start rehearsing the secondary male parts.”

Angel sighed but didn’t argue. He turned to Charlie and gave a small grin. “Guess that’s my cue to go screw up somewhere else.”

The men began filing out. The air shifted.

Charlie stretched her arms, rolling out the soreness from her shoulders, her chest still rising fast. When Angel passed by her again, already gathering his things, she reached for him.

“Hey,” she said softly. “Do you want to stay after? Just a little longer — go over the lifts?”

He hesitated, but ended up accepting. “Uh, sure. I can stay until, like, ten-thirty. I’ve got that exam I’ve been putting off, but… yeah, we can run it a few more times.”

She smiled, a tired but grateful one. “Thanks.”

He gave a little shrug, half playful, half earnest. “You owe me an iced coffee for this.”

“Deal.”

As the men disappeared down the hall with Rosie, Carmilla turned to the remaining girls and clapped sharply again. “Alright, girls, we are gonna do the Sugar Plum Fairy solo, now it’s your turn to prove you belong on that stage.”

A murmur ran through the group, quiet excitement mixed with nerves. Some of the younger dancers straightened immediately, and others exchanged anxious glances.

“I know some of you might be interested in Snow Queen or Dewdrop Fairy,” Carmilla continued, pacing across the front of the mirrored wall, “and that’s fine. We’ll go over those tomorrow. But right now, I want every pair of eyes and every ounce of focus on this role. It’s open to everyone this year, which means no excuses.”

Her gaze swept the room, landing on each dancer long enough to make them stand a little taller. Then, she softened, only slightly.

“There are two versions of this solo,” she said, raising her hand toward Alastor. “And of course, we’re doing the difficult one.”

A few quiet groans escaped from the back. Carmilla ignored them.

“The Mariinsky version of the Sugar Plum It’s more demanding, more refined,  and frankly, more beautiful when done right. You’re my students. I expect nothing less.”

She shot a glance toward Alastor, met her eyes briefly before turning back to the piano. That single look was enough; his fingers lowered onto the keys and began to play, the melody unfolding with a crystal clarity that filled the studio.

Carmilla lifted her chin, taking a small step forward as she demonstrated. The movement was fluid, effortless in appearance, every gesture poised,  arms lifting like silk ribbons, pointe shoes whispering against the floor. Her balance was immaculate, each turn measured, controlled.

When the variation ended, she lowered her arms slowly and nodded for Alastor to stop.

“This version,” she explained, breath steady though her face glistened with the faintest sheen of effort, “has a slower tempo than most others. More room to breathe—” she exhaled meaningfully, “—but more difficult steps. Precision. Strength. This choreography predates the fifties, even one of the earliest adaptations of the piece. It’s demanding because it expects control.” She crossed her arms. “There are a lot of jumps on pointe, so make sure your shoes are tight and your feet are properly wrapped. This will hurt.”

A quiet shuffle followed as every dancer sank to the floor, untying ribbons and re-securing them. The smell of resin and satin filled the air.

Charlie sat beside Vaggie, flexing her ankle and massaging a tender spot at the base of her toes. Vaggie groaned softly. “My last blister is still trying to heal. This is definitely gonna kill my big toe. The pas de deux already wrecked me.”

Charlie leaned toward her bag, rummaging for a moment before pulling out a small silver canister. She offered it without hesitation. “Here, use this.”

Vaggie blinked. “What is it?”

“It’s a numbing spray. Helps dull the pain. My mom bought it for me,” Charlie said, almost sheepishly. “She used it back when she was still performing. You know… prima ballerina tricks.”

Vaggie laughed quietly. “Of course she did. Guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“Just don’t overdo it,” Charlie warned, smiling faintly. “You’re supposed to feel your feet a little.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Vaggie said, giving her friend’s shoulder a grateful bump before applying a light mist.

Across the room, Carmilla clapped her hands again, instantly commanding attention. “Enough chatting. Back to positions! I want full focus now. Alastor—” she nodded to him, “—let’s start from the top.”

]Alastor adjusted his seat, glanced once toward the dancers reflected in the mirrors, then began to play again. The opening notes of the Sugar Plum Fairy variation floated through the air,  delicate, precise, full of hidden tension.

And they repeated over countless times during the day

By the time the clock crept toward 8 PM, the air in the studio felt heavy with sweat and resin dust. The girls had run the variation so many times that their calves trembled when standing still. Carmilla clapped her hands decisively.

“Alright. One by one,” she announced. “If you want this part, you need to show it. Each of you gets a solo moment. No corrections, no interruptions. Just you, the music, and the mirror.”

A ripple of tension traveled across the room.

One by one, the dancers took their turn. Some stumbled. Some shone for a moment, then collapsed on the landing of a turn. Some clung to the music like a safety rope.

Charlie, as always, was last.

She stood at the edge of the marley floor, rubbing her thumb over the satin of her pointe shoe to calm her nerves. Her eyes flicked, just once, toward the piano. A tiny ache of anticipation twisted her stomach. Would he change the tempo like he did in the past? Speed it up, slow it down, test her nerves, break her concentration?

But Alastor didn’t look at her.

He simply nodded, elegant fingers lowering onto the keys with professionalism so immaculate it made her exhale in relief.

He started playing.

And he didn’t alter the tempo. Not even a fraction.

Charlie felt her chest soften. For the first time that day, she allowed herself to breathe, to trust the music — his music — and she danced.

Her movements weren’t perfect. Her feet burned. Her balance wobbled during the final set of hops on pointe. But she gave everything she could with the little strength she had left. And when she finished, there was a strange stillness in the studio, not applause, not awe, but a kind of shared recognition that she had taken the moment seriously.

Behind her, soft chatter rose near the door.

The male students were waiting to come inside.

Carmilla clapped sharply, gathering all the girls in the center. Her expression was tired, harsh, but not cruel.

“To be the first day, this wasn’t bad,” she began, then immediately held up a finger. “But don’t let that get to your head. Right now, all of you are at the same level of terrible.”

A few girls winced. Someone laughed nervously.

“If you want this part, you’re going to have to give your blood, sweat, and tears,  literally. I expect to see fairies on Friday. Not tired ballerinas. Not half-assed attempts. Fairies. Understood?”

A chorus of tired “yes, ma’am” echoed back.

“Class dismissed. Boys, get your things.”

The room broke apart with the scattered noise of pointe shoes untying, bottles opening, sneakers squeaking. The boys filtered back in to grab their bags.

Charlie headed toward her things where Vaggie was already gulping down her water.

“God,” Vaggie groaned, dropping her head back dramatically. “I don’t even care about this part. I can be a background character if they want. I need a chill role this season. NYU is killing me, I have like six projects due.”

Charlie laughed softly. “I think my grades are okay for now. But if I get selected for this role… I might drop a course.”

Vaggie looked at her like she always did when Charlie said something dead-serious and career-focused, equal parts admiration and worry. “You’re always so determined,” she said, nudging her.

Charlie shrugged, suddenly quiet. Something tugged at her attention, the piano.

She glanced toward it.

Alastor was speaking with Carmilla and Rosie in low, composed tones. He nodded once, then rose with the help of his cane. Charlie expected him to linger as he sometimes did, making notes, testing out a phrase of music, observing the room with that unreadable expression.

But today he simply… left.

He walked straight out of the studio without looking back.

She wasn’t sure why that felt strange.

The door swung a moment later, and Angel and Pentious returned through the same entrance.

“Hey!” Vaggie waved.

Pentious let out a dramatic sigh. “Rosie nearly murdered us. I swear she made us rehearse the Mouse King choreography like twenty times. I’m going to die.”

Angel rolled his eyes. “You’re so dramatic. It was hard, yeah, but it’s supposed to be.” Then he turned to Charlie. “You ready? There’s an open studio down the hall. I heard a bunch of people are staying late to practice tonight.”

Vaggie blinked. “I’m surprised you’re staying. Both of you.”

Pentious raised a hand instantly. “Not me. I’m going home. Immediately. My bones hurt.”

Angel shrugged. “I wanna go home too, honestly… but I promised Charlie. And there’s a lot of competition for this role. Might as well get extra practice in.”

Charlie smiled, grateful.

Vaggie and Pentious waved goodbye as they left, and Angel gestured toward the hallway.

“C’mon. Studio five should be empty.”

Angel pushed open the door to Studio Five, and the lights flickered on to reveal an empty, echoing space, scuffed marley floor, mirrored walls, the faint smell of rosin lingering like dust in sunlight. He plugged his phone into the speaker, tapped through his playlist, and the familiar opening notes of the Sugar Plum pas de deux filled the studio in crisp, amplified sound.

They didn’t waste time. Charlie shed her warm-up layers, tightened her shoes, and took her place across from him. Their practice was a blend of intensity and exhausted humor,  sharp corrections whispered between leaps, breathless laughs when something went wrong, quiet nods when something finally clicked. Angel teased her when her balance wobbled; she mocked him when his landing sounded like a sledgehammer instead of a dancer’s foot. But beneath every joke was the same fire: they both wanted this role badly. They both needed to prove something. The time slipped by in sweat, repetition, and determination, the clock hands creeping closer to the edge of night.

When 10:30 finally blinked bright on the wall clock, Angel exhaled, grabbed his bag, and nudged her shoulder with a tired smile. “See you tomorrow, superstar.”

He disappeared down the hall, and Charlie gathered her things, only to freeze when she realized her scarf was missing. With a soft groan, she headed back toward the main studio, expecting the room to be dark and empty.

But when she pushed the door open, she saw the soft glow of a single overhead light, and then a shadow of a man that by now she knew without mistake.

Alastor was still there.

For a moment, she stood in the doorway, confused. She had seen him leave earlier. Or she thought she had. Yet here he was, alone in the studio long after the others had gone, as if he had never left at all.

The moment Charlie stepped inside the studio, Alastor’s head lifted sharply toward the doorway. His eyes softened when he saw her.

“Oh! Miss Morningstar,” he said, voice steady, polite, almost warm. He straightened a stack of sheet music before speaking again. “You forgot your scarf. I thought you’d already left, so I was planning to give it to you tomorrow. But now that you’re here, we can avoid that interaction entirely.”

He held it out to her, neatly folded, of course. Charlie stepped forward, her throat tightening for reasons she didn’t understand.

“Oh— thank you,” she said, trying to sound casual but hearing the nervous tremble in her own voice. “I… I thought you had left earlier.”

“That was the intention.” Alastor slipped his cane off the bench with a practiced motion. “But some of your peers caught me on my way out. Asked if I could stay to play for them or give advice. And, well… I did.”

Something warm and uncomfortable stirred inside her chest.

“Oh,” she said, and something about the flatness of her tone betrayed her disappointment. It slipped out before she could stop it. “I thought you only did that with me.”

His brows rose, a tiny, amused reaction that he usually hid better. Then, a real laugh. Low, brief, and warm in a way she almost never heard from him. “My dear girl, of course not,” he said. “I would be a rather poor instructor if I devoted my time exclusively to you. You’re not special or anything; you’re simply another ballet student. The same as the rest.”

The sentence hit harder than it should have.

Special? Of course, she wasn’t special. Why would she be? Why would she expect to be?

But hearing him say it , so matter-of-factly, felt like someone taking a ribbon she didn’t know she’d tied around her own heart and yanking it too tight.

“Oh. Right,” she managed, even though she felt something inside her quietly fold in on itself.

Alastor’s smile didn’t fade even when she didn’t say anything else. He watched her for half a second longer, maybe wondering why she suddenly looked so… small.

“Well then,” he said, slipping into formal politeness again. “Good night, Miss Morningstar.”

“G-Good night,” she whispered, but he was already walking past her and into the hallway, cane tapping evenly against the floor until the sound dissolved.

She was alone in the studio.

For a moment, she just stood there holding the scarf, staring at the door he’d walked through. She didn’t understand the ache in her chest. It made no sense. He was right, she wasn’t special. She was a student. He was a pianist. And a mentor. Sometimes. On good days.

So why did it feel like the floor dropped out beneath her when he said it?

She left a few minutes later, scarf wrapped around her neck even though she wasn’t cold. The city night felt distant, blurry, like she was moving through it instead of inside it. Every streetlight haloed a different memory she didn’t want to think about.

You’re just another ballet student.

The words looped until she wanted to tear them out of her head.

On the M66, two older women chatted about something mundane:  husbands, cats, and some noisy neighbor. Their voices were soft, comforting, ordinary.

And suddenly Charlie’s eyes burned.

Why am I crying?

It made no sense. Carmilla had told her worse. Much worse. Carmilla told her she was too heavy, too slow, too unfocused. Carmilla told her she’d never make it unless she starved or bled for it. Carmilla told her technique could crumble like wet paper.

She never cried then.

So why this?

Because it was him?
Because he said it?

She pressed her hand over her mouth as her throat tightened, the kind of ache that felt embarrassingly young.

You can’t have feelings for him. You can’t. He’s just a pianist. He’s probably in his forties, Charlie. You’re twenty-two. This is ridiculous. Get over it.

And yet, she kept seeing in her mind the flowers he sent her backstage on her first Lilac Fairy performance.
Kept remembering the night he helped her when she didn’t deserve it.

The bus pulled up to a stop, and she stood abruptly, wiping under her eyes before anyone noticed. She stepped off, walked a single block, and finally got home

Her parents were curled up on the sofa, watching a movie. They looked up when they heard her.

“Hi, sweetheart,” her mom said. “Long day?”

“Yeah,” Charlie breathed, forcing a small smile. “I… I’m gonna go to sleep. See you in the morning.”

They nodded, warm and unbothered, and she escaped down the hall to her room. She closed the door softly behind her, leaned back against it, and let her breath fall out of her in a shaky exhale.

She needed sleep.
She needed silence.
She needed to stop thinking about someone she had no business thinking about.

But when she turned off her lamp and climbed into bed, the darkness did absolutely nothing to quiet her heart.

The next morning, Charlie drifted through her literature class like a ghost.

The professor’s voice droned somewhere far away, muffled beneath the echo of Alastor’s dismissive words—“You’re not special. Just another ballet student.” They turned over and over in her chest, scraping at her confidence like dull glass. Every time she tried to focus on the poem on the projector, she instead saw his smile, too easy, too amused, as if her embarrassment had been the highlight of his night.

“…Miss Morningstar?” Charlie snapped her head up. The whole classroom was looking at her.

The professor narrowed her eyes. “What year did the author publish this?”

Charlie opened her mouth. Nothing. Not even a guess.

A few people giggled. Heat crawled up her cheeks.

“Do review the reading next time,” the professor sighed before moving on.

Charlie collected her books the moment class ended, heart pounding as she rushed out of the building. She needed air. She needed noise. She needed something that wasn’t the memory of Alastor's polite cruelty.

The subway platform was crowded, but she barely noticed it. She boarded the 1 train downtown, squeezed between a businessman and a girl eating cereal out of a cup, and stared at the scratched floor until the Academy stop arrived.

By 11 a.m., she was inside the studio, alone, sweaty, and finally breathing again. The first notes of The Nutcracker filled the empty room, and she launched herself into the Sugar Plum Fairy variation. Again. And again. And again.

Her toes burned. Her back ached. Her calves trembled.
But it felt better than thinking.

When the clock finally hit 2:30, she collapsed onto the floor, stretching her legs out with a groan. Sweat curled down her neck and dampened her roots; she didn’t care. She stayed there, staring at the ceiling until more dancers trickled in.

By 3 p.m., the hallway was filled with chatter and footsteps. Charlie pulled herself to the barre just as the familiar click of polished shoes echoed from outside.

Everyone turned their heads.

Alastor stepped into the studio, sheet music under one arm, cane in hand, coat perfectly pressed, bowtie immaculate. His smile, bright, sharp, too pleased, sat effortlessly on his face.

And immediately, they swarmed him.

Two girls rushed up first. “Mr. Alastor! Could you stay after class again today? Yesterday helped us so much!”

A guy from the back: “Yeah, seriously, that correction on the lift, game changer.”

A third girl already had her phone out to show him a recording of her practice.

He laughed, warm and polite. “My, my! Such enthusiasm. I’ll see what I can do.”

Angel stopped mid–warm-up, blinked at the absurd scene, then looked at Charlie. “What’s with all the fuss?”

Charlie didn't even look up. Her voice was flat. “He stayed yesterday. Played piano. Helped some of them with their pas de deux.”

Vaggie turned, adjusting her bun. “Makes sense. Carmilla showed that video of him and Rosie doing the example pas de deux. Everyone’s losing their minds over how clean it was.”

Pentious snorted. “You two should stick around after class. Might help your sad little Adagio.”

Angel flicked him lightly with his towel. “Oh shut up. And no, I’m not staying. Mr. Alastor is, no offense, creepy sometimes. That smile? I swear it’s carved on there. I already have enough pressure without his face staring into my soul.”

Charlie, still watching Alastor effortlessly charm the room, suddenly felt a spark of something, determination? pride? stubbornness disguised as jealousy?

Whatever it was, she latched onto it.

“But maybe we should stay,” she said softly.

Angel turned slowly. “I’m sorry. What?”

“Think about it,” she said, meeting his eyes. “He was a principal dancer of the Nutcracker. One of the best. If anyone knows how to shape us into something breathtaking, it’s him. And…” She looked toward Alastor as he laughed at something a student said. “We want the part, don’t we? We want to be onstage as principals.”

Angel folded his arms. “That was so manipulative, babe.”

Charlie smiled weakly. “Was it?”

“Yes,” he grumbled. Then sighed. “But… fine. Whatever. If it gets us the part, I’m in. But if he smiles at me wrong, I’m flipping a chair.”

Charlie almost laughed. Almost.

Because beneath all of that, Angel’s complaining, the eager students buzzing around Alastor, the warm afternoon sunlight pouring across the marley floor, her chest still hurt.

You’re not special.
Just another ballet student.

She wasn’t sure why the words clung to her so tightly. But today, she was determined to prove him wrong. That she was different, and that her talent was unique.

Alastor lifted his cane and tapped it twice against the floor—sharp, crisp, unmistakable.
The chatter died instantly.

The students closest to him scattered to the barre like startled birds. Those farther back followed with far more panic than grace. Alastor’s smile remained picture–perfect.

“Carmilla and Rosie are running a bit late,” he announced lightly as he walked to the sound system. “But let’s not waste precious time, shall we? I’ll warm you up.”

A visible shiver went through the room.
Angel muttered, “Oh hell no.”

Charlie didn’t blame him. The last time Alastor had warmed up the class, everyone was too tired to even continue with the class; Rosie even made a joke about how everyone looked like war survivors with how sweaty they all were.

As Alastor was looking for a disk to put on the old radio, Angel sidled up to Charlie, whispering under his breath, “Listen—if he puts on that stupid fast piece again, the one with the impossible tempo? I swear to God, Charlie, I’m killing you.”

Charlie smothered a laugh. “You’re the one manifesting it.”

The first notes blasted through the speakers.

Angel’s eyes widened in betrayal.
“Oh my GOD. I manifested it. I’m gonna pass out right here, right now. They’ll bury me in first position.”

Vaggie groaned. “Goodbye, everyone. It’s been fun.”

Pentious clutched the barre like a lifeline. “We are not surviving this.”

Alastor tapped his cane once more, his signal.
“Begin.”

And chaos, in the most ballet-like form, ensued.

The music was brutal: fast, sharp, relentless.
Feet scrambled to keep tempo. Arms wobbled. Breaths were already short by the second combination.

Alastor didn’t simply walk; he glided. His cane clicked rhythmically as he passed each student, his eyes narrow and observant.

“You’re sinking in the hip.” Tap.
“Lift the chin, dear.” Tap.
“Extend, not collapse.” Tap, tap.

His tone wasn’t angry, just merciless.

Charlie tried to stay focused, locking her mind onto the music, the movements, anything but last night’s painful conversation.

Maybe… maybe he really did see her as just another student.
Maybe she should get used to that.

Then she felt him stop behind her.

She froze mid–port de bras.

No. No, come on—why her—

“You’re over-rotating,” he said softly, tapping her lower back. “Again.”

She adjusted.

“Still not enough.”

Another adjustment.

“Your turnout, fix it.”

She did.

“That wrist, gentler.”

She did.

“And your arm…” He paused. “…lift.”

Charlie began to raise it, but he whispered under his breath.

“No, no, higher.”

His hand wrapped around hers.

Her breath caught.

He didn’t use his cane.
He didn’t hover at a polite distance.
He touched her, like actually touched her, guiding her arm up, farther than she thought she could reach.

Her cheeks went hot.
Her chest tightened.
Yet her form held perfectly still.

He had not touched another student with his hands for this whole warm-up session. Just like last time, he only did it to her.

When he finally released her, she almost stumbled, not physically, but emotionally.
What does that mean? Why only me? Why say I’m not special, then treat me like—like—

“Move,” he said gently, already stepping away to critique someone else.

She almost wished he’d stayed.
Almost.

The song tore on for six full minutes, six long, agonizing, soul-draining minutes, until the final note exploded from the speakers and their collective suffering ended.

Everyone collapsed at the barre, panting, sweating, silently vowing revenge.

That’s when the door slammed open.

Carmilla strode in wearing sunglasses indoors, carrying a latte and looking like she had run three errands and crushed three dreams on the way.
Rosie followed behind her, bright and glowing.

Rosie clapped her hands. “Oh! Now this is the spirit I want for The Nutcracker! Look at all of you, not a single muscle left alive!”

Groans filled the studio.

Carmilla sighed dramatically. “Yes, yes, you’re all dying. Water break. Quickly. Then back here immediately to start.”

Rosie added with her usual kindness, “Boys will come with me. Girls stay with Carmilla, just like yesterday.”

Charlie wiped sweat from her brow, her heart still racing, not just from the music.

She could feel Alastor’s brief touch burning into her skin.
Confusing her.
Entangling her.

The rest of class blurred into instinct: the girls shifted into the other Nutcracker roles, Dewdrop, Snow Queen, Flowers, Spanish, Arabian. Carmilla barked corrections left and right, but Charlie’s focus drifted. Not externally, she hit every mark, every combination, but inside her head was a knot of questions she couldn’t loosen.

When Carmilla split them into groups, Charlie quietly stepped aside and began practicing the Sugar Plum Fairy solo again. Two other girls followed her lead, and Carmilla simply waved a hand in approval—“Fine. It’s open casting. Make your choices, ladies.”

Fine. Charlie thought. She had. And she wasn’t backing off.

By the time the clock hit 9 p.m., class was officially over. Those who planned to compete for the principal roles stayed behind. About six couples remained, including Charlie and Angel. Twelve dancers. Twelve dreams colliding.

“Big competition, huh?” Angel said as Vaggie and Pentious waved goodbye on their way home.

Charlie nodded, taking another sip of water. “Huge.”

When Alastor stepped forward, everyone instantly formed up like soldiers awaiting orders. His voice was calm, but his critiques were knives, clean, precise, merciless. He was harsher with the male dancers, stopping them mid-lift, correcting holds, criticizing their lines with the authority of someone who had once danced this exact role to perfection. But the girls didn’t escape unscathed either. He expected excellence. Now.

Charlie worked harder than she usually did, ignoring the soreness burning up her legs, ignoring the way her heart twisted every time his voice cut across the studio.

At 10:45, Alastor finally tapped his cane once.

“That will do. Enough for today.”

Everyone thanked him, breathless, exhausted, reverent, and began packing. Angel noticed Charlie wasn’t moving.

“You’re staying?” he asked, tossing his towel into his bag.

“I want to run the Sugar Plum solo.” Her tone was determined, almost desperate.

Angel softened. “Don’t overdo it, babe. Friday’s still days away.”

“I knowwww, but I don’t want to waste time,” she replied.

Angel shook his head with a fond smile. “You’re crazy. But okay. See you tomorrow.”

He left.

And suddenly, it was just her and Alastor again.

Footsteps approached—slow, measured. Charlie swallowed and looked up just as he stopped near her.

“You should go home, my dear” he said gently.

Charlie stood. “I need to practice more.”

“Oh, I agree,” he replied. “Just not today.”

She blinked. “…Why?”

He tilted his head slightly, studying her. “Because I heard from the cleaning staff that they couldn’t clean the studio this morning. You were already in here, practicing.”

Her throat tightened.

“You need your muscles to recover,” he continued. “If you overwork them, you’ll injure yourself. And then you won’t be ready for Friday at all.”

Charlie looked away, heat rising to her cheeks. “I just… I want to be prepared. And with all respect… why do you care, Mr. Alastor?” Her voice trembled despite her effort to steady it. “Didn’t you say I’m not special? That I’m just another student? So… why worry about me at all?”. She blushed, really hard, realizing that maybe she had said way too much.

Alastor’s expression didn’t change, same serene smile, same unreadable eyes. But something in the air tightened. “Fair enough,” he said softly. “It was only advice. Whether you take it is entirely up to you.” And with a nod, calm, polite, distant, he said, “Have a good night,” and walked out.

Charlie watched him go, her heart twisting painfully.

She closed her eyes tight, trying to breathe through the mess inside her.
She didn’t know what she wanted. Or why it hurt. Or why his words seemed to matter more than Carmilla’s coldest critiques ever had.

She reached down to adjust her shoe, then froze. Her hand trembled.

And suddenly she ripped the shoe off and hurled it at the wall.

A loud THUD.
A scuff mark.
A broken breath.
A curse whispered through clenched teeth.

Her own reaction scared her.

She grabbed her things and left the room, pulling the door shut behind her.

She didn’t know what was worse—the possibility that she’d fallen for someone she shouldn’t…or the possibility that he really meant it when he said she wasn’t special.

The next day folded into each other like worn pages, identical routines marked only by exhaustion and the way Charlie’s emotions tangled tighter each night.

Wake up. Columbia. Classes she barely heard.
Subway downtown. The academy.
Warm-ups. Corrections. Practice until her legs trembled.
After-hours with the dancers competing for the same dream.
Alastor’s voice, sharp, precise, relentless, cutting through the room, through her bones.
And then those brief moments when the studio emptied and it was only the two of them left in the quiet… moments that left her tense, breath shortened, heart unsure of itself.

And then Thursday arrived.

The academy felt electric, buzzing with nerves and ambition. There was no class. No official rehearsal. Carmilla and Rosie weren’t even there—they wanted the dancers to push themselves, to prove how badly they wanted tomorrow’s audition.

Every available studio was taken. Bodies stretched, leapt, spun. Music echoed through the hallways, overlapping scores of Nutcracker variations, nearly creating chaos.

Alastor remained in Studio One, naturally. Any student practicing the Sugar Plum pas de deux gravitates toward him, some out of fear, most out of sheer desperation. His patience remained terrifyingly consistent, cool voice, razor-sharp feedback, zero mercy.

“Again,” he’d say.
“Your landing is late.”
“Support her waist, not her ribs, do you want to crush her lungs?”
“No, no, start over. You can do better than that.”

People were unraveling.

Angel and Charlie tried to keep spirits high, though sweat soaked their clothes and frustration leaked through their smiles.

“We’re gonna be fine,” Angel said, shaking out his arms between runs. “We’re better than half the people in here.”

“Half isn’t enough,” Charlie muttered, wiping her forehead. “We need to be the best.”

They pushed harder. Practiced until they couldn’t feel the floor. Then, when Alastor dismissed the pas de deux couples, Charlie and Angel separated to their respective studios for solo work.

Somehow, even more people stayed late. Even Vaggie, who had spent all week insisting she didn’t care about big roles, was rehearsing the Snow Queen variation like her life depended on it.

At midnight, the academy finally began emptying. Dancers dragged themselves out the doors, shoulders slumped, hair sticking to their faces, feet throbbing inside dying pointe shoes.

Vaggie spotted Charlie still stretching on the floor of Studio Five.

“Charlie,” she sighed, walking over. “Come on. Let’s go. You want McDonald’s? My treat. I need fries after this hell.”

Charlie shook her head without looking up. “You go. I’m staying.”

Vaggie’s worry deepened. “Girl… you can’t exaggerate like this. I know you want this. I know. But you need to sleep. Or you’re gonna collapse tomorrow.”

“I’m fine,” Charlie insisted. “I have it under control. I’ll just do it two more times, then I’ll leave.”

“Two more times,” Vaggie repeated skeptically, crossing her arms. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

Vaggie leaned down and hugged her. “Alright. Don’t be stupid. Call me if you need anything.” Charlie nodded, and Vaggie left.

The halls quieted. The academy dimmed. Charlie stood alone, tightening the ribbons around her ankles, preparing for another run.

The audition was in nine hours.

And she wasn’t going to stop now.

Charlie brushed her tights once, then once more, trying to shake the tremor from her legs. One more run, she told herself. Just one more and she would finally go home. The building was nearly silent now, midnight had a way of swallowing even the echoes of dancers, and the empty studio felt cavernous in its stillness.

She inhaled, lifted her arms into position, ready to begin, 

The door clicked.

She flinched, lowering her arms. Please… not again.

Alastor stepped inside like he owned the space, the dim hallway light haloing around him before the door shut behind. He crossed the room without saying a word, and Charlie felt her stomach twist, not from fear, but from the unbearable tension she’d been carrying all week. His voice, his corrections, the way she always felt watched… pushed… cornered.

She couldn’t crash. Not tonight. Not with auditions in a few hours.

But then she noticed something: the small radio in his hand.

He stood in the middle of the room and looked at her, unreadable.

“Position,” he ordered quietly.

Charlie blinked. Why now? Why suddenly him, here, alone?

But her body obeyed before her thoughts caught up. He pressed play on the radio, and the first notes spilled into the room. Her muscles responded automatically, shaped by repetition and fear and desire all tangled into one knot. She danced, keeping her breath as steady as she could, knowing he wasn’t correcting her aloud, but he was thinking every correction. She could feel it. It buzzed under her skin worse than his voice ever did.

The music ended. She froze in her final pose, heart hammering. Several seconds passed before she dared to straighten her spine. Alastor didn't move.

Finally, he spoke.

“Again. Start in fifth.”

She nodded, stepping into it, until she felt the cane touch the back of her ribcage, then the line of her spine. Light, precise taps. Adjusting her posture. Adjusting her.

“You’re tense,” he murmured. “Entirely too tense for this variation.”

He touched her shoulder next, guiding it down with the faintest pressure. She turned, too quickly, and looked right at him.

Their eyes locked.

Alastor opened his mouth, an almost-scolding question forming— “Is there a probl—”

Charlie didn’t hear the rest. Something inside her snapped, or maybe it unfurled. She surged forward, crashing her lips against his, arms hooking around his neck like she’d been drowning all week and only now found something to breathe from.

Alastor’s cane clattered to the floor. His balance faltered. So did hers. They toppled, the wooden floor jolting beneath them.

For a terrifying second, he didn’t move, didn’t kiss back, didn’t do anything.

She started to pull away, mortification already swallowing her whole.

Then he returned the kiss. Fully and decisively.

Her body melted instantly, muscles that had been iron all week turning to water. Her arms weakened. Her heartbeat slowed into something dangerously calm. She didn’t know a person could feel like this, unguarded, soft, unthinking.

When they finally broke apart, both gasping for air, she stared at him… and the realization hit her like a cold wave.

She had crossed a line. A line she couldn’t uncross.

Her face flamed hot. Panic swelled. She scrambled upright, grabbing her bag so fast the zipper scraped her wrist. She didn’t check if she’d forgotten anything. She didn’t look back at Alastor, still sitting on the floor.

She ran.

Out of the studio, down the hall, out the academy doors into the icy night. The bus was miraculously pulling up; she climbed in, barely breathing, and collapsed into a seat.

Only then did she bury her face in her hands.

What did I just do?
What kind of immature, reckless girl does that?

But beneath the humiliation… beneath the horror…Was something worse

She didn’t regret it.

Not even close.

And now, God help her, she wanted more.

The next day, Charlie woke at seven to the soft glow of early morning sun pooling across her sheets. For the first time in days, maybe weeks, her chest felt light. Not empty, not anxious… just quiet. A strange, buoyant confidence hummed beneath her skin, as if something inside her had finally unclenched.

She blinked up at the ceiling.

I kissed him.

Her face warmed instantly, but the panic she expected didn’t come. Not like last night. Instead, the memory fluttered in her stomach like a secret she wasn’t ready to name.

She stretched, padded to the bathroom, and let the hot shower rinse every leftover tremble from her muscles. When she came out, her hair wrapped in a towel, her mother was already waiting with her makeup bag open.

“You’re up early,” her mom teased gently.

“It’s audition day,” Charlie answered, smiling.

Her father leaned against the doorframe, coffee in hand. “You’re gonna knock them dead. Both of us know it.”

Her mother cupped her face, applying foundation with practiced, tender hands. “Good luck, sweetheart.”

Charlie hugged them both before leaving, lashes curled, cheeks warm with blush, hair pinned with precision. She felt like she was stepping into her own skin for the first time.

The academy halls buzzed like a beehive when she arrived. Everyone was nervous, stretching, whispering combinations under their breath. Charlie found the waiting room assigned to her group and spotted a folding chair with her name taped on the back.

On the seat rested a pair of pointe shoes.

Her pointe shoes.

The ones she’d prepped days ago for today's audition. the ones she thought were in her bag.

Her stomach dropped. She checked her bag, empty. She hadn’t brought them.

Charlie lifted the shoes carefully, and a folded white slip fluttered out.

She froze.

On the paper, in a sharp, elegant handwriting:

“You left these behind yesterday. —A.”

Charlie’s blush rushed up so fast she nearly choked on air.

Of course he noticed. Of course he returned them.
Please God, let him forget the rest.

She tucked the note into her bag, inhaled deeply, and forced herself to focus.

Later. She’d panic later.

Angel arrived with a chaotic puff of glitter and nerves. They hugged, exchanged shaky smiles, and before either could build the courage to spiral, their group was called.

The dance went… breathtakingly well.

Angel sparkled. Charlie floated. Their timing, their lines, the musicality—they were as close to perfect as a rehearsal room dream could allow.

The judging panel was larger today: Carmilla, Rosie, and several high-ranking instructors. All sharp eyes and expressionless mouths.

And then, Alastor.

Not seated with the judges. Standing near the door. Hands clasped behind his back. Watching everything.

Watching her.

Charlie’s stomach tightened, but it didn’t shake her. If anything, she felt strangely composed, as though her body trusted itself more than her mind ever had.

Then her solo was called.

The room fell away. Her breaths anchored her. Her limbs obeyed. There was no trembling. No overthinking. Just clarity, pure and startling.

When she finished, the director of the academy whispered, “Beautiful…” to the judge beside him, clearly forgetting Charlie could hear.

Charlie bowed, heart pounding softly, like applause from the inside.

When asked if she and Angel were auditioning for other roles, they said no.

Every judge nodded as if the answer made perfect sense.

They were dismissed.

By four in the afternoon, the auditions already felt like a fever dream. Charlie, Angel, Vaggie, Pentious, and an excited Cherry squeezed into a booth at a cozy Italian restaurant in downtown Manhattan. The table was overflowing with bread baskets and plates no one could focus on.

Then Vaggie froze, fork halfway to her lips.

“Guys,” she whispered. “The results are out.”

Cherry practically dove across the table. “Give me the phone! I wanna read everyone’s roles.”

Pentious squeezed her hand, they’d started dating after the party, and he looked like he might faint.

“Okay,” Cherry said dramatically. “Pen first. You got… the Mouse King!”

The table erupted in laughter and applause.

“That’s a good role!” Vaggie cheered.

“It’s gonna kill him,” Angel muttered with a wheeze.

Cherry continued. “Vaggie—Dewdrop.”

Vaggie sighed, half-disappointed, half-relieved. “Not Snow Queen, but honestly? Dewdrop is gorgeous. I’ll take it.”

Another round of claps.

Then Cherry paused.

A long pause.

Angel leaned in. “Cherry. What about Charlie and me? Why are you stuck?”

Cherry squinted at the screen. “I can’t find your names.”

Charlie’s blood ran cold. Angel’s face drained. Sugar Plum and Cavalier were always listed first. Always.

Charlie’s eyes stung. “Oh God—”

“WAIT!” Cherry shouted, nearly dropping the phone. “FOUND IT!”

Everyone held their breath.

She grinned.

“You two are the PRINCIPALS!”

Charlie broke.

She sobbed into Angel’s shoulder, shaking with relief and disbelief. The restaurant erupted in confused applause when Cherry turned around and called out jokingly:

“They’re getting married!”

Angel sniffled, raising his glass. “Great joke, but if this restaurant offers free drinks… please keep saying it.”

Everyone laughed. Someone from the next table shouted, “Congratulations!” and the whole place clapped again.

Charlie wiped her eyes, smiling so hard her cheeks hurt. For the first time in forever, she felt truly, undeniably accomplished.

The role she dreamed of, she got it.

Finally.

But as the adrenaline settled… another realization crept in.

If she were Sugar Plum next week…

That meant rehearsals.

That meant partners.

That meant seeing him.

Seeing Alastor.

Looking into his eyes.

Facing what she’d done.

Charlie swallowed, lifting her glass.

I’ll worry about that later, she told herself. For now… I’m just gonna drink.

Notes:

Some beautiful references for your eyes to imagine everything!!

Video of the specific variation I based this!! (There’s a lot out there xd so just to be clear :D)

https://youtu.be/PH0Qx0oHEVg?si=VPdikveYjA483oGV

And ofc the Pas De Deux

https://youtu.be/RusC5iqkXMo?si=M8FhgPw3PgJXVxgy

A lot of schools have different versions, even the NYC ballet has their own, but even if the story is based on that school, they have a different style of Ballet (Balanchine, not my favorite) than the usual one (Vaganova)

If y’all have any ballet questions, I will try to answer!! (I’m a nerd for this xddd, the funniest thing is that I used to be a dancer … but it was more street dance than anything xd)

Chapter 5: Variation I pt.2: A Dangerous Waltz

Summary:

omgggg this is a huge chapter btw, i cant belief season 2 is over already, time flies by fast.

ANYWAYSSS

Enjoy!!

(This chapter contains sexual activity!! you have been warned)

Charlie had been celebrating nonstop since the results were announced, club lights, spilled champagne, Angel shouting lyrics over the DJ Cherry and Pentious dancing like crazy, Vaggie grinding on Lute like they were about to start a fire in the middle of the Queens warehouse party. It should have felt like the peak of her young career, the kind of victory that makes you drunk just by breathing.

But by Sunday morning, splayed out half on, half off Angel’s couch, mascara smudged, hair ruined, head pounding, reality hit her like a cold slap.

Tomorrow was Monday. And Monday meant facing Alastor.

She sat up too fast. Angel groaned and threw a pillow over his face.

“Oh God, you’re moving. Stop moving. You’re making the room move.”

Charlie didn’t answer. Her mind was somewhere else entirely, somewhere dim, quiet, and filled with the memory of Alastor’s mouth against hers. She could still feel the exact second he kissed her back. The way his hand had curled behind her waist, firm and deliberate, like he had chosen her. Like he had wanted her.

She cleared her throat, grabbed her bag, and left Angel’s place with a muttered excuse about needing air. She needed more than air. She needed to scrape the memory off her skin before it drove her insane.

Back home, she made pasta because cooking required steps, and steps required thinking. Boil. Salt. Stir. Drain.

She sat on the couch, fork in hand, a random movie playing, something she’d seen a hundred times just to be her background sound.

But her brain kept replaying a different scene.

His cane dropping.
His breath catching.
His lips finally pressing back into hers with slow, breathtaking certainty.

Her cheeks burned. She shook her head violently and stabbed a piece of pasta like it had personally offended her.

The door clicked open. Her parents walked in.

Lilith stopped mid-stride. “Charlie? Sweetie, you’re home early.”

Lucifer raised a brow, eyes narrowing with suspicion only a protective father could weaponize. “Did your… date end badly?”

Charlie choked on a macaroni.

“W—what date?!”

Lucifer crossed his arms and leaned on the back of the couch. “You’re glowing, flushed, flustered, and suddenly eating carbs. Classic signs.”

Lilith swatted his shoulder. “Lucifer, darling. You can’t interrogate her every time she blushes.”

“But she’s clearly seeing someone,” he insisted. “And I’d like to know who this person is so I can evaluate if he’s worthy of—”

“There is no one,” Charlie blurted, voice cracking. “None. Zero. Literally no one.”

Her parents exchanged a look, Lilith amused, Lucifer relieved.

“Ha! Knew it,” Lucifer said smugly. “No man is good enough for my daughter.”

Lilith lightly tugged a strand of his hair. “Ignore him, honey.” Then she clapped her hands together. “Anyway, I already told the whole family about your principal role.”

Charlie froze, fork halfway to her mouth. +“You did?”

“Of course!” Lilith beamed. “It's a huge announcement! All your effort and dedication are finally getting paid off! Aunt Bee and Uncle Ozzie already bought the family tickets for opening night. Aunt Levi said she’s getting you the most gorgeous costume for the Gala reception afterwards, which, of course, we are gonna host for you. Your Uncle Mammon sent you a little something—”

Lucifer pulled out his phone. “He deposited two thousand. Said, and I quote, ‘don’t spend it all in one place unless it’s sparkly.’”

Charlie nearly dropped her plate. “Two thousand is a little something?”

Lucifer shrugged. “It’s Mammon, you know how your uncle is.”

Lilith continued, “Aunt Belphegor is bringing plushies, Uncle Satan is insisting on personally selecting your flowers because apparently ‘only a demon who commands flames understands the passion of ballet,’ whatever that means.”

Charlie laughed weakly. It should’ve filled her with warmth, her family’s pride, their excitement, their overwhelming support. But even as her mother hugged her from behind and her father raided the fridge for leftover pasta, Charlie felt the same cold knot of anxiety re-tighten in her chest.

They kept talking. She kept nodding.

But her thoughts were elsewhere.

Tomorrow I have to see him. I have to look him in the eyes and pretend that kiss didn’t happen.
Tomorrow I have to figure out what the hell we are, or if that means something

She took another bite of pasta.

It tasted like nothing.

Because all she could think about was Alastor kissing her back with a restrained hunger that still made her knees weak just remembering it.

And the terrifying truth she had been refusing to say out loud:

She wasn’t scared to see him because she regretted it. She was scared to see him because she didn’t.

By Monday morning the hallways of the academy swarmed again, warm-ups slapping against floors, chatter buzzing like static, music leaking faintly from every open studio door. Everyone had arrived early, jittery with excitement and nerves, fueled either by pride or humiliation, depending on the role they had received.

Charlie pushed the door to Studio B and was immediately swallowed by the familiar scent of resin, sweat, and rosin. Angel waved her over from the barre. Vaggie looked exhausted but glowing, Pentious practically vibrating from excitement over having survived auditions at all.

Carmilla clapped twice, sharp, slicing through the noise.

“Center.”

Every dancer snapped to formation.

Carmilla scanned the group with that hawk-like stare of hers. “I expect everyone to be pleased with their positions,” she began, her tone calm but dangerous. “If you were given a role you consider beneath you, then you have only one person to blame. Yourself. Be better next time.” Several dancers flinched. Carmilla continued mercilessly.

“But whatever your role, however small, I expect one thing from each of you: professionalism. Your job now is to make the role shine. And no one” her eyes passed through the room like a blade “is above the work.”

Charlie swallowed. Somehow that felt directed at her, even though no one should know anything about what happened Thursday night.

Carmilla changed her posture, hands folding behind her back. “Starting today, half of every class will be self-directed. Adults take responsibility for their own improvement. The other half I, Rosie, or other senior faculty will guide. Your time here is short. Use it wisely.”

She dismissed them with a flick of her wrist. Students dispersed immediately, some stretching, some already gathering in their respective groups.

Charlie was about to follow Angel when

“Charlie Morningstar.”

Her entire spine stiffened.

Angel, Vaggie, and Pentious turned, confused. Charlie’s face forced a reassuring smile she absolutely didn’t feel. It’s fine, she tried to tell them with her eyes. I’m fine.

Carmilla nodded toward the adjoining studio. “A word.”

Charlie’s stomach collapsed.
A word? With Carmilla? She followed her into the studio next door.

Her breath froze.

Rosie was there.
And so was Alastor.

Her breath stalled.

Her first instinct was panic—a loud, ringing alarm in her skull.
He told them. He told them. He told them. Oh God, he told them that I kissed him. He told them. I’m done. I’m expelled. They’re going to ruin me. I’m so stupid, I’m so—

“Relax,” Carmilla said, misreading her panic. “We’re here to discuss your new responsibilities.”

Charlie forced her shoulders down.

Carmilla folded her arms. “Now that you hold an important principal role, you must not forget what this means. You must carry yourself with dignity, for the class and for the academy. No absurd, impulsive behavior. No childish mistakes.”

Charlie flinched, thinking that this was it. She had crossed a line and had behaved impulsively.

She waited for the punishment.

But Carmilla continued calmly, “You will be competing against the Sugar Plums from Classes 2, 3, and 4 this season. As I have said, this class is expected to produce the next permanent principal. I expect excellence from you. Nothing less.”

Charlie’s mouth parted slightly.
Oh.
So, this wasn’t about Thursday.
She wasn’t in trouble.
She exhaled shakily.

Rosie stepped in. “You and Angel will be coached by me on Saturdays for their pas de deux rehearsals.”

Carmilla nodded.

“And,” Rosie added, glancing at Alastor, “I have requested Alastor to work as full-time coach for their rehearsals on Saturdays as well. What could be better than pairing new principal candidates with experienced former dancers?”

Charlie’s eyes flicked to him before she could stop herself.

His smile grew. Slow. Deliberate. Knowing.

Carmilla rolled her eyes. “Only on Saturdays. And Alastor—don’t get used to playing professor. You’re still just the class pianist.”

Alastor bowed his head with exaggerated politeness. “Of course, I know my position.” Then he turned to Charlie, voice warm, dangerously warm. “But if someone requests guidance, I will naturally offer it. It’s in the best interest of the academy, isn’t it… Charlie?”

She swallowed so loudly Rosie probably heard it. “Y-yes. Of course.”

Carmilla clapped once. “Good. Now return to class. You should be practicing like the rest.”

She and Rosie left in the opposite direction.

Charlie and Alastor stepped out of the small studio together.

Her heart thumped so hard she thought it would echo off the walls. She kept her eyes on the floor, ready to bolt ... But just as she reached the doorway, something blocked her path.

Alastor’s cane.

She froze. A second later, his hand rested lightly, intimately, on her shoulder.

His breath brushed her ear. “I expect nothing but greatness and perfection from you, my dear,” he murmured. “You owe me that much after that little theatrical scene you performed for me.”

Her entire body burst into flame.

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

He leaned back, just enough for her to see that sly smile.

“And if you require more…” His voice dipped lower. “Do let me know.” He withdrew his cane and walked into the main studio as if nothing had happened.

Charlie stood there, shaking, heart racing, her face burning.

She had no idea how she was going to survive this ballet season, especially with him closer than ever before. 

-

The first week of November arrived with a cold sharpness, a kind of early-winter breath that slipped through the academy’s tall windows and settled onto everyone’s bones. The air was filled with excitement; the premiere was only three weeks away, but beneath that excitement lived the quiet, crushing pressure of expectation. And for Charlie, something else lived there, too. Something warmer. Something much more dangerous.

After the talk with Carmilla, after the cane and his whisper, after that impossible line—“let me know if you need more”—Charlie made a vow to herself, no more talking to Alastor.

No small greetings, no casual questions about tempo or interpretation. Nothing. She just couldn’t do it now.

It was, she believed, the only way she’d survive.

And for a while, it worked.

She stopped arriving early, choosing instead to show up exactly five minutes before class, when the studio was already full and noisy and Alastor was safely behind his piano. She kept her eyes down when she passed by him, staying with Vaggie, Angel, or Pentious at all times, as if proximity to friends could block temptation. She even forced herself to laugh louder at Angel’s jokes, hoping it would drown out the awareness she felt every time she heard the soft click of his cane somewhere behind her.

But avoiding someone like Alastor, someone who filled a room the way a melody fills a theater, was impossible.

Especially on Saturdays.

Those 2 past Saturdays had been torture. Beautiful, exquisite, shimmering torture.

It was just her, Angel, Rosie, and him. Four bodies in that large rehearsal studio that always felt too quiet, too polished, so far away from everyone. The mirrors were unforgiving, the silence between corrections too sharp. And every time Alastor turned from the piano to face them (because yeah, sometimes he would play the piano for half the time and then, the other half was him and Rosie giving countless corrections), the world narrowed to nothing but the echo of his gaze on her.

He didn’t overstep when Rosie was saying something or directing them both. He didn’t even speak as much as he should have when it was his turn. But he watched.
And something in the way he watched her, steady, analytical, almost hungry in a way only she seemed to notice, made her knees weak in a way that had nothing to do with technique.

Sometimes Rosie would be giving Angel a correction, and Charlie could feel Alastor’s eyes following the way she breathed through a balance. Or the way she softened her hands. Or the way her expression changed when she transitioned from the adagio into the turns.

And when he sat at the piano, long fingers hovering over the keys, he would sometimes angle his chair slightly, not fully toward her, just enough that she knew she was in his peripheral vision.

Just enough to ruin her.

But of course, this was not only a problem that he was causing her. Jealousy was growing in her, and perhaps this was a little bad.

It wasn’t until the first Wednesday of the week that she noticed it happening.

Another dancer—Lynn, who had gotten Spanish Dance—approached Alastor after class with a question about rhythm. Charlie wasn’t even looking at them. She was tying her warmups, ready to leave. But the sound of Lynn’s voice, soft, fluttery, made her lift her gaze.

Lynn was smiling at him.
And he smiled back.

Not his rehearsed, pleasant pianist-smile.
His real one, crooked, sharp, amused.

Charlie felt something tighten in her stomach so suddenly that she almost dropped her shoe.

Why does she need his help? She already has her part. What the hell…

Then, another day, it was one of the boys, the one playing the Soldier, who asked about the tempo of a jumping sequence. And Alastor explained something, leaning slightly forward, tapping out the rhythm with his knee (as far as he clearly could). And Charlie's eyes narrowed so much that Angel gave him a gentle nudge.

“You okay, sugarplum?” he whispered.

Charlie just forced a smile. “I’m… great.”

She was not great.

She was jealous, jealous because he was helping other people that was not her, and that was just such an embarrassing feeling.

But she was more confused about why she was jealous when she was trying so hard to avoid him in the first place.

She felt like she was living two separate realities, that quiet, responsible, aspirational principal dancer everyone saw… and the girl who walked home every day with her headphones on, replaying in her mind how his hand had grabbed her back during the kiss.

She was reaching her breaking point.

By the middle of the third week, the avoidance was exhausting her. It was like holding her breath for too long, waiting for something—anything—to let her inhale again. Every time he adjusted the piano bench, every time he lifted his eyes at the exact moment she lowered hers, every time his fingers brushed the keys with that maddening calm, she felt a spark that only made her desperation worse.

And she hated herself for wanting to talk to him.

For wanting more.

She’d sit at the back of the studio after rehearsals, stretching with Angel and Vaggie while the rest packed up. And she’d catch herself looking at him.

Looking too long.

Looking when she shouldn’t.

And the worst part, the absolute worst part, was that sometimes, just sometimes, he would glance back.

Not enough to be obvious, not enough for anyone else to notice.

But enough for her.

Enough to undo every rule she had set for herself.

 

By Friday, the studio was almost silent when Charlie finished her last diagonal. Since it was November, it got dark very early, which gave the illusion that she had been practicing for hours, but at least, after many corrections during the other half of the class, the session was finally over. She was alone, finally. Carmilla had pushed her hard that afternoon, picking apart the smallest details of her épaulement, her timing, the sharpness of her feet.

So Charlie stayed to fix it.
To breathe.
To think.

Or more accurately, to not think.

She placed herself back into position, inhaled, and—

CLACK.

That unmistakable sound of a cane hitting the wooden floor made her jolt so violently that her balance snapped. She stumbled forward a step.

A smooth voice floated across the room:

“Not very concentrated, are we?”

Her heart dropped to her stomach.

Of course it’s him.

She didn’t even turn at first. She just closed her eyes, inhaled, and rolled her eyes so hard it almost hurt. Then she reset her arms, pretending he wasn’t there.

But he didn’t move.

He leaned on his cane, head tilted, that amused glint already forming.

“I didn’t realize my presence annoys you so much now,” he said, not angry, almost thoughtful. “Tragic.”

Charlie whipped around. “No— I— that’s not—” She tried again. “I didn’t mean— I’m just—”

Words scattered like frightened birds. Every time her mouth opened, nothing landed.

He watched her fall apart with an infuriating sort of calmness.

“Well,” he said at last, “if my existence causes such distress, I’ll spare you.” He tapped his cane once, straightened his coat. “I’ll be on my way.”

He actually turned toward the door.

Panic shot through Charlie so fast she didn’t even think, she sprinted to the door, almost falling because her point shoes were still a little stiff, stepped in front of it, pressed her back against it, and blocked him in.

“You’re not leaving!” The words came out louder than she meant. Much louder.

Alastor’s brows rose, slowly, like he was savoring the moment. “Oh? And why is that?” he asked, voice dropping to something dangerously soft.

Charlie swallowed. Hard. “Because… because we need to talk.”

He grinned. Of course he did. “Oh, do we? If you want corrections, I can watch your variation. Though I assumed you preferred coaching from a distance now.”

She felt her face burn. “No. Not about ballet. You know it’s not about that.”

His expression shifted, still amused, but his eyes sharpened. “That so?”

Charlie’s fingers curled around the doorknob behind her, as if she needed something to hold on to. “It’s about… what happened. Before auditions.” Her voice trembled. “The kiss.”

He watched her, silent.

“And…” she forced herself to continue, “what you said on Monday. ‘If you need more, just ask.’ I want to know… what that meant.”

There.
She said it.
Her entire body felt on fire.

Alastor blinked once, slowly, before a short, rich laugh escaped him, quiet but cutting. Not cruel. Just… entertained.

“Miss Morningstar,” he said, stepping closer—not touching her, but enough that she felt the air shift— “I assure you, I am very much not a man interested in younger women.”

Her heart dropped somewhere near her toes.

He went on, voice still soft but now undeniably teasing:

“However…” He leaned a little closer, stopping inches from her face. “…I do find this entire situation extremely interesting.”

Charlie's breath caught.

He smiled—sharp, slow, delighted.

“But if you truly want to know what I meant…” he murmured, “you’ll have to be a bit more specific in your questions.”

The room suddenly felt too small. Too warm. Too dangerous.

She hated how he made everything feel like a game she never asked to play. She tried to step back a bit, even if she was almost against the door.

“I really don’t understand you,” she whispered.

Alastor raised a brow, pulling himself a little back from her to have some distance. “You’ll have to clarify that for me.”

“I mean—” she gestured helplessly, “you act one way, then another. And then Saturday comes and…”

Her voice faded, but he didn’t rescue her. He waited.

So she forced herself to continue.

“You look at me,” she said. “All the time.”

He didn’t blink.

“When Rosie talks to Angel, you still look at me. Even when Angel is the one dancing the male variation. It would make more sense for you to watch him, or help him, or at least— I don’t know— pay attention to the person actually receiving feedback!”

Her cheeks flamed.

God, saying it out loud felt humiliating. So needy. So obvious.

But Alastor only smiled, tilting his head as if he had been waiting for this exact admission.

He stepped closer again, slow, deliberate. “And what would you like me to say?” he murmured. “That I simply enjoy observing you? Because I do.”

Charlie’s heart slammed against her ribs.

He continued, voice low, thoughtful: “It keeps you focused. You dance better under pressure, my dear, that was clear to me the first time I saw you. And it benefits the academy if my presence helps you concentrate. Remember—if you are not chosen as the permanent principal… Carmilla will push you out of Class One. Perhaps even to Class Three or Four.”

The reminder made Charlie’s stomach twist.

But she shook her head.

“I don't think that’s the only reason,” she whispered.

Alastor’s smile sharpened, too knowing. “Would you prefer,” he said softly, “that I tell you I like to watch pretty things?”

Charlie froze.

Heat flooded her face.

She looked away so fast it was almost frantic.

Alastor laughed quietly, not mocking, just unbearably amused. “Well,” he said, “I did just say it. I might be lying. I might not.”

She hated him.
She hated how he teased her, how he made every word sound like a double meaning, how he looked at her like he already knew exactly what she was feeling.

Charlie forced herself to look at him again, eyes burning.

“Is that why you kissed me back?” she asked.

This time, his expression didn’t change, no smirk, no teasing.

Just stillness.

He didn’t answer.

Charlie took a step closer. Then another.
Her heartbeat was trembling through her whole body.

“Why did you kiss me back?” she asked again, voice steadier this time. “If you didn’t like me, you wouldn’t have. You don't look like the type to do something just to be polite ... or at least not always.” She had to remind herself that he had taken care of her that night were she was really drunk.

He exhaled softly.

“I never said I liked you,” he replied.

“And you never denied it, either.”

His eyes flicked away, just a fraction, but enough. Enough for her to feel something flip inside her chest.

Boldness surged again, the same kind that had ruined her life and saved it a thousand times.

Before she could stop herself, before she even fully realized what she was doing, Charlie grabbed his face, pulled it toward hers, and kissed him.

Hard.

Sudden.

Full of three weeks’ worth of confusion, jealousy, wanting, and fear.

Alastor stumbled again.
His cane clattered to the floor, again.

And they collapsed with it, again, breathless on the polished wood.

Except this time… He didn’t wait a heartbeat.

He kissed her back immediately.

Charlie’s fingers instantly curled into his hair, burying into those thick, dark curls she had been secretly dying to touch for weeks. He let out a sharp inhale against her mouth, half surprise, half something deeper, and his hands slid around her waist, firm and sure. He pressed her closer, pulling her flush against him with a strength he rarely showed outside of a dance correction.

Her breath trembled at the feeling of his hands on her back, strong, but not harsh. Guiding. Claiming.

Alastor kissed like he taught ballet: precise, commanding, impossibly focused.

Charlie kissed like she danced: emotional, wholehearted, reckless.

They met in the middle.

She tugged gently on his curls and he let out the faintest breath against her lips, something like a laugh, something like a surrender. His hands dragged from her waist to her lower back, tracing the line of her spine through her leotard. She shivered into him, kissing him deeper, almost desperate.

When they finally separated, only because they needed air, Charlie pulled her body to his right side, sitting down next to him on the floor, panting.

Her lips were red.
His hair was messy.
His cane was under the barre (somehow it got there).

Charlie swallowed hard. “That… confirms something for me.”

Alastor’s eyes flicked away instantly—too fast, too controlled. “That doesn’t mean anything,” he said quietly.

“It does for me.”

His jaw tightened.

“Charlie—”

“No,” she said, switching her position to look at him better. “I’ve never felt anything like this before, and I just dont know why”

He let out a short, humorless laugh. “You shouldn’t like old men, dear.”

Charlie blinked. “I’ve never liked men or women who are way older than me.”

“Then don’t start now.”

“But you’re different,” she whispered.

He flinched, not visibly, not dramatically, just a tiny break in his perfect composure.

“That’s not convenient for you,” he murmured. “Or wise.”

“Why not?” Charlie leaned in, frustrated and flushed. “We’re adults. I’m 22, not a kid. And you don’t even look that old—I bet you look younger than you are!”

Alastor huffed a soft, incredulous sound and pushed himself up on his elbows, trying to stand—but his balance wavered. His knee buckled the slightest bit .“Flattery won’t help you. I’m thirty-six.” He paused, embarrassed despite himself. “And I have a bad leg. I doubt any of this will benefit you.”

Charlie didn’t hesitate. She crawled on the floor, grabbed his cane, and placed it firmly in his hand.

“Doesn’t matter to me.”

Her voice was steady, almost frighteningly sincere.

Then he stood, slowly, leaning on it with practiced grace.

“This,” he said carefully, “is not professional.”

Charlie stood too. Too close. “No one needs to know.”

“Charlie—”

She placed her hands on his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath beneath her palms. “With you, I feel seen,” she said. “Not just corrected. Seen. Like someone actually has faith in me, and you push me to be better. You never make exceptions with me—especially with me. And that's something that I really appreciated and … like about you ”

Alastor blinked at her, long lashes lowering into something unreadable.

Charlie’s breath hitched, but she pushed through it, voice trembling: “And if we feel something for each other… then maybe we should… explore it?” She couldn't believe the words coming out of her mouth; she never thought herself capable of opening up so much to someone in such a short time. Being as sincere as she was now was a level she didn't think she'd reach with someone she didn't consider a friend, but rather someone she was semi-romantically interested in.

For a heartbeat, neither of them moved, and she was getting really nervous.

Then Alastor’s eyes hardened, softly, politely, but definitely hardened. “Miss Morningstar,” he said, voice calm as polished glass, “you are putting words in my mouth.”

Charlie froze. “What?”

“I never said I felt anything of the sort.”

“But—!” She looked at him, stunned. “You—you literally kissed me. Twice. You corresponded. You didn’t push me away, you didn’t stop me, you, what am I supposed to think?!”

Alastor lifted a brow, completely composed despite the flush still on his cheeks and the way his curls were still a little tousled from her fingers. “What was I supposed to do?” he said softly. “Shove you? Raise my voice at you? Storm off like the… young folk do these days?” He shook his head. “Forgive me, but I am a gentleman, Charlie. Even when caught off guard.”

“Caught off—?! You just caressed my waist and back like it meant something.” Her voice cracked. “Why play with my feelings then?! Why act like—like—” She swallowed. “Like I’m your favorite?”

He actually laughed, quietly, almost pityingly. “Favorite? My dear girl, is that what you want to believe?” He waved a hand dismissively. “I don’t have favorites.”

Charlie’s eyes pricked with tears—not falling yet, but burning. “If you don’t like me at all,” she whispered, “then why say things like… like you’re ‘not into younger women,’ but that you still find me… interesting?” The last word came out in a choke.

Alastor’s jaw tightened, just for a second.

Then he looked away, turned toward the door, choosing to disengage, to weaponize politeness as distance.

“You should keep practicing,” he said quietly. “Tomorrow is Saturday. Rosie and I expect to see your variation and the pas de deux with all corrections applied.”

“Alastor—don’t leave me here.” Her voice was small, scared, angrier at herself than him. “We’re not done.”

But he didn’t stop

His cane clicked once against the floor, a sharp tap that echoed in the empty studio.

And then he was gone, out the door, down the hall, swallowed by the quiet.

Charlie stood still for exactly three seconds.

Then everything inside her cracked.

Her knees gave out and she collapsed onto the floor, palms flat, breath shaking so violently it hurt. The polished wood blurred beneath her tears.

He crushed her.

With one polite dismissal, he crushed her.

She covered her mouth to keep the sound in, but her shoulders shook uncontrollably.

Why lie? Why kiss her? Why act like she mattered, only to step away the second she reached for him?

She stayed on the floor, trembling, because the truth hit her like a blade:

This wasn’t a fantasy. She knew he wanted her back. It was as clear as spring water.

She felt it in the kiss, in the way he touched her waist, in the way he stared at her like she was the only one in the room.

And tomorrow… She was getting her answer.

She needed it.

She needed him to admit it, because this last kiss lit something inside her she couldn’t smother anymore.

And she wasn’t letting him slip away behind polite smiles and closed doors.

Not again.

 

The studio was still half-dark when Charlie slipped inside, her breath misting faintly in the cold morning air. Saturdays were always quieter, the halls slept longer, the lights flickered on slower, the whole building taking its time to wake up. She dropped her bag, tied her hair again for no reason except her hands felt nervous, and kept glancing at the doorway.

Alastor always arrived early, no matter which day it was.

20 minutes early. Sometimes 30.

Enough that she could pretend she hadn’t waited for him.

But today, the doorway stayed empty.

Five minutes after she settled onto the floor to stretch, soft footsteps echoed down the hall. Charlie sat up quickly, heart jumping—

…but it was only Angel.

He pushed the door open with a dramatic sigh, his hoodie slipping off one shoulder, hair mildly messy, eyes slightly puffy, but not from lack of sleep. From something else. Something that made him look oddly content.

“Morning, babe,” he yawned, tossing his bag against the wall.

Charlie blinked. Something on his neck caught the light.

“Angel,” she whispered, eyes widening, “what—what is that?”

Angel grinned without even trying to hide it. “Oh this?” He dragged two fingers over the very obvious hickey. “Battle scar.”

Charlie dropped into bestie mode instantly and scooted closer as they both extended their legs for stretches.

“Angel, where did you get that? Are you finally seeing someone? Is this casual? Do I need to go mom-friend mode or—?”

“Okay, shh.” He pressed a finger over her lips. “Keep it quiet, yeah?”

She lifted her hand dramatically and crossed her fingers over her heart. “I won’t say a word you don’t want me to.”

Angel’s grin warmed. “There’s this guy—”

“Oh my God.”

“—kind of new here—”

“ANGEL.”

“—His name is Husk.”

Charlie blinked. “Isn't that … The shoe guy? … From the academy shoe department.”

Angel nodded, flopping forward into a stretch. “Yeah. I’ve been getting new shoes kinda often to see him. Don’t judge me.”

“Husk,” she repeated. “The same Husk you once told us that was a cute man behind a random bar you visited once?”

“That’s the one.”

“How old is he?” Charlie asked, already bracing herself.

Angel scratched his cheek. “…Forty.”

Charlie choked on her own spit. “Angel! That’s literally almost twenty years older! Have you lost your damn mind?!”

He rolled his eyes. “Pleaseeee. I’m twenty-three, I’m an adult, everything’s legal, and I’m tired of dating boys who treat me like crap. This one’s a real man. Like—calls-me-back, remembers-my-shoe-size type of man.”

“So it’s serious?”

“Kinda? We’ve been seeing each other officially for like three weeks. I’m keeping it low for now. Not even Cherry knows.”

Charlie softened immediately. She knew that tone—vulnerable beneath the bravado.

“Well… as long as he treats you right, then it’s all good with me.”

Angel smiled, nudging her shoulder. “Thanks, babe.”

Her eyes flicked again to the hickey, and she groaned. “But you could’ve worn a scarf or put some make up on. That’s enormous.”

Angel cackled. “Yeah, he does not know what subtlety is.”

They shared a laugh, the easy kind that grounded her.

For a moment, she forgot about last night. She really was not in the position to judge him for it if she was interested in a 36 year old man.

Angel stretched his arms overhead. “Sooo… what about you?”

“Me?”

“Yeah. You seeing someone?”

Charlie barked a laugh. “Angel, I barely have time to breathe. How would I have time to date?”

“Fine.” He wiggled his brows. “Do you like someone? Someone in the academy? Someone in Columbia? One of your classmates? C’mon, babe, spill.”

Charlie’s heart thudded painfully. She stared straight ahead, pretending to focus on her turnout. “Maybe,” she whispered.

He gasped dramatically. “MAYBE? Charlie—”

“It’s going to stay a secret for now.”

“Not fair! I literally told you about my little fling!”

“When something actually happens between me and this person,” Charlie murmured, “I’ll tell you.”

Angel rolled his eyes so hard his head nearly followed. “Fine. Fair enough. But I better be the first to know.”

Before she could answer, footsteps echoed in the hallway.

Two sets, and a clack in the floor.

Her stomach clenched.

Angel turned his head casually, but Charlie’s breath stopped completely.

Rosie’s voice floated in first—bright, clipped, purposeful. “Good afternoon, you two! Already warming up? Good.”

And beside her, Alastor stepped into the doorway.

Perfect posture. Cane in hand. Hair neat. Expression unreadable.

Charlie’s whole chest tightened.

He didn’t look at her at first. Not directly.

Just a sweep of the room, the space, but when his gaze finally brushed over her, it was quick. Too quick.

Like he was forcing it.

And that hurt more than anything.

Angel didn’t notice, waving at them both.

Rosie returned the wave.

Alastor simply nodded, polite, cool, impeccable.

Charlie’s heart pounded so loudly she could hear it echo in her ears.

This was the breath before the storm. And she could feel the sky trembling already.

 

The personalized class dragged on with the kind of exhausting intensity only Rosie and Alastor could conjure together. The studio lights hummed overhead, the windows painted black by the early November night, and the mirrors seemed to press in on them from every angle.

Charlie’s muscles were screaming, her lungs burning, but her mind was razor-sharp.

Angel lifted her effortlessly into the final overhead lift of the pas de deux, and when they landed, even the air stood still for a moment.

Rosie clapped once, sharp and satisfied. “That,” she said, “was better. Much better. I’m proud of you two.” She glanced at Alastor beside her. “And I’m sure Alastor agrees.”

Alastor rolled his eyes slightly, leaning on his cane. “There was… some improvement,” he said in a tone that was both dismissive and begrudgingly honest. “But it can be better.”

Rosie laughed lightly. “He’s always like this. Perfection, perfection—no flaw too small. Just like back in the day.”

“That’s a good quality for a dancer,” Alastor replied calmly.

“And for a teacher,” Rosie added with a wink toward Charlie and Angel. “Again. From the top. There will be more corrections.”

And so it went. Correction after correction.

Lift after lift. Turn after turn.

Hours passed. Sweat dripped. Legs trembled. Backs ached.

But something was different today, Charlie was dancing like she had something to prove, something burning and personal and urgent.

And Angel matched her, because he always did.

When they finished their last run of the night, Rosie was practically glowing.

“I’ve said this maybe twice in my entire life,” she declared, “but you were amazing today. Truly.” She turned to Alastor. “Right?”

He hesitated just a moment too long. “…Sure.”

But Charlie caught the flicker in his eyes, pride he refused to admit, warmth he refused to show.

Rosie and Angel packed up quickly. Rosie was the first one to excuse herself from the room, saying that she wanted them to keep up the great spirit on all next week. Angel asked Charlie if she wanted to get something to eat, but she said that she got food at home and that maybe on Monday they could have dinner, Angel nodded ad left the room. Alastor stayed behind, slow and methodical as he always was, organizing his stuff to leave, leaning slightly heavier on his cane after the long evening.

Charlie stayed outside the studio door for a full minute, breathing, steadying herself.

Then she stepped back inside and slammed the door shut behind her.

The loud CLASH echoed through the whole room.

Alastor’s head snapped up.

He was by the piano, one hand on the lid, startled by the sound.

Charlie walked toward him, still in pointe shoes, steps controlled, precise, almost hypnotic. Her chest rose and fell with determination. The dim lights made her look both ethereal and dangerously grounded.

She stopped right in front of him.

Silent.

Then, with a sudden, purposeful push against his chest, she nudged him backward until he sat on the piano bench.

He blinked, the smallest crack in his composed smile. “…What,” he asked softly, “do you think you are doing?”

“You’re going to reject me,” she said. He just could stared. “You’re going to reject me now,” she repeated, stronger, “if you really don’t like me.”

“Charlie—”

“No. Listen.” Her voice trembled, but her eyes were blazing. “If you don’t like me,” she said, “Be a man and tell me to go away. You don’t need to be rude if you don't want to. You don’t need to push me. But you just need to say it.” She leaned in closer, heart pounding against his chest. “And I’ll leave you alone. I’ll pretend the last two kisses never happened. I won’t ask for your help. I won’t even let you help me. I’ll make sure things go back to being strictly professional.”

Her breath hitched.
“Just say it.”

Alastor inhaled deeply, eyes narrowing, not in anger, but in caution. “You’re not thinking clearly, my dear” he said quietly. 

“I’m thinking perfectly clearly.” Her voice shook only once, then steadied. “I know what I want. And I’m getting my answer one way or another.”

A long silence stretched between them, then she broke it again.

“So tell me,” she demanded, “that none of that meant anything to you. Look me in the eye and say it.”

Silence.

She felt his heartbeat under her palms, steady, but not as steady as he tried to pretend.

Alastor exhaled through his nose. “Charlie,” he said, almost stern, “what you’re doing—”

“Is exactly what I want to do.”

He finally met her eyes.

His determination struck him like an incredible force, and above all, it gave him a certain pleasure to see this firsthand.

Slowly, deliberately, he placed a hand on her waist, fingers curling just slightly, thumb brushing against the fabric of her leotard.

He smirked, but it was softer, almost reluctant.

“…I like your determination,” he murmured. The hand on her waist tightened just enough to make her breath catch. “Show me more of it.”

Charlie didn’t answer him immediately.

Instead, she reached back and slowly untied her hair.

The blonde curls tumbled down her shoulders, cascading in soft waves, framing her flushed face. Alastor’s eyes flickered, just for a second, but Charlie caught it.

Then, without breaking eye contact, she slipped the straps of her leotard off her shoulders, fabric clinging to her arms before settling loosely at her upper arms. Her collarbone glowed under the low studio lights, the rise and fall of her breath visible.

Alastor raised his eyebrows, the faintest spark of surprise flickering across his expression. “…I never knew,” he said quietly, “that you could be this serious about all of this.”

Charlie leaned in. “I take everything seriously,” she whispered, fingers already working at the top buttons of his collar.

Her touch was gentle, nervous but deliberate, each button slipping open with a soft click.

Until his hand shot up, closing around her wrist, not roughly, but firmly enough to stop her. “You don’t actually want,” he said slowly, “what will happen next.”

His voice was low and steady, but his eyes were searching her face with a seriousness that almost frightened her.

Charlie didn’t hesitate. “I’m sure,” she said. “I know exactly what I’m doing. And I know exactly what I’m choosing.”

“Do you?” The corner of his mouth twitched, not a smile yet, but the shadow of one.

“Yes,” she breathed.

Alastor watched her… long enough that she felt her pulse beating behind her ears.

Then something in his expression shifted.

He leaned back just an inch, enough space to look at her fully, and gave a slow, different kind of smile.

“…Very well then.”

Before she could process his tone, his hand moved.

In one quick, fluid motion, he hooked two fingers under the loose edge of her leotard and tore it straight down the middle, the sound sharp and shocking in the empty studio.

Charlie gasped, a small, startled sound that escaped her lips before she could stop it.

Her entire body tensed.

Her hands flew up on instinct to cover herself, cheeks burning so hot she felt dizzy. But she didn’t move away. She didn’t hide her face. She just looked at him, wide-eyed, breath shaky, completely exposed in a way she’d never imagined.

Alastor didn’t smirk this time, didn’t tease.

His eyes were fixed on her with a seriousness that made her knees weak.

Then he pulled her closer, his hands sliding around her waist with deliberate pressure, firm enough to make her inhale sharply. He held her as if she were something fragile and something wanted, both at once.

She felt the pull of his strength, not overwhelming, but certain, grounded, and very real.

“Careful now,” he murmured, his voice low and warm against her ear, “you may forget…” His thumbs pressed lightly into her waist, steadying her, claiming her. “…that I have a weak leg,” he finished, “but the rest of me still works perfectly.”

Charlie’s breath caught in her throat.

This time, it wasn't her who initiated the kiss; it was him. He took her by the neck and pulled her close, roughly yet tenderly. And Charlie simply let herself be swept away by him and his caresses.

Things were getting intense; these were no longer just kisses, but passion in its purest form. Both sought to dominate the other; it was part of their nature to want to be better than the other—dancers are always highly competitive.

Charlie knew she had him at her mercy when she began to feel something growing beneath her. She felt confident, perhaps even overly so. She couldn't believe she was causing an erection in the unattainable pianist, the one who was a mentor when necessary, who was cruel in his feedback, who had humiliated her a few times by changing the tempo of the music, the one who stared intently at her to force her to concentrate.

It was the first time she felt she held all the power.

But that didn't last more than a minute.

Alastor had attacked her neck, making her much weaker. She'd always had a very sensitive neck, and this turned her hunter's skill into prey. Alastor wasted no time, pulling down the fabric of her leotard to gain better access to her pale neck and shoulders. Charlie could only grab his hair and pull him closer, but somehow she found the strength and skill to find the zipper on his pants. But just as she was about to unzip them, Alastor stopped her and grabbed her face, pressing it against his cheek.

He had to ask one more time. "Are you absolutely sure you want to continue this?" he asked with a smile that was half sinister but charming. "It's not too late to change your mind."

Charlie saw this as a new challenge. She was already getting what she wanted; she wasn't going to stop now, even if it was the best option for both of them (especially for her mental health). She couldn't stop now because desire was already consuming her. Her body was reacting to the pianist's caresses, and stopping now would only frustrate her too much.

Charlie took Alastor's glasses and placed them on top of the piano. "Regrets are for the weak, and I'm not weak."

Alastor smirked at that. "If there's one thing I like about you, it's that you never stop until you get what you want."

With that said, they both gave in.

There was no going back to the past; only the present and the future remained.

Charlie let him touch her. She offered no resistance to his actions; she was like a doll you had to move to change her pose.

In any case, there wasn't much they could do. She remained on his lap, seated on the piano chair, adjusting herself whenever she could, as it wasn't very comfortable to be in the same position all the time. But she knew that in this case, it wasn't possible for Alastor to stand up and lift her. He needed his cane to balance himself, so it was a matter of playing with what could be done for now.

When she felt his hands on the fabric of her leotard, searching for a way to open the bottom, Charlie knew this was an invitation for her to unzip his pants.

And she did, and at the same time, she watched as her leotard was simply ripped to shreds.

The good thing was that this wasn't her favorite, but now she needed to buy a new one.

And if she thought about it, Charlie was the one most exposed. She usually wore a bra under her dance leotards, but there were days when laziness got the better of her and she didn't. This was one of those days. She had nothing covering her chest, and the only fabric she had left was her underwear and tights. But clearly, that wouldn't last long, because Alastor had ripped her tights in one swift motion.

Now she was the one at his complete mercy, utterly defenseless, almost naked, while he kept all his clothes on; only his zipper was undone.

The power difference was significant, and she liked it.

It had been quite a while since she'd been intimate, almost a year, and she was aware that it was going to hurt a little.

But the devil himself must have possessed her, because even knowing she was almost a virgin again, she didn't care. The moment Alastor's boner was revealed, she pushed her underwear aside and sat on him, letting out a rather loud moan. Her back arched from the great surprise that was entering her.

She had never arched her back like that, not even when she truly needed to in the variations she practiced. Alastor pulled her closer so she wouldn't fall backward, making all her weight rest on him.

He whispered in her ear, "That was very stubborn of you, my dear," as he touched her back and caressed her. "You have me now, there's no need to rush."

Charlie wanted to say something, but the words wouldn't come, only moans that combined pain and pleasure. Alastor pulled her back slightly so he could see her face. He saw that her eyes were filled with tears, and part of her face reflected some pain. To calm her, he kissed her tears and part of her face, giving her a little affection that would help her relax.

And he wasn't wrong, because it was working; from being extremely tense because of how quickly she had decided to sit down, she was now calmer and more focused on the pleasure than the pain.

Charlie decided it was time to move. She was more used to the large package inside her by now, so she placed both arms around Alastor's neck and began to move slowly, up and down. He groaned when he felt the movement, as he felt her walls tighten around him. As if by reflex, he placed one hand on her hips and the other on her back, pulling her closer.

Charlie felt like she was in heaven. She never thought she'd do this anywhere but a bedroom or some other private place. This was literally something out of an adult film. The adrenaline rush was immense, because at any moment a cleaning person could walk in, a student could walk in, a teacher could walk in, and here they were, surrendering to each other as if the rest of the world didn't matter.

Her libido was through the roof. Not having done this in over a year was more noticeable as her moans grew louder and her movements became more abrupt and clumsy. It was as if she had needed this for a long time.

But Alastor didn't simply let her do everything. With the strength he still possessed in his torso, he tried to keep up with her, even slowing her down a little, because the need was truly evident in her movements. When he felt she was listening and slowing her movements, Alastor smiled.

Then he thought of saying something.

"You're being a good girl."

He had praised her.

It was something Charlie always looked for from him whenever he corrected her ballet movements, whenever she finished her variation. She always looked for those words: "You did well, Charlie." "You're so good, Charlie." "You've improved, Charlie."

And now she had them, or something like them.

Her satisfaction with those simple words brought her to her climax suddenly.

She moaned and stifled her cry in his clothes. Alastor knew it then; he saw that this was her great weakness, not only during intercourse but also during dance. The moment she felt appreciated, she lowered her guard and became overconfident, perhaps too much so.

Charlie stopped moving, but Alastor didn't. With his arms and pelvis, he continued, making her realize that this wasn't over, but she didn't have the strength to move much. She did what she could.

That's when she felt his grip tighten, now with both hands on her hips, and going a little faster. Now it was his turn to reach climax.

She continued moaning, even more so when she could also hear his deep voice trying not to make too much noise but failing in the attempt.

Charlie felt her insides heat up, which meant that he had reached his climax. She was the one who kissed his face and lips while gently stroking his hair.

They didn't speak for a few minutes. Charlie opened her mouth, letting out a gasp when she felt him withdraw from her.

Alastor took the piece of fabric from her leotard that he had torn and placed it beside her so she could sit on it instead of on the bare wooden chair. Charlie did so and then realized that the mirror was in front of them, meaning Alastor had had a panoramic view of her entire body.

Charlie began to feel embarrassed and realize what had just happened, what she had caused. Her hands went up to her chest to cover herself, as if doing so would make her feel less naked than she was now.

Alastor, put on his glasses back, zipped his pants halfway up, pulled his shirt down to cover himself, took hold of his cane, and stood up.

Charlie thought he would leave her there, but Alastor had only gone to get his coat, which he extended and put it over her, saying, "You need to go to the bathroom to clean yourself up and tidy up a bit. You can't leave the studio like that; you never know who might be lurking outside."

Charlie stood there for a moment, still feeling the heat of his touch lingering on her skin, her breath uneven. Her mind was a storm, half desire, half shame, fully overwhelmed.

Her legs trembled when she finally pushed herself upright. Only then did she realize she still had her pointe shoes on.

God.

She had done all of that in pointe shoes, ribbons tied neatly, satin dulled from rehearsals. Somehow, that made everything more real… and more unreal.

With Alastor coat on her shoulders, she hurried to the bathroom. Walking down the academy corridor felt like drifting through someone else’s life. She stepped into the empty restroom and locked the door behind her.

Under the harsh fluorescent lights, the mirror showed her the truth.

Hickeys—deep, blooming, unapologetically visible—traced across her neck, her clavicles, her shoulders.

Charlie’s breath hitched. She lifted trembling fingers to touch them, as if the skin didn’t belong to her.

She had never thought Alastor capable of… that. He had always been so immaculate. Controlled. A gentleman. Elegant, even in cruelty.

What had taken over him tonight? Or… what had she brought out of him?

And then the other problem.

Her underwear was soaked—soaked.

Heat crawled up her face as she peeled them off, mortified, stuffing them into her dance bag. She slipped into the extra pair of pants she kept for cold nights and tried not to think too hard about the fact that she was going commando in the halls of her academy.

She washed herself as best she could, splashed her face with cool water, tied her hair in a simple ponytail to hide the mess of curls, and spritzed on a little perfume. As if that could erase what happened.

When she stepped into the hallway again, 

He was gone.

Her heart stopped.

He wouldn’t just leave her.

Not now. Not after everything.

And how would he even manage in the cold without his coat?

Panic burst through her chest as she rushed toward the exit, pushing the door open.

There he was.

Standing outside on the dimly lit sidewalk, leaning his weight on his cane, the other hand holding a cigarette between elegant fingers, he looked like he had also cleaned and tidy himself up. The smoke curled around him like fog, catching the streetlights.

Charlie froze.

God, he looked unfairly good doing that.

She approached him quietly. Alastor noticed without looking surprised, as if he had known exactly when she would appear. She extended his coat toward him, her face burning. He took it with a nod, draped it over his shoulders, and resumed smoking like nothing out of the ordinary had occurred tonight.

After a few seconds of silence that felt like a lifetime, Charlie asked softly, “…Can I have one too?”

Alastor exhaled a scoff, almost a laugh. “A dancer should keep her lungs healthy, Miss Morningstar.”

She rolled her eyes, snatched the pack from his pocket anyway, and took one out. “I know. I just… need it … And if we are alone … you can just call me Charlie.”

For the first time since she’d walked out, his lips twitched into a crooked, dangerous smirk.

He flicked his lighter open and leaned in to light her cigarette.

Their faces were close, too close.

The flame reflected in his eyes.

She inhaled shakily, letting the smoke fill the space her thoughts couldn’t.

They didn’t speak. Not at first. They just stood there under the streetlamp, two people who shouldn’t be doing any of this, smoke rising between them like a confession neither could voice.

When Alastor finished, he flicked the butt onto the pavement, stepping on it with the tip of his shoe. Then he straightened and said simply: “Come with me.”

Charlie blinked, surprised. She dropped her half-finished cigarette and crushed it out too. “To where?”

“The pharmacy.”

Her stomach dropped.

Right. Right.

No protection. No plan. No thinking at all.

She swallowed hard and stepped beside him. When he adjusted his cane and offered his free arm, wordlessly, like it was the most natural thing in the world, her heart lurched.

He wasn’t looking at her.

He didn’t have to.

The gesture was enough.

She slid her arm through his, letting herself lean gently against him. His body was warm, solid, steady.

The pharmacy’s harsh white lights felt almost accusatory as they walked in; fortunately, it was open 24/7. Charlie kept her arm looped through Alastor’s, her steps small and hesitant. It was strange being beside him in a normal place, between shelves of shampoo and cleaning supplies, as if they were any regular couple running late-night errands.

Alastor headed straight for the aisle he needed without asking. Charlie followed, cheeks burning as she realized exactly what they were here for. He scanned the shelves with clinical calm, reached up, and grabbed a small box, then paused.

He took three.

“Is that… necessary?” she whispered.

“Better to be prepared,” he replied simply, placing them into the little basket he carried with his free hand.

Then, without warning, he shifted to the cosmetics aisle. Charlie’s confusion grew when he picked up a bottle of high-coverage foundation—the exact shade range used to conceal bruising.

She blinked. “I… I have makeup at home.”

“Sure you do,” he said, still scanning the shelves. “But you will need something stronger. These will last through sweat and stage lights.”

Her face flamed.

Of course he would think of that. Of course, he would know.

Charlie swallowed and followed him to the register, digging into her bag for her wallet.

“I’ll pay,” she murmured.

Alastor didn’t even look at her. “No.”

“But, they’re for me,” she insisted, heat flooding her cheeks.

He took her wrist, gently but firmly, and guided her a step back—out of the reach of the card reader. "You will not pay for something that is my responsibility.”

Before she could argue again, he handed the items to the cashier and completed the transaction with that icy composure he always carried. The moment the bag was handed to him, he turned, nudged it into her hands, and led her out of the automatic doors.

Outside, the cold air hit her like a wave.

They stood on the sidewalk beneath a flickering streetlight. The city hummed in the distance, a low, muffled sound that made this little bubble of space around them feel strangely intimate.

Charlie stared at the ground.

Her voice came out small, trembling at the edges. “Alastor… was this just…” she swallowed, “intercourse for you? Like was that all? Just, someone you wanted because of my body?”

He stopped walking.

The question hung in the air like a blade.

Then he turned to her, slow and deliberate, and stepped closer until she had to tilt her head to look up at him. He lifted her chin with the softest pressure of his fingertips. Her breath hitched.

“Charlie,” he said quietly, “I never ‘just have sex’ with someone.”

Her lips parted. His tone wasn’t soft, just honest.

“Use that clever head of yours,” he continued. “Think positively, for once. I could have said no at any moment. I could have pushed you away the second you climbed into my lap; you gave me that choice. But I didn’t do it.”

His thumb brushed under her jaw, not affectionate, appraising.

“Do you know why?”

She shook her head, barely.

“Because it was… entertaining,” he said, a dangerous smile curving his lips. “Watching how far you were willing to go just to command my attention. And you surprised me.” His gaze dropped briefly to her lips. “More than once.”

Charlie should have read deeper into that, should have questioned the sharpness behind his words, but in that moment, it was enough.

He liked her.

He wasn’t pretending.

He wasn’t indifferent.

She finally has her answer to that dilema

And that was enough to send a rush of warmth through her chest so strong it almost hurt.

Alastor lowered his hand, stepping back just a fraction. “We don’t need a title. Not now. But”—he tilted his head, studying her reaction—“you can rest assured I am… very interested.”

That was all she needed.

Charlie surged forward, grabbing his face between her hands and kissing him with a bright, irrepressible smile. He didn’t kiss her back with the same hunger as before, this one was gentler, controlled, but he allowed it, lips curling faintly against hers.

She pulled away, breathless, and stepped back with an excited sparkle in her eyes.

“See you on Monday, Al,” she teased, using a new nickname now she felt secure to use. “I can’t wait.”

Before he could comment, she turned, practically floating down the sidewalk, her walk bouncing with a happiness so obvious it made Alastor’s brows lift.

He watched her go, watched the way her steps told the whole story: a girl in love, or at least in the dizzy, electric beginnings of something like it.

Only when she disappeared around the corner did he finally allow himself to have a genuine smile.

Then he turned and walked in the opposite direction, his cane tapping softly against the pavement as he headed home.

 

The next morning

Charlie woke up before her alarm, a sharp ache shooting up her legs the instant she tried to stretch.

“Oh my god—” she hissed, collapsing back into the mattress.

Every muscle from thigh to calf felt like they had been wrung out and twisted.

No way.

There was no way that one position could’ve done that to her. Right?

She buried her face into her pillow in mortified silence.

Before she could gather her thoughts, her bedroom door cracked open.

“Sweetheart?” her mother peeked in with that soft, Sunday-morning smile. “Do you want pancakes or waffles? Your father’s making both.”

Charlie shot upright, then immediately winced, and scrambled to pull her comforter up over her entire neck.

“Uh—whatever is fine!” she squeaked, keeping a hand clamped on her collarbone.

Her mother nodded, none the wiser. “Well, get dressed and come to the dining room. Breakfast will be ready soon.”

As soon as the door shut, Charlie launched herself off the bed (or tried to—her legs nearly gave up under her), grabbed the concealer Alastor had bought her, and started patting it all along her neck, her clavicles, her shoulders, anywhere that showed evidence.

The mirror did not lie. She gasped.

They weren’t little hickeys. They were territory markers. Deep plum-colored bruises blooming over her skin like wildflowers.

“Alastor, what the hell…” she muttered, moving faster.

By the time she finished, the bruises were mostly invisible under the thick, stage-proof foundation. At least that problem had a solution.

Her eyes drifted to the corner of her room, the CVS bag still sitting there, the empty Plan B box hidden inside. She grabbed that and the other 2 and shoved them deep into her closet behind a stack of old pointe shoes.

Monday would require another round of cover-up. Thank god she had already taken the pill last night.

For now, she threw on a sweater, jeans, and tried to walk downstairs like her legs weren’t about to detach from her body.

By Monday, everything seemed normal at first.

Charlie arrived early—, till buzzing with memories from Saturday night, and met up with Angel, Pentious, and Vaggie. They stretched out together, chatting about nothing in particular. Charlie wore her hair up and her neck slightly tilted to one side whenever possible. She might have worn a lot of makeup, but she was still a little nervous that it would be noticeable.

But her mind was elsewhere.

Every time the studio door creaked, she jolted.

And then Alastor walked in.

Cane tapping. Expression calm. Eyes sharp.

He headed straight for the piano.

Charlie glanced at him—just a split-second—and when their gazes met, she smiled softly.

Alastor allowed a small smile of his own, subtle and crooked but unmistakably meant for her.

Heat rushed to her face. She couldn’t wait for class to end.

Her heart hammered as she went back to stretching, trying not to look too obvious.

The moment shattered when the studio door flung open.

Rosie stepped in first, followed by Carmilla—looking tense, eyebrows tight, a stack of papers clutched to her chest.

“Apologies for interrupting your free practice time,” Rosie announced.

Everyone froze.

Carmilla stepped forward, clearing her throat. “I dislike last-minute changes, but this one has come directly from the top. I had no say in it.”

A murmur rippled through the dancers.

“NYC Ballet has decided to invite the current male and female principals of the Paris Opera Ballet to participate in this year’s Nutcracker.”

The room exploded in gasps.

Carmilla raised a hand.

“And I want to publicly apologize to Angel and Charlie, because the guest principals will be taking over the roles of the Cavalier and the Sugar Plum Fairy… for the premiere performance.”

Charlie felt her stomach drop through the floor.

Angel’s jaw clenched so hard she could hear it.

“But,” Carmilla continued, “you will still be reprising your roles. This does not replace you. Charlie will perform the premiere with the Paris principal Cavalier, and Angel will perform the following day with Group Two.”

“What?” Angel burst out. “Group two?”

“Yes,” Carmilla said with a resigned sigh. “I know it’s not fair. But these decisions come from above the academy.”

Charlie nodded numbly. She understood—Paris Opera’s principals were legends—but her chest tightened anyway.

“Perhaps you’ll be pleased to hear their names,” Carmilla added.

She unfolded a sheet.

“The female principal is Velvette Saint-Clair.”

A wave of impressed whispers filled the room.

“She’s literally insane—”
“She’s gorgeous—”
“She won Prix de Lausanne when she was sixteen—”

“And,” Carmilla continued, “the male principal is Vincent Whittman, known professionally as Vox.”

This time the reaction was louder.

“NO way—”
“He used to dance here!”
“He was our star before Paris stole him—”

“Yes,” Carmilla said with a serious face so she could finalize her speech. “Which is why he will be the Cavalier for Charlie’s premiere performance. It makes sense that and old star is in the premiere for the season”

Charlie forced a smile. She didn’t know what else to do.

Everything felt suddenly fragile, as if her moment had been taken from her and handed to someone older, better, stronger.

She turned instinctively, seeking Alastor.

Just a glance.

His expression made her freeze.

He was smiling, but it wasn’t right. It was strained, crooked, and didn’t reach his eyes. His fingers drummed against the piano in sharp, agitated ticks.

Why did this news bother him that much?

She would have to ask.
Later.
Alone.

But something inside her, the part that had felt warm and safe after Saturday, tightened uneasily.

Something was wrong with him.

And she wasn’t sure if she was ready to know why.

Notes:

I hope my smut was not silly or dumb, its my first time writing something like this xdddd

Also, we finally got more characters!!! yasss, kinda getting into the half of the story

hope yall have a good weeek

Chapter 6: Variation I pt.3: An Embrace Under Watchful Eyes

Notes:

oMg I'm hoping this doesn't feel like too much, but next chapter is important, so this is the build-up for that

I HOPE YOU LIKE IT :,D ima try to do some art about (yes, i know how to draw), or if y'all wanna stay in touch im @hibbb84 on twt (i don't have bluesky)

anyway ENJOYYYYY

The news was a devastating blow to the young dancers. How could this happen so suddenly? It was neither ethical nor professional for the academy's top brass to try and force in foreign dancers at the last minute. At the very least, they could have told them about it after the auditions, but to do it now, just two weeks before the premiere, was like an insult to all the times their bones and muscles ached with exhaustion.

Before anyone could return to stretching or practicing pirouettes, Carmilla’s voice cut through the center of the room.

“Charlie. Angel. Come here, please,” said, making a sign to go out of the studio room for now. Rosie also followed her

The two of them exchanged a glance—exhausted, nervous, bracing—and stepped forward. The studio felt suddenly too bright. Too quiet.

Carmilla sighed, folding her arms as if she were physically holding her frustration in place. “I’m sorry. Truly. I believe in fairness, and this is not fair to either of you. You two earned your roles like everyone else did, and the hard work was well paid off when we selected you as our principals this season. I want you to know I made my opinion clear about this sudden matter… but the decision was already made.”

Angel stood stiff, jaw tight. Charlie kept her hands clasped behind her back, trying to look composed even though her insides were shaking.

Rosie placed a comforting hand on both their shoulders. “Look, I know the premiere is the premiere. It’s the show people remember. But this only affects two weeks. The rest of the season, you two will be performing together exactly as planned.”

Angel swallowed hard. Charlie nodded, though her chest felt hollow.

Rosie continued gently, “It might be impossible to feel good about this right now… but try to stay on the loop. Be nice. These dancers aren’t coming here to replace you. They’re here because the board wants publicity.”

Carmilla stepped in again. “Vincent and Velvette will be arriving during the second half of class. And for the rest of the week, the second half of class will be dedicated to rehearsing with them. Rosie will guide those rehearsals.”

Rosie gave a somewhat apologetic look. "Do you think I could borrow Alastor as well?" Carmila sighed, "I ask because he and I have been mentoring them on Saturdays as a team, is only fair-"

"Rosie, his primary job is to play the piano. I need him there when we are doing guide practice. Also, the dancers are coming with their own type of mentor, so many opinions may confused them." Rosie put a face of begging to Carmilla, so she signed again, "He will join you guys when his fingers need a break then."

Charlie felt her stomach dip at that.

Angel just shook his head.

“Thank you,  dear,” Rosie said, stepping back, “Now, go hydrate, y'all still have 10 minutes to rest, I will like to have a small rehearsal of the whole show to see if everyone is in the right way”

They went back inside. Angel stomped to the side of the studio, grabbed his water bottle, and took a long, aggressive sip as it had personally offended him.

Charlie, Vaggie, and Pentious gathered around him.

“This is BULLSHIT,” Angel burst, voice low but trembling. “We busted our asses to get this pas de deux right. Breaking our backs. Literally bleeding. And now—now some people from Paris just show up and steal it?! Just like that?!”

Vaggie rubbed his back sympathetically. “I'm so sorry for you guys, it’s not fair for both of you. Especially to you, Angel. They pushed you from Class 1 to Class 2? That’s insane.”

Pentious nodded furiously. “And you won’t even perform on the same day. It’s… honestly so wrong.”

Angel threw his hands up.
“I mean—I’ll try to be positive. I’m a positive queen, okay? But—like—I get switched to Class 2, which sucks, but at least I get to dance with a principal from Paris. Not the girl who was originally doing it in Class 2.” He made a face. “No offense to her, but like… no.”

Vaggie snorted despite herself.

Seeing that Charlie was silent and staring at the ground as if it were the most interesting thing in the world, Pentious felt that it was her way of trying to hide her frustration with all of this. Pentious said to her, “Hey—don’t be upset, Charlie. Let's look at the positive side, like Angel said. You will be debuting as an aspirational principal with Vincent Whittman, a top dancer. One of the best in the world.”

Vaggie crossed her arms and spoke up too. "Pentious's right, maybe all this is super disappointing, but at least it's not like you're going to be dancing with some academy novice," she said, trying to ease the tension in Charlie's shoulders. "Vox has been a star at this academy; he's upheld its name and prestige. Maybe this experience will teach you something new, maybe better breathing or stretching techniques, or some trick that dancers always try to keep to themselves."

Charlie forced a small smile. "I'd like to know who we're talking about right now."

Vaggie blinked twice, as if confused. "Wait, you don't know who Vox is?" Charlie gave her another nervous smile. "I can't believe it."

"I had to smile when Professor Carmilla said the names because I didn't know who we were talking about," Charlie said, tucking a few stray hairs behind her ear.

Vaggie sighed, "I understand Velvette because she's new, and honestly, I've only heard her name once or twice, but Vox? There's no way you wouldn't know who Vincent Whitman is; he's a role model for so many of the guys here."

"But little princess, how come you don't know about one of the best soloists and principal dancers at this academy? It's like you don't know who your mother is, and your mother was a prima ballerina at this academy," Angel said with a touch of ironic indignation.

"Sorry, I'm not good at remembering names."

"His picture is on the mural of successful alumni," Petious said, crossing her arms.

"Uh, I'm not good at remembering faces either... I'm a bit absentminded."

"We noticed, sweetie," Angel said, rolling her eyes playfully.

Vaggie took out her phone and played a video. "Look, this was his debut. He was Prince Siegfried in Swan Lake."

"A very good debut as a permanent principal dancer, and he didn't even get principal roles before or even the title of aspirational principal like us; he just got there," said Angel, who was currently providing all the facts. "Eleven years of experience, he's an expert at what he does." for some reason, that exact number of years kinda makes click in Charlie's brain, like it reminds her of something, but she didn't know why. 

Charlie watched the video intently, wanting to see Vincent's face, and there was a part in the video where they zoomed in on him. His face, and something clicked in Charlie's brain; a vague memory returned. “Oh my god,” Charlie said, a little breathless. “Is he the guy with the two different-colored eyes?”

“Yep. That’s him,” said Angel. "Its impossible not to know his face, bro has a characteristic that only 1% of the world population has ... Lucky bastard"

Charlie’s face brightened, suddenly more excited than upset. “Okay—okay, that’s actually kind of cool, do you think I should watch more videos of him? maybe to catch his technique?"

Angel nudged her with an elbow. “Well, babe, now’s the perfect time. Your new partner is, like, ballet royalty.”

Charlie laughed softly, the tension in her shoulders easing.

For the first time that day, the situation didn’t feel so terrible... or at least for now.

 

The stretching and hydration time ended faster than it started. Everyone rushed back to their spots.

Since last week, some of the teenagers who had been selected for the show had been joining the class at certain times, mostly in the second half since the teachers were there to give corrections (as the first part of the class was more like free practice). But today, probably because Rosie wanted to do the first run of the whole show, the teenagers arrived in class, and that meant something. The girl who played Clara would be there.

It was always played by a young girl that should be in her 10 to 14, you know to keep the magic. But the choreography of Clara had become a little bit more complex than it used to be, and now it was done by teens from 15 - 17, and the academy now tended to select good dancers … but if they were short it was a big plus for the rol.

And there she was, walking in. Nifty, a sixteen-year-old teenager, prodigy girl. Everyone knew she was ridiculously talented… and also a little off in the best, weirdest way.

Vaggie, being Vaggie, had taken her under her wing so she wouldn’t feel isolated. “Guys, by the way,” she said, waving Nifty over, “this is Nifty. I’ve been talking to her when y'all are way too busy practicing your parts during the second half. She’s actually pretty sweet.”

Nifty waved at the group with an excited little hop. “Hi! Charlie, you look so pretty today.”

Charlie blinked and smiled. “Oh—thank you.”

“You’re exactly the type of someone I know,” Nifty added cryptically, squinting at her like she was studying a painting.

Pentious and Angel exchanged a slow look.

Oh, this was gossip.

Charlie laughed it off, lifting her water bottle. “You know what? Don’t tell me who. Mystery is better. Especially if he’s a teenager—which would be tragic.”

Nifty nodded seriously, then someone called her name. “Oh! That’s me—okay bye!”

And she sprinted off just as Alastor struck the first tempo notes at the piano.

The entire studio shifted.

The whole first half, Alastor was playing today—really playing—and Charlie felt it from across the room. She shouldn’t be staring that much (even tho she thought she already got the privilege to do it). But the way he sat, the way he watched the dancers, the way he occasionally, very subtly, looked at her while playing …

God, she was really falling for this man.

Or maybe she was still hormonal from their Saturday night disaster-success miracle.

Who even knew anymore?

Every dancer moving across the floor felt his playing like a pulse, a heartbeat. Even those who weren’t dancing slowed, listening.

Then—

“CHARLIE! ANGEL! You’re next!” said Rosie loud and clear. 

They ran into position.

Alastor lifted his hands.

He began the music.

Ten seconds in—

CLAP!

The sound cracked through the studio like a whip. Carmilla had entered.

Everyone stopped. The piano cut off. Angel froze mid-pose. Charlie lowered her arms.

Carmilla announced, loud and composed:

“The Paris Opera dancers have arrived.”

Three figures stepped inside.

The air changed.

Carmilla introduced them one by one:

“Velvette Saint-Clair,” she said, “current female principal dancer of the Paris Opera.”

Velvette gave a polite half-nod, sharp, almost bored. Carmilla’s eye twitched.

“This is Valentino García… longtime mentor and répétiteur from the Opera in Paris.”

He bowed gently.

“And finally—Vincent Whitman,” she said. “Current male principal at Paris Opera… and an alumni of this very school.”

A murmur rushed through the female dancers.

He was older, yes.

But hot.

Like a magazine cover, a forbidden romance novel hot.

Vincent smiled warmly. But the warmth had a shine, something calculated. Charlie felt it immediately.

“It’s so nice to be home again,” he said, and his smile deepened into something that made Charlie’s nerves pinch. She forced herself to focus forward.

Carmilla gestured to her class. “As you can see, students have been working hard to perfect their roles. The Nutcracker is the best season for the academy, as you might remember.”

"She is right, folks" said Vincent with a smile, "The Nutcracker is important in any dance school; it's what sells during these festive times. Everyone wants to see it to feel like they have a certain class. But it's much more important in New York City, because everyone wants to come here and fulfill their New York Christmas dreams, and who are we to say no, right? So I hope everyone here is super prepared for the performance." Vincent was good at giving speeches, and everyone could tell. "It's an honor to be able to dance again at my alma mater, one of the best in the world, and of course, it's a great honor to perform with you, the best class in this academy, so please let's give ourselves a round of applause."

All the students applauded, some even shouting in appreciation (especially the female dancers). Carmilla closed her eyes before rolling them; she hated the fuss of a pointless show, but she let it go since, technically, they were guests, and she couldn't enforce her rules as much as she would have liked.

Velvette stepped forward, straight to business. “Great. And who are we dancing with?” Her tone was clipped, demanding.

Carmilla held her posture, annoyed but composed. “You’ll be dancing with Angel, our aspirational principal—” Angel lifted a hand in a little wave. “—and with Charlie—”

She didn’t finish.

Because Vincent gasped softly, leaning in with delighted surprise.

“Oh my. How interesting.” He smiled at Charlie. “I heard some rumors back in Paris, but never thought they were true. So the mayor’s daughter is our Sugar Plum Fairy this year.”

Charlie’s stomach dropped a little. She hated when people recognized her from that instead of dance.

With a tiny, ironic smile, she answered, “Following in my mother’s footsteps, I guess.”

Vincent took her hand gracefully and kissed it. “It’s a pleasure, Miss Morningstar,” he said. “You can call me Vox.”

The studio murmured—loudly. The girls looked like they might spontaneously combust from jealousy.

Then—

SLAM!

The piano lid snapped closed so loudly that half the dancers jumped.

Alastor stood behind it, stiff, eyes half-lowered.

“My apologies,” he said evenly. “Slipped.”

But Vincent—Vox—had heard.

He turned, eyebrows lifting. “Well, well. This is starting to look like an alumni reunion,” He walked toward the piano. “Alastor,” he said warmly. “It’s been quite some time uh? Like 11 years?”

The class collectively gasped.

One of the younger dancers blurted, “Wait—you two know each other?”

Vox slipped an arm around Alastor’s shoulder like they were old roommates.

“Know each other? Oh, darling, we used to be best friends.”

Alastor said nothing.

But the room exploded with whispers.

Angel covered his mouth.

Vaggie mouthed no way.

Pentious nearly choked.

And Charlie?

Well, she was surprised as well. 

Before she could fully process it, Vox tightened the arm he still had draped around Alastor’s shoulder, his tone bright and nostalgic.

“Ah, it’s such a good feeling,” he said, “seeing old friends again—just like back in the day.”

Alastor’s posture was stiff beneath his grip, but Vox didn’t seem to notice.
Or maybe he noticed perfectly and just didn’t care.

“I learned so much from this man,” Vox continued, giving Alastor a proud pat while looking at his attire that was not what a professor wears (too formal for the occasion). “Even if he isn’t an official professor, he’s amazing at giving feedback. Brutal sometimes, but effective.”

A few dancers nodded enthusiastically.

“Yeah, he’s right—Alastor’s advice always helps—”
“He fixed my landing last week—”
“He caught my bad posture immediately—”

Vox laughed at that, delighted. “See? You’ve already begun extending your legacy, mon ami. Hah! How hilarious.”

Alastor’s smile was thin, neutral, almost doll-like.

Carmilla clapped once, far too loudly to be accidental.

“All right, all right,” she said with a tight, professional smile, “let’s keep the socializing brief. We should begin rehearsing the Nutcracker variations with our guests.”

Rosie stepped in smoothly. “Yes. Velvette, Valentino, Vox—if you’ll follow me, we’ll take Studio Three.”

The three Paris dancers nodded and began walking toward the door. Velvette’s heels clicked sharply; Valentino followed, offering brief polite bows to a few dancers.

Vox was about to step out, too, when Carmilla suddenly noticed movement beside the piano. “Alastor,” she said firmly, “you’re staying. My class needs you here.”

Alastor froze mid-step, then gave a small bow of acknowledgment and settled back onto the piano bench. “Of course.”

As the Paris group filed out, Charlie lingered just a moment.

She glanced back at Alastor.

He was smiling, but he always did, and now it looked tight, stretched, almost brittle. His eyes didn’t have that lively glint they usually did when he was playing.

Just discomfort. Well-hidden, but there.

Charlie’s chest tightened. For now, she couldn’t do anything; she would have to wait later.

Studio Three was bigger than their usual room, with long windows that let the pale winter sun spill across the floor. Under any other circumstance, Charlie would’ve been excited. A private rehearsal with two world-class dancers? That was the kind of thing students dreamed of.

But the second the door closed behind them, the atmosphere shifted completely.

Rosie and Valentino took the front of the room, standing side-by-side. They were gonna act as the supervisors to make any corrections that they, as dancers and performers, were not aware of. They tried to always get to a middle ground in their opinions. But that lasted… maybe ten minutes.

Then it became painfully obvious they didn’t blend or have the same ideals.

Rosie would give a note, gentle, precise, thoughtful, and then Valentino would immediately add something on top of it—long-winded, dramatic, sometimes even contradictory.And half the time Rosie would purse her lips and mutter, barely loud enough to hear, “That isn’t how we teach it here.”

Charlie and Angel exchanged looks every few minutes. This was… awkward. And stressful. And tense in a way neither had prepared for. Practice isn’t supposed to be like this, especially not 2 weeks before the premiere. They didn’t know who to listen to, because they would disappoint either one of them.

But just because of loyalty to the school, Charlie and Angel decided to take Rosie's notes more seriously for now, but of course, they will also leave a space for Valentino’s feedback in their minds.

Things could be way worse, that’s what Charlie thought to keep her inner self more positive about this whole sudden situation. But Angel thought differently; there was nothing worse than having Velvette as her partner.

She was one of the best dancers in the world, a prodigious French girl who earned her spot as permanent principal in the Opera, a highly competitive position, but her attitude was just too much for Angel to tolerate. Like, yeah, I know you are good, but god damn don’t treat me like a dumb beginner. He started to question if European people acted like this, cause it was pissing him off.

The moment Valentino corrected him, the moment Velvette made it her problem too. She will criticize him in a passive-aggressive way and even drop nicknames like sweetie or some French words that Angel just couldn’t pronounce.

Velvette’s voice cut through the studio before Angel could even finish the turn.

“No, no, non, non, sweetie, your spot is nowhere,” she sighed, flicking her wrist like she was brushing dust off porcelain. “If you don’t see your point, why should the audience?”

Angel froze mid-preparation, jaw tightening. He swallowed the urge to talk back. Barely.

Valentino took that as an invitation to join in. “Yes, Angel, listen to Velvette. You’re rushing. Again,” Valentino said, hands slicing through the air with theatrical importance. “The cavalier isn’t supposed to look like he’s chasing a bus.”

Angel blinked. “I wasn’t—”

“You were,” Velvette interrupted, stepping closer, her perfect bun bobbing with each sharp movement. “Look. Vincent isn’t having this issue.”

In the opposite corner, Vincent didn’t even realize he’d been dragged into the argument. His attention was fixed entirely on Charlie, on the way she shifted her weight before an arabesque, on the soft exhale she used to stabilize. He mirrored her effortlessly, syncing without having to speak.

Charlie, meanwhile, kept glancing toward Angel’s corner. Every time Velvette’s voice sharpened, she flinched internally. The tension was like a growing storm cloud, and she could feel the barometric pressure in her ribs.

“Velvette,” Rosie finally stepped forward, her tone still soft but steady. “Let’s not compare dancers. Angel’s technique is different from Vincent’s, and—”

“Mais c’est juste a fact,” Velvette said with a shrug, switching to French because she knew it irritated Angel. “If he cannot keep up—”

“I can keep up just fine,” Angel muttered under his breath, gearing up to try the turn again.

But Valentino wasn’t done. “Angel, darling, you need to feel the music. This isn’t a club. This is Tchaikovsky. Romance. Elegance. Seduction in the form of self-control.”

Angel stared at him flatly. “I am controlled.”

“Mon cœur, that was not control,” Velvette murmured. She gave him a sympathetic smile that somehow made him want to throw a ballet shoe at the wall.

Rosie opened her mouth again, gentle but firmer this time. “Velvette, we give notes one at a time. Please.”

Velvette raised a brow. “I’m only helping; this benefits both of us.”

“Yes, I know” Rosie said, “but he cannot apply feedback if he is being spoken over.”

Charlie watched Rosie carefully, this was the closest she’d ever seen the instructor come to snapping. And honestly? She felt grateful for it.

Vincent, still focused on their choreography, lowered Charlie from the beginning of the Sugar Plum lift, his hands steady at her waist. “You’re distracted,” he murmured quietly.

She blinked. “Am I? Sorry.”

“No need,” he said gently. “Let’s just try again?”

His voice grounded her, but her eyes drifted once more to Angel.

He was resetting for the turn, arms in fifth, foot behind him, breath drawn in through clenched teeth.

Velvette crossed her arms. “Whenever you’re ready, sweetie.”

Angel exhaled sharply through his nose.

“If you call me sweetie one more time, I swear—”

“You’ll what?” Velvette asked sweetly, tilting her head. “Fall again?”

Rosie stepped in fast. “Velvette. Please.”

Even Valentino blinked, surprised.

Velvette’s eyes widened, just a flicker, then her expression reset into polite neutrality.

Angel looked down at the floor, hands flexing at his sides. His whole body vibrated with frustration.

Charlie felt her stomach sink.

This rehearsal was supposed to be magical.

But at this rate… someone was going to lose it.

Charlie forced herself to look away from Angel’s corner. If she kept watching, her anxiety would bleed into her legs, and Vincent would notice.

Actually, he probably already had.

“Hey, Let’s try the promenade again,” he said softly, offering his hand. His voice had that media-trained calm: polite, warm, always measured. The kind of voice that made directors adore him and interviewers trust him. “You were right on balance last time. Just keep that focus.”

Charlie nodded, placing her hand in his as he guided her back into position. His touch was precise but reassuring, not demanding. A partner who communicated more with his breath and timing than with any hint of ego.

They began the slow rotation, her body lifted into arabesque as his steps circled beneath her. Vincent’s voice remained low enough so only she could hear.

“Your placement is beautiful. That line? Completely clean. If there had been anything off, I would’ve noticed before anyone else.” He glanced purposefully toward Valentino, who was already opening his mouth. “But she corrected the note you gave her. Perfectly.”

Valentino raised both hands like well, if you insist, but didn’t argue. For once.

Rosie let out a breath she’d been holding. A quiet, grateful sigh. At least one of the three guest artists had a functioning sense of professionalism, and it wasn’t the two who were supposed to be setting the example. “Good, Charlie,” Rosie said, stepping closer as Vincent lowered her smoothly. “Much better. Both of you—keep that connection.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Vincent replied with that diplomatic half-smile he’d practically trademarked.

Across the room, Velvette stopped mid-step and pointed, graceful even when she was being unbearable.

“Angel, regarde. Look at Vee,” she said, annoyance slipping into her voice even when she tried to sound encouraging. “Do it like that. He understands the character better.”

Angel blinked. “I am trying to understand it—”

“Then watch him,” she said, tapping her toe impatiently. “He’s giving a masterclass.”

Angel’s jaw tightened again. But despite everything—despite the arrogance, the condescension, the constant stream of sweeties, he actually listened.

He stopped dancing with her altogether, moving a few steps closer to Vincent and Charlie’s side of the room. His hands rested on his hips as he studied Vincent’s partnering, lips pressed thin, frustration simmering just below the surface.

And he tried.

He mirrored Vincent’s supporting hand position, mimicking the rotation from memory. Practicing the count under his breath. Trying to understand the mechanics without being judged for every breath he took.

Charlie’s heart pinched.

Angel wasn’t perfect; Rosie and Alastor had given them their fair share of harsh-but-fair notes. But Valentino’s were a maze of contradictions, and Velvette? Velvette didn’t know the meaning of constructive. For someone with a reputation as one of the best dancers in the world… her attitude left a lot to be desired.

Charlie caught Angel’s glance for half a second.

He looked tired. Frustrated. Alone on his own little island of critique.

And she felt it in her chest, the unfairness of it. The way he was being pulled apart, while she and Vincent were allowed to breathe.

She wished she could help.

But right now… all she could do was keep dancing.

Finally, after so long, Rosie and Valentino reached a middle ground on something; they need to see the full thing .

“A full run,” Rosie announced, tone clipped in a way that said if they don’t improve now, I will combust. “Angel, Velvette — you two first. A lot of… notes should have done something by now.”

The sarcasm wasn’t even subtle. Velvette lifted her chin; Angel didn’t dare look at her.

Valentino strode to the speaker and turned the volume dial up until the first strings of Tchaikovsky filled the studio. The room felt suddenly larger, emptier, like the music had pushed all the air to the walls.

“Places,” Valentino said, waving them forward without looking up from his phone. “Full room. Don’t crash into anything expensive.”

Angel and Velvette moved to the center, taking their starting pose. Charlie and Vincent walked to the far corner, lowering themselves beside the barre. Charlie hugged her knees lightly; Vincent sat with perfect posture, the picture of PR-trained poise.

The adagio began.

Angel and Velvette started fine,  more than fine. Their opening glides were clean, their first pass smooth, their épaulement elegant enough. Charlie watched Angel’s arms soften, watched Velvette’s musicality settle into her spine.

But then came the supported balances.

Angel stepped behind her, hands preparing for the one-foot pointe hold. The moment his fingers touched her waist, Velvette’s body tightened,  and not in a way that belonged to the choreography. Angel’s jaw clenched as he fought to keep her steady.

The tension was palpable, visible even in the clean geometry of the pose.

Valentino sighed dramatically and scribbled nothing.

Rosie folded her arms. “That,” she said when they finished the sequence, “is exactly what I meant. You two are not in harmony. You’re partners, not opponents. If you don’t act like the characters, the audience will see every crack.”

Velvette looked offended. Angel looked exhausted.

They finished the adagio, bows polite but stiff.

“Charlie, Vincent,” Rosie called, “your turn, my dears.”

Vincent rose instantly, turning to Charlie with that gracious, courtly professionalism he always carried. He offered his hand. “May I?”

She took it, only out of habit, only because it was expected, and he helped her stand. His palm was warm, steady.

And that was exactly when the studio door opened.

The click echoed like someone had snapped a ruler against the wall.

Alastor stepped inside; the sound of his cane was loud and clear.

Rosie lit up as someone had just handed her salvation. “Alastor! So nice of you to join us now.”

Charlie dropped Vincent’s hand so fast she hoped no one noticed. Her pulse spiked, stupidly.

Alastor’s eyes did sweep to their hands, the space between them, rather, but only for a measured two seconds. Observing. Cataloguing. Then he smiled politely.

“Carmilla took pity on me and decided to grant me a few minutes of grace,” he said. “So I figured I’d join my little protégés and see what chaos they were causing.”

“Chaos,” Rosie muttered. “Correct choice of word.”

Valentino didn’t bother to look interested. “We’re doing a full run. It’s Vincent and Charlie’s turn.”

Vincent gave a gentlemanly laugh, brushing invisible lint from his sleeve. “A pleasure to perform for my old friend. Please, be extremely honest with your feedback.”

Alastor’s gaze flicked to Charlie. Just a passing glance, but she felt pinned for that fraction of a second.

Then he closed his eyes lightly, like sealing a vow.

“You know I despise dishonesty,” he said. “I’ll be… loud and clear.”

Charlie swallowed. Oh, now she was so scared

The room stilled as the music reset.

Vincent and Charlie took their starting pose, her hands resting lightly on his, his posture flawless, his expression politely focused.

Alastor stood beside Rosie with his arms loosely crossed, but there was something different about him now. The calm he usually wore like a perfectly tailored suit was stretched thin.

Tchaikovsky’s opening notes filled the air.

Charlie inhaled, lifted her chin, and they began.

Their opening glides were smooth, almost dreamy. Vincent’s partnering was undeniably elegant, his transitions measured, his timing precise. Rosie nodded in approval; Valentino pretended not to care but clearly watched for errors.

But Alastor’s attention? It was razor-sharp.

He watched the tiny things:
the half-second hesitation before Charlie transferred her weight,
the angle of Vincent’s supporting hand on her ribs,
The way her wrist softened unevenly on the fourth count.

He noticed everything.

When Vincent guided her into the penché, Alastor’s eyes narrowed a fraction. Not because the movement was wrong,  but because Vincent’s hand lingered a moment longer than necessary on Charlie’s waist. It wasn’t inappropriate; it was standard partnering.

But Alastor hated seeing it anyway.

He didn’t show it outright, not a twitch, not a frown, but something behind his eyes flickered. A tension like a tight string.

The promenade began. Charlie held her balance beautifully, Vincent moving around her with smooth, courtly footwork.

Rosie whispered, impressed, “Her control is lovely.”

Valentino hummed, “Mm. Acceptable.”

But Alastor? He leaned forward slightly, analyzing like a surgeon.

And then, softly, “Her supporting hip is opening.”

Charlie almost faltered.

Rosie blinked. “What? I didn’t even see, oh. You’re right.”

Vincent glanced back sharply. “I was about to adjust that—”

Alastor’s tone stayed mild as well as his smile in his face. “But you didn’t.”

The air tightened.

Vincent forced a polite smile, the PR mask flickering. “You always were excellent at finding flaws in everyone.”

Alastor didn’t answer immediately. But his gaze snapped to Vincent with the faintest spark of something dangerous. “Well, my friend, you told me to keep it real, and that's precisely what I'm doing,” he said at last. “If that bothers you, that’s… interesting.”

For a second, it looked like Vincent might actually drop the act. His jaw hardened, but then he smoothed it over with a practiced breath.

“Let’s keep going,” Rosie intervened quickly, sensing the static building between them.

They continued.

Charlie felt her stomach knot. Every tiny correction from Alastor pierced deeper than any note from Rosie or Valentino. Not because he was cruel, he wasn’t. He was precise. Honest. Brutally observant in a way that made her feel seen and exposed at once.

But it made her feel like she was back at the beginning again. On Saturday, rehearsing with Angel, everything had felt easier, natural. Now every movement was under a microscope.

She tried not to think about it.

Vincent lifted her into the supported arabesque, the soft lift before the hold. She knew she wobbled, barely, but enough.

Rosie didn't notice. Valentino didn’t blink.

Alastor did. “Her thumb,” he said. “She’s gripping with her thumb. That means she doesn’t trust the lift.”

Charlie’s heart punched her ribs.

Vincent exhaled like he was being personally insulted. “She’s adjusting to the new partnership.”

“Yes,” Alastor agreed, but it didn’t sound that kind. “And the sooner she trusts you, the better.”

The room went still.

That was the closest he had come to outright confrontation.

Charlie felt heat rise in her cheeks. She looked down.

Rosie stepped in gently, placing a hand on Charlie’s shoulder. “This is why I need him in here. He sees things differently.”

Valentino rolled his eyes. “Sure. Whatever, more help I guess.”

But Vincent and Alastor kept staring at each other,  not speaking, but speaking volumes.

One perfectly trained smile.

One unblinking, razor-sharp stare.

Charlie’s chest tightened with a quiet sadness.

Saturday had felt like progress. Like she was growing. Now it felt like she was being taken apart and rebuilt all over again.

She wasn’t sure which version of herself she was supposed to be anymore.

The music faded, and the studio finally felt like it was exhaling. Rosie clapped her hands sharply, the sound startling everyone.

“All right. Break, let's come back in 15 minutes.”

Charlie exhaled, letting her shoulders slump. Vincent lowered her gently, his hands brushing along her waist and back in a way that was entirely professional but impossibly soothing.

Angel didn’t wait. He marched straight to her, hands stuffed in his pockets, hair in complete disarray. “Shoes,” he muttered, jerking a thumb toward the exit. “Shoe department. Come on.”

Charlie blinked. “Shoes?”

“Yeah. Shoes.” He lowered his voice to a hiss. “Mostly because if I stay one more minute here, I’m going to explode. I’m not kidding. Velvette… she’s like a human hurricane. And Valentino’s commentary is like… like a very loud blender. I’m done.”

Charlie chuckled softly, shaking her head. “You’re dramatic.”

Angel threw her a look, half-frustrated, half-desperate. “I am not! I am surviving a ballet version of a war zone, Charlie. And you get to watch it without being murdered by French perfectionism.”

Charlie smiled, looking over her shoulder. Vincent and Rosie were still in a quiet cluster with Valentino and Velvette, Vincent’s hand brushing against Charlie’s as he collected his things politely. Alastor stood apart, one hand on his pocket, one on his cane, observing with that hawk-like intensity he always carried. She was waiting for a sign, but that never came. Not a look, not a nod, not a single hint that she should stay.

Charlie’s chest tightened just a little. Then she turned back to Angel. “All right. Shoes it is.”

As soon as they stepped into the hallway, Angel let out a dramatic groan. “I cannot believe this. Two more weeks of rehearsals like that… and then two more weeks of shows. I am going to crash out, I swear it.”

Charlie smirked. “I’m so sorry for you, Angel. Truly, my heart bleeds for your suffering.”

He stopped in the middle of the hallway, throwing his hands up. “Bleeds?! Bleeds?! Charlie, you have no idea. Every time she moves, I want to—” He made a vague stabbing gesture with one hand. “—shout. And Valentino is there with his… opinions! Opinions like… like… I don’t know, a very loud foghorn.”

Charlie laughed, shaking her head. “You sound exhausted.”

“I am exhausted. But also furious. And jealous. And… did I mention exhausted?”

Charlie nudged him playfully. “Maybe one of those times you’ll get to use that dramatic energy in the performance.”

“Maybe,” he said, rolling his eyes, but the corner of his lips twitched into a smile. “But not today. Today I just want… to send them all back to Paris. Give them their own studio, a nice croissant, and leave me alone.”

Charlie grinned. “It’s going to happen. Just not for the first two weeks of the season.”

He looked at her, exasperated and relieved at the same time. “Fine. I can survive two weeks. Barely. ... I missed when it was only you and me.” Charlie gave him a small smile.

They walked in silence for a moment, the sound of their steps echoing. Then Angel’s expression shifted, something lighter, softer. “Now that we’re on the way for shoes,” he said casually, though a grin tugged at his lips, “this is the perfect time to meet Husk.”

Charlie froze mid-step. “Husk?”

He nodded, a small chuckle escaping him. “Yeah. You know… the man I’ve been seeing seriously. I told you on Saturday.”

Charlie raised her eyebrows, and then she remembered. “Oh, right! I forgot for a moment, it's still so unexpected of you that you are dating him.”

Angel shrugged, smirking. “Unexpected is my brand. But trust me, Charlie, it works. And he’s… surprisingly patient with me. Sometimes too patient.”

Charlie laughed softly. “I bet. That must be a challenge.”

He nudged her shoulder. “A huge challenge. But one I’m willing to take. Besides, if I can handle ballet chaos. I can handle… well… almost anything now.”

Charlie grinned, stepping closer. “Almost anything?”

He smirked, the tension easing just a little. “Almost anything. Don’t push it.”

She giggled, shaking her head. “Okay, okay. I won’t. But seriously, Angel… hang in there. You survived two hours of that nightmare. You’ll survive the next two weeks. Somehow.”

He huffed, mock-exasperated. “Barely. But… thanks, Charlie. I appreciate it. And… I’m glad you’re here to witness my suffering. Makes it feel… meaningful.”

Charlie laughed again, and they continued down the hallway. 

When they reached the shoe room, the soft glow of the overhead bulbs and the quiet hum of the dehumidifiers greeting them like a calmer universe. Rows of cubbies and boxes stretched along the walls, tiny satin soldiers waiting for their dancers.

In the back, Husk was carrying a huge box of pointe shoes, grunting under his breath. His sleeves were rolled up, tattoos peeking out, and his afro was a little messier than usual, which was interesting because his hair was short.

Without turning, he muttered, “Yeah, yeah—gimme a sec.”

Angel’s grin appeared instantly. Charlie watched his whole posture soften like stress slid right off him.

Husk set the box down and finally looked up, and froze.

When he saw Angel standing there with Charlie, he snapped straight into “professional boot-fitter” mode so fast that Charlie almost laughed.

“Hello,” he said stiffly, voice suddenly deep and official. “If you two need—uh—shoes, or fittings, or—”

Angel groaned so loudly it echoed off the lockers. “Oh my GOD, old man, cut the act. For now. She already knows.”

Husk blinked, startled. “…She does?”

Charlie nodded kindly. “Angel told me on Saturday. About you two… being, um, official outside the academy.”

Husk’s shoulders dropped like someone let the air out of him. “Ah. Right. Saturday.” Then, quieter: “Should’ve known he couldn’t keep his mouth shut.”

Angel gasped, clutching his chest. “Wow. Hurtful.”

Charlie giggled.

Husk sighed heavily but finally relaxed, offering Charlie a small, real smile. “Hey, Charlie. Sorry. Just… force of habit.”

“It’s okay,” she assured him. “I get it.”

Back to work mode, but a real one this time, Husk said, “Actually, now that you are here, I have good news. You got a restock on your pointe shoes. And your costume pairs are finally here.”

Charlie lit up. “Seriously?! I’ve been waiting for them!”

“I know,” Husk said, already walking toward the back room. “Let me grab one pair so you can test the fit. If they’re not exactly what you requested, I need to send notes to the factory ASAP. Nutcracker deadlines are brutal.”

Angel hopped up onto a bench like a mischievous toddler while Charlie practically vibrated with excitement.

Husk returned with a box, handing it to her with a little nod. “Here. Fresh from the shipment.”

Charlie opened it with reverence.

“So, how was class?” Husk asked as he leaned against a locker, arms crossed.

Angel’s response was immediate. “Hell. Absolute hell.”

Husk snorted. “That bad?”

“Worse,” Angel said, tossing his hands into the air. “We’ve got new guest principals from Paris—Velvette and Vincent—and because of that, Charlie and I aren’t dancing together for two whole weeks.”

Husk raised a brow. “Why?”

Charlie answered gently, “They were invited by the academy. It’s temporary. But… it’s been intense.”

“Intense?” Angel scoffed. “Velvette is a chaos fairy in pointe shoes. She’s on me every minute. Every step. Every breath. Her attitude could strip varnish off a floor.”

Charlie hid a giggle behind her hand.

“And Vincent,” Angel continued, rolling his eyes, “is trying to be everyone’s PR-approved prince charming. It’s exhausting ... But at least he does not make a problem of any small tiny thing.”

Husk’s mouth twitched. Just a little. “Sounds like a nightmare.”

“That’s why,” Angel said, voice softening, “I came here. Because with you?” He shrugged. “I don’t feel stressed. At all.”

Husk blinked as his brain short-circuited for a second, and then blush for a bit. “…Well,” he muttered, eyes sliding away, “glad… glad this place helps.”

Charlie pretended to be fully absorbed trying her new pointe shoes, smiling softly.

The shoe room felt warmer now. Like maybe this tiny corner of the academy had turned into something safe. Something secret but good.

Angel kicked his feet against the bench, happier already.

Charlie rose to relevé carefully, testing the box of the shoe, feeling how the satin held her arch. She rocked gently forward, then shifted to full pointe. A surprised breath left her.

“These feel… amazing,” she said, her voice almost shy. “Really comfy. And my toe pads aren’t squishing my feet like the old ones did.”

Husk watched her with the trained eye of someone who’d seen a thousand dancers test their balance. He nodded once, approvingly. “That’s what we want. Good support, no pinching. If they’re comfortable on first rise, that’s a good sign.”

She stepped down and smiled. “They’re perfect. I’m gonna switch to using only the costume pairs for practicality.”

Husk pulled a little notepad from his back pocket and scribbled something. “Alright. Noted. I’ll prep the rest for you later.”

Then he looked at Angel. “You need anything?”

“Yeah,” Angel said immediately. “Give me two pairs of flats.”

Husk raised a brow. “Only two?”

Angel’s grin turned wicked, smug, and soft all at once. “Because I need an excuse to keep coming back here.”

Charlie’s eyes widened slightly, and she caught the change in the air instantly, the room dipped into something more intimate, subtle but unmistakable.

That was her cue.

“Okay,” Charlie said gently, slipping her own shoes back into the box. “I’m gonna grab some water. I’ll see you back in Studio Three.”

Angel nodded without looking at her, fully focused on Husk now, who was doing a terrible job hiding the way his ears pinked.

Charlie left with a small smile.

The quiet hallway outside felt colder, but clearer. She walked with light steps, letting her mind settle… until she caught a glimpse of a familiar silhouette crossing the far end of the corridor.

Tall. Unmistakable posture. The soft drag-and-tap rhythm of a cane.

Alastor.

Her breath hitched, and without thinking she quickened her pace.

She turned the corner, and almost collided with him.

“Alastor,” she said, too soft and too sudden.

He stopped instantly.

His cane clicked sharply against the tile as he planted it. Slowly, deliberately, he turned to face her.

His expression was unreadable in the low hallway light, eyes glinting crimson.

“My dear,” he said, voice smooth but edged. “Following me?”

“I—” She clutched the box tighter. “I just… wanted to know how you were.”

One elegant brow lifted.

“You’ve been… off, I think,” Charlie murmured. “Since the guests from Paris arrived. And I noticed.” She swallowed. “And I was worried.”

He didn’t respond. Not with words. Instead, he closed the distance between them, each tap of his cane echoing in the narrow space until he stood only a breath away.

Her back nearly hit the wall.

“You were worried about me?” he echoed, softer now.

Charlie nodded once, small and shy, eyes falling to the floor. But he didn’t let her hide.

Two fingers slid beneath her chin, lifting her gaze to his. The contact shouldn’t have been enough to burn, but it did. Her cheeks flared.

“You’re a very attentive little thing,” Alastor murmured. “But you needn’t concern yourself with how I handle… interruptions.” His thumb brushed the curve of her chin, almost thoughtful. “Your focus should be on your dancing.”

Her heart fluttered wildly.

“I-I know,” she whispered.

“I have more notes for you,” he said matter-of-factly, but his touch didn’t leave her. “More than what I stated earlier. And I expect you’ll take them seriously.”

Charlie tried to nod, but she forgot he was holding her chin, and made a tiny, embarrassed sound instead.

He smiled. A slow, knowing smile.

“I will,” she finally managed.

“Good girl.”

Her knees nearly buckled.

She thought, and hoped, that was the end of it. That he would step back and let her breathe. But then—

“I’ll tell you one thing now,” he murmured.

And his hand moved.

Not to her shoulder.
Not to her arm.
Not to the safe, professional places a partner touched.

His palm slid around her waist, lower, firmer, intimate in a way that made heat rush straight to her face.

Charlie sucked in a sharp breath, her fingers gripping the pointe-shoe box like a lifeline.

“A-Alastor—”

“Don’t allow any dancer to touch you like this,” he said softly. “It isn’t professional.”

His lips ghosted near her temple.

He wasn’t kissing her, but he was just close enough to steal her breath.

Charlie managed to whisper, “Then… why do you?”

That stopped him. Stopped him cold.

His hand tightened at her waist, barely a fraction, but enough that she felt it all the way up her spine. He leaned in, voice dropping so low it felt like it touched her skin.

“Because, my dear…” His breath brushed her ear. “…I have no need to remain professional with you.”

Charlie’s entire body went hot, heart pounding, breath trembling, the hall spinning just a little.

“And I believe,” Alastor added, drawing back just enough to look into her eyes, “…you proved that quite thoroughly on Saturday night.”

She nearly trip. Her blush was so strong it hurt.

He finally released her waist, slowly, like he enjoyed the way her breath hitched when his touch left. Then he turned, cane tapping once as he began to walk away.

But after three steps, he paused and said without turning, “I’m inviting you to dinner tomorrow.”

She blinked. “D—dinner?”

“After your class,” he clarified. “I’ll be waiting.”

Finally, he glanced back over his shoulder. A smirk tugged at his mouth when he saw her stunned expression.

“Do try,” he added, “not to look quite so flustered when you walk back into Studio Three. Ou new guests might get… curious.”

And with that, he disappeared down the hall, cane echoing behind him.

Charlie stood frozen in place, face burning, heart in chaos, lungs refusing to work.

She didn’t move until the last tap of his cane faded, and even then, she had to remember how to breathe first.

Charlie didn’t go straight to Studio 3. She just couldn’t.

Her knees were still a little loose under her, her breath embarrassingly shallow, and her skin so warm she felt like she was radiating heat. She walked past the studio door with her head ducked and made a beeline for the bathroom at the end of the hallway.

The moment the door closed behind her, she pressed both palms to the cold porcelain sink, trying, desperately to pull herself back together.

God.

His hand on her waist…

His fingers, right at that intimate place where no teacher should touch a student…

His voice in her ear…

The way he said he didn’t need to be professional with her…

Charlie squeezed her thighs together involuntarily. Her entire body felt wired, like every nerve had woken up at once. And worse, she liked the feeling. Liked the awareness. Liked that he could do this to her with almost nothing.

She groaned quietly into her palms. “I’m going insane,” she whispered to herself, though she was smiling helplessly.

She checked herself in the mirror; her cheeks were flushed pink, and her lips looked too bitten. She splashed handfuls of cold water onto her face until the heat dulled, then carefully dabbed herself dry. Finally, she fixed the makeup around her eyes and patted her leotard back into place.

One last deep inhale. “Okay. Normal. You’re normal now,” she told her reflection.

Her reflection did not look convinced, but she left the bathroom anyway, choosing dignity over further panic.

 

When she finally went back and opened the door to Studio 3, everyone turned toward her at once.

Angel, mid-stretch on the floor, perked up immediately. Velvette had her arms crossed, chin tilted, looking like she’d been waiting specifically to judge Charlie’s entrance. Vincent was calmly adjusting his flats, but even he glanced up. Rosie and Valentino attention snapped to her the moment she walked in, as if the room had been frozen until she returned.

Charlie blinked at them all.

“…Im so sorry, I just needed a minute,” she said, voice steady but inwardly praying she wasn’t still pink.

Velvette raised a perfectly tweezed brow. “A minute? Darling we said 15 minutes of break, not 20.”

Angel shot her a glare so sharp it was basically a knife.

He opened his mouth to snark back, but before he could—

“No,” Vincent said firmly, surprising everyone. He stood and dusted off his tights, his tone calm but authoritative. “Enough. We’re guests here. We adapt to their rhythm, not the other way around.”

Velvette blinked at him, caught off guard, but then her expression softened into something sly. “Okay, okay, whatever you say, Vee…” She fluttered her lashes dramatically. “You’re the prince today.”

Angel rolled his eyes so hard it could’ve powered the studio lights, but he didn’t argue.

Rosie clapped once, sweet but commanding. “Wonderful. Now that Charlie’s back, we can go over our plan.”

Charlie straightened automatically.

Rosie continued, “Valentino and I discussed things while you all were resting. For the rest of the day, we’ll be dividing supervision.”

Valentino stepped forward with a smile that tried to be warm but landed more like a smirk. “I’ll be supervising Angel and Velvette for the next session.”

Velvette lit up like a chandelier. Angel slumped instantly.

“Oh great,” he muttered under his breath. “Babysitter from hell.”

Rosie ignored him and placed a gentle hand on Charlie’s shoulder. “And I’ll be supervising you and Vincent, dear,” she said. “So you can both concentrate properly.”

Charlie nodded, relieved and slightly anxious at once. Behind her, she could feel Angel’s eyes lingering, suspicious.

Vincent offered her a soft, encouraging smile, professional and polite.

But even as she stepped further into the room  and joined Vincent on the center floor… A phantom sensation lingered on her waist.

The warm, possessive, and undeniably feeling of his touch.

Charlie had to force herself not to shiver at the memory of Alastor’s fingers.

 

The rest of rehearsal passed… surprisingly smoothly.

Charlie felt the difference immediately. With Rosie guiding her and Vincent, the atmosphere was calm, almost gentle. Rosie’s corrections were precise, soft but firm, and Vincent adapted instantly, adjusting to every slight nuance she made.

The pas de deux flowed. Transitions felt easier, lifts balanced, turns synchronized. For the first time since the Paris guests had arrived, Charlie felt like she could breathe.

Across the studio, Angel’s experience was a different story.

Velvette was relentless. Her corrections were sharp, sometimes abrupt, and always self-assured. She glanced at Valentino after almost every word, and he, predictably, agreed with her. Angel tried to argue, to explain his perspective, but every objection met with a cool, “I think Velvette’s right” from Valentino.

Angel slumped onto the floor when rehearsal finally ended, arms over his face, letting out a long, exaggerated sigh. “I swear,” he muttered under his breath, “if I have to lift her one more time like that today, I’ll combust.”

Velvette, walking past, patted his shin with a delicate smirk. “There, there. You survived. Mostly.”

Angel groaned audibly. “Mostly. That’s generous.”

Charlie, meanwhile, was blissfully unaware of their chaos, focused on her own shoes. She sat at the barre and gently unwrapped her ribbons, sliding her pointe shoes off and letting her tired feet sigh in relief.

Vincent, finishing his own stretches, glanced toward her. There was a pause before he moved to sit beside her, not too close, just a deliberate space beside her. She sensed it immediately, felt it in the subtle shift of energy.

“You were good today,” Vincent said quietly, watching her carefully. “Better than I expected.”

Charlie blinked. “Really?”

“Yes.” He gave her the smallest, almost imperceptible smile. “A lot of dancers need more time to adapt when their partner changes suddenly. Especially if the change is… abrupt.” He gestured lightly toward the empty space where Angel and Velvette had disappeared, without mentioning them directly. “You… adapted very quickly.”

Charlie smile at the compliment, “I… think that’s because you’re good at what you do. I can see why Paris made you a permanent principal.”

Vincent’s eyes flicked up, just for a moment. Pride gleamed in his expression before he masked it with his usual elegance, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Flattery,” he said smoothly, “is usually reserved for very bold dancers. You’re daring, Charlie.”

She laughed softly, twisting the ribbons of her shoes in her hands. “Well, You move with such clarity, such control. You make it… easier for someone like me to follow.”

Vincent’s gaze lingered for a second longer, and then, something caught his attention. A shadow flickered at the studio doorway. Tall. Thin. Deliberate. Cane in hand. It vanished the instant his eyes met it.

He blinked. Frowning slightly. Then he looked back at her, as if nothing had happened. “It’s an honor,” he said instead, voice warm, calm. “Not only to dance with you today… but with an aspirational principal of this school. My alma mater.”

Charlie looked up, surprised, but didn’t say anything. Vincent smiled politely and laced his sneakers.

Then he stood, bag over one shoulder, and left the studio.

Velvette and Valentino exchanged a look, puzzled. A faint crease in Velvette’s brow, but they let it slide. There were some things better left unexplored in the academy.

Vincent moved quickly down the polished hallway, shoes squeaking lightly.

Left turn.

There.

Alastor.

Cane planted, posture perfect, even if he was backwards, he could feel that his expression was sharp, calm, but with a sense of danger.

Vincent’s lips curved, dry and sardonic. “Don’t run,” he said, voice carrying just enough irony. “Not that you could.” He dared to look at his cane as he said that.

Alastor tapped his cane once against the floor, a sharp, clear echo. He turned back to him. His eyes flicked up, as if amused. "Well, my 'friend', what brings you here?" Alastor said with a terrifying smile.

Vox let out an amused sigh. "You stand in the doorway of the studio watching me, and you actually ask me that question? Shouldn't I be the one asking what you're doing staring at me from afar? Wasn't your visit during the first full run enough?"

Alastor laughed and put a hand to his head. "Come on, Vincent, you know that's not what I meant. Don't be silly," he said, walking closer with his cane. "Let's get straight to the point. We're old enough to know better than to be playing games."

Vincent rolled his eyes. "We're still in our thirties. Don't try to make me older," he said, trying to be a joke, but it didn't land.

Alastor looked at him seriously. "Sure," he said, taking a deep breath. "What are you doing here? And I don't mean this hallway. What are you doing here, in New York City? In this school? What's with the sudden urge to come back here?"

Vincent became serious and even forced a smile. "Well, you're quite curious today, Al," he said, nudging him with his elbow as if it were a friendly or funny gesture. "The reason shouldn't concern you. You have nothing to do with it, and you don't have the right to it."

Alastor just kept smiling, now leaning a little more on his cane. "Well, my dear, I find your presence here rather interesting, considering that after your last visit to the courthouse, you said you never wanted to set foot in New York again in your life."

Vincent clenched his jaw. "Exactly, I said so, but it's not like I had a restraining order against me. I simply didn't want to. But time passes, and I can change my mind if I want."

"Oh, perhaps you're still obsessed with me."

Vincent's cheeks turned pink. "Please, you're not that important."

"Perhaps you're right. Perhaps now I'm just a cripple, but before... You did care."

"That's not true!"

Alastor continued, "You cared so much about what I said. My opinions sometimes carried more weight than those of any other professor ... Remember? You were about to leave the academy because, in my opinion, you were still too far behind to take on a leading role" Vincent turned his face away, and Al simply closed his eyes and shook his head. "You're so lucky that people forget quickly, that ballet wasn't so popular back then, because if everything that happened 11 years ago had happened now, you wouldn't have gotten away with what you did."

Vincent laughed and smoothed his hair as he walked over to Alastor's side, placing his hands on his shoulders. "After all the evidence presented in court, you still think I'm the one who crippled you? What utter nonsense. I should sue you for this, don't you think?" Vincent grabbed his face suddenly "What happened to you was a tragic accident." Alastor moved away so he would stop touching him.

"You and I both know that wasn't an accident." Alastor's voice darkened, giving his words a sinister edge. "What happened to me was more than a tragic accident, and you know why."

Vox laughed, and now he put his arm around Alastor's shoulders. "Aw, should I know?" He laughed. "Please, Alastor, it was just a mere coincidence."

"Coincidence?" Alastor might have been smiling, but his voice betrayed the resentment and annoyance he'd been holding back. "Tell me how it's a coincidence that after giving you my firm answer that I wanted nothing to do with you, ... that... happened on the day of my debut?"

Vincent just shrugged, a gesture of ignorance and indifference. "Oh well, things happen, right?"

Alastor had had enough and grabbed him by the shirt with one hand. "You wrecked my leg, and you're just going to say that?" Vox pulled his hand away from his shirt and shoved him, then grinned.

"And you broke my heart. We had to settle things, don't you think? It was only fair." Now it was he who grabbed him by the shirt, but forcefully, making Al drop his cane. "You only had to say yes. You could have lied to me for a few months, but you decided to make a fool of me, and I wasn't going to let that slide, not after letting you say so many things to me."

Alastor smiled. "But it served its purpose, didn't it? All my criticism and words of indifference led you to become what you are today. But of course, I didn't take into account that to even get to that point, you had to get rid of me. What an interesting way to show... love and admiration." Vincent, who still had his hands on his shirt, shoved him and slammed him against the wall, a tear threatening to fall from his eye. Alastor smiled at this. "Ooh, so what you caused does hurt you?" Vox's jaw tightened, unable to speak or say anything. "So it still hurts you to see me with this miserable cane... it hurts you the same way you cried in court and told your lawyer that, despite pleading not guilty, you wanted to pay the entire hospital bill?"

"I-I just..." He couldn't speak; he was about to break.

"Are you really that lucky, Vincent, or should I say Vox now?" Alastor let out a laugh. "If my situation had been different, I wouldn't have accepted a single penny of what you gave me," he said, staring intently into his eyes. "But to my misfortune, I had to, and now every time I see this cane, I know it's because of you."

Vincent looked away and let go, causing Alastor to lean against the wall to keep from falling. He bent down and picked up Alastor's staff to give it to him. "At least you remember me by seeing this, at least you see it and think of me, even if just a little."

Alastor snatched it from his hands and was able to lean back and stand upright again. "Always having weird fetishes out of devotion."

"Let me do something for you, Al" Alastor said, giving him a strange look. "Do you want to dance again? Do you want to be more than just a pianist playing professor? I can do that. I can take you to Paris and make you a maestro." He grabbed his arms tenderly, too softly. "I can find a way to make your lame leg work again."

Alastor stared at him for a moment, then burst into laughter, a very mocking laugh. "I can't believe it," he said, even wiping away a tear of laughter. "Are you really still so obsessed with me, even after sabotaging my career? Do you really think I'd choose you? Please, my dear," he said with a wide smile. "Maybe to the world you're one of the best dancers ever, but to me... you're worthless."

Vincente looked at him, perplexed and somewhat sad, but that changed to an annoyed, furious expression, so much so that he even shed a tear of hatred. Vincente roughly grabbed Alastor's staff and broke it. Alastor fell to the ground, but that didn't stop him from smiling and letting out a small laugh. Then Vox said, "THIS ISN'T OVER, ALASTOR." Perhaps he said it too loudly, but they were so far away from the others that no one could hear them. "I won't allow you to speak to me like that again, so I'm going to give you a warning, and I expect you to listen carefully."

Alastor looked up at him, and even straightened up on the floor. "I'm listening, my friend. Go on, speak, express yourself, let your feelings flow!" He said mockingly, which prompted Vox to pull him up by his shirt again.

"We all have a weak spot, and I know very well it's not your limping leg anymore, and when I find it, I'll take it from you, just like I took your debut and your fame." Vincent tried to smile, but it came out more as a grimace than anything else. "I'll show you who's in charge, who's the star, and who should stay backstage."

Vincent dropped it to the floor again and threw his shattered staff far away from Alastor so he couldn't reach it. He looked down at him and smiled, then turned and walked back the way he'd come.

Alastor stood there on the ground for a while, seeing that there was no way to fix the staff broken in half. "Damn it," he whispered.

He tried to get up anyway and see if he could walk a little to at least carry it, but his leg wasn't as strong as he thought, and after three steps, he fell again. This frustrated him greatly.

 

Charlie, who was still at the academy (even though she had already planned to leave), decided to stay a little longer. She wanted to ask Alastor where dinner would be tomorrow and hoped they could exchange phone numbers so she could text him. And she was waiting for him in the main practice studio.

Charlie had checked her phone again—9:56 PM.

Her stomach twisted a little.

Alastor should’ve come back by now. His coat was still hanging neatly in the main studio, draped over the chair where he’d left it. His notebook, his pencil, even his gloves… all untouched. Everything about it felt wrong.

She hesitated for another minute, hugging her bag to her chest, trying to convince herself he had just stepped out for a moment. But the minutes stretched, the silence of the academy deepening, and she couldn’t ignore the cold tug in her chest anymore.

She stepped out into the hallway.

The lights were dim, night mode, casting long shadows across the polished floor. Her footsteps echoed softly as she called, “Alastor? Are you still here?”

Nothing

Charlie frowned and made her way toward Studio 3. Maybe he’d gone back to check something? Maybe he was talking to someone? She pushed the door open, hoping, but—nothing. The studio was empty, the lights off.

Her worry spiked.

She walked farther, down a hallway dancers rarely used this late. Just in case. The air felt colder here, quieter. And then—

Something caught her eye on the floor. A long shape. Splintered in the middle.

A cane.

Broken clean in half.

Charlie froze. Her breath instantly hitched.

No.

No no no—

She turned her head slightly to the right. And her heart stopped.

Alastor was there.

Sitting on the ground with his back against the wall, one long leg stretched out awkwardly, the other bent. His head tilted forward, resting slightly against his chest. His hair falling like a shadow over his eyes.

Unmoving.

Charlie’s lungs squeezed as terror rushed up her spine.

“ALASTOR!” Her voice cracked as she ran to him, dropping to her knees so fast they scraped the floor. “Alastor—please—Alastor!”

She shook him gently at first, then with more urgency when he didn’t respond. Her hands trembled. “Oh my god—no, no, no—Alastor, wake up, please—God, please—”

Her voice dissolved into panicked breaths. Tears welled and fell instantly; she didn’t even try to stop them.

She cupped his face with shaking hands. “Please—please look at me—”

And then—
A twitch.
A small groan.
Then his eyes opened slowly, crimson and dazed from deep sleep.

Charlie gasped, relief hitting her so hard it almost hurt. “A-Alastor! Oh my god, you’re awake—thank God— I was— I thought— I thought something terrible happened!”

He blinked at her, confused, then lifted his head.

Her face was wet with tears. Real tears. Her lip trembled. Her shoulders shook.

And for the first time in hours, Alastor’s expression softened, genuinely, deeply.

“Charlie…” His voice was low, still rough from sleep. “My dear, please… calm down.”

Not stern.
Not teasing.
Gentle.
Warm.

It made her cry a little harder.

“W-what happened? Why were you here? Why didn’t you answer? And your cane—your cane is broken—did you fall? Did someone hurt you? Why—why didn’t you call someone? Why—”

“So many questions,” he murmured, a hint of soft amusement touching the corners of his mouth. He smiled, not one of his rehearsed, polite ones. A real one. Small, warm, a little tired. “It’s nothing more than an unfortunate accident,” he said quietly. “My cane snapped, that is all. I simply sat down to rest… and I fear I fell asleep.”

She stared at him like she barely believed him.
Her hands were still cupping his cheeks.
He didn’t move them away.

“It would be a tremendous help,” he added softly, “if you could help me stand.”

Charlie immediately wiped her tears with her sleeve and nodded. “Yes, yes, of course—come on.”

She slipped an arm around him, steady but gentle, helping him shift his weight. Alastor sucked in a small breath as pressure went on his bad leg, and she felt it through him.

“Sorry—sorry—just lean on me,” she murmured.

“I intend to,” he replied faintly, trying to lighten the mood for her sake. It worked, barely. She gave him a watery, shaky smile.

Once he was upright, half leaning on the wall, half supported by her, he managed to speak again. “There’s… something in my bag,” he said quietly. “A small collapsible cane, pocket-sized, for emergencies. If we make our way back to the studio… I’ll be able to use it.”

Charlie nodded and pressed herself closer under his arm so she could take more of his weight. “Okay. Let’s go. Just rely on me, alright? We’ll go slow.”

Alastor exhaled, a deep, relieved breath, and allowed himself to lean into her, more than he normally would, more than he’d admit.

“Thank you, darling,” he whispered. The gratitude wasn’t theatrical. It wasn’t charming.

It was real.

Together, they began the slow walk back down the hallway, her guiding him, his broken cane lying abandoned behind them.

The closer they got to the main studio, the warmer the light became, gold spilling softly across the floor from the open doorway. Charlie pushed it open with her shoulder, helping Alastor inside. His weight shifted off her just enough so he could reach the piano, steadying himself with one hand.

He exhaled, tired but relieved.

His bag was right where he left it, leaning against the piano leg. With careful fingers he unzipped it and pulled out a small, folded object—dark metal, compact, palm-sized.

“Ah. There it is,” he murmured.

He unfolded the emergency cane, clicking each segment into place until it became a slim but stable support. He tested it once, then twice, before placing more weight on it. His shoulders settled, tension easing.

“Thank you, again” he said, turning to her. "For helping and old man.”

Charlie flinched, cheeks flushing as she shook her head. “You’re not old,” she blurted, a little too fast. “And… and I’m just sorry I didn’t find you sooner.”

Alastor’s eyes softened. “There’s nothing to apologize for, my dear. Truly.”

The way he said it, gentle, warm, reassuring, made Charlie blush all over again. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, trying not to smile as wide as she felt like smiling.

Right, she had almost forgotten.

“Oh! Before I forget… um…” she lifted her bag strap nervously, “could I—maybe—have your number? So I can text you the dinner place for tomorrow, or if you come with something up.”

Alastor opened his notebook and tore a small sheet of paper with meticulous precision. His handwriting was elegant, old-fashioned, almost calligraphic as he wrote his number down.

Then he paused. “I should warn you,” he added, turning the notebook toward her, “I do have a smartphone… I just never use it.”

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out something that made Charlie gasp with a tiny laugh.

A tiny early-2000s flip phone.

With physical buttons. Actual physical buttons.

“…You still use that?” she asked, eyes wide.

“Only for calls,” he replied with perfect seriousness. “It’s indestructible, the battery lasts a week, and it doesn’t bother me with notifications.”

He scribbled a second number under the first. “This one rings. Loudly. But if you choose to text the other… then I suppose I’ll have to finally use it.”

Charlie clutched the paper like it was something precious. She couldn’t help the smile blooming on her face. It was soft. Genuine.

“Okay,” she whispered. “I’ll text you.”

She hesitated, then looked around the room.

“So… do you want to leave now? I can walk with you if—”

“No,” he said gently, “I may stay a bit longer. I want to… collect myself before heading out.”

“Oh.”

“It’s quite late,” he added, his tone shifting into something protective. “And it isn’t safe for a young woman to be walking around Manhattan at this hour.”

Charlie blinked, surprised, but warmed. “O-oh… well… if you’re sure.”

“I am.”

She nodded slowly and picked up her bag. “I’ll go then… Goodnight, Al.”

“Goodnight”

She walked toward the door, her silhouette framed by the hallway’s dim light. She stepped over the threshol, —then paused.

Her hand hovered over the handle.

Something tugged at her.

She turned.

Alastor was bent over slightly, placing his gloves and notebook back into his bag, his curly hair falling forward. He looked tired. Alone. Vulnerable in a way he never allowed people to see.

Before she could overthink it,  she took three quick steps forward.

And wrapped her arms around him from behind.

Alastor froze.

Her cheek pressed between his shoulder blades; her arms circled him carefully, gently, warmly. His fingers stopped moving entirely.

It was soft. Brief. But full of everything she didn’t know how to say.

Then she let go, stepped back before he could turn, and rushed out the door, leaving him standing in stunned silence.

…Neither of them knew someone had seen.

At the far end of the hall, through one of the tall glass windowpanes that looked into the studio, a camera shutter clicked. Quiet. Quick. Precise.

Velvette grinned.

She stepped back into the shadows so Charlie wouldn’t see her on the way out, then turned down the opposite corridor, phone already pressed to her ear.

When the line connected, she didn’t even say hello.

 

“You’re going to be very pleased with what I’ve got, Vee” she purred. “Very pleased.”

 

Notes:

Here is the variations of Prince Siegfried (so you can imagine Vox or Alastor dancing xd)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vMf7MrgfF3o

again putting here the Sugar Plum Pas De Deux

https://youtu.be/RusC5iqkXMo?si=v4-aZRrlm9dPhENf

This chapter might come up as like, wait, where is the toxic and manipulative stuff then? buddy theres more to come xd

Chapter 7: Variation II: The Heat Beneath the Winter Night

Notes:

Hi peopleeeeee, So im extending this fic a lil more xd i just feel like there's more to develop.

This chapter is more than 10k words, I hope y'all don't get bored xd

ANYWAYS

Here's for you to enjoy your evening reading :D

(This chapter has suggestive content at the end, yall been warned)

Charlie woke earlier than she meant to.

Her alarm was set for 8:15, but her eyes blinked open at 7:52 — that very specific kind of waking where you know the universe has something planned for you. For a moment, she just lay there, staring at the soft light leaking through the curtains of her room, listening to the quiet hum of the radiator. Tuesdays were supposed to feel peaceful (or at least for her). Instead, her stomach felt like it had swallowed a handful of glitter.

Tonight… was her dinner.

Her dinner with Alastor.

Can she call this a date?

She sat up too fast and had to squeeze her eyes shut until the room stopped spinning. Then she reached for her phone on the nightstand.

One new notification.

Not a “good morning," or “did you sleep well?” Not even a useless emoji.

Just a simple message from Alastor, sent at 7:15 a.m. sharp:

359 Columbus Avenue
UWS — next to AMNH

That was it. No greeting. No punctuation. No warmth.

Classic Alastor.

Charlie stared at the text like it was a riddle she had to solve before breakfast.

Was she supposed to dress normal? More formal? Is Italian upscale? Was this a date date or a “let’s talk about choreography and pretend we didn’t hook up in the studio” kind of date?

Her heart was pounding. She needed help. Professional help.

She FaceTimed Vaggie.

It rang twice before the screen tilted and Vaggie’s face appeared,  hair flattened on one side, blanket around her shoulders like a cape, one eye barely open.

“Char… it’s eight in the morning,” she muttered, voice still half-asleep. “Whatever you need, can it wait twenty minutes? Please? I was having a dream where I finally passed that midterm I failed.”

“I need your opinion on something,” Charlie whispered urgently.

Vaggie groaned. “Why does it have to be at eight a.m.?”

Charlie took a deep breath. “Because I have a date after ballet practice and I don’t know what to wear.”

Vaggie stopped breathing.

Then, as if someone had plugged her into a power outlet, she sat upright, hair sticking up, eyes suddenly wide awake.

“PAUSE.” She squinted at Charlie. “Wait. You have a date?”

Charlie winced. “Yes?”

“Since when?! You’re usually so focused on ballet and stressing about the Sugar Plum solo that I thought any dating app within ten miles would spontaneously combust if you even looked at it.”

“It’s… my first date,” Charlie admitted. “Like… formal date.” Then immediately regretted it.

Vaggie gasped. “What do you mean formal date? Formal as in… you had casual dates before? Or— WAIT. WAIT. Were you seeing someone? OH MY GOD who—”

Charlie went crimson. Her mind flashed back to Saturday night — to the studio, the way Alastor’s breath hitched near her ear when she had—

“Nope! No explanation! Not talking about it!” Charlie squeaked.

Vaggie stared at her like she was analyzing a crime scene. “…Y’all hooked up.”

Charlie nearly dropped the phone. “I NEVER SAID THAT.”

“You didn’t have to,” Vaggie said, deadpan. “You’re forty different colors of red right now.”

“Can we please focus on the clothes?!”

“Fine,” Vaggie sighed dramatically. “Where’s the date?”

“Italian restaurant? It's in the Upper West Side.”

"Can you send me the address? So I can check the vibes," Charlie nodded and send it

Vaggie Googled it with the speed of a hawk. After a beat, she nodded. “Okay. It’s nice. Like, ‘I’m doing well for myself,’ nice. But not ‘show up looking like royalty’ nice.”

Charlie let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding.

“Wear your red cardigan.”

Charlie blinked. “Which one?”

She disappeared into her closet, which was less a closet and more a small boutique,  then returned holding two nearly identical red cardigans.

Vaggie opened her mouth to say they were the same, but froze. One of them had a tiny, unmistakable silver Chanel logo on the pocket. “WAIT— you have CHANEL?!”

Charlie shrugged innocently. “My dad bought it for me last Christmas—”

“Girl, that cardigan costs more than three months of Angel's rent.”

“ Ou …I didn’t know that.”

“OF COURSE YOU DIDN’T. You forget you’re rich.” Vaggie pinched the bridge of her nose. “Wear the Chanel one. And your black or dark blue cigarette pants. Do you have loafers?”

Charlie nodded, already pulling things out of drawers.

She tried everything on, then stepped back from her mirror.

Red Chanel cardigan. White fitted top. Dark blue stiletto-cut pants. Black loafers.

Simple, clean, warm, kind of elegant.

She turned the camera. “How do I look?”

Vaggie’s voice softened. “You look perfect. Maybe bring your long brown coat — it’s freezing.”

Charlie nodded and then beamed. “Okay! I’m gonna head to class then—”

“WAIT.” Charlie froze mid-buttoning. “Are you going to wear makeup?”

“I’ll curl my lashes, maybe bring lipstick and apply it later.”

“Good. Now what’s his NAME?”

Charlie panicked. She could feel the blood drain from her face. “For now… it’s a secret.”

“CHARLOTTE IRENE MORNINGSTAR. You cannot do this to me!”

“It’s just— I want to see if this lasts. If it does — and I really hope it does — I’ll tell you.”

“That is NOT emotionally satisfying!” Vaggie groaned.

“I’ll see you at practice!” Charlie chirped and hung up.

The moment the call ended, she exhaled, pressing a hand to her chest, feeling the thrill and terror mix like caffeine.

Her first date in ages.

Her first real date.

And tonight… with Alastor.

Charlie took a few seconds after hanging up to just stand in the middle of her dorm room and breathe. She still felt a little fluttery inside, but the good kind—like a warm breeze in her chest. She shook it off and got moving, grabbing her usual practice bag off the hook by the door. It was stuffed with her pointe shoes, warm-ups, extra tights, hairpins, Advil, Band-Aids, and about three granola bars she never remembered putting there, and of course her iPad for class.

Then she grabbed the little purse she’d chosen for the evening—her favorite tiny Kate Spade one, the leather worn soft from years of use. She set it on her bed and carefully added the essentials: her phone, keys, wallet, lipstick, a small perfume roller, and a folded emergency twenty-dollar bill.

She glanced at her two bags and made a mental note:

Ask Vaggie to take the big one home later.
(No doubt she’d say yes. Vaggie was basically her partner in crime for things like this.)

Charlie finally slipped on her coat, grabbed both bags, and stepped out into the quiet hallway. Her shoes clicked softly on the polished wood as she made her way to the kitchen, still tying her hair into a loose bun.

She wasn’t expecting anyone to be awake.

But when she rounded the corner, she froze.

“Mom?”

Lilith was sitting at the counter in her silk robe, sipping coffee from a mug that said World’s Best Problem Solver. Her hair was perfect, as always—Charlie suspected it styled itself overnight.

“Oh! Good morning, sweetheart,” Lilith said warmly. “There’s an açaí bowl for you on the counter. I made them for your father and me before he left.”

“Dad left already?” Charlie grabbed the bowl and blinked. “It’s so early. I didn’t expect to see you up.”

“I know. He was called to the office at five,” Lilith said, waving it off. “Something about zoning permits and a meeting with the governor.” She studied Charlie for a long second over her mug. “And you look… dressed up.”

Charlie froze mid-bite.

Lilith raised a single eyebrow. “Are you going somewhere after ballet class?”

Charlie’s brain went blank. She had no excuse prepared. Not a single one.

Then Lilith laughed softly and set her mug down. “Darling, you don’t have to invent something. Be honest.” She leaned in a little, lowering her voice. “Your father isn’t here, so if it’s a date, you can tell me. I won’t say a word.”

Charlie swallowed hard. Then nodded.

“It… is a date.”

Lilith lit up immediately, her palm going to her chest. “Oh, sweetheart! Finally! I’m so happy for you. I swear the last boyfriend you had was—what? Junior year of high school?” She sighed, a nostalgia-soft sound. “It’s been too long.”

Charlie felt a guilty pinch in her stomach; her mother knew nothing about her other little flings over the years. None of them had been serious enough to bring home. And honestly? She wanted this to be different, to be serious. She hoped it would be.

Lilith, meanwhile, was delighted. “So tell me—where is this man from? Ballet? Columbia?”

Charlie lied so quickly it shocked even herself. “Columbia.”

Lilith’s eyes sparkled. “Really? What major?”

Charlie panicked again. “Mine ... Political Science”

Lilith clapped once. “Perfect! That makes things easier, doesn’t it?”

Charlie forced a smile. “Yeah. Very.”

Lilith took another look at her outfit, nodding approvingly. “It suits you. Though—are you bringing another bag for later? Or should I go later and grab your practice bag for you?”

“No! No, don’t come to the academy,” Charlie said instantly. “I’ll ask Vaggie to take my bag. I’m bringing one of my purses for the date.”

“Ooh, show me which one.”

Charlie hesitated; she already knew where this was heading, but opened her practice bag anyway and showed her the small Kate Spade purse nestled inside.

Lilith stared at it as it offended her. “…Why are you using that?” she asked slowly. “You have a perfectly good Chanel bag I bought you for your birthday.”

“Mom, the cardigan is Chanel,” Charlie said gently. “That’s enough branding for one outfit.”

Lilith did not agree. Not even a little. She plucked the Kate Spade purse out of Charlie’s hands with two fingers, like she was handling something radioactive. “This one is old,” she said, inspecting the frayed strap. “You’ve practically worn it to death.”

“I like it,” Charlie protested. “It’s my favorite—”

“Exactly. You’ve liked it to death.” Lilith moved to the hall closet, returned a moment later, and handed Charlie the black quilted Chanel purse with the gold chain. “Use this. You barely touch it. Tonight seems to be special.”

Charlie opened her mouth to argue, but… she was running late. And arguing with her mother was like trying to debate a glacier; it simply wasn’t happening. So she took the Chanel purse, swapped everything into it, and gave her mother a quick kiss on the cheek.

“Love you. I have to go.”

“Good luck today,” Lilith called after her. “And text me when you’re done with class!”

Charlie waved, rushed to the elevator, and when she got down, she stepped out into the chilly Manhattan morning—

—and felt her heart flip again.

And the day was only just beginning.

 

Charlie slipped into her morning class—a seminar on Comparative Political Institutions, the kind taught only to seniors who were too deep into the major to escape. The professor lectured about constitutional design and the illusion of stable democracies, but Charlie’s mind drifted in and out, catching pieces, taking decent notes, doing her best to look alive while thinking about choreography counts and wrist placements.

When class finally ended, she headed straight to the dining hall. The campus was loud at noon, people weaving around each other with trays and backpacks, but Charlie found her usual corner by the window. Her açaí bowl had melted into something closer to juice than food, but she didn’t care. She stirred it lazily, ate it anyway, and opened her ipad.

Homework first. Always. She finished reading, typed a short reflection for tomorrow’s class, and uploaded everything. When she finally closed the tab, she let herself breathe.

And then she typed it.

Vincent Whittman ballet.

She needed to do some research about her new sudden dancing partner.

She had time before she needed to leave for the Academy. Enough time to get lost.

Videos filled the screen. The first one she clicked wasn’t the adagio she hoped for, no pas de deux, no delicate partnering she could study. Instead, it was the Cavalier’s solo variation from a Nutcracker three years ago.

She watched anyway.

The Vincent in the video moved with the same sharpness she had felt yesterday in rehearsal, but here it was cleaner, more controlled. His jumps were slicing, straight up, straight down, legs tight, feet pointed like they were being pulled by invisible strings. Every landing was soft, cat-quiet, as if gravity negotiated with him rather than owned him. His turns snapped into place, neck held proud, posture immaculate.

She hummed softly, impressed.

Another recommendation appeared—Swan Lake, from his debut, a different performance than the one Vaggie had shown yesterday. She clicked.

This Vincent was younger, softer, but undeniably talented. His upper body was fluid, melting from one shape into another, but his legs carried an almost military precision. His diagonals of leaps stretched across the stage like he was floating more than jumping, and each arabesque line hit its final position with aching clarity before unfolding again.

He was good. Really good. Even better than she’d realized.

Charlie exhaled, leaning back. She wanted to find their actual pas de deux, the sugar plum adagio, to study his partnering, see how he carried weight, how he approached stillness.

But the next recommended thumbnail froze her hand.

No dancer name. No specific title. But she knew.

Alastor.

Before the cane. Before everything changed.

Her fingers tingled as she clicked.

The video quality was older, but his presence cut through immediately. It was unmistakably the same performance Rosie had shown their class during auditions—the same styling, the same lighting, the same stage.

He stepped into frame, and the world sharpened.

Alastor’s technique was… breathtaking. His jumps didn’t just rise—they soared, suspending in the air with impossible height, hanging there just a heartbeat longer than physics should have allowed. His turns carved through space with effortless control, and his extensions unfolded with the kind of elasticity that came from pure, natural gift sharpened by unforgiving discipline.

Every movement had intention. Every line was immaculate.

Charlie felt her chest tighten.

So much talent. So much potential. Gone.

Replaced now by the steady sound of a cane tapping through studio floors. By a body that could no longer do what it once mastered.

She swallowed hard, sadness pooling beneath her ribs.

She wanted to ask him what happened, how it happened, how he felt about it, whether he missed the air beneath him the way she suddenly missed it for him. But not today.

Today wasn’t for that.

But she would ask him. Eventually.

She knew she would.

 

Charlie kept researching.

One video led to another, and then another, older performances, gala excerpts, rehearsal clips caught on shaky cameras. Vincent at twenty, all limbs and promise. Vincent at twenty-four, sharper, faster, already carving out the kind of reputation people whispered about in studios. She watched everything she could, letting each performance teach her something.

When she finally checked the time—2:15 p.m.—her stomach lurched. Class at three. She needed to go.

She packed her things, slung her bag over her shoulder, and headed for the subway. The 1 train downtown rattled with the usual afternoon crowd, and she tucked herself against a pole, headphones in, letting music settle her nerves. The train stalled twice, typical, and she arrived at the Academy a little later than she liked, but still technically on time.

Inside the dressing room, she changed quickly. Black leotard, soft warmups, hair fixed, then she sat on the bench to slide on her toe pads.

When she got into the main studio, Vaggie was already stretching on the floor, folded in a perfect split as if she’d been born there.

“So,” Vaggie said casually, “how’s the date situation? Nervous?”

“A little,” Charlie admitted, adjusting one pointe shoe, then the ribbons. “I just… want it to go well.”

Vaggie raised an eyebrow. “Jokes aside, how’d you two even meet? Don’t tell me apps. I won’t judge—but if it’s Tinder, I absolutely will.”

Charlie flushed and scrambled for something that didn’t involve… the truth. She remembered what she’d told her mother earlier that morning.

“He’s a classmate,” she said quickly. “From Columbia.”

“Ooh, fancy,” Vaggie said. “Okay, Miss Ivy League. When it’s official, tell us, so we can invite him when we do a casual evening in my or Pentious’ dorm. Or, you know, the usual Brooklyn parties with Angel and Cherry.”

Charlie nearly choked. Invite Alastor to a Brooklyn party? Her? No. Absolutely not. One accidental encounter at three a.m. in Bushwick had been more than enough humiliation for a lifetime.

She forced a laugh, trying to hide the panic. “Y-yeah. Sure. Maybe.”

Vaggie didn’t notice her discomfort, thankfully.

“Anyway,” Charlie added quickly, fishing for a safer topic, “I was watching more videos of Vincent. Wanted to understand his technique better.”

“Oh, totally. He’s sharp when he moves, but he can melt when he needs to. That contrast is his thing.” Vaggie flipped effortlessly into a straddle stretch. “You’ll feel it more once you get used to him.”

Charlie blinked. “You sound like you know a lot about him.”

Vaggie shrugged. “In my free time, I watch videos of ballet stars. He’s one of them. Kind of hard not to know stuff about him.”

Charlie hesitated, then asked, “Have you ever found a video of him doing the Sugar Plum pas de deux? With his partner?”

“Oh! Yeah. It’s weirdly hard to find, but I know the one. I’ll send it to you.”

“Please do.”

They were interrupted by voices at the door.

Angel and Pentious leaned in, both already in practice clothes.

“Hey, gals,” Angel said. “Sorry to break the gossip session, but Charlie and I gotta go to Studio 3 now. Rosie wants to talk to all of us.”

Pentious made a face. “She looked stressed when we passed her. Like… very stressed.”

Charlie sighed and gathered her things. “Okay, yeah. Coming.”

Before they left, she turned to Vaggie. “Can you take my practice bag with you later?”

Angel blinked. “Why? You ditching us?”

Vaggie answered before Charlie could. “She has a date.”

Both Angel and Pentious froze, heads whipping toward her.

“A date?” Angel echoed, scandalized.

Charlie held up her hands. “I’ll tell you later, I promise.”

And with that, Angel and her walked toward Studio 3—Rosie waiting, stress radiating, and Charlie’s heart already beating too fast for reasons that had nothing to do with dance. 

Studio 3 was cold—the kind of cold that came from old windows and too much tension in the air.
Charlie and Angel stepped inside to find Rosie standing stiffly near the piano, arms crossed, jaw tight. Beside her stood Carmilla, immaculate as always, but the faint crease between her brows suggested she was no less irritated than Rosie.

“Good, you’re here,” Carmilla said. “Before you go to free practice, we need to talk. Things have… changed.”

Angel muttered, “That can’t be good.”

Carmilla continued anyway. “The director of the company has pulled a move without consulting any of us, again, affecting classes 1 and 2's schedule. As the main professor for Class One, I'm furious, and Zeezi from Class 2 is also really mad.”

Rosie huffed. “So am I.”

Carmilla said, folding her hands. “The French dancers—Velvette and Vincent—will now be performing the entire season, not just the first two weeks as originally agreed.”

Angel let out a loud, unfiltered sound of disgust. “That’s not fair.”

Carmilla didn’t even try to mask her agreement. “It isn’t. But neither I nor Zeezi had any say. This came from above us.”

Rosie stepped forward, her voice softer but no less firm. “Listen. This isn’t endgame. We’re hoping the board of directors backs our original plan and pushes back. But for now… we all have to deal with it.”

She exhaled sharply and lifted her chin. “That was all, you’re dismissed now, we just wanted to be fully transparent. Go warm up in the main studio and come back after the first half for rehearsals with the French.”

Angel didn’t wait until the door closed behind them to explode.

“I hate this,” he growled, stomping down the hallway. “The Nutcracker is supposed to be the happy season. Now I might have to dance with that woman until the ned of the year? I would rather be partnered with someone from Class Two. Literally anyone. Anyone except her.”

Charlie’s chest tightened. She knew exactly how he felt. “I wanted to dance with you too,” she said quietly. “That’s why we got the roles. We’re good together.”

“Exactly!” Angel threw his hands up. “But no. The board always has to stick its nose in everything. Fuck the board of directors.”

He simmered for a moment—then abruptly changed direction.

“Anyway—date.” He pointed at her. “So now you’re going on dates?”

Charlie blinked. “Angel… I told you I liked someone.”

“Yes, but you also said,  and I quote, that you’d tell me first, like FIRST first. Before anyone.”

She winced. “I know, I’m sorry… but now you know.”

Angel crossed his arms dramatically. “Fine. But when things get serious, like even just a title—boyfriend, girlfriend, whatever—I want to meet them. I want a full introduction.”

Charlie snorted. “Only if you introduce Husk.”

“Oh, that’s happening,” Angel said proudly. “Yesterday, after you left the shoe room, I asked Husk if we should formalize things with our friends soon. He said he’d been thinking about the same thing. So… maybe sooner than you expect.”

Charlie’s eyes widened. “Seriously??”

Angel wiggled his eyebrows. “Mm-hmm. See? I’m a responsible romantic.”

“That’s… really sweet,” Charlie admitted. “But my date? This is the first one. My first… move. So it might take a little longer.”

“That’s fine,” Angel said, patting her arm dramatically. “Just don’t make me wait until Nutcracker season ends. I’ll die.”

They reached the main studio doors, pushing them open together.

Warm air, chatter, and scattered laughter spilled out. Nifty was already buzzing around the room, and several of the younger dancers, kids cast as party scene children or little angels, were filing in with their bags and warmups.

Charlie felt the shift immediately. The kind of calm chaos only Nutcracker season could bring.

Angel sighed beside her. “Okay. Free practice time. Let’s make the best of this stupid situation.”

Charlie nodded, stepping inside, letting the familiar rhythm of the studio settle her nerves. The day was far from over, and her date was only growing closer.

Free practice went by almost too quickly.

The whole class was able to reherase the whole performance. Charlie and Angel rehearsed the entire pas de deux once through, then took turns polishing lifts, transitions, and footwork. With the rest of the cast in the studio, the room felt alive again, music echoing off mirrors, pointe shoes tapping against marley, Angel complaining theatrically every time his legs got tired. Charlie managed not to think about her evening plans… at least for a while.

But once the call came for her and Angel to split off and head to Studio 3, her nerves slipped back in like a hand around her waist.

While walking, she pulled out her phone and opened the video Vaggie had sent earlier, the hard-to-find recording of Vincent performing the Sugar Plum pas de deux from years ago. The opening chords filled her headphones. His lines were clean, arms precise, his partnering strong but fluid. She leaned in, studying the exact way he cupped his partner’s waist, the angle of his wrist during the supported turns. 

She didn’t even notice the studio door swing open. Didn’t hear footsteps. Didn’t sense anyone else until a low voice spoke right beside her.

“Is there something you’d like to know?”

She flinched. Her phone nearly slipped from her hands.

Vincent was standing less than a foot away, head tilted, eyes lowered toward the screen lighting up her palms.

Velvette stood behind him, already stretching at the barre.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he added with an apologetic chuckle, though the amused glint in his eyes suggested he kind of did. “But if you wanted to analyze my technique, you could’ve asked. That video is from nearly three years ago.”

Charlie’s face went hot immediately. “I—I just wanted to get familiar with your style,” she said quickly. “Since we’ll be dancing together.”

Vincent extended a hand to her. She hesitated, then took it, letting him pull her up from the floor with effortless strength. “If you have questions,” he said, voice smooth, almost too smooth, “I’d be happy to show you myself.”

His smile wasn’t unfriendly, but there was something behind it. A sharpness. A confidence bordering on flirtation.

Charlie forced a polite smile back. “Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind.”

Before the moment could stretch into something awkward, Rosie clapped her hands sharply.

“Alright, pairs! Let’s start.”

Rosie took Velvette and Angel first, immediately correcting Velvette’s arabesque height and Angel’s timing. Charlie noticed how both of them seemed calmer under Rosie’s direction—yesterday had been chaos with Valentino, and no one wanted a repeat of that.

Unfortunately, Valentino was in the room today. And he was assigned to her and Vincent.

He paced closer, arms crossed, watching them begin the opening sequence. At first, he actually gave useful feedback: Vincent’s arm needs to come slightly higher in the first promenade; Charlie’s focus line should be lifted toward the mirror; the transitions need cleaner musicality.

But then Valentino’s comments shifted.

“Vincent, beautiful placement—your shoulders look perfect today.”

“Good. Good. Keep that strength in your partnering, mon chéri.”

“Oh, that’s lovely, Vincent. Just like that, amorcito.”

Charlie blinked.
None of that was for her. Not a word, and thank god.

It wasn’t inappropriate enough to start drama, but it was annoyingly obvious. And every time Valentino leaned in to whisper something to Vincent, it made Charlie’s skin crawl. Not jealousy, just discomfort. It felt unprofessional, almost like she was intruding on someone else’s conversation, even though she was the one being lifted.

Still, Vincent kept his composure the whole time.

Sharp. Precise. Fully focused.

At least he didn’t seem bothered.

Charlie inhaled, exhaled, and reset her fifth position.

 

By 7:40, class was winding down.

Tuesdays normally dragged on until nine, but today the schedule had been cut short, everyone was exhausted, and both couples still needed to run the full pas de deux before being dismissed at eight.

Charlie slipped her jacket off her shoulders, rolled them back, and tried to shake her nerves out. She could already feel the post-class adrenaline beginning to buzz in her arms.

Rosie clapped her hands. “Alright! Full run. Velvette and Angel, Vincent and Charlie—you’ll each perform once before we wrap up.”

Charlie took her place in the center. Vincent stretched his wrists. Angel sighed dramatically. Velvette fixed her bun in the mirror for the fifth time.

Just as Rosie opened her mouth to call out the order, the studio door creaked open.

Alastor stepped inside.

Charlie froze.

He looked… different.

His hair, usually a soft mess of curls, had been brushed and styled, pushed slightly back from his face in a way that sharpened his features. His shirt was crisp. He carried himself with a quiet elegance, even with the emergency cane in hand.

He did his hair. He did his hair for the date.

Charlie felt her cheeks burn so fast she was grateful her face wasn’t directly facing the lights.

Rosie turned, smiling. “Alastor! I wasn’t expecting you today.”

He bowed his head slightly. “Carmilla needed me for piano, but she let me go early. I thought I’d observe the run.”

Charlie’s and Alastor’s eyes met, just a second, barely anything.

But enough.

Enough to make her heart stumble.

Vincent’s gaze flicked to Alastor, smile curling a little too knowingly. Alastor ignored it and took a place beside Rosie, posture immaculate.

Valentino clapped twice. “Alright, darlings—Velvette and Angel first.”

Velvette rolled her shoulders back and stepped into position. The run was smoother than yesterday, Angel felt stronger, Velvette less chaotic, but Rosie still gave corrections. Valentino gave more. All of his notes were for Angel, of course.

Alastor added a short remark in his usual calm tone, nothing harsh.

Charlie mentally noted that he hadn’t offered any criticism to Velvette.

That meant she’d done well today.

Then it was Charlie and Vincent’s turn.

She inhaled, spine straightening. She could feel Alastor watching, she knew he watched her more closely than others, and she wanted to be perfect. Wanted him to see her professionalism. Her improvement. Her focus.

The music began.

She lifted her arms gracefully. Vincent stepped in behind her. Their movements synced easily—turns, balances, the supported arabesque—but halfway through, something shifted.

Vincent’s hand slipped lower.

Too low.

Not where it belonged.

Right on her hipbone.

Exactly where Alastor told her never to let any dancer touch her. Exactly where he demonstrated yesterday in the hallway.

Her breath hitched. Her muscles stuttered.

Just a micro-second—but enough. Enough to break the spell of the choreography.

Her mind spiraled. Alastor is watching.

He’s watching and now he thinks she lets anyone touch her like that.

He’s watching and he’s going to think she doesn’t protect herself.

He’s watching and—

They finished the sequence, though the last few counts were shaky.

Rosie clapped once, thoughtfully. “Charlie, Vincent—overall, good. A few precision issues. Charlie, you broke focus after the second lift. And Vincent, hand placement needs to be corrected. On the waist, not the hip.”

“It was a slip,” Valentino cut in quickly. “No harm intended.”

Vincent nodded. “My apologies. It wasn’t intentional.”

Before Rosie could move on, Alastor’s voice cut through the room.

“Accidents do happen,” he said, eyes trained on Vincent with a polite but icy gleam, kinda harsh actually. “But it would be best if they didn’t happen again ... Even more if the premier its closer than ever before.”

Then he turned his attention to Charlie.

His gaze wasn’t cold, just piercing. Focused. Professional.

“And regardless of what occurs,” he continued, “you must never break character, Miss Morningstar. Not for a second. Emotion cannot dictate the performance. Hold your presence. Maintain the magic, you lost the essence the moment you reacted; and that was completely unacceptable from a professional dancer.”

The words hit her squarely in the chest.

She should’ve been furious. He had practically said she ruined the choreography over something she didn’t cause. In front of everyone. In that clipped, unforgiving tone he used when giving a hard truth.

But she wasn’t mad ... well, not that mad ... Actually very mad.

Because he wasn’t wrong.

She had lost control. She had let panic show. And she hated it, hated the instinct, hated that he saw it, hated that Vincent’s slip had rattled her when it shouldn’t have.

What else was she supposed to do? This was getting more complicated by the hour.

Rosie dismissed the class at eight sharp. The room began to empty, but Charlie stayed still for a moment, breathing slowly, willing her pulse to settle.

Alastor looked at her one more time before leaving the studio, and Charlie—despite the heat simmering in her chest—met his gaze. He tilted his head almost imperceptibly, flicking his eyes toward the exit. A silent message. I’ll wait for you outside.

She didn’t nod back. She didn’t have it in her to acknowledge him right now. Not after that feedback. The sting of it was still fresh.

Charlie breathed through her nose, steadying herself before heading to the dressing rooms. The bustle of dancers, showers running, lockers slamming, it all blurred around her as she slipped into the small changing cubicle and pulled the curtains shut behind her. She peeled out of her practice clothes with the mechanical heaviness of someone replaying every second of her last run in her mind.

When she stepped out, Vaggie was already there, waiting for her to come out.

“There you are, now give me that” Vaggie said taking her practice bag out of her hands, eyes immediately lighting up when she saw the other bag. “Oh girl, this Chanel bag? This is your whole theme now.”

Charlie attempted a laugh, but it barely survived. “Yeah… I guess.”

Vaggie’s smile dropped. “What happened?”

Charlie exhaled, the weight of the class finally catching up to her. She explained it in pieces: the misplaced hand, her distraction, Rosie’s correction, Vincent’s apology, and then… Alastor. His tone. The way he singled out her reaction. The way he was right and wrong at the same time, and how that made it worse.

“Don’t let his words ruin your night,” Vaggie said firmly. “It wasn’t your fault. And you know how he is—Mr. Perfectionist. Forget about that and enjoy your date.”

Charlie’s stomach flipped. If only Vaggie knew who that date was with. “Yeah… I’ll try.”

“You better,” Vaggie said, handing her the bag. “Now go fix your lipstick. Curl your lashes. At least look like you’re having a good night before you actually have one.” She winked, stepping back. “Alright, bye. And I want the full tea tomorrow.”

Charlie actually laughed then, waving goodbye as Vaggie disappeared down the hall.

She let out a slow breath and faced the mirror. Her bun was tight enough to ache, so she tugged out the hairpins one by one, watching her curls fall in soft, uneven spirals around her shoulders. She combed through them gently with her fingers, then brushed just enough to loosen the hair at her scalp. A tiny bit of concealer, a sweep of mascara, a soft gloss.

“Professionalism,” she whispered at her reflection. “He meant professionalism. That’s all.”

But her chest still felt tight. Her throat still prickled. She hated that it affected her this much. Hated that she cared about his opinion so deeply, hated that she wanted him to think highly of her. And yet… her stomach fluttered at the thought of seeing him again.

She breathed out a slow, steadying sigh.

Then she grabbed her things and stepped out of the academy, the night air immediately wrapping around her as she walked toward the street where she knew, despite her irritation, despite everything, Alastor would be waiting.

Charlie stepped outside, letting the door of the academy close behind her with a soft click. For a moment she just stood there, breathing in the cold air. Her heart was still hammering from class, not from the dancing, but from the mess of emotions twisting in her chest.

Then she saw him.

Alastor stood at the far corner of the building, the glow of a lone streetlamp breaking over him like a warm spotlight. His coat was buttoned neatly, the deep red scarf tucked perfectly at his collar. His curls were brushed and styled, and the sight sent an unexpected jolt through her again. He looked… intentionally put-together. Handsome. Elegant.

For her.

He took a slow drag from his cigarette, head tilting slightly as he watched her walk toward him. The way his eyes followed her, steady, attentive, made her stomach twist.

She reached him, tried to smile, tried to pretend she wasn’t still irritated with him… and failed spectacularly.

Without a word, she snatched the cigarette from his fingers and brought it to her lips.

Alastor blinked, but then he laughed under his breath, the sound low and soft. “Well. Someone is certainly in a mood.”

Charlie exhaled smoke through her nose. “It’s your fault.”

“Is it?” he asked, already knowing it was. “Please, tell me how.”

“It wasn’t what you said,” she snapped quietly. “It was how you said it. You made it look like I overreacted, like I ruined the choreography, like—” She shook her head, anger returning. “You know it wasn’t my fault.”

Alastor studied her with an annoyingly calm look. “I do know.”

“Then why say it like that? Why make everyone look at me like I—”

“Charlie.” His voice softened, just slightly. “Look at me.”

She did. She shouldn’t have, but she did.

“You can feel uncomfortable. But on a stage and in this case, you also had the power to make him look unprofessional… or make yourself look unprepared. It’s unfair, but it’s true.” He took a small step closer. “And you froze. That is what I addressed.”

Charlie’s jaw tensed. “You could’ve said it without making me sound like a disaster.”

Another step, closer still. She felt the faintest brush of his breath.

“Would you have listened,” he asked quietly, “if I had said it gently?”

She opened her mouth and realized she had no answer.

He watched that realization bloom across her face, and something in his expression shifted. Not smug. Not triumphant. Just… knowing.

Charlie bit the inside of her cheek, trying to hold onto her annoyance.

But then Alastor reached out, not abruptly, but with deliberate softness, and took her hand. The cigarette crushed gently between her fingers as he slipped it from her grasp.

Her breath hitched.

He brought the cigarette to his lips, took one slow inhale, eyes still on her, then flicked it away with a precise tap of his cane. The ember skittered across the pavement.

The casual elegance of it made her knees go embarrassingly weak.

“Better?” he murmured.

No. Worse. So much worse.

“I’m still mad,” she managed.

“I’m aware.” He tucked his cane under his arm and adjusted the sleeve of his coat, nonchalantly. “You wear irritation very beautifully, by the way.”

Charlie stared. “You’re so annoying."

“Yes,” he agreed easily, “and you knew that when you agreed to go out with me.”

Her cheeks burned. She turned sharply and started walking. “Let’s just go. If we don’t hurry, we’re not getting a table.”

Behind her, she heard that soft, amused hum he did whenever he was holding back a laugh. “Actually,” he said, catching up effortlessly, “I have a reservation.”

She stopped mid-step and looked at him. “You… do?”

“Of course. What kind of gentleman would I be if I didn’t prepare properly for a date?”

Her pulse jumped. “A date,” she echoed, flustered. It's not like she didn't know this was a date, but she didn't expect him to use that word for their dinner.

“Yes, dear.” He offered his arm. “A date.”

She hesitated, just for a second, before sliding her hand into the crook of his elbow. The warmth of him, the solidness, the quiet confidence… it sent a shiver up her spine.

Alastor noticed. Oh, he definitely noticed; his smirk softened into something warmer. “Don’t worry,” he said softly, guiding her forward. “No more critiques for tonight.”

“Good,” she muttered.

“Unless,” he added playfully

“Alastor—”

“I’m teasing.” He chuckled under his breath. “Mostly.”

Charlie rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop the small smile tugging at her lips.

The tension between them lingered, sharp, warm, electric, but now it twisted with something sweeter, something thrilling.

And as they walked together into the night, Charlie realized something painfully, undeniably clear:

She wasn’t angry anymore.

Not even close

 

They walked side by side toward the bus stop. They didn’t rush, but they also didn’t linger. Their pace fell instinctively in sync, a small thing, but it made something warm settle in Charlie’s chest.

The streetlights cast long shadows across the sidewalk, brushing over them in soft flashes as they moved. Every now and then, Charlie caught Alastor glancing at her from the corner of his eye, as if checking whether she was still upset… or maybe just admiring her. She couldn’t tell. She didn’t dare ask.

When they reached the M7 stop, Alastor looked up at the approaching bus and then at her.

“Are you sure you don’t want to take a taxi?” he asked. “It would be faster. And warmer.”

Charlie shook her head. “No, I’d rather take the bus this time.” She shrugged lightly. “It’s close enough. And taxis always try to charge me extra.”

His brows lifted. “Extra?”

“Yeah,” she sighed. “Some drivers read way too many newspapers and recognize me. "Oh my it's ‘Lucifer’s kid,’" you know? the mayor's daughter.” She made air quotes with her free hand. “Apparently, that means I should tip them like a Rockefeller.”

Alastor’s expression softened with a mix of sympathy and amusement. “I see. Then public transit it is.”

The bus hissed to a stop, doors folding open. They climbed aboard.

It was nearly empty, just a few scattered commuters, lost in headphones or staring out windows. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead. Charlie instinctively walked toward the back, and Alastor followed, sliding into the seat beside her.

For a while, they sat in silence.

Not the stiff, uncomfortable kind, more like a pocket of calm after everything that had happened. Charlie rested one hand on her lap, the other lightly touching his arm where it had been before. Alastor leaned his cane against the seat in front of them, fingers laced neatly over one knee.

Every now and then, their shoulders brushed with the motion of the bus.

Neither flinched away.

Charlie watched the buildings pass by outside, the blur of storefronts and the glow of the streetlamps. She felt the adrenaline from rehearsal begin to fade, replaced by something gentler, quieter.

She realized she liked the way he breathed, steady, subtle. Like he held the same weird, anticipatory feeling she did.

When their stop approached, Alastor stood and offered his hand without thinking. She took it without thinking.

They stepped off the bus and walked one block down the avenue. The restaurant’s warm lights spilled across the sidewalk, soft and golden, a little oasis against the November chill.

Inside, the restaurant buzzed with a comfortable murmur, not packed, but lively enough to feel intimate.

As they approached the host stand, Charlie instantly felt the woman behind it scan her. First her face. Then down, up, assessing like she was trying to figure out her age, her situation, her connection to the man beside her, because by their skin tones, she knew they were NOT family at all. Charlie forced her posture straighter. She hated when people assumed she was younger than she was, hated it even more when she stood next to someone who looked effortlessly adult, elegant, and composed.

Alastor.

Then she saw the host’s eyes flick back to him—just a little too long. Just a little too appreciative. New York was full of people who stared—but she wished just once they could stare at both of them equally, especially when she was literally his date.

Charlie rolled her eyes so hard she almost felt dizzy.

Yes, he looks good, she thought. I know. I’m the one on the date with him. Can you chill?

The host flipped through the reservation book and asked, “Do you have a reservation?”

Alastor stepped forward with that poised calmness of his. “Yes. Under Hartfelt.”

His surname rolled off his tongue with that smooth accent of his, and Charlie felt a strange little shiver go down her spine. She hadn’t heard him say his full name like that before. It sounded… almost aristocratic.

The host’s demeanor shifted instantly, straightening, polite, suddenly taking them seriously. “Of course. Right this way.”

She grabbed two menus and led them deeper into the restaurant. Alastor offered Charlie his arm as they slid into their seats opposite one another.

As the host left them, but not without asking if they wanted to put aside their coats, so that she could put them somewhere safe, they both agreed and gave them to her.

Charlie exhaled quietly, trying to bring down the wave of heat spreading up her neck.

Being around him really was going to be the end of her.

 

Charlie slid her Chanel bag onto the empty chair beside her and opened the menu. The soft lighting from the restaurant cast a warm glow across the glossy pages, and for a moment, she got lost in scanning the prices, something she never did in the past because it was his father or her mom paying for it, but now she felt the necessity to do it.

Tagliatelle… Twenty-seven dollars.

Oh my God.

She swallowed hard. She wasn’t poor—far from it—but she was not ready for this to be her Tuesday-night reality, either. Still, it was a date. A nice one. And she refused to look cheap.

She closed the menu with a tiny, brave nod. “I’ll have the Tagliatelle,” she told the waiter.

Alastor ordered the Rigatoni, his voice smooth, confident, like he had been to a thousand restaurants nicer than this. When the waiter left them alone again, Charlie exhaled softly and folded her hands on the table.

Alastor leaned back slightly in his chair, folding his hands. His eyes softened, the sharpness in his expression relaxing into something much more personal.

“I’d like,” he began, “to take this opportunity to get to know each other better… in a different way.”

Charlie felt her heart jump.

“In a different way?” she asked, keeping her voice steady even as her fingers played with the edge of her napkin.

Alastor gave a small, knowing smile. “I think,” he said carefully, “we may have been a little… fast.” His tone had a subtle tease, but mostly honesty, clearly referencing Saturday night.

Charlie flushed, the memory rushing back all at once, warm and vivid. “I—yeah,” she laughed lightly, hiding her fluster by taking a sip of water. “I agree. I want to know more about you too.”

“Then ask,” Alastor said, resting his chin lightly on his hand. “Anything you’d like.”

She thought for a moment.
“Well… are you a New Yorker? Or did you move here? Sometimes the way you talk, your accent, it reminds me of something else ... perhaps the south?.”

Alastor chuckled softly. “Louisiana. Born in New Orleans.”

Charlie blinked in surprise. “What? Really? You’re from New Orleans?”

“Mhm.”

“That’s so far from here! How did you get from there to the heart of New York City?”

“Well,” he said, fingertips idly tapping on the table, “my mother wanted a better life for us. A safer life. More opportunities. New Orleans is beautiful, full of music everywhere you go. Jazz on every street corner, brass bands practicing outside, little bars with live musicians playing until sunrise… And the food—" he chuckled, “you’ll never find flavor like that anywhere else. Ever.”

Charlie listened, mesmerized. His voice softened when he talked about home, like he was letting her see something normally locked away.

“But I understood why she wanted to leave. Things weren’t always easy there.”

“Where does she live now? Is she still living here?” Charlie asked gently. “Or do you live with her?”

The question was natural, innocent—yet Alastor’s eyes shifted, dimming just slightly.

“She passed away nine years ago.”

Charlie froze.

“Oh.” Her voice went small. “Alastor, I—I’m so sorry, I… I didn’t know. I shouldn’t have asked—”

“There’s nothing to apologize for.” His voice was calm, steady, and he was still holding his usual smile. “It was a simple question. Truly.”

But Charlie still felt something tugging at her chest. She hated the idea of him losing someone who clearly mattered so much.

Trying to recover, she asked, “Did she… have anything to do with why you dance?”

A slow smile warmed his face. “Yes,” he said quietly. “She took me to my first ballet at the New Orleans Ballet Theatre. Swan Lake, She really liked the theater, and was particularly excited for that performance.” He paused, a distant glow in his eyes. “I remember every moment of it. It was… perfect. Magical. I think that was the first time something made me feel like I was meant for it. Like I belonged in that world.”

Charlie felt her breath catch.

Because that meant Swan Lake wasn’t just a show to him. It was his beginning. His mother. His home.

And it was supposed to be his debut... a debut that was given to someone else.

Angel’s words flashed through her mind.

Swan Lake was supposed to be his debut as permanent principal. But he never danced it…

Charlie swallowed hard, trying not to show the sadness tugging at her expression. She knew he hated pity. She wouldn’t give him that.

Alastor seemed to sense her shift and tilted his head.

“What about you?” he asked. “Why do you dance, Charlie?”

She blinked, pulled from her thoughts. “Oh—well… my mom was a principal at NYCB. Prima, actually.” Her smile turned nostalgic. “So I basically grew up watching her perform. All the time. That was my whole childhood.”

He nodded, listening.

“She retired when she was thirty-five. I was nine. People… weren’t nice about it.” Charlie laughed dryly. “They blamed my dad. And me. Said she still had a few years in her. That she only retired because she became a mom.”

“And was that true?” Alastor asked gently.

“No.” Charlie shook her head firmly. “She retired because she thought she missed too much of my childhood. She wanted to be home. Present. And she opened a ballet school afterward, so she never really left ballet—she just shifted.”

Alastor’s expression warmed. “That sounds inspiring.”

“She is,” Charlie said softly. “She’s always been my role model. I always wanted to be like her. And now with Nutcracker coming up, she’s so excited. I… I really want to make her proud.”

Alastor’s eyes glowed with something soft, almost tender.

“Something tells me,” he said, voice low and sincere, “that she might already be proud.”

Charlie blushed—slowly, visibly, from the neck up.

“Fun fact, and I hope this doesn’t sound creepy or disturb your young self” Alastor added with a half-smile, “I actually remember when she retired. It was my third year in the company. I was twenty-three back then.”

Charlie didn’t hesitate. “That’s not weird,” she said honestly. “I know about our age gap. I don’t mind at all.”

There was a brief pause. The lighting seemed warmer. The air felt thicker.

Alastor looked at her, not just looked, but saw her.

And for the first time that night, Charlie felt something deeper than attraction settle between them.

Something like a connection.

Something that scared her a little.

Something she didn’t want to lose.

The food arrived with a soft clatter of ceramic against wood, steam fogging faint halos over both plates. The Tagliatelle’s scent hit Charlie first, rich, buttery, something with sage, and she actually had to stop herself from moaning at the price she had not paid. Alastor’s Rigatoni looked immaculate, and he nodded at the waiter with the same gentlemanly dignity he did everything else.

Once the waiter left, the conversation settled into a relaxed rhythm, the kind that felt almost familiar even though they knew each other... How long? Almost three months already? ... Wow, if she hadn't been counting she wouldn't have noticed, but of course, Alastor had arrived a week before the Sleeping Beauty premiere, and that whole season had lasted six weeks, and then there were the Nutcracker auditions, the Selection, rehearsals... Wow, time sure does fly.

Charlie twirled a forkful of pasta. “So, um—New Yorkers always talk about New York. It’s like a rule.” She cleared her throat. “Uhm, favorite borough?”

Alastor laughed, low, warm, amused. “Now that’s a dangerous question, my dear. People lose friendships over far less.”

“Oh please. If you say Staten Island I’ll just pretend I didn’t hear it.”

“If I said Staten Island, you’d know I was lying.”

Charlie giggled, and the tension in her shoulders melted.

They ate between spurts of talking, street fairs, subway horror stories, ballet gossip, that one guy on the 1 train who recites Shakespeare to strangers.

Soon Charlie was rambling, her easiest, warmest mode.

“So, um. My friends—Vaggie, Angel, and Pentious.” She wiped a speck of sauce from her lip. “I don’t know if I told you how I met them?”

“I don’t believe you have,” Alastor said, leaning in slightly, genuinely attentive in a way that made Charlie’s chest go light.

“Okay, so—Vaggie I met when I was… twelve?” Charlie smiled at the thought. “I was dancing Clara for the third time. Big night. Completely sold out. And I slipped on a damn fake snowflake and fell flat on my butt.”

“Tragic,” he said with exaggerated gravity, hand on his chest.

“Oh, I’m not even done. So I run backstage sobbing because I’m convinced my career is over at age twelve, and then she appears out of nowhere and hands me a tissue.” She imitated tiny Vaggie’s grim seriousness. “She said, ‘cry and then go back to dance.’ And that was it. We’ve been stuck like glue since.”

Alastor chuckled softly. “I can picture it perfectly.”

“And Angel and Pentious…” Charlie sighed, smiling, “They were there when the school released a statement about me. About how I wasn’t getting special treatment ‘cause my parents are… well, ‘my parents.’ People believed all sorts of crazy stuff. But they were the first ones to come up to me afterward and tell me they didn’t believe any of it and it was people just being jealous.” Charlie shrugged bashfully. “After, Angel offered me a cookie. Pentious said I looked like I needed ‘a support serpent.’”

“A support serpent?” Alastor blinked. “And that worked?”

“It really did.”

He laughed again, genuinely, almost fondly. Charlie glowed.

“And what about you and Rosie?” she asked, pointing her fork his way. “Every time I see you two together you look like you’re plotting a coup, but in general you two look close to each other.”

“Oh no, nothing so sinister,” Alastor said lightly. “Rosie was simply one of my first friends in the company. She… tolerated me.”

“Tolerated?”

“She preferred to dance with me,” he corrected slowly, “only because my technique matched hers. And because we trusted each other onstage.”

Charlie softened at that. “That’s actually… really sweet.”

“Yes, well.” His smile twitched. “Don’t tell her I said that.”

She snickered and went back to her pasta.

And then, because Charlie was Charlie, she kept talking. A lot. Maybe too much. About rehearsals, childhood memories, the time she accidentally broke a prop chair during Coppélia tech week.

Alastor didn’t interrupt once.

He just listened, eyes warm behind the glasses, smiling whenever her excitement bubbled over. It made her fluttery for reasons she didn’t want to examine too closely.

Eventually, Charlie glanced at another table and noticed two people sipping lavender-colored drinks. “Oooh… I want that.”

Before she could ask the waiter, Alastor flagged them down with a graceful tilt of his hand. “She’ll take one of those lavender… drinks.”

The Lavender Spritz arrived, pretty and pastel and deceptively innocent-looking.

Charlie took a sip. Her eyes widened. “Oh! That’s… wow.”

Alastor raised a brow. “Is it good?”

“It’s… mhm!” She nodded fast, cheeks already warming. “Really good.”

She took another sip. Then another ... then another.

By the time she hit the halfway mark she was giggling at a joke he hadn’t actually told.

Alastor narrowed his eyes suspiciously and reached for her glass. “Let me just—” he took a sip. His whole expression sharpened. “Good Heavens, they put half a liquor store in this.”

Charlie blinked innocently. “Huh?”

“You,” he said, confiscating the drink, “have officially lost drinking privileges for the night.”

“But I wasn’t even—”

“Nope.” He finished the rest himself, unbothered, elegant even with a glass of weaponized gin in his hand. “Consider it an act of mercy.”

Charlie huffed, crossing her arms. “That’s not fair.”

“You’ll live,” he said with a smirk.

The check arrived.

Charlie immediately dug through her Chanel bag. “I’ll pay half—”

Alastor slid her wallet gently out of her hand with two fingers.

“If you're going to take anything out of that purse, Miss Morningstar,” he said in a low, amused tone, “it should be your lipstick to touch up your makeup. Not a credit card.”

Charlie froze, face turning cherry red. “O-Okay…”

She obediently took out her lipstick, avoiding his eyes while applying it. Good girl. The words weren’t spoken, but she felt them anyway, and nearly dropped her compact.

He adjusted his glasses and looked over the check like he was reading a contract for land rights in 1930, then paid without hesitation. Charlie thought (in a dizzy burst of honesty) that a man reading a bill should not be allowed to look that attractive.

The waiter returned with their coats, and Alastor helped her (with one hand) into hers with gentlemanly precision, brushing a stray strand of hair off her shoulder as he did.

Charlie swallowed.

Hard.

They stepped into the cold night. For a moment, the city felt muted. Softer. Like the universe had carved out a private pocket just for the two of them.

She tucked her hands in her pockets.

Alastor gave her a sideways glance. “Shall we?” he asked, offering his arm once more.

Charlie didn’t trust her voice. So she just nodded and slipped her arm through his again, her heart suddenly loud in her ears.

They had barely walked two blocks when the first flake fell.

Charlie felt it land on her cheek and blinked upward. “Wait—?”

Another flake. Then ten.

Then the entire sky seemed to decide it was time.

“Oh my god—Al, look!” she gasped, her voice bubbling into a laugh. “It’s snowing!”

Alastor stopped mid-step, glancing around with quick, assessing eyes. The streetlights softened the falling snow into glowing white ribbons. A few people hurried past, collars pulled up, but the city felt suddenly quieter. Slower. Wrapped in silver.

“It wasn’t scheduled tonight,” he murmured.

“Maybe New York wanted to surprise us,” she smiled.

But he was already scanning storefronts, judging which awnings were deep enough, which corners might offer shelter. Snow like this usually meant it would get heavier—fast.

Most places were closed. Lights dimmed. Steel shutters pulled down.

He found one store with a small overhang, a trendy boutique that closed hours ago, and steered them toward it. The moment they ducked under, a hush fell around them. The snow thickened outside, flakes drifting in slow spirals under the streetlamps.

Alastor exhaled, brushing a bit of snow off his coat. “Well. Not the end to the evening I envisioned.”

Charlie didn’t seem bothered at all. She stepped forward, letting the snowflakes hit her palms. Her eyes sparkled the way they only did when she was either extremely happy… or slightly drunk.

Probably both.

He turned to her again, meaning to ask for her address so he could call a cab. But she was twirling her hand through the air, watching the snow land on her glove like a child discovering magic.

And something in him stopped.

Just… stopped.

She looked so bright against the cold. So open. So alive.

A light he hadn’t felt in years.

How could someone her age, someone with her lineage, the pressure, the reputation, the spotlight, still manage to smile like that? So unguarded? So… hopeful?

When he was her age, hope wasn’t something he knew how to hold. Everything was sharp edges and ambition. His world was mirrors and competition and the endless demand to be perfect. He’d lost pieces of himself in the climb. Joy had been the first to go.

But she, Charlie Morningstar, carried joy like it was stitched into her bones.

He didn’t know how long he’d been staring. Long enough for the sidewalk to be dusted white, for her hair to glitter with snow like tiny crystals.

She walked back to him, holding something in her hand.

“Look!” she said, giggling. “A tiny snowball!”

It was more like… three little flakes loosely clinging together. When she dropped it into his palm, it vanished instantly, melting into nothing against his skin.

Charlie gasped dramatically. “You’re too hot for winter.”

Alastor let out a soft laugh. “Is that a compliment?”

“Depends,” she said, grinning. “Does that mean you’re warm… or I’m cold?”

He tilted his head. “I’d say it means you’re a bit cold.”

“Well,” she teased, stepping closer with a mischievous sparkle in her eye, “is this you asking for a hug?”

He didn’t answer with words.

He simply moved.

One fluid step forward. One arm looping around her waist—careful but firm. His other hand still holding his cane, yet he managed to draw her against him as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Charlie froze.

Heat shot up her neck. “Oh—”

His chest pressed against her back, warmth radiating through her coat. The snow fell heavily around them, blurring the world into white.

He didn’t squeeze.

He simply held her.

Quiet. Steady. Certain.

She swallowed, breath fogging in the air. Then she gently pulled away, not to escape, but to turn, to face him fully.

When she stepped into him again, it was with her arms winding softly around his torso, her cheek pressed to his chest. He was taller, broader, steadier than she’d expected.

He let out a slow breath, the kind people release only when they let themselves feel something real.

They stood like that, warm in a pocket of falling winter. Charlie’s heartbeat calmed. Alastor’s grip eased. The city around them felt dreamlike, muted by snow, like the world had paused just for them.

 

And from across the street—
An umbrella snapped open.

Velvette elbowed Valentino, eyes wide as she squinted across the road. “See? SEE?! I told you I didn’t photoshop that pic!”

Valentino shrugged. “I never doubted you, babe.”

“You did,” she hissed. “You both did. Vox thought I was doing some—some fan edit or something!”

Valentino glanced at Vox, waiting for his reaction.

Vox didn’t speak.

He just stood there, snow collecting on the shoulders of his coat, jaw clenched, fists stuffed in his pockets.

His eyes were locked on Alastor.

Or rather, locked on the way Alastor held Charlie.

Vox didn’t blink.

Why her?
Why her?

He’d stood beside Alastor for years. Through training, through brutal seasons, through nights of exhaustion and injuries and everything in between. He was always there for him... and yet he had rejected him.

And this girl, this rich, privileged ballerina who’d barely known Alastor ...

She got everything Vincent had wanted for so long.

Then— Alastor leaned down.

And in the curtain of falling snow, he kissed Charlie on the lips.

Soft. Gentle. Undeniable.

Vox’s heart cracked. Then hardened.

He tore his gaze away. “Fine,” he muttered. “I believe you now.”

Velvette swallowed, stepping back. “So… does this mean we’re free of—”

“No,” Vox cut in sharply. “No one is exempt from anything yet.”

Valentino tensed. “But you said—”

“I said,” Vox growled, eyes still burning at the ground, “that the plan isn’t finished yet.”

He turned, umbrella low, face unreadable but seething underneath.

Velvette and Valentino exchanged uneasy looks, because Vox’s “plan” was the only thing keeping their careers alive ... And now it had a new target.

 

Their lips parted slowly, almost reluctantly, as if the cold itself tugged them back to reality. Charlie inhaled too fast, a soft gasp clouding the air. Alastor drew in a sharp breath as well, trying, failing, to steady it. For a few seconds neither of them moved, both caught between shock and the fading warmth of the kiss.

Charlie’s hands were still on his shoulders. Alastor’s gloved fingers still lightly circled her waist.

He looked away first.

A tiny shift, a glance to the snow, then the street, then anywhere that wasn’t her mouth.

“We… should get you home,” he said quietly. Not cold, not distant, just trying to anchor himself in something practical. “Before the snow gets any worse.”

Charlie shook her head almost immediately, her hands tightening on him instead of loosening. “I don’t want to go home yet.”

Her voice was soft, breathless, almost whispering. She leaned in, forehead tilted toward him, the glow of the streetlamp outlining her flushed cheeks.

Alastor stiffened, not rejecting her, just startled. “My dear” he said gently, “it’s late. And the weather—”

“I know,” she insisted, her hold still warm on his shoulders. “I just… don’t want this to end yet.”

His jaw shifted, an internal war behind his glasses. He forced himself to meet her eyes, even though looking at her this close felt dangerous.

“It’s the right thing for tonight,” he murmured. “Besides, walking anywhere in this will be impossible soon.”

Charlie blinked up at him, earnest and glowing. “Well… I could go to your place.”

He actually laughed, soft, incredulous, and slightly strangled. “You don’t want that,” he exhaled. “That’s the gin talking.”

Charlie shook her head. “No. The gin left the moment you kissed me.”

Alastor froze. The snow kept falling, piling silently at their feet.

He looked at her, trying to decide if this was impulse, tipsiness, or truth. “Charlotte…” His voice gentled even more. “That’s… flattering. Truly. But I’m not entirely convinced.”

“Then trust me,” she said, almost pleading, brushing a thumb against his coat collar before she even realized she was doing it. “I’m not doing anything I don’t want to. And I’m not drunk.”

He opened his mouth.
She cut him off.

“I’m not,” she repeated. “Honestly, Al. You saw me have one drink. One. Just… way stronger than it looked.”

That part made him sigh under his breath.

“Fair,” he admitted. “But whether someone is tipsy or not… they usually say they’re fine.”

Charlie rolled her eyes, stepping back just enough to cross her arms. “Oh, don’t be like that! Don’t exaggerate it. I’m not drunk. I promise.”

He pressed his lips together, staring at her like a man weighing every possibility.

He knew she was right. He also knew she was impulsive, emotional, heartfelt by nature. But nothing in her eyes looked uncertain.

He softened.

“Charlotte,” he said quietly, “I’m going to ask you once. Just once.”He stepped closer again, lowering his head so only she could hear the next words. “Are you completely sure about the choice you’re making right now?”

The snow hissed softly on the pavement. The whole city felt paused.

Charlie didn’t hesitate. “Yes,” she said. Sure. Clear. Steady. “Completely.”

And that was enough. Alastor exhaled through his nose, nodded once, and pulled his phone from his coat.

“Very well,” he said, straightening, “let me get us a cab; we are not taking the subway at this time.”

While he stepped a few feet forward to find a car passing by, Charlie stayed under the awning, pulling her phone out of her bag. A new notification glowed across the lock screen.

 

Mom
Where are you? The snow is getting heavy. Are you going home soon? Also how was your date?

 

Charlie bit her lip.

She glanced at Alastor’s back, at the way he held his phone with that measured, elegant posture, at the way the snow softened the edges of the world around him.

Then she typed quickly.

 

It was good! and Im with Vaggie now! I’m at her dorm. Don’t worry, I’ll stay the night here.

 

Her mother read it immediately.

 

Send me a picture, sweetheart.

 

Charlie swallowed. She opened her gallery, scrolling frantically. She needed something—anything—that matched tonight.

Thank god. There, a selfie from two weeks ago in Vaggie’s dorm, same cardigan, same bag, same hairstyle.

She sent it.

Her mom answered within ten seconds.

 

Okay. Stay put. Come home tomorrow by noon before you go to the academy. I’m sure they’ll cancel classes. Sleep well. Love you.

 

Charlie sent a heart and locked the phone with a relieved sigh.

When she looked up, Alastor was already turning back toward her, cane in one hand, the other lifting slightly to gesture her forward.

A yellow cab had rolled to the curb, engine humming, lights reflecting off the snow.

He walked to the door, opened it with that same old-fashioned grace he always had, even when he thought no one noticed.

“After you,” he said softly.

Charlie stepped toward him, feeling her pulse leap at the way he was looking at her. Warm, steady, careful.

She slid into the seat and he leaned down just enough to make her heart jump again.

The cab felt warmer than it should’ve, as if the snow outside had chased them into a pocket of borrowed heat. The city lights blurred along the windows, distorted by the beginning of the snowfall. Charlie hugged her cardigan a little tighter around her arms, not from cold but from the weight of the silence that settled between them. It wasn’t uncomfortable, just charged, like the air after lightning.

Alastor kept his gaze forward, sitting impeccably straight, one gloved hand resting on his cane. The faint glow from passing streetlamps brushed across his face in flashes, catching the subtle tension in his jaw. The kiss still lingered between them, too close, too recent.

Charlie fidgeted with her bag, then blinked as she felt wires instead of plastic.
“Oh—ugh, I brought the wrong ones,” she whispered, pulling out a pair of tangled wired headphones. “I thought I had my AirPods.”

Alastor turned his head slightly. “Ah. A tragedy of modern convenience.”

She laughed and unwound them clumsily. “Well… since they’re here already ... do you maybe want to hear music with me?”

He hadn’t expected that; a small surprise flickered in his eyes. But when she looked at him with that spark, that soft, bright glimmer that always seemed to melt whatever stiffness he carried, he nodded. “If you insist.”

Charlie’s smile widened. “Okay! Just—wait, these still work with a splitter, right?” She connected the headphones, passed one earbud to him, and he accepted it with a careful motion, as if the gesture itself were delicate. “So,” she murmured, taking a breath. “My music taste is kind of all over the place. But right now… I’ve been replaying something Vaggie sent me. It’s in Spanish, I don’t know what it means, but it feels very… cool. Kind of ‘80s.’ I like the vibe.”

Alastor’s eyebrow lifted. “Spanish? I know a bit of that tongue.”

Her eyes widened. “You do? That’s so cool! I should’ve paid more attention in class back in high school. Vaggie’s the one who tries to teach me anything now.”

“A pity,” he said, with gentle teasing warmth. “But I’m more fluent in French, admittedly.”

Charlie leaned back in the seat and sighed dreamily, not thinking before the words tumbled out of her mouth. “An intelligent man is always more attractive than someone who’s just pretty.”

Alastor’s lips curled slowly, not quite smug, not quite shy, something between amusement and something that made Charlie’s stomach twist warmly.
“Well now,” he said softly. “Play the song.”

She did.

The opening notes of “En la ciudad de la furia” filled the earbuds—dreamy, melancholic, a bit raw. The rhythm pulsed under their silence. Charlie rested her head against the window, watching the world pass by through hazy snowflakes, enjoying the gentle pull of the music.

Alastor listened, unmoving except for the faintest tapping of one finger on his knee.

When it ended, he exhaled thoughtfully, turning toward her. “It is not in my usual repertoire,” he admitted. “But it’s not unpleasant.”

Charlie giggled. “That’s basically your way of saying you liked it.”

“Merely my way of being honest.”

"Do you know what it means tho?"

He hesitated, then added, “The song… it speaks of a city that devours and embraces. Of wandering rooftops and shadows. It’s a lament and a love letter at once.” He nudged her shoulder lightly. “Quite fitting for New York City, wouldn’t you say?”

Charlie blinked. “…Wow. That was beautiful.”

He shrugged, but a hint of color touched his cheeks.

“Then,” she said, suddenly determined, “you get to pick one.”

Alastor took her phone like it was a puzzle box. The device lit up, confusing him for half a second before he adjusted. “I am still not accustomed to these contraptions,” he muttered, squinting. “Touch screens, hm. They make one feel ancient.”

“You’re not ancient!” Charlie laughed. “Just… um… analog.”

He huffed a short, amused breath and typed. Slowly. Very slowly.
Finally, a song appeared on the screen.

“Tis Autumn” – The Nat King Cole Trio.

Charlie’s eyebrows rose. “Ooh! Jazzy.”

“It's quite the fit for the season” Alastor said simply.

She pressed play.

Warm piano. Soft, rich vocals. A gentle, nostalgic fall melody. It contrasted sharply with her last song, his world meeting hers, old meeting new.

And she loved it.

“I really like this,” she whispered.

“Well.” His voice lowered a little. “I am glad.”

She didn’t overthink it—she simply opened Apple Music and switched to a jazz radio station. Something soft, smoky, atmospheric. The kind of music that blended perfectly with the muted city lights outside.

And then…

Silence.

Not awkward.

Just quiet. Comfortable. Shared.

They sat there together, each listening with one wired earbud, each lost in their own thoughts but somehow connected in a way that didn’t need words. The cab hummed softly. Snowflakes drifted outside like tiny ghosts. And the warmth between them, soft, hesitant, new, lingered long after the music became something neither of them recognized.

Charlie glanced at him once, catching the way he stared out the window in deep thought, his face unreadable but not cold. He turned to her at the same moment, and for half a heartbeat, they simply looked at each other, and they smiled.

Charlie only noticed it after a few minutes, how the cab never merged toward a bridge.
No Queensboro. No Williamsburg. No Manhattan Bridge lights flickering through the snow.

They were still threading deeper and deeper downtown.

And suddenly— Christopher Street.

Christopher Street?!

She blinked at the window so hard she thought her eyes might pop out. She knew this part of the city like any self-respecting pop-culture girlie did. Carrie Bradshaw’s building was two streets down. The Friends apartment was right around the corner.

This was West Village.

This was old money, old families, generational wealth, lawyers married to novelists type territory.

This was, “my great-grandfather built this in 1890 and we just… kept it,” kind of neighborhood.

And the cab slowed, and then stopped. In front of a townhouse.

A full, gorgeous, “I pay my taxes by insulting other rich people” townhouse.

Charlie felt her brain leave her body.

Alastor opened the door for her, like a gentleman from another era, stepping out first and offering his hand to help her. The snow had thickened—flakes sticking to his coat, the faint glow of a streetlamp catching the red in his eyes.

He walked up the stairs with the familiar careful rhythm of cane + step + cane + step, unhurried, graceful even in limitation. He reached into his coat for his keys.

Charlie finally found her voice.

“…Is this a joke?”

Alastor, still smiling, stopped at the top of the steps and turned, brow lifting. “A joke? And what, pray tell, would the punchline be?”

“You live here?” She pointed wildly at the townhouse. “Here here? West Village here?!”

He stared at her, amused. “Yes. Should I not?”

Charlie’s mouth opened, closed, opened again.
“I— I just thought…” She rubbed her forehead. “Last time you found me at 3 a.m. drunk out of my mind, it was in Bushwick. I was so sure you lived, like… nearby, I thought you lived over there! I thought you’d be a Queens or Brooklyn guy. Who lives in a West Village townhouse?!”

He slid the key into the lock like someone playing a very soft note on the piano. “Someone who prefers Manhattan for living,” he said calmly, “and Brooklyn for its jazz.”

Her mouth dropped open.

This man.
This elegant, mysterious, radio-voiced, cane-carrying ballet menace just casually said that like it was a grocery list item.

He opened the door, stepping aside for her to enter.

Charlie stepped inside, heart thumping.

It was… Exactly him.

Vintage without pretending to be. Warm wood, rich colors, framed records, a piano in the corner, shelves of old books that smelled like stories and ink. Subtle touches: an antique lamp, a coat rack shaped like a treble clef, little hints of his peculiar, impeccable taste.

Charlie stared at everything, absorbing her in new dimensions. And then her brain, wonderfully unfiltered, whispered:

He is. So. Attractive.
More attractive now, even.
Intelligent. Trilingual. Beautiful home. Stable job. Dedicated mentor. Plays piano. Owns a townhouse in the West Village.

Oo la la indeed.

There should be a red flag on this, it was too good to be true, but for now she was gonna leave that pass.

She didn’t even try to hide the thought on her face.

Alastor removed his coat elegantly. “You seem stunned.”

“Yeah.” She swallowed. “Because I’m—I’m kind of processing the fact that I hit the… I don’t know… the romantic jackpot?”

His brow quirked. “The what?”

She didn’t answer. Because she crossed the distance between them in two steps, grabbed the collar of his vest with trembling fingers, and kissed him.

Not like outside. Not soft. Not tentative.

But deep, certain, hungry.

Her body pressed fully against his, all the warmth of her poured into the moment. He inhaled sharply, a sound that vibrated against her mouth, and his free hand found her waist. His cane-hand tensed at his side; he struggled to keep his balance when her kiss turned fierce, desperate, warm like firelight.

Her lips moved against his in a way that lit every nerve in his spine. He responded with a low, breath-stolen groan, not loud, but real.

When they parted, both breathing fast, Alastor touched her cheek with a gentle, conflicted thumb and whispered,

“…We should go upstairs.”

Her pupils dilated. “Why?”

He leaned in close, close enough for his breath to ghost along her jaw.

“Because if you kiss me like that again in the foyer,” he said softly, “I won’t be able to help myself.”

Her breath hitched. “Then take me upstairs,” she whispered.

His resolve snapped.

He took her hand.
Guided her up the wooden staircase carefully, mindful of his cane, her steps nearly tripping with anticipation.
Every inch closer tightened the air between them like a violin string ready to sing.

They reached his room door.

And he paused only long enough to look at her, searching her eyes one more time for hesitation.

There was none.

Only heat, certainty, and whatever this new world between them was becoming.

 

It was gonna be a long night ... because this was not planned to go this way.

Notes:

OMG I HOPE YALL DID NOT GOT BORED xd (this is the longest I have written for a singular chapter)

This might be super specific and nerdy from me, but when I visualize this au, and I think of Alastor, I think his style will be so similar to Kim Kimin, he is a South Korean ballet dancer, and his jumps are so high, like bros flying. That's kinda why Alastor not being able to properly use one of his legs is intended to be important, sad, and tragic.

Here is some inspo of how his technique was :https://youtu.be/kojUk8fgM18?si=tM8adX3dxY31kAuU

BTW, the restaurant and the address exist in real life (Got lunch there after my graduation ceremony ;3) y'all can type it in Google Maps, I posted a postcard that I got of the restaurant on twt (@hibbb84)!!

The bus route, the streets, and the places that I'm mentioning here exist in real life ;D

 

Video references!!

Second Variation of Prince Siegfried that Charlie watches of Vox debut:
https://youtu.be/Hcruks2zaJ0?si=cpUEqMDsPDWYl_g7

Cavelier variation of the nutcracker that Charlie finds of Vox:
https://youtu.be/Iz9fqHJdrZc?si=a6C0hh6nXn3GSIQ0

Cavelier variation of the nutcracker that Charlie finds of Al before the 'accident':
https://youtu.be/kojUk8fgM18?si=tM8adX3dxY31kAuU

Some acronyms' meanings!!

UWS: Upper West Side
AMNH: American Museum of Natural History
NYCB: New York City Ballet

Chapter 8: Variation II pt.2: The Weight of Yesterday

Notes:

Hi pookies!! Here is a new chapter for y'all to read :D 10k words to keep the usual and better quality ;D

ALSO thank you sooooo much for tuning in and giving support to it on twt!!

I hope it reaches more people in the future

ANYWAYS! enjoy!

Charlie’s body ached everywhere… but in a wonderful, impossible way.

She lay there for a long moment, unmoving, swallowed by warm, tangled sheets. It felt as if she had woken from a dream, no, a fantasy, the kind with heat and half-formed whispers and blurred edges. Except this time, it hadn’t been a dream. It had been real. Too real.

Her eyes were wide open, staring up at the ceiling. She was far too awake for 9 a.m., her nerves buzzing, her pulse quick and fluttery in her throat. She kept her body angled toward the bedside table, grateful for the direction she’d landed in; she knew that turning even an inch to the left would put him in her line of sight. And right now, she wasn’t ready for that, wasn’t ready for the reality of him lying there after everything that had happened.

Nervousness and embarrassment sat heavily at the top of her emotions, crowded by the slow, dizzy swell of memories returning.

The night.

The snowfall.

His voice in the dim cab.

His hand steadying her on the stairs.

The soft click of his townhouse door closing behind them.

And then ... Her face went hot, every thought combusting.

God. How was she supposed to look at him after all of that?

She squeezed her eyes shut, an instinctive retreat, and immediately regretted it. The moment her lashes met, last night unfurled behind her eyelids in flashes, disjointed, vivid, impossible to outrun.

The way he’d removed his glasses the moment they reached the bed, that quiet, unguarded gesture she’d never expected from him. The way he’d brushed his fingers along her jaw, asking without words if she wanted this. How she had nodded, not thinking, not hesitating.

What followed had set something alight in her, a spark that grew into a fire curling up her spine.

Her breath hitched.

She hadn’t known her body could respond like that, not with anyone.

Her whole life had been about discipline: every line intentional, every muscle controlled, every movement deliberate. Ballet was precision. Ballet was restraint. Ballet was knowing her limits before she reached them.

But last night… last night she had no limits. It was freedom in its purest form.

It felt as though she had discovered her own shape all over again.

She remembered how he had held her, gentle at first, protective, almost careful not to startle her. But as the night deepened, his confidence grew, his movements steadier, anchored, assured. There was something reverent in the way he touched her, like he was studying choreography, memorizing every detail with a kind of hunger threaded through discipline.

And always, in the back of her mind, the awareness of his weak leg. An awareness that had made her cautious at first. But he’d moved with far more strength, far more certainty than she had anticipated. There were moments his grip was so firm, so commanding, she forgot entirely that he ever relied on a cane. And that, somehow, made her admire him even more.

His hands, steady, elegant, had learned the lines of her back, her waist, her hips as though discovering new music. And she had responded instinctively, boldly, following every cue with a confidence she didn’t even know she possessed.

Her cheeks warmed.

I didn’t know he could do that…

I didn’t know I could do that.

She wasn’t naïve. Ballet demanded flexibility, strength, and control; she knew her body intimately. But she had never imagined using those abilities outside a studio like this, guided by someone who watched her as if she were the most intricate piece he’d ever studied.

She didn’t know which stunned her more:

His capability… or how completely she melted under his hands.

Her legs felt like overcooked noodles; her back tingled; her neck ached in ways that somehow felt earned. Even her toes curled when she shifted. She was fairly certain she’d discovered muscles her anatomy textbooks had politely ignored.

Yet beneath the embarrassment and the swirling, stormy emotion, something else lingered, warm, startling, steady.

Happiness.
And pride.

She had been with people before. Last night wasn’t technically a first. But it was the first time she had felt wanted—truly, deliberately wanted. Not for convenience, not for proximity, not for fleeting attraction, but with intention.

She didn’t know if it was because Alastor was older, more thoughtful, more deliberate in every choice he made, or because the pull she felt toward him, physically, emotionally, was unlike anything she’d let herself feel before. Maybe both. Maybe neither. All she knew was that whatever had happened between them… none of it felt accidental.

And it still didn’t feel entirely real.

A week ago, she wouldn’t have imagined being drawn to a man more than ten years her senior. She wouldn’t have imagined waking up on a Wednesday morning in a townhouse in the West Village, skin still humming with memory. She certainly wouldn’t have imagined him, a reserved, brilliant, frustrating, steady Alastor, being the one to unravel her.

They had said they would take things slow.
She laughed under her breath at the irony.

But there was one truth she couldn’t avoid, not anymore.

She wanted this.

Not just last night.

Not just the heat and rush and discovery.

She wanted him.

For longer than a moment. Longer than a mistake. Longer than a passing thrill.

Maybe she was unbalanced from the lingering adrenaline, or the lack of sleep, or the sheer emotional magnitude of it all. Maybe it was too soon to know anything.

Time would sort that out; it always did.

But right here, right now, wrapped in cooling sheets with the taste of last night still clinging to her memory, she felt something she hadn’t felt in years:

Certain.

And if someone had told her just a week ago that she’d end up here, in this bed, feeling like this… she would have laughed.

Yet here she was.

Warm. Still. Wide awake.

And somehow, stepping into a version of herself she didn’t know she had been waiting to meet.

Okay, too many thoughts, it was time to come back down to earth and face the reality that was right beside her.

Finally, she brought herself to look.

She turned her head to the right, slowly, cautiously, heart lifting in her chest.

And then something was wrong ...

 

The space beside her was empty.

 

The sheets weren’t even dented anymore.

Her breath caught, sharp and silent.

Oh.

That stupid, small sound echoed in her chest like something cracking.

A sudden rush of thoughts barreled through her. Did he leave? Did he just… go? Did she imagine the way he held her afterward? Was this just—

She forced herself upright, clutching the sheet to her chest. Panic made the room sharpen around her, every detail suddenly too vivid. His room was not extravagant, but curated, intentional. Dark wood furniture; a deep red accent wall that felt almost theatrical; three framed paintings, abstract but warm; a peculiar, old-fashioned radio with rounded edges; a desk cluttered with sheet music; and a tall window that spilled sunlight over her skin like a spotlight.

It all looked so him.

Comfortable, orderly, old-soul.

But he wasn’t here.

Her pulse thudded. She swallowed hard and called out, “Alastor?”

No answer.

She tried again, louder this time, but nothing. The quiet was too heavy, too final. Did he seriously leave her alone in his own house? Even as the thought formed, it felt unreal. He wasn’t careless. He wasn’t cruel ... Well, not that cruel. But the sight of that empty space beside her hurt more than she wanted to admit.

Before she could unravel further, she shifted to climb off the bed, and immediately felt something warm slip from her, a slow, unmistakable sensation.

“Oh—” Heat rushed to her cheeks as she realized what it was.

Right. That.

They haven’t used protection ... again.

Mortified and still half-dazed, she clutched the sheets to her chest and hurried toward the bathroom, bare feet tapping lightly across the wooden floor. She closed the door behind her and leaned against it, breathing for a moment.

The bathroom was surprisingly spacious, separate shower and bathtub, marble counters, and everything kept meticulously clean. If she hadn’t been in emotional freefall, she might’ve admired it. Instead, she beelined for the shower, letting the warmth wash over her, grounding her, steadying her heartbeat.

Once she was clean, she wrapped herself in a towel and stepped back into the room.

She looked around for her clothes… nothing. No sign of her cardigan. No pants. No t-shirt. Only her Chanel bag was found, resting neatly on the desk.

Her face heated again. “Seriously…? Where the hell is the rest?” she whispered to herself. At least her shoes and socks were still there ... sadly her underwear was also not found.

With no other choice, she opened one of his wardrobe doors. Inside were neatly arranged shirts, slacks, sweaters, everything smelling faintly of cedarwood, cigarettes, his cologne, and something warm and classic. She reached for the first soft T-shirt she saw and a pair of old jersey shorts; she was gonna be inside, so there was no need for something warmer now. When she pulled them on, they hung on her frame, swallowing her ballet waist and making her look impossibly small.

But she didn’t mind at all, she just needed something, anything, between her skin and the confusing emptiness in the room.

After a few minutes trying to calm down and accept that she was completely alone in a big house, Charlie started to think, what if she explored a little more? What if she snooped around the house? After all, if Alastor wasn’t even inside, who was going to stop her? Certainly not him. And certainly not her own self-control, which had apparently stayed behind somewhere between last night’s madness and this morning’s haze.

With a clearer idea of ​​how she was going to start the day, Charlie left the bathroom and Alastor's room. She was determined to go downstairs to the first floor, but she noticed there were three more doors. One of them was slightly ajar, revealing that it was another bathroom, but smaller, as if it were for guests. However, the other two doors were closed, and at that moment, that only made her want to investigate what was inside those walls.

“Okay… let’s see what secrets you’ve got, Mr. Piano man,” she muttered under her breath, half joking, half trying to distract herself from the sting she still felt after waking up alone.

The first door opened with a gentle creak.

The room inside was almost empty, eerily so. Except for a vintage vanity against the wall, the wood is dark and polished, its mirror slightly fogged with age. A bundle of half-melted candles lay scattered across its surface, like he sometimes came here to think. Or brood. Or both. 

The morning light poured in through a huge window draped in thin curtains, and when she stepped closer, she realized the room had a tiny balcony attached. She slipped through the old glass door and immediately breathed in the cold. Below her, Alastor’s private garden, small, neat, and unexpectedly charming, was covered in soft snow from last night. The snow glittered between the stone steps and the miniature iron fence.

She stared for a moment.

This man owned a townhouse in the West Village… and had a private garden. How much did this place even cost?

There had to be a big story behind this; it didn't make sense to have so much. I mean, it's fine to have things and improve your life, but this was something that didn't fit. Wasn't he the one who said that his mother had moved them to New York for a better life?

“Jesus, Al… what are you, secretly royalty?” she whispered, hugging herself against the chill.

The second room was different. Warmer. Lived-in.

A library.

Books covered almost every wall in dark wooden shelves. There was an old leather couch pushed under another wide window, a thick blanket tossed carelessly over one armrest as though someone, probably him, often fell asleep reading there.

Then she noticed it:

A vintage tape recorder from the 80s, sitting on a low table, surrounded by a stack of vinyls.

She crouched down, fingertips brushing the spines.

Tchaikovsky. Prokofiev. Stravinsky. Minkus. Delibes.

Of course. Of course, he collected ballet on vinyl. It was the most “Alastor” thing she’d ever seen.

Her chest tightened pleasantly.

After last night… she shouldn’t be this charmed. And yet she was.

Damn, that man had her doomed.

She went downstairs next, the wooden steps creaking softly beneath her bare feet. The living room opened wide before her, bigger than she expected, with old but well-kept furniture—deep couches, a rug with muted colors, lamps with warm shades.

She plopped onto the couch, then immediately lay down sideways, letting her limbs melt into the cushions. The place felt ancient and modern at the same time, one foot in nostalgia, one in the present. Like him.

Across the room, she noticed the TV: a bulky early-2000s screen with a VHS player built into it. She actually laughed.

“A relic. Gorgeous.”

The dining room was next door. Impeccable. Predictable. Nothing out of the ordinary; it was simply a large rectangular table, not quite big enough to say it was designed for entertaining many guests, but certainly large enough so you wouldn't feel so alone.

But the piano… she felt its presence even before she saw it.

It stood in its own corner, imposing, and even somewhat unattainable; and a gleaming black, with sheet music scattered across the lid in an organized chaos. A stool was slightly askew, as if he had just been sitting there that very morning.

Perhaps he had.

She pictured him there, his fingers dancing over the keys, the morning sunlight caressing his shoulders, his hair still tousled from sleep…

She swallowed hard.

Finally, she drifted into the kitchen. All stainless steel, tidy, modern. No clues. No hints. No Alastor.

She ended up back in the living room, collapsing onto the couch again. This time she lay fully stretched out, letting her head sink into a cushion, one arm draped dramatically over her eyes like some Victorian heroine trying to recover from emotional turmoil.

She exhaled deeply.

Then, suddenly, a jolt of panic.

Her phone.

She hadn’t checked it since last night. Someone had definitely texted her. Probably her mother. Probably Vaggie. Probably the entire planet.

Charlie sat up fast and stumbled a little as she hurried toward the stairs, her bare legs cold against the hardwood, her oversized shirt swaying with each hurried step.

She reached Alastor’s bedroom again, her heartbeat now louder than the quiet house, and searched for her bag where she’d left it.

She hoped nothing terrible awaited her on that screen.

And more than that… she hoped Alastor hadn’t left her.

Not after everything that happened.Not after how she felt.

She just needed to check her phone first, so then she could focus on his absence again.

Charlie took the phone out of her bag, relieved to have found it, but the first thing that came out of her mouth wasn't an expression of joy.

"Oh... my God."

It wasn’t the phone that first horrified her ... It was her reflection.

Before, she had only glanced at herself in the bathroom mirror, not even fully conscious when she saw herself, wrapped in her own daze, too bewildered by the night to really see herself properly. But now, in the bright morning light of Alastor's bedroom, with her hair disheveled, dressed in his oversized shirt and shorts, she finally realized. She realized the rebellion she had unleashed.

Her neck.

Gosh

Her entire neck looked like a battlefield of wine-colored stains, blooming down to her collarbone, trailing across her shoulders. The faint marks from Saturday? Those were child’s play. These were older-sister-of-child’s-play… no—these were criminal.

Something a cannibal would do before devouring their victims.

“Oh my God...” she whispered again, lifting the collar of the t-shirt with trembling fingers.

It got worse.

Her torso wasn’t spared either. Her chest, her breasts, there were marks everywhere, no pattern, no mercy, all in the same deep, reckless shade that said he had absolutely not held back.

I’m going to kill him.
Actually kill him.

She tugged the waistband of the jorts down.

Her heart dropped to her knees.

A huge hickey decorated the inside of her thigh.

Dangerously close to ... that place

“Oh for the love of— ALASTOR. ARE YOU SERIOUS?!”

Her voice cracked, but the house stayed silent.

How much time had passed that she couldn't remember the moment he did that? How pleasurable had the night been for her mind to be able to forget things like this? At what moment did he devour her? At what moment did he put his mouth there?

It was both a shame and a relief not to be able to remember it now.

Still trembling and processing her ‘new’ image, she grabbed her phone and finally unlocked it. But before she could even think of clicking an app—

A call popped up, FaceTime actually.

It was Vaggie.

Charlie’s stomach dropped. She answered instantly. “Vaggie? What’s going—”

“I think I seriously messed up.” Vaggie blurted, no greeting, no breath. Her voice was panicked, frantic. “Charlie, oh God—listen, I think I accidentally fucked you up.”

Charlie blinked, her blood running cold. “What? What are you talking about? What happened?”

“This is… okay, this is my fault, PARTLY my fault, like, sixty-forty? Maybe seventy-thirty? I don’t know!” Vaggie rambled. “But if you had told me you were gonna be gone all night I could have COVERED for you!”

“Vaggie… what are you talking about? I’m getting scared,” Charlie repeated, slower this time, already feeling in trouble

Vaggie let out a groan-sigh of pure defeat. “Your mom called me.”

Charlie’s soul left her body. “What?”

“She called me because you weren’t answering your phone.” Vaggie kept going, sounding like she was pacing. “I had literally just woken up, and she asked if you were still sleeping, and to wake you up and put you on the phone.”

“F-For what?”

“She wanted you to come home earlier because it's gonna keep snowing the rest of the day.”

“What did you say tho?” Charlie was just hoping for this not to be that bad.

“I panicked, and I was half asleep, so I told her the truth …”

“What truth??” Charlie’s voice cracked.

“That you weren’t here!”

Charlie’s fingers fumbled, and she nearly dropped her phone. She pulled it away from her ear long enough to check her notifications.

Missed call — 8:03 AM

Missed call — 8:47 AM

Missed call — 8:49 AM

Mom: Charlotte, sweetie, are you awake, darling? - 8:05 AM

Mom: The forecast said that there will probably be more snow, so come home as soon as you wake up. - 8:08 AM

Mom: Please call me when you can  - 8:33 AM

Mom: Why are you not answering? - 8:50 AM

 

“Oh god. I’m so screwed—”

“And—uh—” Vaggie squinted at the screen, leaning in, “—CHARLIE.” Her eyes widened. “Your neck. What the fuck?!.”

Charlie froze.

Vaggie’s eyebrows practically launched into orbit. “Your date went INSANE. You look like a damn battlefield. Is your neck okay?? Actually, forget that—are you okay?? Because you look way more worried about your mom than your—uh—‘territory marks.’”

Charlie covered her neck with her hand, groaning. “I KNOW, Vaggie, I KNOW—please don’t remind me—”

“No, chica, I’m reminding you because I care. And also because HOLY SHIT.” Vaggie paused. “…so, does that mean, this was part of the ‘formal’ date, or you guys are still casual? Cause this is not clear to me anymore … who’s the lucky dude tho? Was he like… a vampire??”

Charlie opened her mouth, but she froze when she heard the front door open downstairs.

Footsteps.

Slow, steady, and familiar.

And then a clack on the floor … and then another one

Alastor was back at home.

Her heart jumped into her throat.

The tension in her shoulders melted, just a little, replaced by something warm, fluttery, and embarrassingly immediate.

“Vaggie—I gotta go,”

“Wait, WHAT? Charlie, do NOT hang up on me—Charlie—CHAR—”

The call ended, and the screen went black. She put her phone on the small nightstand

For a moment, Charlie stood perfectly still at the top of the stairs, half-hoping, half-expecting that Alastor would magically appear in the doorway, as though he’d known she’d woken up. But the house remained quiet, save for the faint, muffled shuffle of someone moving downstairs.

Five minutes passed.

Nothing.

Her stomach twisted.

So she pushed herself forward, hands brushing the wooden railing, eyes drifting to the single coat hanging neatly on the wall hanger. It was his dark, pressed, old-fashioned.

Everything in this house was exactly him. Each step she took down felt like she was walking deeper into a dream she wasn’t sure she was supposed to be in.

Then came the smell, rich, warm, impossibly comforting. Coffee. Toast. Something sweet.

She rounded the corner into the kitchen, and her breath caught.

Alastor was there, quietly, effortlessly moving between the counter and the stove, whisking something in a bowl while a pan sizzled with golden slices of bread—french toast? she guessed.

He hadn’t changed; he still wore the same crisp shirt from last night, sleeves rolled up, hair somehow perfect. Even from behind, even without looking at her, he carried that composed, classic elegance that was so uniquely him.

He didn’t turn.

He didn’t need to, he just knew she was there.

“I trust you slept well?” he asked, voice warm, steady, almost amused. He heard her footsteps before she’d even reached the doorway.

Charlie froze mid-step, heat rushing to her face. A thousand possible answers collided and tangled, and when she finally opened her mouth—

“I—uh—well—I mean, yeah, I think, um—?”

It came out as pure nonsense.

Alastor finally glanced over his shoulder, that old, polished smile curved at the corner. Only now, she recognized it, the teasing glint behind it. A man who knew exactly how flustered she was.

“How curious,” he said lightly, eyes sweeping over her before returning to the pan. “Considering everything that happened last night…” his tone dipped just enough to make her feel warm all over again, “I’d have thought that particular nervousness would be long gone. And I presume my clothes are comfortable?”

Charlie nearly combusted. “D-Don’t push it—! And I—I demand an explanation!”

Alastor raised a brow but turned calmly back to the stove. “An explanation I… owe you?” he echoed.

“Yes!” she said, stepping forward. “You— you left. I woke up, and you weren’t there. No note, no text, no— I don’t know, You could have woken me up and said something, like 'hey, im going out for a smoke', or 'hey I'm gonna buy some stuff or do some errands', but not just leave like that, I felt like ...” Her words began unraveling, faster than she could organize them. “I just… it felt like—like—”

Her throat closed unexpectedly.

She hadn’t meant to get emotional. She didn’t even know why she was emotional, just that the idea of waking up alone in his bed, after everything had hit her with a sharp, confusing sting she wasn’t ready for.

Her silence stretched.

Too long.

Alastor turned again, this time fully, and his expression softened the moment he saw her watery eyes.

Charlie swore under her breath and quickly wiped them. “Sorry—sorry. ... Fuck ... I don’t know why I’m like this lately. It’s just—Nutcracker rehearsals, pressure, nerves— I’ve been all over the place. Ignore it.”

But he didn’t.

He stepped toward her with that controlled grace of his and wrapped one arm around her, pulling her gently against him, careful, but close. His cane tapped the floor lightly as he shifted.

“You are so emotional, dollface,” he murmured near her temple, voice low. “But emotion is hardly a flaw, my dear. It means you’re human.” A pause. Then a sly whisper: “And a rather expressive dancer.”

She let out a shaky exhale and hugged him back, pressing her cheek briefly against his shirt, taking in the warmth, the softness, the steadiness that somehow felt safer than anything she expected.

But the pan hissed loudly behind him.

He pulled away with a quiet chuckle. “As flattering as this is, if I don’t return to that pan, breakfast will become charcoal.” He tapped her hip lightly and went back to the stove. “I picked up a few things for you, by the way. They’re on the table.”

Charlie blinked. “What things?”

He nodded toward a small paper bag near the fruit bowl.

She walked over and opened it and her cheeks instantly heated.

Inside was a sealed makeup foundation… and a Plan B pill.

“Al, I still have the ones you bought me on Satur—”

“Take this one now, don’t risk it,” he said without turning. “Save the others for emergencies. I’m not allowing you to use those any more than necessary. They can mess up your hormones.” Again, that warmth bloomed in her chest, stronger, deeper. She swallowed.

“So next time…” Her voice trailed, soft, trying to give a hint of this to continue

“Next time,” Alastor confirmed, calmly flipping a slice of bread, “I’ll use protection.”

Her heart flipped over itself; she actually had to look away for a moment.

This wasn’t casual.

This wasn’t careless.

This was a man who thought ahead, who cared enough to be responsible for her, not just with her.

And that realization settled inside her like something fragile and important.

Charlie stood there, suddenly shy in his clothes, watching the winter light spill into his vintage kitchen while he cooked breakfast like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Alastor?” she said softly.

“Hm?”

“Thank you.” She didn’t specify what for.

She didn’t need to.

He heard it anyway.

His smile, though she only saw it from the side, softened just a little more.

“You’re welcome, my dear.”

Charlie sat across from him, still a little stunned by how domestic this all felt, her in his shirt, her hair messy from sleep and his hands, sitting at his wooden table while the morning light spilled in a soft gold across the floorboards. The plate in front of her held something that looked familiar but… not quite.

“This isn’t regular French toast,” she murmured, leaning closer. It smelled richer, warmer, almost custard-like.

Alastor gave a quiet, proud laugh, the kind of sound that always rose from the back of his throat as if he were half-teasing, half-performing. “Indeed not, my dear. Pain perdu. A classic from home.” He tapped the edge of the plate with the flat of the fork. “We call it ‘lost bread.’ Something given a second life.”

Charlie took a forkful, letting the soft, buttery center melt on her tongue. It had a deeper flavor than the overly-sweet brunch-spot version she grew up on; this was velvety, warm, with the faintest crisp around the edges. “Oh… oh wow. This is… so much better. It’s like it’s crispy but creamy at the same time. How?”

“That,” Alastor said, sitting with perfect posture, “would be the magic of letting the bread soak properly. A great many sins may be forgiven in cuisine, impatience is not one of them.”

She laughed, covering her mouth. He softened just a little, the crinkle at the corner of his eyes betraying something gentle.

He pushed a mug toward her. “I wasn’t certain how you take your coffee, so—”

“Oh no, that’s fine,” she said, reaching for it. “I put so much syrup in my usual order that sometimes I forget what coffee tastes like.”

Alastor raised an eyebrow, amused, maybe a little horrified. “I can… imagine.”

She took a sip.

Instant regret.

The bitter coffee hit her tongue, and the entire right side of her face twitched. She tried to hide it, failed spectacularly, and Alastor let out a small, delighted hum.

“Oh dear. If I didn’t know better, I’d think I hurt you again.”

Charlie’s eyes widened.

Right, how could she forget?

Her neck. Her torso. Her thighs.

“Alastor!” she hissed, putting the mug down as quietly as she could. “You went so far. My neck is a battlefield.”

“If memory serves,” he said lightly, “you were not only a willing volunteer,  you were rather encouraging.”

Her cheeks burned. “That’s not the point! I look like I got into a fight with a vacuum cleaner.”

He chuckled. “No one will notice. Wear something high-collared. Or the makeup I bought.” He tilted his head, examining her with an assessing gaze that felt far too intimate for a breakfast table. “There are solutions aplenty. It is winter, after all.”

Charlie frowned. “Okay, but when I take the shirt off, it’s going to show.”

He didn’t even pause. “Far as I know, the only person who’ll be seein’ you without a shirt on… is me.”

She nearly choked on air.

He blinked innocently, absolutely aware of the effect he was having.

Charlie stammered, “Y-yeah, well — but still — I— it’s just— actually—”

And then, maybe because she was already flustered, maybe because the warmth between them was impossible to ignore anymore, she took a breath and let the real question slip out.

“I know what you said on Saturday… that we didn’t need a title yet. And I know things are fast, I do, but… I just want to be sure that we’ll have one. Eventually.”

Her voice was small but honest. Her fingers twisted in the fabric of his shirt sleeves.

Alastor let out a soft laugh, the warm, rich one he used when something genuinely amused him rather than when he was putting on a show.

“My dear,” he said, “if there’s anything we excelled at recently… it was speed.”

She shoved his arm. “Alastor!”

He smiled, and then his expression softened. He reached out, taking her hand with a gentleness that made her heart flutter. He had that effect on her.

“I invited you to dinner last night,” he said, his tone lower, sincere. “Because I wanted to do things properly. Courtin’. The old-fashioned way, if you’ll believe it. But… things happened.” A tiny, wicked twitch at the corner of his smile. “Things I do not, in the slightest, regret.”

Charlie swallowed, her fingers tightening around his.

“I wanted to take you out a few more times,” he continued, “give us the time to build something steady… then ask.” His thumb traced the delicate bones at the back of her hand. “But if givin’ it a name now keeps your mind from runnin’ wild while you’re tryna rehearse… then I see no harm in it. It was bound to happen regardless.”

Her breath stuttered. That warm feeling in her chest spread, slow and overwhelming.

“You mean that?” she whispered.

He tipped his head, smiling in that soft, old-radio way of his. “I don’t waste words, sweetheart.”

Her smile broke like sunrise, bright, relieved, dizzying.

He squeezed her hand once more. “Now that that’s settled, perhaps you can leave those intrusive thoughts at the door and put your mind back where it belongs, on your dance career.”

Charlie laughed, genuinely, shoulders loosening for the first time all morning.

Of course, he would say something like that. He would be both caring and exasperatingly pragmatic at the same time.

And God, she thought, staring at him, this man.

This thoughtful, infuriating, steady, brilliant man.

She’d dated boys before. Men her age, or just a bit older, but never surpassing more than 3 years. She even dated some girls.

None of them had ever made her feel this safe, this chosen, this seen.

Alastor wasn’t just older. He wasn’t just cultured or charming.

He was a gentleman with his head on straight. Someone who thought ahead, who spoke clearly, who meant what he said.

And sitting there in his shirt, eating New Orleans pain perdu in his sunlit kitchen, she couldn’t help the thought that flickered through her like a spark:

She was lucky. Very, very lucky.

 

Breakfast continued, but this time without the tension that usually existed between them, more like completely normal people. A bit of gossip here and there, or some facts about themselves or people close to them. And for Charlie, it was a good sign that, at least, conversations didn't have to be complicated between them. Obviously, she took a moment to take the pill, because Al was right, it wouldn't be good to take any risks.

But then Charlie remembered something very important that she had forgotten.

“Um… Alastor?” she asked hesitantly, brushing her fingers over the cuff of the sleeve. “Where are my clothes? I looked for them earlier but… couldn’t find them.”

Alastor wiped the corner of his mouth with his napkin, casual and unbothered.
“I put them to wash early in the morning,” he said simply. “But by now, they should be dry.”

“Oh.” Charlie nodded, relieved. “Good. After I clean the plates, I want to put them back on.”

He lifted a brow. “There’s no need for that. I cooked, so allow me to handle the cleaning. You can go upstairs and change.”

Charlie was already pushing her chair back.
“No, no—fair is fair. You cooked, I clean. Besides… I don’t even know where your laundry room is.” She moved toward the sink, turning on the tap before he could protest again. “So I’ll do this while you… I don’t know, rest. Or sit. Or something.”

Her laugh was small, but warm.

Alastor stood anyway, retrieving the rest of the dishes with an ease that shouldn’t be possible for someone leaning so heavily (sometimes) on a cane. His other hand remained steady, carrying plates, glasses, and forks, balancing everything without struggle.

He set them beside her, their shoulders brushing for a brief second. Charlie smiled at him softly before turning back to the sink and drowning herself in warm, soapy water.

He watched her for a moment.

Like really watched her, arms immersed in suds, her hair loosely tied, his clothes hanging comfortably off her shoulders.

Then he stepped back.

He left her to it, letting the sound of running water fill the room. He walked over to the corner, where the grand piano stood. The piano remained there in silence, waiting. Demanding nothing. Simply existing, like something patient and ancient.

Alastor sat down, fingers hovering over the keys but not pressing them.

He wasn’t here to play.

He wasn’t even sure why he had sat there, except that some strange sensation, a quiet, almost dangerous peace, kept drawing him toward the instrument.

From where he sat, he could see the hallway.

And the coat rack.

His coat wasn’t alone anymore. Next to it, hanging neatly, was hers too.

He stared at the sight longer than he intended. What an interesting thing, he thought.

A sign.

A reminder that maybe… just maybe… he wasn’t going to be alone ... at least not for now.

Charlie rinsed the last plate and set it carefully on the drying rack, her hands still warm from the dishwasher. There, she thought, satisfied. The kitchen was quiet again, except for the furnace humming faintly through the old bones of the townhouse.

She wiped her hands on a towel and looked around, expecting Alastor to be where she’d left him.

He wasn’t.

Her brows lifted.

He had been right behind her a moment ago.

Then, she heard it.

A single note, soft but steady, floating from the next room.

Then another. Then a phrase.

Her breath caught.

Charlie stepped out of the kitchen, the air colder on her skin after the warmth of the sink. And there he was, seated at the piano, back straight, head slightly bowed, fingers resting on the keys with the familiarity of someone greeting an old friend.

He wasn’t playing for an audience.

He wasn’t performing.

He was simply… existing with the music and letting it move through him.

Charlie froze in the doorway, her heart swelling painfully at the sight.

The melody sounded familiar. It didn't come from any ballet score or any Tchaikovsky piece she'd grown up with, but from something more unique.

It was that melody she had heard that day, so long ago, when she found him playing the piano in that empty studio, where she saw him so connected to the music, as if they were one.

It was that piece from that film she still hadn't seen. The music enveloped the house like smoke: soft, haunting, full of longing and a silent hope.

It had stunned her then. It stunned her now.

The winter light, thin and pale, filtered through the living room window and lay itself in a faint silver line across Alastor’s cheek. His fingers moved with rhythm, no flourish, just honesty—a confession in notes.

Charlie’s body softened with every chord. She didn’t move, afraid the sound might shatter if she did. The piece climbed gently, then fell, like a breath released after being held too long. Her eyes prickled, and she blinked the sting away.

When the last note faded, silence filled the room again, warm this time, like a shared blanket.

Alastor’s shoulders rose with a quiet inhale. Then one of his hands lifted to his face, brushing the corner of his eye. Was it a tear? Or just his glasses? She couldn’t tell. It didn’t matter. The gesture was delicate. Human. And somehow it made her chest ache even more.

He adjusted his frames, composed himself, and finally turned.

His eyes found her immediately, as if he’d known she was there all along. That familiar sly smile appeared, softened with something gentler.

“Mademoiselle,” he said lightly, cane angled beside him. “I do hope my performance met your standards.”

Charlie smiled, an honest, warm, breathless smile. “You never miss,” she said.

“Ah. High praise,” he murmured, rising slowly. He reached for his cane, using it to stand with practiced elegance. “If I never miss, I suppose I must continue the streak.”

Charlie let out a soft laugh, more air than sound, but full of affection.

Alastor stepped toward her and nodded toward the staircase. “Come along. I believe I promised to show you where your clothes are drying, did I not?”

He started walking ahead, tapping the cane lightly against the wooden floor. The sound echoed through the old townhouse, steady, rhythmic, strangely comforting.

Charlie followed, her steps quiet behind him. The hallway felt warmer now, filled with that lingering melody, with the realization that she wasn’t just in anyone’s home. She was in his space, his world, his rhythm, his solitude.

And her coat, hanging beside his on the wooden rack, felt like an omen.

A small, simple symbol that somehow carried weight.

As they ascended the stairs, Charlie felt her chest warm again, not with embarrassment, not with anxiety, but with a tenderness she hadn’t expected to feel this soon, or this intensely.

The music still echoed in her. Or maybe it was simply him.

Either way, she felt it down to her bones.

And for the first time that morning, she wasn’t afraid of what it meant.

 

Alastor guided her down the small hallway and stopped in front of the guest bathroom on the second floor, since she never went inside when she was exploring, now this made more sense why the door was halfway opened. The laundry machines were tucked inside, humming quietly under the soft, white light. He opened the dryer, reached in, and pulled out her clothes, warm, folded, and smelling faintly of lavender detergent.

“Here,” he said, offering them to her with a small, old-fashioned bow of the head.

Charlie managed a shy smile as she took them. They walked back to his bedroom, still dim, still wrapped in that soft red glow from the lamp, and she slipped into the bathroom inside his room to change.

Alastor sat on the edge of the bed while he waited. For a moment, he simply watched the light under the door, the way it moved whenever she shifted inside… and then a soft vibration caught his ear.

He turned.

Her phone sat on his nightstand, the screen lighting up again and again.

He leaned closer.

Incoming call.

But he didn’t recognize the passcode. He didn’t even know which button was meant to answer. He just stared until the sound stopped… and the voicemail counter climbed.

15 missed calls. All from the same name.

He frowned.

By the time Charlie reappeared, hair a bit messy, cheeks still flushed, sleeves pulled down nervously, he was still staring at the screen.

“You’ve… someone has been trying to reach you,” he announced. “For a while.”

Charlie blinked, confused. Then she saw the illuminated screen and felt her stomach plummet. “Oh no… no no no—” She rushed forward and grabbed the phone. “I didn’t answer any of my mom’s texts—she must be freaking out. I’m going to be so screwed.”

Alastor watched her with raised brows, his expression shifting from amused to sharply curious as she scrolled through the notifications. The tension in her shoulders tightened, and she went completely still.

Another notification slid across the top of the screen.

Email: New York City Ballet — Schedule Update.

Classes canceled due to storm warnings. Sunday has been added as a make-up day.

She stared, panicked, overwhelmed. Alastor leaned slightly closer, not enough to invade, just enough to read along with her.

"Well, at least you would not have to worry about practice today."

Charlie swallowed hard. “I… I need to go home.” Her voice trembled. “Right now. I’m already in so much trouble—”

Alastor’s laugh cut through the panic, low and velvety. “Trouble? My dear, if this is what you look like when your mother calls too much, I fear what will happen once she actually sees you.” He tilted his head, eyes lingering pointedly at her neck. “Also, you may want to… cover that.”

She touched the side of her throat instinctively, feeling the slight sting. Her face went scarlet.

Alastor smirked, unbothered, leaning back with that effortless, elegant arrogance that always made her chest tighten. “Unless,” he added, eyes narrowing with wicked amusement, “you want everyone to assume you’ve either been thoroughly beaten up… or pleasured within an inch of your life.”

“Alastor!” she hissed, mortified.

He chuckled again, soft and warm. “Just advising.”

But she saw something else under the humor, a flicker of possessiveness, quickly hidden, but undeniably there. A heat in his stare that made her legs feel unsteady.

Charlie looked down at her phone again, breath shaking.

“I really have to go.”

“I know,” he murmured. “I’m not stopping you.”

He rose from the bed with that quiet, deliberate grace that always made Charlie’s breath catch. “But before you do,” he added, tilting his head, “I’m doing a final inspection. If you walk out there with half-erased marks, I’ll feel personally responsible.”

Charlie couldn’t help the little smile that tugged at her mouth. “Fine. Inspector.”

She hurried downstairs for her foundation, the coolness of the townhouse reminding her how warm his room had been, how warm he had been. When she returned, he was exactly where she left him, perched on the edge of the bed, now with a book open in his hand as if her brief absence had allowed him to slip into another world entirely.

Charlie went into the bathroom and covered her neck the best she could, then stepped back out. “Okay,” she said, trying to sound confident. “Tell me. Can you see anything?”

Alastor closed the book with one smooth motion and stood, retrieving his cane from where it rested against the nightstand.

“Come here,” he said softly.

They moved to the bathroom, where the lights were brighter. He lifted her chin carefully, eyes scanning the edge of her jaw, her throat, the delicate skin beneath her ear.

“You missed a spot,” he said after a moment, stretching his hand toward her. “Pass me the bottle.”

She handed it over, and he dabbed a fingertip’s worth of foundation just under her left side, blending it with surprising gentleness. His face was close, close enough that she could feel the warmth of his breath. The only thing in Alastor's mind was ... why is she so white?

“There,” he said at last. “Now you’re ready.”

Charlie exhaled, tension loosening from her shoulders. She pulled out her phone and ordered an Uber. For once, the app blessed her: two minutes away.

“Good,” Alastor said lightly, “fewer chances for your mother to descend from the heavens with divine wrath.”

She groaned. “Don’t remind me.”

“Oh, I intend to remind you of quite a few things. But not today.”

They walked downstairs together. Charlie slipped into her coat, pausing at the small hallway mirror. She checked her neck again—just to be sure. It was perfect. No trace of last night. No trace of them.

Alastor opened the front door for her. The cold air rushed in.

“Here,” he said, holding out a folded bill.

She blinked. “Alastor, no—”

“You told me drivers sometimes recognize you for who your father is,” he cut in, tucking the twenty into her palm. “And that they push for tips. Take it. I’m not paying for the ride, but I can cover the outrageously dramatic tax of fame.”

“Still—”

“Charlie.” His voice dipped, gentle but immovable.

She relented, smiling despite herself. “Thank you. Really.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow at practice,” he said.

“Yeah. Tomorrow.”

She leaned in, gave him a hug, warm, brief hug, then brushed a soft kiss against his lips. It was small, but it felt like everything. Then she slipped out, down the townhouse steps, the cold biting at her legs. The car pulled up. The driver leaned out the window.

“For Charlotte?”

“Yes,” she said, tucking her hair behind her ear.

She climbed inside. Through the window, Alastor still stood at the doorway, cane in hand, watching. She raised her fingers in a small wave.

He mirrored it with the ghost of a smile.

And the car pulled away.

The cab’s heater clicked faintly as it fought the cold, but Charlie hardly felt it. Her pulse was lodged high in her throat. She sat stiffly, hands wringing the strap of her bag, eyes locked on the notifications lighting up her screen.

Mom: 15 missed calls.

Her stomach churned. She typed quickly:

“On my way back home.”

A few seconds passed. The little “Read” appeared under her message.

No reply.

Charlie swallowed hard. She pressed her forehead lightly to the cold glass of the window. Snowflakes curled and melted instantly against it, blurring the outside world into a white haze. The storm was picking up again, of course it was. Of course, today had to be the day the sky joined her mother in judging her life decisions.

She checked her compact mirror once more, angling her neck left, right. The foundation held. Good. Good. At least that crisis was contained.

The cab slowed as familiar buildings rose into view. Her chest tightened. Home was close. Too close.

When the car pulled up to her building, the driver glanced back and asked, “Tip?”

She didn’t even argue. She passed him the twenty Alastor had insisted she take and slipped out in a rush, the cold biting her cheeks as she hurried inside. The security guards greeted her warmly, she didn’t have the breath to answer properly. She only smiled, small and anxious, and pressed the penthouse button in the elevator.

Her reflection in the stainless-steel walls stared back at her: flustered, pale, hair slightly messy from Alastor’s pillow. Her heartbeat drummed in her ears.

Please let her be shopping. Please let her be at the gym or the pool on the second floor. Please please—

The elevator chimed. She stepped into the entryway. Empty.

Living room. Empty.

Kitchen. Empty.

She slipped past her father’s office, and voices murmured inside. A meeting. Her father wouldn’t be a problem.

She moved on quicker, her breath catching as she pushed open her parents’ bedroom door. Empty.

Relief flooded her lungs. Her knees almost buckled.

Maybe she’d gone downstairs to the gym. Maybe she was doing laps in the pool. Maybe—maybe Charlie was safe.

She turned toward her room, hope rising—And stopped cold.

Her mother was sitting on her bed.

Lilith’s posture was immaculate: back straight, legs crossed, hands folded neatly over her knee. Her expression? Not angry. Worse.

Disappointed. Controlled. Expectant.

The kind of serious that meant Charlie was already guilty.

“Close the door, now” Lilith said, her voice low, calm, cutting.

Charlie obeyed before she could breathe.

“Sit.”

Charlie sat beside her, the mattress dipping under her shaking weight. Her throat was so tight she could barely swallow.

Lilith rose slowly, taking a moment before she spoke, studying her daughter, as if searching for the first crack.

“I understand,” she began, smooth as glass, “that you’re an adult. And adults… do adult things.”

Charlie stared at her knees, wishing she could sink between them and vanish.

“But what I will never tolerate,” Lilith continued, stepping closer, “is being lied to.” The words hit harder than yelling ever could. “I called your friend,” Lilith said. “The one you claimed you were staying with.”

Charlie’s breath caught.

“She told me you were not there, and the fact that you didn't bring your practice bag confirms it even further.” A pause. A cold, elegant inhale. “So. No more stories. No more sidestepping. Where did you spend the night?”

Charlie’s palms were sweating. She could feel her pulse in each fingertip.

She could lie again. She could try.

But something in Lilith’s eyes warned her that another lie would snap something between them for real.

“I—I ... I slept at my date’s place,” Charlie said softly. “That’s where I was.”

Lilith’s silence was deafening.

Then:

“Did you have sex?”

Charlie nearly choked. “Mom?!—I don’t want to—”

“I asked you a question.”

“It’s… private.”

But Lilith’s stare didn’t budge.

Charlie’s voice shrank to a whisper. “Yes.”

"Was this date the guy from Columbia you told me about before?"

She whispered, knowing it was a lie, "yes"

"What?"

"YES!"

Another long moment.

“And were you careful? Protection?”

“Yes. We… took precautions.”

Lilith exhaled through her nose, not angry—just assessing. “Good.”

Charlie blinked. “Good?”

“I’m not judging you,” Lilith said, finally softening, the edges of her voice warming. “And I’m not asking because I need to know every detail of your life, you are not a teenager anymore.” She reached out, brushing a strand of hair behind her daughter’s ear with a gentleness that made Charlie want to cry. “I’m asking because you’re my baby. And because I worried.”

Charlie’s throat tightened. Her eyes burned.

Lilith went on, quieter: “I remember what it was like, you know. Being your age. And I know that nights like that…” she paused, searching for the right words, “sometimes don’t lead to anything lasting.”

Charlie's eyes widened; that comment had upset her, that implication. "That's not fair, you don't know him, you don't know what's there."

“I didn’t say it was your case,” Lilith replied calmly. “I said sometimes. And I want to know that you’re okay. That this wasn’t something you’ll regret.”

Charlie looked away, jaw tight. “It’s not. I’m… I’m happy it was with him.”

Lilith’s face softened, truly softened this time, her expression melting into something tender, proud, aching.

She opened her arms, and Charlie didn’t hesitate. She folded into her mother’s embrace, feeling the familiar perfume, the steady heartbeat, the warmth she had grown up with.

“You’ve grown so much,” Lilith whispered into her hair. “I trust you my darling. I just need you to trust me enough to tell me the truth next time.”

Charlie nodded against her shoulder. “I promise. I won’t lie to you again.”

“You can lie to your father,” Lilith added lightly, pulling back with a small smile. “He still thinks you’re seven.”

Charlie let out a strangled laugh, wiping her eyes. “Yeah… I know.”

Lilith kissed her forehead, then straightened her blouse as if switching modes entirely. “Well,” she said briskly, heading for the door, “your father has been craving pizza all week. I’m ordering some—do you want something different?”

Charlie shook her head. “No. Whatever you get is fine.”

“Good.” Lilith lingered in the doorway, looking at her one last time with that complex mix of fierceness and love. “Rest a bit. You look tired.”

Charlie watched her leave, the room quiet again.

And for a moment, despite the chaos, despite the storm, she felt something warm settle in her chest—

Safe, seen, loved; all at once.

 

The next day

Charlie stepped out of the downtown train with her tote slung high on her shoulder, already bracing herself for the rush of cold air that always hit the station stairwell. When she lifted her head, she spotted a familiar figure weaving through the crowd from the uptown platform,  a messy bun, that unmistakable half-scowl she wore when she was sleep-deprived.

Charlie raised her arm and made a little beckoning wave. Vaggie perked up instantly and approached… only to bump her fist into Charlie’s shoulder with surprising force.

Charlie blinked. “Ow—what the fuck was that for?”

Vaggie crossed her arms. “You could’ve told me you weren’t going home. I could’ve covered for you! Or at least tried. Do you know how stressful that was? Knowing that, maybe I just put my best friend in big trouble?”

Charlie let out a tiny, sheepish laugh. “I’m sorry. Really. But don’t worry—everything went… better than expected.”

“Better than expected?” Vaggie echoed as they exited the station and headed down the block toward the academy. “You disappeared with Mister Columbia-Boy for dinner and suddenly you don’t come home? How does that jump happen? What even happened?”

Charlie ran a hand through her hair, cheeks warming despite the cold. “I dunno,” she said lightly. “It just… happened.”

“Oh my God,” Vaggie muttered, half scandalized, half thrilled. “You’re gonna have to give me something more than that, Charlie.”

Charlie deflected, “How are you and Lute tho? Is everything good?”

Vaggie’s expression faltered. “Yeah, well… we’re fine. Just… busy. We haven’t really seen each other much these past two weeks, but we’ll figure it out eventually.” She narrowed her eyes. “And don’t change the subject—we’re talking about you. Not me.” then she handed her something, "And here is your practice bag"

Charlie laughed, letting the conversation drift as they walked through the academy’s doors. The familiar scent of rosin and laundry detergent filled the air. Students were already scattered around the lobby, stretching or chatting before rehearsal. Charlie felt a tiny flutter in her chest knowing who she’d be seeing upstairs in the studio.

They slipped into the dressing room, a chorus of zippers, lockers, perfume, and chatter surrounding them. Both began changing automatically, falling into routine. Charlie reached for her leotard, pulling off her jeans, and Vaggie let out a strangled sound.

“Charlie.”

“What?” Charlie looked down, then froze.

Right on her upper thigh was the massive, unmistakable violet hickey.

“Oh my God,” she whispered, hands flying to cover it far too late. “I forgot. I totally forgot.”

Vaggie stared at her like she’d grown another head. “Forgot? Charlie, how do you forget that? You’re wearing a high-cut leotard. Were you planning to just… raw-dog humiliation today?”

“I thought I covered everything!” Charlie squeaked, mortified. “I did my neck, my collarbone, I— I didn’t even look at my legs—”

Vaggie shook her head in disbelief. “Makeup isn’t gonna stay on that spot. It’ll smudge everywhere. Here—” She dug through her bag. “I have a pair of black shorts. They’ll cover it.”

Charlie sagged with relief. “Vaggie, I owe you my life.”

“Yeah, well, next time tell your date you do ballet,” Vaggie muttered, handing over the shorts.

Charlie forced an awkward laugh—because if only Vaggie knew.

If only she knew the truth: not imaginary Columbia-boy, not some random romantic dinner… but Alastor.

Charlie swallowed hard, cheeks pink, heart pounding for reasons Vaggie could never guess.

Angel and Pentious were already inside the studio, leaning against the wall mirrors as the girls walked in. Angel lit up immediately.

“Finally!” he announced, pointing at them with both hands like a dramatic maître d’. “My two favorite ladies. Come here—we got news.”

Pentious clasped his hands together with theatrical excitement. “Angel has an announcement,” he declared like a royal decree. “A proper announcement.”

Angel flipped his hair back. “Yes, yes, thank you. Anyway—listen. Saturday, after class? We’re going out.”

Vaggie blinked. “Out… like a party?”

“No, no, no,” Angel waved her off. “Not a rave, not a club—just dinner, with Cherry of course. And maybe a bar. One bar. A small bar. A tasteful bar. But—” He held up a finger. “Free drinks. On me.”

Pentious gasped. “Is this the end times?”

Angel grinned wider. “No. It’s just finally time I introduce you losers to my boyfriend.”

Vaggie pressed a hand to her chest. “Awww, Angel! Thats so sweet!”

Pentious nodded vigorously. “We are very happy for you, dear boy! Very!”

Charlie smiled warmly. She already knew the whole story, of course, but she let Angel have his moment. “I’m really happy for you,” she said, soft and proud.

Angel shot her a knowing glance that said thanks, doll, without needing words.

Vaggie leaned in, nudging Charlie playfully. “And maybe you’ll be next, huh?”

Charlie’s laugh came out thin, too high, too nervous. “Wh—what? No, no, I—”

Pen and Angel turned in perfect unison.

“So…” Angel asked, waggling his eyebrows. “How was your date?”

Charlie opened her mouth—

—and at that exact catastrophic moment, the studio door clicked open.

Alastor stepped inside.

The room subtly straightened itself, as if everyone’s spine remembered it had work to do.

He crossed the studio with his usual unbothered elegance, cane tapping lightly, and went straight to his usual spot without looking at anyone. Except—Charlie could swear his eyes flicked toward her for half a second. Just half. Enough to short-circuit her brain.

“It was good,” Charlie croaked.

Angel blinked. “That’s it?”

“Everything… went really well,” she added quickly, cheeks heating.

Vaggie, ever the menace, leaned toward Angel and Pentious and whispered, not quietly enough: “It went so well she has a hickey on her right thigh. That’s why she’s wearing shorts today.”

“VAGGIE!” Charlie's voice cracked like a dying violin, echoing off the mirrors. Several heads turned their way. Heat flooded her face, her ears, her neck—just everywhere.

Vaggie hissed, “Don’t yell!”

Angel covered his mouth, eyes wide with devilish delight. “Girl, don’t you dare get flustered—you’re gonna spill more than tea at this rate.”

Pentious nodded solemnly. “Indeed. Any louder and we shall know the exact coordinates of this hickey.”

“STOP—”

Just then, Carmilla swept into the studio, Rosie close behind her.

“Alright, people,” Carmilla announced, clapping sharply. “Warm-up first.”

Rosie grinned, tossing her bag aside. “Don’t make us chase you around the room. Let’s go.”

The girls scrambled, Charlie still glowing like a furnace, and Vaggie still biting her lip to stop herself from laughing.

And Alastor?

He watched from his seat at the piano all the chaos with a faint, amused curl to his smile, subtle enough for no one to notice.

Except Charlie, who absolutely did. And almost dropped her water bottle because of it.

 

Warm-up Begun

Alastor’s playing filled the space like a dark ribbon of silk, smooth, precise, a controlled crescendo that Carmilla sculpted with each sweep of her hand as she walked between the dancers. Rosie stood near the mirror with a notebook pressed to her chest, pencil tapping an anxious rhythm as she evaluated posture, turnout, extension, musicality… every detail.

Charlie tried to focus. Truly, she did.

Her muscles lengthened with each plié, tendons awakening, breath deepening, but her mind kept flicking — like a match — toward the piano. Toward the man behind it. He didn’t look at her. Not once. Not even accidentally. But the awareness was there, threaded between notes, a quiet pressure in her chest that made her heart work too hard.

Everything was steady. Predictable. Safe.

Until the door opened.

Right at the peak of Alastor’s crescendo.

The music clipped into silence so abruptly the air felt sliced in half. Heads turned, spines straightened, and the room temperature dropped by at least ten degrees when Vincent, Valentino, and Velvette stepped inside like they owned the place.

Vincent looked effortless, as always, posture impeccable, smile soft, eyes shimmering with diplomatic warmth. Velvette followed with a model’s gait, chin tilted, glacier-eyed confidence trailing behind her like perfume. Valentino… well. Valentino walked in like he was entering a runway full of admirers he expected to kneel.

Carmilla’s expression hardened until even the shadows seemed to stand still. She raised a sharp hand toward Alastor — a small gesture, but the kind that sent a message.

Stop. Now.

Alastor removed his hands from the keys with a calm, dismissive elegance. He didn’t bother looking at the newcomers. He simply adjusted his posture, folded his fingers loosely, and starred straight ahead, as if they were beneath acknowledgment.

Carmilla inhaled slowly, then stepped forward.

Her voice was calm. Too calm. “Why are you here?” Not unfriendly. Just professional… with the exact level of frost that warned everyone she was two breaths from snapping a violin bow in half.

Vincent smiled, that gentle, audience-winning smile that turned critics into admirers and admirers into devoted worshipers.

“I thought it could be convenient,” he said, tone almost angelic. “For Velvette and me to join the warm-up from now on. Since we’ll be working closely with this group for the rest of the season, it feels meaningful to build rapport. To share the experience. And…” He paused, eyes sweeping over the room, softening his expression just enough to look charmingly humble. “…to make sure we don’t come across as unapproachable. We’re all dancers. We’re all in this together.”

Around the studio, several dancers melted instantly, swooning smiles, blushing cheeks, impressed little sighs. The kind of reaction Vincent could summon with a single breath.

Except for Charlie. Or Vaggie. Or Angel. Or Pentious.

They all exchanged a look — the really? look. The this-is-publicity-and-we-know-it look.

Carmilla’s eye twitched. She pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose.

Rosie, on the other hand, didn’t even try to hide it. Her jaw clenched so tight the tension traveled all the way to her shoulders. She loathed Valentino. Working with him has been so stressful and this was literally going to be the third day. She loathed him in an almost spiritual way. And her forced, polite smile made that hatred practically sparkle.

Alastor stayed still as a statue, as if he didn't care. If he’d been told the Eiffel Tower had just walked into the room, he would’ve reacted the same way, with complete indifference.

Carmilla straightened, gaze sharp enough to shear glass. “I suppose its fine. Join warm-up. Quietly.”

Her eyes flicked to Vincent, then to Velvette, and then, very intentionally, to the rest of the dancers.

A warning to everyone that was way too excited to share place with the Paris stars

Do. Not. Get. Distracted.

And everyone understood.

Then she turned her gaze, colder now, onto Valentino. “This is my class.”

The silence afterward was violent.

Valentino did not blink. Did not step back. Did not look offended.

No, he simply smiled. A soft, amused little curl of the lips that made Rosie grip her pencil hard enough to snap it in half. “Of course,” Valentino purred. “Right now, it’s your turn to lead.”

A pause. Too long. Too heavy.

“Later,” he continued, “Velvette, Vincent, and I will head to Studio 3. Rosie and I have principals to prepare.”

Rosie exhaled through her nose like a dragon. Carmilla’s jaw flexed. People pretended to stretch deeper just so they wouldn’t have to look at either of them.

No one missed the subtext. It wasn’t respect. It was dismissed.

A reminder of hierarchy.

A reminder of who, technically, held more power ... for now.

Alastor finally shifted,  barely. A flick of annoyance in his brow, tightening of his jaw, and a single finger tapping once against the piano’s wooden edge.

He still did not look at any of them.

The tension was nearly visible, like wires stretched across the room, waiting for the smallest spark to snap.

Carmilla forced a tight smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Warm-up will continue,” she said. “From the beginning.”

Alastor placed his hands back on the keys. And though he didn’t speak, the first note he played was sharper, louder, angrier than anything he’d played all morning.

A silent statement that he did not enjoy their presence at all. 

Warm-up resumed, but the room was no longer the same room.

Even with the music flowing again and Carmilla counting over the melody, every single dancer in Studio 1 kept flicking their eyes toward Vincent and Velvette, and sometimes even to Valentino. Some tried to be subtle, an extra high extension, a cleaner rotation, a deeper stretch, while others didn’t bother hiding it at all. Shoulders straightened, necks elongated, feet pointed as their lives depended on it. And for what? To be noticed. To be seen. To maybe, in some delusional dream, be invited to Paris one day.

Even Valentino noticed the shift, a slow smile crawling onto his face as he leaned casually against the mirror, arms crossed, letting the attention wash over his principals like a wave he controlled.

Charlie watched two girls near the mirror nearly pull a muscle trying to outdo each other’s développés just because Vincent happened to glance vaguely in their direction.

It was ridiculous.

Yes, Vincent and Velvette were good. Very good. Their technique was immaculate, their reputation earned. But they weren’t gods. They weren’t unbeatable. They weren’t even in the Top 10 of the best in the world ... they were top 20.

Yet here they all were… acting like desperate puppies waiting for a scrap of approval.

Charlie held her arabesque, core steady, breath controlled, and though her posture stayed disciplined, her eyes rolled so hard they practically circled the room.

Angel, beside her, leaned in while pretending to stretch his side. “Everyone’s acting like a bitch right now,” he whispered, voice low but dripping with judgment.

Charlie exhaled sharply, not quite a laugh, more like a shared suffering. “No kidding.”

Carmilla whipped her head their way instantly, sharp as a thrown dagger. “Miss Morningstar, the music is what you follow. Not your friends.”

Charlie froze. Her cheeks warmed. “Yes, ma’am. Sorry.”

Angel bit his lip to stop from laughing.

Alastor didn’t look at them, not directly, he kept playing, fingers gliding over the keys, but the corner of his mouth definitely lifted. Amused. Just for a flicker, he let himself enjoy her getting scolded. Then it vanished, like it was never there.

Vincent and Velvette, meanwhile, moved through the warm-up with the polished calm of people used to being watched. They didn’t acknowledge the attention; they didn’t need to. Their presence alone was enough to turn the rest of the studio into an overly competitive zoo.

Charlie flexed her ankle and shook out her foot, grounding herself back into the exercise. Let everyone else perform for them. She wasn’t here to audition for Paris. She wasn’t here to beg for approval.

She just wanted to dance.

And the more the others tried to impress those three? The more she wanted to roll her eyes.

Because admiration was one thing. But this?

This was just pathetic.

The warm-ups finally came to an end, the room buzzing with quiet exhaustion and anticipation. The younger class filtered in, dancers eager to see the older ones in action, mice, little Clares, and Nifty as Clara bouncing lightly in her slippers, already familiar with Charlie, Angel, and Pentious from the conversations sparked by Vaggie weeks ago. The room felt alive, but there was a subtle undercurrent of pressure, everyone knew today wasn’t just practice; it was the first full run, acting included, before they’d separate again into their specific parts.

Carmilla’s voice cut through the chatter with her usual authority, calling everyone to attention. “All right. I want one full run. Music, acting, everything. Focus. Let’s see it through like it’s the performance night.”

Alastor’s fingers glided over the piano keys, filling the room with the familiar melody. The dancers responded instantly, stretching, leaping, spinning, every muscle engaged, every motion precise. Those not dancing yet watched, leaning forward, eyes sharp, mentally rehearsing for when it would be their turn. The younger students were wide-eyed, some whispering among themselves, but most were just absorbing every movement as if it were a lesson in itself.

The tension in the room shifted subtly when Vincent left. He didn’t leave abruptly, though; he bent slightly to whisper something to Valentino. Valentino’s lips moved in reply, and the subtle exchange was invisible to most, but not to Alastor. He continued playing, his eyes occasionally flicking to them, noting the exchange, the quiet confidence, and the air of strategy between the foreign dancers. Even after he finished the last piece of the first act, Vincent had not returned.

Finally, Alastor closed the lid gently, excusing himself. “I need a moment. Carmilla, you can start the radio for Act Two.”

His tone was calm, but there was something in the way he said it that made Charlie’s chest tighten, a quiet pulse of wanting him there. Carmilla nodded, already turning to Rosie to get the speakers ready.

Charlie’s eyes followed him, a small, stubborn part of her wishing she could go after him, even if only for a moment. But she stopped herself. Act Two was crucial; the Sugar Plum Fairy’s performance rested on precision and grace, and the eyes of the class would be on her. Any distraction now, any hint that she wasn’t fully present, would ruin more than just her focus.

So she let him go, biting her lip, and pivoted back toward the rehearsal, letting the melody guide her movements while the tiny ache in her chest lingered.

Alastor’s footsteps echoed softly on the hardwood floor as he approached the bathroom. Something had nudged him, an almost imperceptible pull, to use the small, old bathroom tucked away at the back of the second floor, the one he had claimed back when he was a dancer at the company, long before the cane became part of his life. It was a place he’d gone when he needed a moment alone, a place to think, to let the music and the memory of past performances fill the silence.

But as he turned the doorknob, he froze. He hadn’t expected to find anyone else there, certainly not Vincent.

And yet, there he was, leaning against the sink.

With a needle in his arm.

Eyes flicking with panic as soon as they met Alastor’s.

A slow, dry smile spread across Alastor’s face, the same expression that had made dancers both fear and admire him years ago. It wasn’t judgment, it was amusement, tinged with something like nostalgia. “Times really haven’t changed, have they?” he said, his voice quiet but carrying the sharp undertone of someone who had seen too much to be easily surprised.

Vincent froze, almost dropping the needle, fumbling to shift it to another vein. “Alastor… get out. Now. And shut your mouth,” he snapped, eyes darting toward the door as if it could somehow shield him from the inevitable confrontation.

But Alastor didn’t move. He stayed there, leaning lightly against the doorframe, cane in hand, the faintest trace of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Oh, I think I’ll stay,” he said smoothly. “I’m quite curious how you’ve managed to make your old habits feel… so current.”

Vincent’s jaw tightened, his pulse quickening under Alastor’s calm scrutiny. “This isn’t your business,”

He yanked the needle out of his vein, tossing it into the small metal trash bin with a clatter that echoed too loudly in the cramped space. His hand shook as he wiped the spot with his sleeve, eyes never leaving Alastor’s.

Alastor arched a brow, the faint smirk returning, not cruel, but cutting. “Such a sad thing,” he murmured, stepping just slightly deeper into the room, “that professional ballet still lacks a proper anti-doping policy. If they had… well, you would’ve never made it past the corps.” He tilted his head. “Addicts rarely do.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Vincent spat, louder than he intended, the word ricocheting off the tiled walls like a slap.

Alastor didn’t flinch. His voice stayed maddeningly even, almost bored. “Why so upset? I’m simply stating the truth.”

Vincent’s breathing hitched in frustration. “Truth? You wanna talk about truth?” He jabbed a finger toward him. “You smoked every damn day back then, don’t act so clean.”

Alastor let out a soft, humorless laugh. “Oh, Vincent. I’m not claiming to be pure.” His eyes sharpened, tone slipping into something colder, truer. “But the difference between you and me is simple: if I don’t want to buy another pack, I don’t. I can go weeks without touching a cigarette. Months, even.” He paused, letting the distance between them stretch like a thin wire.
“And you… crumble after three days.”

Vincent’s nostrils flared, a wounded animal backed into a corner.

Alastor continued, gently tapping his cane once against the floor. “Shall I remind you? The rehearsal where you showed up white as chalk because you hadn’t gotten your dose? When you threw a chair and screamed at a pianist? When one of the professors nearly kicked you out?” His tone softened, almost pitying. “You shook so hard you couldn’t even tie your own shoes.”

“Shut your mouth,” Vincent snarled, voice breaking at the edges. He stepped forward as if to intimidate, but he knew, they both knew, that Alastor wasn’t the one who ever broke under pressure.

Alastor didn’t move. Didn’t blink. His stillness alone was enough to make the room feel smaller.

Alastor took a step closer, not threatening, simply present, the way someone might stand next to a dying flame to feel its last bit of heat. “You could get in trouble for this, you know. You’re a foreigner now. An outsider. Not a company member, just a guest. The wrong whisper in the wrong ear, and Paris will ship you back faster than you can lace a shoe.”

Vincent let out a laugh, sharp, cruel, but thin, empty.“What, are you going to tell on me now? Like some little kid running to a teacher?” He shook his head, scoffing.“Go ahead. Even if you did, no one would believe you, it would come more as an act of jealousy, don't you think?.” said, looking at his limping leg.

Alastor didn’t flinch at the jab about his leg, he only let out a dry, humorless breath.

“Is that supposed to bother me?” he asked, voice steady in that unnervingly calm way that always made Vincent feel smaller. “A bad joke about my limp? Please. I can compile more than jokes, Vincent. You forget how much you left lying around back in the day. Pills in your locker. Needles in your bag. Teachers who noticed your… episodes.” He tilted his head. “You think the Academy Board wouldn’t pay attention? Do you think they’ll risk the company’s reputation for you? For someone who already decided to leave?”

“Shut your fucking mouth,” Vincent barked, louder this time, loud enough that the tiles seemed to shiver.

"You have no arguments" Alastor only laughed. “There it is. That little panic. The same panic you had on a different day you nearly passed out in class time because you couldn’t get your dose. Remember that?”

Vincent’s hand twitched.

“Oh, you remember,” Alastor purred. “You were shaking so hard the teacher thought you’d break your own ankle. And what was it you screamed? Something about how you ‘just needed five minutes’? Pathetic.”

Vincent stepped forward so fast the air snapped.

“Oh please,” Alastor added. “Try to hit me. Break my cane again if you want. It would be the most honest thing you’ve ever done.”

“You think you’re better than me?” Vincent snarled, shoving Alastor’s shoulder. It wasn’t a punch, just a warning. But the force jarred Alastor back against a bathroom stall door, the metal rattling loudly.

Alastor smiled, grip tightened around his cane, knuckles pale. “Better? Of course”

“You’re a joke,” Vincent spat. “A washed-up has-been who hides behind a piano because he couldn’t hack it onstage.”

“And you’re a coward who couldn’t go one week sober,” Alastor shot back.

That did it.

Vincent slammed him harder against the stall door. The metal boomed like a drum.

“You want to keep pushing?” Vincent hissed. “Fine. Keep pushing.”

Alastor’s breath left him in a quiet huff, but he still smiled, defiant, provoking. “There he is. The real Vincent. The one you never let the press see.”

Vincent leaned close, fury trembling through him. “Say one more thing.”

Alastor opened his mouth, but stopped.

Because Vincent’s eyes had changed. Not just angry — feral.

“So what?” Vincent snapped. “You actually going to run to the board? Tell everyone what a terrible, terrible boy I am?” His voice dropped, poisonous. “Or should I remind you how easy it is to make an accident happen?”

Alastor’s expression flickered, not fear, but pure disgust.

“That’s right,” Vincent said, pushing him again, just enough to make the cane skid slightly on the tile. “You limp because you think you’re better than everyone. Because you don’t know when to shut up.”

Alastor’s stare sharpened. “Try it again,” he whispered. “See what happens.”

“Or what?” Vincent barked, with a smiled on his face. “You can barely stand without that stick.”

Alastor lifted his chin. “And you can barely stand without a needle.”

"You might be right ... but i have more information of you than you have of me" Alastor was confused by that, but said nothing.

 

The silence snapped like a whip.

Vincent shoved him one last time,  the stall door slamming behind Alastor’s back, loud enough to echo through the corridor.

And that was the sound Charlie heard.

She froze just outside the old hallway, Carmilla’s instructions forgotten. She hadn’t come looking for Alastor, she’d come looking for Vincent, because they were about to dance their duo soon, and she needed him back, but the sound made her stop.

Then came Vincent’s voice, furious and unmistakable:

 

“…or do you want me to send someone to break your other leg, like last time?”

 

Charlie stopped breathing.

The world tilted. Her hand flew to the doorframe to steady herself, but she couldn’t move, couldn’t blink, she could only stare at the grain of the wood as if it could explain what she’d just heard.

Her throat closed, heat stinging behind her eyes.

Vincent…?

Vincent did that?

Her dance partner. The newcomer everyone worshipped. The golden boy with the perfect lines and the perfect charm. The alumni the whole class melted for, hoped for, and admired.

The one who took Alastor’s debut year… because Alastor never showed up.

Because he couldn’t. Because his leg—

Her stomach turned cold.

Charlie bit back a breath, too loud, and forced herself to step away before either man inside could hear her. Her shoes were nearly silent, but her pulse wasn’t; it hammered so violently it shook through her fingertips.

Everything snapped into place in one horrifying second.

He didn’t lose his career.

It was stolen.

And the man who stole it… was the one she was supposed to dance with.

Charlie swallowed a choked breath, wiped her angry tears furiously, and forced herself to walk back toward Studio 1.

But her hands were shaking.

And her heart had never felt so full of rage.

Notes:

omg more loreeeee xddd Vincent has a plan and a backup plan btw :0

Videos!

The version of what Alastor played on the piano : https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lulmfoic__0

Chapter 9: Variation II pt.3: The Real Reason

Notes:

Hi my pookies!!! new chapter for yall!! super long, almost 13k words

I've been drawing this AU a lot lately, so if you'd like to check it out, you can search Twitter, @hibbb84. (i dont have bluesky)

This chapter contains +18 content at the end, so you have been warned!!

ENJOYYYY

Charlie stepped back into Studio One like she was pushing through water, thick, heavy, suffocating. The door closed behind her with a soft, ordinary click that felt wildly out of place, as if the world had failed to notice something fundamental had shifted. The air inside the studio felt different now, charged, taut, humming faintly with the remnants of what she had just heard, as though Vincent’s words had left a visible mark in the space around her.

Her heart pounded—not from the run-through, not from nerves. This was sharper, hotter. Anger, real anger, coiled tight in her chest, unfamiliar in its intensity. It clung to her skin like static beneath her leotard, refusing to dissipate no matter how she tried to steady herself.

Carmilla turned the moment Charlie entered, brows lifting in expectation, scanning the doorway behind her as though Vincent might materialize simply by being anticipated.

“So? Where is he?” Carmilla asked, brisk but curious. “You were supposed to—”

“I—I couldn’t find him… sorry,” Charlie cut in before the question could fully form.

Her tone was steady, just barely. Too precise. Too controlled. The apology felt thin in her mouth, stretched over something restless beneath. Carmilla either didn’t notice, or chose not to. Her attention shifted with practiced efficiency.

“Alright,” she said shortly. “Angel, Velvette—run the pas de deux alone for now.”

Angel shrugged and stepped forward without complaint. Velvette adjusted her bun with deliberate care, chin lifted as if already under stage lights. The studio moved on, seamless and indifferent.

None of it mattered. Not right now.

Charlie crossed the studio floor, each step deliberate, weighted, as though carrying something fragile and volatile inside her ribcage—a secret that threatened to hum its way out if she wasn’t careful. Angel’s eyes caught hers the moment she passed him. He tilted his head—just a fraction—an unspoken question shaped entirely by concern.

You good?

She smiled at him. Small. Practiced. Polished enough to pass inspection. It did its job; his shoulders loosened, attention drifting back to Velvette and the choreography. The lie held.

But Vaggie, sharp as a blade and twice as perceptive, wasn’t fooled.

When Charlie lowered herself to the floor beside her, Vaggie leaned in immediately, voice low.

“¿Qué pasó?” she murmured. “Why do you look like you’re about to murder someone?”

Charlie tried to breathe, slow, deep, the way she’d been trained, but each inhale dragged Vincent’s voice back with it, clear and cutting, soaked in threat and history, cold enough to bruise.

You want me to break your other leg?

Her stomach twisted violently at the memory.

“Nothing,” she said, softer this time. “Just… frustrated. I couldn’t find him. I lost a full run because of it.”

Even as she spoke, her voice betrayed her. There was an edge, strained and brittle, as though the truth pressed against her teeth, desperate to be acknowledged.

Vaggie’s eyes narrowed, searching Charlie’s face with the kind of concern that only came from someone who knew her too well. She studied her for a long beat, then reached for Charlie’s hand and gave it a single, grounding squeeze—solid, real—before facing forward again.

Charlie followed her lead, fixing her gaze on Angel and Velvette as they danced. She pretended to watch, to care, as if her world hadn’t just tilted beneath her pointe shoes.

But inside… she was burning.

Because the truth sat heavy in her chest, dense and immovable:

Alastor, the man she was beginning to fall for in ways she didn’t yet have the language for, had once stood exactly where she dreamed of standing.

And someone had taken it from him.

Ripped it away.

Shattered it beyond repair.

Vincent, adored by the room, worshipped like a golden idol. The man everyone bent over backward to impress, to accommodate, to excuse.

Vincent, the one who had robbed him. Who had destroyed him.

The realization curdled something inside her.

Suddenly, the admiration that filled the studio felt grotesque. The awe felt blind. The ambition, hers included, felt cheap, tainted by proximity.

Charlie swallowed hard, fury tightening her throat.

He stole his dreams. His life. His future.

The music swelled, flooding the room, but she barely heard it. Her pulse was louder, hotter, sharper. She held herself rigid, spine long, chin lifted, every muscle taut as she stared ahead with eyes that burned, not with envy, not with fear, not with insecurity, but with something far more dangerous.

Resentment.

When the Sugar Plum solo came, she held herself together from start to finish.

The music carried her forward, familiar and relentless, and she surrendered to muscle memory because her mind was no longer a safe place. Her body knew the choreography too well to fail her. Arms floated where they should. Feet landed cleanly. Turns resolved without wobble. To anyone watching, she was composed, focused, exactly where she belonged.

Inside, her thoughts circled back to a narrow hallway, a closed door, and a sentence she wished she had never heard yet could not unhear. Every leap felt heavier for it. Every landing rang with an anger she had never learned to hold.

Vincent returned just as the final notes faded, slipping back into the room with the easy audacity of someone who assumed the world would simply adjust around his absence. Carmilla’s eyes found him immediately. She didn’t raise her voice, never needed to. A sharp flick of her hand summoned him aside, her posture rigid with contained irritation.

Charlie didn’t look away fast enough.

She saw Vincent smile, faint, unbothered. Saw the way he leaned in as though the conversation were a mild inconvenience. Her jaw tightened, heat flaring low in her chest.

Then Alastor entered.

He crossed the room with measured calm, cane steady, expression composed to the point of impenetrability. No visible crack. No sign of the tension that had nearly exploded behind tiled walls and locked doors. He took his place at the piano as if nothing had shifted at all, adjusted the bench, and set his hands on the keys.

Professional. Immaculate. Untouchable.

Charlie watched him from across the studio, chest aching with a mix of tenderness and fury that felt dangerously close to devotion. She searched his face for any sign—anything—that he needed her. That the weight of the past had pressed too hard this time. If he had so much as looked shaken, she knew she would have crossed the room without thinking. Rules, whispers, consequences be damned. She would have wrapped her arms around him in front of everyone.

Let them stare. Let them talk. She would not have cared.

But Alastor didn’t give her that opening.

The first chord rang out, clean, controlled, and just like that, he became the anchor again. The one holding the room steady. The music did not betray him. Neither did his posture, nor the slight tilt of his head as he listened to the dancers reset. He belonged there, behind the piano, even if the world had once decided otherwise.

That, somehow, hurt the most.

Charlie looked away before it became obvious, before the heat behind her eyes could spill over. Vincent was still near Carmilla, nodding along, all charm and compliance. Her resentment coiled tighter, sharp and unfamiliar, pressing hard against her ribs.

And for her particular misfortune, this was the man she was partnered with. For the season. For the role that could define her future. The same principal role she had dreamed of since she was old enough to understand what a stage meant.

The same dream Alastor had once carried through these very halls, only to have it torn from him.

She didn’t know how she was supposed to dance with Vincent now.

As Alastor’s music filled the room again and the final piece began, Charlie straightened her spine and stepped back into place.

For now, she would dance.

As long as she could.

When the song finally ended, the last note fading into silence, it marked the end of the full run as well. Applause didn’t follow—this wasn’t that kind of room—but a subtle shift filled the air, the kind that came when a chapter of rehearsal closed and another, more precise and demanding, began. The dancers reorganized quickly, instructions traded in low voices. Individual notes. Duets. Corrections.

Charlie already knew what that meant.

She needed to go to Studio 3.

She fell into step with the smaller group as they filtered out of Studio One and into the corridor, her movements controlled, automatic. Spine straight, chin lifted, shoulders relaxed—the posture drilled into her since she was barely tall enough to see herself in the mirror. On the outside, she looked composed, professional, exactly as she should.

Inside, everything was pulled tight.

The hallway felt different than it had earlier. The lights were harsher, almost clinical, casting sharp reflections against the polished floor. The walls seemed closer together, as if the space itself were narrowing. With every step toward Studio 3, something heavy settled deeper into her chest. It felt like walking willingly toward something she already knew would hurt.

Because now she knew.

She knew what Vincent had done.

And worse, far worse, she knew what he was capable of.

Angel walked beside her, quieter than usual, his normally effortless chatter replaced by careful silence. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, casual on the surface but edged with concern, the way dancers spoke when aware of how easily words carried in these halls.

“You okay?” he murmured, eyes flicking toward her face before darting forward again. “You came back lookin’ like you’d seen a ghost. What happened out there?”

Charlie didn’t answer immediately. She gave herself one slow heartbeat to school her expression, then reached for a smile she had used a thousand times before—the kind that donors believed, critics respected, questions avoided.

“I’m fine,” she said softly. “Just… annoyed. Missing the pas de deux in the full run.” She exhaled lightly, as if it were nothing more than a minor inconvenience. “At least I got to do my solo. Still, it would’ve been better to participate in the full run too.”

A good excuse. Logical. Clean. Believable enough to survive scrutiny.

Angel studied her a moment longer, unconvinced, but he didn’t push. He nodded once, lips pressed together.

“Yeah. That sucks,” he said. “But it’s okay—we still got time.”

They were almost at the studio door when she felt it.

A shift in the air. A presence too close.

Vincent.

He stepped into her space with effortless confidence, the kind that came from knowing no one would question him. Before she could react, before she could fully process it, his hands settled on her shoulders, warm and familiar in a way that made her skin crawl.

“I don’t want to be that person,” he said smoothly, voice lowered, carefully modulated. “But I couldn’t help overhearing what you said.”

Her muscles locked beneath his touch.

“I’m really sorry I caused you stress,” he continued, tone dipped in something that almost sounded like sincerity. “That was unprofessional of me, leaving like that. Truly. It won’t happen again. You have my word.”

Her instincts screamed at her to move, to step back, to tell him not to touch her.

But the studio door was right there.

Valentino was just ahead of them. Rosie lingered nearby. Velvette had already disappeared inside. Too many eyes. Too much at stake.

Charlie swallowed hard.

“It’s—” Her voice caught, thin and traitorous. She cleared her throat and tried again. “It’s not a big deal. Don’t worry about it.”

The lie burned on the way out.

Her mouth curved into something meant to be a smile, but it came out tight, strained, brittle around the edges. Vincent either didn’t notice, or enjoyed it. His hands lingered a second too long before finally dropping away.

“We still have the rest of the week … and the week after,” he said, as if offering comfort. “Plenty of time to make it perfect.”

Perfect. The word landed wrong, sour, obscene.

Angel, just a step ahead, turned back in time to see Vincent withdraw and move toward Velvette. His expression darkened.

“Jesus. He always does that,” Angel muttered, voice sharp and quiet. “Always gotta play the innocent boy. You notice that?”

Charlie let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, shoulders sinking a fraction.

“Yeah,” she whispered back, the word tasting bitter.

They stepped into Studio 3.

The space was familiar—mirrors stretching wall to wall, marley floors scuffed by decades of work, the faint smell of rosin and sweat clinging to the air. Normally, grounding, safe. Today, hostile. It felt as if the room itself were watching her, waiting.

Rosie set her things down with deliberate care, expression neutral. Valentino followed, loud and unapologetic, presence filling the space like smoke. Velvette took her place with effortless precision, posture flawless, gaze unreadable.

Charlie moved to her spot, shoulders squared. For a brief moment, she clasped her hands in front of her, grounding herself in the familiar ritual.

This was her job.
This was her role.
This was her dream.

The same dream stolen from Alastor.

The same dream Vincent had built his empire on.

That realization settled in her stomach like a stone.

She was supposed to let this man hold her waist, guide her turns, support her weight. She was supposed to trust him with her balance, her timing, her body.

The thought made her feel sick.

Still, she didn’t move. Didn’t protest. Didn’t falter.

Losing control here, showing the smallest crack, could cost her everything. She knew that with a clarity that burned. She wasn’t ready to lose this yet—not after fighting so hard to get here.

Her eyes flicked briefly toward the doorway, toward where the piano usually was, where Alastor’s steady presence anchored the room.

He wasn’t there now.

Charlie wasn’t sure she could tolerate Vox long enough to pretend everything was normal.

But she would try. Even if she already knew how hard it was going to be.

Now in Studio 3, practice resumed with the mechanical precision only professionals could summon after hours of repetition, after exhaustion had burned through muscle and bone and left only discipline behind. Bodies fell back into rhythm as if nothing beneath the surface had shifted at all, as if nothing fragile had been disturbed.

Charlie moved with them. She knew the choreography by heart, every turn, every lift, every suspended breath timed to make the audience believe in weightlessness. Her body responded instinctively, trained to obey long before doubt could interfere. Muscle memory carried her forward when her thoughts lagged behind, and for a moment, that felt like relief.

From the outside, flawless.

From the inside, unraveling.

She felt it first in small ways, the way her shoulders crept upward without permission, the way her jaw tightened when she thought no one was watching. Out of the four of them, Charlie received the most corrections, and she couldn’t tell whether it was a coincidence or a consequence.

“Your shoulders,” Valentino snapped, pacing in front of the mirrors like a general inspecting troops. “They’re tight. You look braced for impact, not in love with the air. The Sugar Plum Fairy does not anticipate—she floats.”

Charlie adjusted immediately, softening posture, lengthening neck, forcing ease into muscles that had gone rigid without her consent. She reminded herself, again, that tension showed, that tension meant failure.

“And your focus,” Valentino continued, sharper now, edge unmistakable. “Look at Velvette. See how open she is? How does she trust the line? That’s confidence. That’s what the audience wants to see on the performance.” His gaze flicked back to Charlie. “Even if her partner is… acceptable.”

Velvette smiled at the compliment, chin lifting just a fraction, subtle satisfaction unmistakable. Angel rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle Valentino didn’t notice, or didn’t care to.

Before tension could calcify into something heavier, Rosie intervened. She stepped forward, voice gentler but no less precise, positioning herself beside Charlie and mirroring the pose she was meant to hold.

“Here,” Rosie said calmly, guiding rather than correcting. “Not tension, intention. Let the emotion lead the shape, not the other way around. You don’t need to disappear into him. You meet him halfway.”

Charlie nodded, grateful in a way that surprised her. Rosie’s feedback grounded her, pulled her back into something familiar, technique, structure, things that could be trusted even when her thoughts refused to cooperate.

For a few minutes, it worked.

She was doing well.

Steps clean. Turns landed. Timing exact. Music was threading through her body the way it always had. She focused on the count, on the arc of her arms, on the geometry of the movement.

It was only when Vincent’s hands came into play that everything went wrong.

At his waist placements, her breath hitched before she could stop it. At the lifts, her body resisted for a fraction of a second, barely noticeable, something only another professional would detect—but enough. Where there had once been neutrality, even ease, there was now something visceral and sharp. Disgust curled low in her stomach, sudden and uninvited, impossible to ignore once it surfaced.

She tried to override it. Told herself this was work. Bodies in ballet were instruments, not confessions. Proximity did not mean intimacy. Whatever Vincent had done, whatever he was, had nothing to do with this moment, this choreography, this role she had earned.

But her body didn’t listen. It never did when it mattered most.

Vincent noticed, of course. He always did.

After another incomplete lift, her balance just slightly off, his grip tightening to compensate, Vincent raised a hand.

“Stop the music.”

The room stilled instantly. Silence rang louder than the piano had. Sweat cooled on Charlie’s skin as the absence of sound made everything feel exposed.

Vincent turned toward Rosie and Valentino, expression composed, almost indulgent, as if he were the one offering patience rather than demanding it.

“I think we’re pushing a little hard,” he said mildly. “It’s only the third day of practice this week. She’s still adjusting—to my touch, my timing, my style. That takes a moment.”

Velvette muttered something under her breath, not pretending to hide it.

Heat rushed to Charlie’s face—not embarrassment, not exactly, but fury sharpened by helplessness. The words sat wrong. The implication worse.

Vincent looked at her and smiled.

It wasn’t warm. It wasn’t kind.

“Why don’t you take a walk, Miss Morningstar?” he suggested smoothly. “Get some air. Long day. Sometimes the body needs a reset.”

The implication settled heavily: You are the problem.

Charlie forced her lips into something resembling a smile, brittle, almost painful. She nodded, said nothing, reaching for her water bottle and bag. Speaking would have required steadiness she didn’t have.

As she turned toward the door, Rosie took a step forward, concern etched across her face. “Charlie—”

But Valentino clapped sharply, cutting the moment. “Positions. Angel, Velvette. Let’s not waste any time.”

Rosie hesitated, then stayed.

 

Charlie walked out of the studio without looking back.

The hallway outside was quieter, the distant hum of other rehearsals muffled behind thick doors and layers of soundproofing. Her footsteps echoed softly against the floor. She didn’t stop until the pressure in her chest became too much, until it felt as though something might crack if she didn’t slow down.

She leaned a hand against the wall, breathing slowly, deliberately.

She wasn’t falling apart. She refused to.

But knowing what she knew—about Alastor, about stolen chances, broken legs, threats whispered in bathrooms—made every professional instinct inside her rebel. Vincent wasn’t just a partner anymore. He was a reminder. Not of something that had happened to her, but of something stolen from someone she cared about, lodged painfully under her ribs.

The room she chose was one of the old practice studios no one used anymore, the kind with scuffed marley floors and mirrors dulled by time. It smelled faintly of resin and dust, of sweat soaked into the walls decades ago and never quite gone. The door clicked shut behind her, sealing the quiet in.

In that stillness, Charlie sank to the floor as if her legs had finally remembered how heavy they were.

As if routine might save her.

She pulled a brand-new pair of pointe shoes from her bag. Still stiff. Untouched. Innocent. The satin caught the light when she turned them in her hands, thumbs pressing into the box, testing the resistance. She didn’t need to do this, not yet. The pair she had been dancing in would last her days more, maybe a week if careful. Her body knew that. Her hands didn’t care.

She began anyway.

Bending the shank, slow at first, then harder. Sewing the ribbons with fingers trembling just enough to make stitches uneven. Normally, meticulous, almost reverent with this ritual; today, none of those things applied.

When she stood and lifted the shoe, lining the box against the wall, she hesitated, a fraction of a second. Then she slammed it.

The sound cracked through the room, sharp, violent, out of place. Again. And again. Each impact vibrating up her arm, through her chest. It wasn’t softening the shoe. It was trying to break something that refused to give.

Tears blurred her vision, streaking hot down her cheeks, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t. The rhythm became erratic, furious, until her grip failed, and the shoe flew across the floor, striking the mirror with a dull thud.

Silence rushed back in.

Charlie dropped where she stood, folding in on herself, arms wrapped around her knees as if she could hold everything together by force alone. Shoulders shook. Breath splintered into uneven pieces. Forehead pressed into her legs as sobs tore out, not softly, not gracefully, but from somewhere deeper than thought.

Why was she crying? That question cut deepest.

She hadn’t lost anything. Body still strong, trained, obedient. Legs still lifted her when asked. She could rise en pointe, spin, land exactly where she meant. No cane waited by the door. No stolen future behind her.

Alastor’s did.

That was the problem.

She wiped her face with the heel of her hand, anger threading through grief. This hadn’t happened to her. It had happened years ago, before she knew his name, before she had ever seen him sit at a piano with that quiet, watchful intensity. She couldn’t change it. Couldn’t undo it.

So why did it hurt like this? Because she understood.

Because as a dancer, the thought alone was unbearable, to have your body, instrument, voice, entire future taken, not by chance, not by fate, but by someone else’s cruelty. By ambition sharpened into a weapon. By hands that should have been lifting you, choosing instead to destroy you.

And now those same hands were on her.

That was what her body couldn’t accept now.

Every time Vincent’s grip tightened at her waist, every lift, every correction framed as patience, it felt wrong in a way she couldn’t articulate without screaming. It wasn’t fear for herself. It was loyalty she hadn’t known she was capable of. Empathy so sharp it bordered on grief.

Dancing with Vincent felt like betrayal, not of her role, not of the production, but of Alastor.

And she hated that, too.

She didn’t want to pity him. Didn’t want to see him as broken, tragic. He was none of those things to her. Brilliant. Demanding. Wry. Alive in ways unrelated to whether he could dance again. But knowing what had been taken from him, what should have been his, made it impossible to separate the man at the piano from the boy who never got to debut.

Her sobs softened, slowing into shaky breaths. She stayed on the floor, eyes red, chest aching, staring at the discarded shoe like evidence of a crime she didn’t know how to name.

She had to go back. She knew that. She had to stand beside Vox again, let him lift her, trust him with her balance, her weight, her safety. Her job. Her responsibility. Her dream.

But knowing what she knew, about Alastor, about stolen chances and broken legs, whispered threats, made every professional instinct inside her rebel. Vincent wasn’t just a partner. He was a reminder.

Not of what had happened to her. Of what had been taken from someone she cared about.

And she wouldn’t let it destroy her.

 

Charlie returned to Studio Three, her chest tight with a mix of tension and determination. She paused at the door, inhaled slowly, and let the air out, forcing herself to arrange the storm inside into something manageable. She tried for a smile, one that didn’t feel like a grimace, one that felt almost sincere. It was a fragile construction, a mask for the moment, but it worked. She stepped inside, her reflection in the mirror immediately claiming her attention. Forcing herself to focus there, she blocked out the edges of the studio, the sound of Vincent’s presence, the weight of everything she had learned about him.

For the rest of the day, Charlie remained quiet, her lips pressed into a gentle line, her eyes tracking her own reflection with surgical precision. She moved through every step of the Sugar Plum Fairy’s choreography with care, letting her body flow mechanically, but her mind remained a battlefield. Every lift with Vincent, every brush of his hands along her waist and arms, sparked a momentary pang of disgust that she swiftly quelled.

She reminded herself it was her job, her role, her responsibility to keep herself stable.

Her empathy burned silently, but she knew she needed to stay still on that.

Almost at the end of the day, Alastor eventually arrived, his presence calm and commanding, yet Charlie didn’t dare meet his eyes.

Not even once.

She kept her focus on the mirror, tracing her own lines, her own posture, her own reflection, the only thing she could control.

When the full run concluded, and Valentino and Rosie finished their notes with meticulous care, Alastor spoke to everyone as usual, but for her, his words were minimal. He noted only one detail: her balance during a spin had wavered for a fraction of a second.

Nothing more.

And in that moment, Charlie felt a strange mix of relief and disappointment. Relief that he hadn’t noticed anything else, disappointment because she still carves and wants so much his validation, not that she would ever admit it ... or at least not now.

The next day, Friday, continued the same rhythm. Charlie arrived mentally armored, steeling herself for every lift, every touch, every eye contact with Vincent. Silence became her shield; focus, her weapon. Each step across the floor was precise, calculated, performed with the grace of someone who understood the stakes—not only her own, but the invisible ones that lingered from Alastor’s history. She allowed herself no frivolity, no softness.

Saturday arrived with a brief reprieve. During a short break, Angel leaned close, his voice teasing but kind.

“Has your voice returned yet?” he asked, arching an eyebrow. "You've been too quiet, and that's not like you."

Charlie shook her head with a faint smile, admitting, “I’ve been a little stressed. This lead role… it’s too important to take lightly.” Her fingers brushed her water bottle as she filled it, her movements deliberate, controlled. “I feel a little more stressed knowing that, depending on this performance and the audience's reaction, I will or will not be selected as the principal dancer in the next season. So ... I need to stay sharp.”

Angel signed, he understood the situation, but he was still a little worried a bout her sudden change of mood since Thursday. “You need to bring back that happy spirit, Charlie. Especially today, don't forget we’re going out to dinner. Im finally introducing everyone to my boyfriend, and I don't want you to feel out of place."

Charlie felt the corner of her lips lift genuinely this time, her tension easing slightly. “Don’t worry,” she said softly. “My good mood will be back the moment we leave this place. You’ll see.”

Angel’s eyes softened, and he reached over, hugging her shoulder briefly. “Promise me you won’t let that feeling fade,” he said. “You deserve to enjoy it. And besides… you’ve earned it.”

Charlie allowed herself to breathe a little deeper, the storm inside her settling to a manageable murmur. For a brief, rare moment, she could let herself feel that it was okay to care, to be human, to smile.

The mirror reflected her strength, her resilience, and just a sliver of hope that, despite everything, she could still navigate the chaos of this world on her own terms.

As Charlie walked back toward Studio Three beside Angel, she texted her mom saying that she was gonna go out with her freinds, that she was not gonna come back home tonight, so to not wait for her, which her mom responded with an Ok and to have fun responsibly. Her eyes caught something in the periphery of her vision, a familiar silhouette moving down a parallel corridor. The straight line of his posture, the measured rhythm of his steps, the cane striking the floor with that steady, unmistakable cadence. Her heart reacted before her mind did.

“I—uh—bathroom,” she blurted suddenly, already slowing her pace.

Angel barely glanced back. “Don’t take forever,” he said, distracted, already thinking about the next run.

Charlie nodded and turned, her steps quickening as she followed the corridor where Alastor had disappeared.

She rounded the corner — and there he was.

Standing still.

Waiting.

Not facing her at first, but somehow aware. As if he’d felt her approach rather than heard it.

“I had a feeling,” Alastor said calmly, turning just enough to meet her eyes, “that you’d do something so entirely predictable.”

She opened her mouth, ready to apologize, ready to explain, but he continued, his tone softer now, almost fond.

“And I must admit… I rather like that about you.”

He opened his mouth, clearly preparing another teasing remark, something clever and disarming, but Charlie didn’t give him the chance.

She crossed the space between them in two quick steps and wrapped her arms around him.

The hug wasn’t playful. It wasn’t flirtatious. It was close, grounded, and achingly sincere. 

He exhaled softly against her hair. “May I ask,” he murmured, “why now?”

Charlie didn’t pull away. “I just… needed a hug,” she said quietly. “Right now. Just one. From you.”

That was all it took.

Alastor didn’t question her further. He simply held her, steady and warm. He adjusted his stance, shifting his weight carefully, and even with his cane still in hand, he made room for her, drawing her closer with deliberate care, refusing to not give his best for her. Charlie closed her eyes, letting the moment sink in. A strange guilt curled in her chest, dancing with Vincent, letting those hands lift her, guide her, touch her, yet here, in this quiet corridor, this felt like a small, necessary correction. Not a betrayal undone, but something balanced.

When Alastor finally eased back, his expression had softened.

“Better?” he asked gently.

Charlie nodded, a small smile breaking through. “Yeah. Just stressed, I guess.”

He studied her for a second, clearly sensing there was more beneath the surface. His mouth parted as if to say something, something important, but then he stopped himself. He looked away, the thought tucked carefully back behind that composed exterior.

Instead, he shifted the conversation, voice casual once more.

“I couldn’t help but overhear,” he said, almost sheepish by his standards. “It seems you have plans this evening.”

Charlie smiled. “Angel’s introducing his boyfriend to everyone. I already know who he is, but… I figured a drink and a good meal wouldn’t hurt.”

“A wise conclusion,” Alastor replied. “It might do wonders for that tension you’ve been carrying.”

She searched his expression, curious, cautious. “You’re not… upset?”

He raised an eyebrow, amused. “Upset? Why would I be?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Maybe… jealous? … I literally forgot about telling you that.”

Alastor chuckled quietly, shaking his head. “I trust you completely, Charlie. Why would you going out bother me? Besides, spending time with friends is something young folks are quite fond of these days.”

She groaned. “Stop calling yourself old.”

He smiled faintly. “I am fourteen years older than you, dear.”

“That doesn’t count,” she shot back. “You look like… twenty-six. Max.”

He laughed, genuinely, the sound warm and unguarded. “You certainly know how to flatter a man into feeling younger.”

And just like that, the tight knot in her chest loosened. Being near him did that, grounded her, calmed her, made the world feel manageable again. But reality tugged at her, and she stepped back reluctantly.

“I should go,” she said softly. “They’re waiting.”

Before she could turn away, Alastor spoke again.

“Charlotte?” She looked back. “Would you care to have lunch with me tomorrow?” he asked. “Before class. Nothing extravagant. I tend to cook on Sundays.”

Her face lit up instantly.

She stepped closer, lifted her hands to his face, and gently guided him down to her height. Her thumbs brushed his cheeks with quiet affection.

“I will always have time for you,” she said earnestly.

She pressed a quick kiss to the bridge of his nose, tender, playful, unmistakably hers, and before he could respond, she was already turning away, hurrying back toward Studio Three with lighter steps and a steadier heart.

Alastor remained where he was for a moment longer, watching her go, the faintest smile lingering on his lips — one filled with warmth, pride, and something dangerously close to hope.

Charlie returned to the studio and slipped back into place as if nothing had happened.

The ability to compartmentalize was strong in her.

To tuck emotions neatly behind posture, to lace discomfort into pointe shoes and call it discipline. Her spine straightened, her chin lifted, her expression smoothed into something serene and unreadable. From the outside, she looked like the Sugar Plum Fairy again: light, composed, ethereal.

Inside, it took everything she had.

Vincent’s hands returned to her waist when the music demanded it. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t recoil. She let him guide her into lifts and turns, let his palm settle where it had to settle, let her body respond with mechanical precision. It was choreography. Nothing more. She repeated that to herself like a mantra.

It was what professionals did.

Alastor arrived partway through, as he always did, standing at the back with his cane resting lightly against his leg, posture immaculate, eyes sharp. His presence alone changed the air in the room, subtle, but unmistakable. Charlie felt it without looking at him, felt the way the tension in her chest shifted, the way her awareness sharpened. Still, she refused to meet his gaze. She focused instead on the mirror, on her alignment, on the reflection of a dancer who looked calm enough to fool anyone.

The full run began.

Alastor’s feedback came methodically, as expected. Precise. Unforgiving. He stopped the music often, dissecting timing, weight placement, transitions that were a fraction too slow or too indulgent. Velvette received several low scores, each one punctuated by a tight smile that grew thinner with every correction. Once or twice she opened her mouth to object, but Vincent’s glance silenced her instantly.

Angel fared better. Alastor’s critiques aligned closely with Rosie’s and Valentino’s—technical, firm, but fair. Charlie noticed Angel relax a little under that consistency.

When it came to her, Alastor didn’t soften.

If anything, he was harder.

Her scores were lower than usual. Not catastrophic—but undeniably disappointing. He pointed out micro-instabilities in her turns, moments where her center wavered just enough to be visible to someone trained to see it. His voice remained neutral, professional, but Charlie felt each word land with weight. She absorbed it silently, nodding, already cataloging every note to correct later.

Vincent’s feedback came last.

Alastor didn’t disguise his edge then. His tone sharpened, critiques delivered with a bluntness that bordered on confrontational. The room felt it—an invisible tightening, dancers exchanging quick glances without daring to comment. Charlie felt a flicker of something darkly satisfying stir in her chest. She hated herself a little for it.

When it was over, Alastor closed his notebook, exchanged a brief word with Rosie and Valentino, and left without another glance in her direction.

The studio exhaled.

Angel announced that he was going to change quickly and would wait downstairs so he could meet Cherry and then wait for the rest to go get dinner. Velvette gathered her things with clipped efficiency and followed soon after, heels clicking sharply against the floor.

That left Charlie alone.

Or so she thought.

She packed her bag faster than usual, movements efficient, purposeful. She just wanted space—air, distance, anything. The silence of the studio felt suddenly oppressive, too large, too empty.

Then she felt hands on her shoulders.

Her body reacted before her mind could catch up, muscles tightening, breath hitching. She looked up sharply from where she sat on the floor, only to find Vincent kneeling in front of her, close enough that she could smell his cologne, see the faint sheen of sweat at his temples.

“Relax, Charlie,” he said softly, as if she were the one being unreasonable, but the worst of all was that he had said her name like they were friends. “You’ve been like a statue these past few days.”

Charlie didn’t answer.

He studied her face, head tilted slightly, eyes calculating. “You think you’re hiding it,” he continued. “You smile. You act convincingly. But our bodies don’t lie.” His thumbs pressed lightly into her shoulders, testing. “You’re tense. All the time.”

Her stomach twisted.

She opened her mouth to respond, to shut him down, to stand up, to do anything, but he moved faster. His fingers slid up, his hand lifting her chin with infuriating familiarity, forcing her to look at him.

“If you need help to liberate that tension,” he murmured, voice dropping, “I can help you.”

That was it.

The disgust hit her like a wave, hot, immediate, overwhelming. Charlie shoved him hard, scrambling to her feet in one motion, her voice cutting through the space with sharp clarity.

“Don’t touch me!”

Vincent rocked back slightly, he was not surprised by this, this is actually the reaction he wanted from her.

“You only touch me when we’re dancing,” she continued, anger burning through the composure she’d worked so hard to maintain. “And even then, only because it’s required. Nothing else. EVER. Do you understand me?”

Her hands trembled, but her voice didn’t.

“We are partners onstage and onstage ONLY,” she said. “Nothing more. So do not expect from me to be nice anymore, not after this”

For a moment, Vox just stared at her.

Then he smiled.

It was slow. Knowing. The kind of smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

Charlie didn’t wait to see more.

She grabbed her bag and ran out of the studio, down the hallway, heart pounding, breath uneven. She didn’t look back.

Vox remained kneeling where she’d left him, that smile lingering, even after when he saw someone else peeping.

Because in the reflection of the glass of the door behind him, he saw Alastor's shadow.

Standing there.

Watching.

Alastor’s expression was carved from fury, controlled, silent, lethal. His grip tightened on his cane, knuckles whitening, gaze locked onto Vincent with a promise that needed no words.

Vox straightened slowly, but he never stopped smiling; in fact, it grew bigger.

Then he stood up and opened that door.

With a face that carried more mockery than courtesy, Vincent leaned casually against the corner of the door, arms crossed, as if he owned the room.

“Hello, my dear professor,” he said lightly. “Can I help you with something?”

He extended his hand in a friendly gesture—too friendly, too rehearsed—as though nothing improper had occurred, as though Charlie hadn’t fled the studio moments earlier.

Alastor didn’t take it.

He stepped into the study instead, the door closing behind him with deliberate calm. He advanced slowly until he stood directly in front of Vincent, then struck the floor once with his cane.

The sound cracked through the room like a warning shot.

“You should be more professional,” Alastor said at last, his voice low, controlled, edged with something dangerous beneath the polish. “Don’t you think?”

Vincent raised an eyebrow. “Professional? I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

“It’s not appropriate,” Alastor continued, unmoved, “to behave like that in places like this. Or anywhere, for that matter. And especially not toward a woman who has made it clear she does not welcome it.”

Vincent laughed softly, shaking his head as if indulging an overdramatic colleague.

“My dear friend,” he said, “you make it sound far worse than it was. I merely touched her shoulders. A gesture of reassurance. Encouragement. That’s all.”

Alastor’s grip tightened around his cane.

“You touched her face,” he corrected. “You took her chin. You forced her to look at you when she did not want to.”

Vincent straightened, eyes sharpening, the amusement slipping just enough to show defiance.

“And how,” he asked slowly, “would you know that?”

Alastor didn’t answer immediately.

“Perhaps,” Vincent went on, circling him like a predator testing distance, “she pulled away because she was nervous. Because she’s inexperienced with intimacy on stage. Dancers get self-conscious. It happens.”

Alastor closed his eyes for a fraction of a second. When he opened them again, there was fury there—raw and barely bridled.

“No lady,” he said evenly, a crooked smile cutting across his face, “wants to have her face handled like that. It’s not courteous. It’s not gentlemanly.”

He leaned in slightly.

“It’s something a potential criminal or abuser does.”

Vincent burst out laughing, louder now, exaggerated, clapping his hands once as if applauding the insult.

“Oh, marvelous,” he sneered. “Listen to you. So moral. So righteous. You haven’t changed that much, have you?.”

He waved a dismissive hand.

“Or maybe,” Vincent added casually, “she reacted that way because she belongs to someone else.”

Alastor stilled.

“Perhaps,” Vincent continued, watching him closely, savoring it, “she has a boyfriend. Or a lover. And perhaps she felt… conflicted. Like she was betraying him by accepting even the smallest touch from me.”

Alastor scoffed, but he didn’t respond.

Vincent smiled wider. “And maybe,” he said softly, “that lover is the man standing in front of me right now.”

The air went dead.

Alastor stands still.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.

Vincent’s eyes gleamed. “What’s wrong?” he taunted. “No clever comeback? No lecture?”

His laughter spilled out again, sharp and cruel.

“Your silence is telling me everything I need to know,” he said, delighted. “How fascinating.”

He took a step closer.

“I can’t believe it,” Vincent went on. “You—Alastor, the esteemed pianist of Class One—preaching professionalism while carrying on an affair with not just a promising lead principal dancer, but the New York City mayor’s daughter.”

He let out a low whistle.

“Now that,” he said, “would make headlines, wouldn’t it?”

Alastor’s jaw clenched so hard it ached.

“Alastor,” Vincent continued mockingly, “the pianist. The fallen dancer. Involved with a girl nearly half his age.” He tilted his head. “People would eat that story alive.”

Alastor inhaled deeply, shakily, forcing himself to speak without raising his voice.

“I think,” he said coldly, “you’re hallucinating.” He turned toward the door. “Perhaps you should cut back on your drug use, its really getting into your head.”

That did it.

“Don’t act clever with me, Al,” Vincent snapped.

Alastor stopped.

Vincent seized the moment, stepping forward and placing a hand on his shoulder—too familiar, too intentional.

“I’ve told you before,” Vincent said quietly, venom laced through every word, “I have far more information about you than you have about me. Unlike you back in the day, I do have concrete evidence that can proof what Im saying. So, I suggest you remember that before you start acting superior.”

That was the last mistake.

Alastor spun, grabbing Vincent by the collar and slamming him back against the desk.

“Don’t touch her,” Alastor growled, all restraint gone. “Not again. Not ever.”

His voice trembled—not with fear, but with fury.

“She owes you nothing,” he continued. “And you owe her respect. Act like the adult you claim to be. Like the star you pretend to be.”

Vincent shoved him off, straightening his shirt, laughing breathlessly.

“Oh, don’t worry,” he said smugly. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

He leaned in one last time.

“Take good care of your little princess,” Vincent whispered. “Because one day… I might be the one taking her away from you.”

 

And with that, he walked out.

The door slammed shut, leaving Alastor alone, hands kinda shaking, chest burning, consumed by a jealousy and rage deeper than he had ever allowed himself to feel.

Vox left the room with a smile still carved onto his face, practiced and effortless, the kind that had carried him through years of applause and polite applause alike. But the moment he turned the corner and the echo of Alastor’s cane faded behind him, that smile collapsed. It didn’t soften or fade, it shattered, as if it had never truly belonged to him in the first place.

His steps slowed.

Alastor cared.

That realization hit harder than any insult ever could.

He cared for her. Not in the vague, courteous way he showed students or colleagues, not in the distant, clinical respect he offered talent. No, this was something else entirely. Something raw, instinctive. Protective. The kind of care that made his voice sharpen, his posture straighten, his temper flare without restraint.

Vox had seen it in his eyes.

And that, that was what hurt the most.

Because Vox had wanted that look for himself. Had wanted it so badly it had once felt like oxygen in his lungs. To be seen that way. To be chosen without having to ask. To be important to Alastor in a way that didn’t need to be justified with words or contracts or shared history.

What did Charlie Morningstar have that he didn’t?

The question gnawed at him as he walked, faster now, toward the exit.

They were both dancers. Both prodigies once. Both chewed up and spat out by the same merciless industry that demanded perfection and punished vulnerability. They had both bled for ballet, physically, emotionally, irreversibly.

So what was it?

Was it her hair, pale, blond and soft, catching the light in a way his never did? Her eyes, warm and bright instead of sharp and calculating? Or was it something simpler, something far more cruel?

Was it just that she was a woman?

His jaw tightened.

Once, they had been close. Closer than anyone else dared to be with Alastor. Friends, genuinely so. Partners in rehearsals that stretched into midnight. Confidants who shared dressing rooms, cigarettes, whispered dreams of greatness. Vox had trusted him. Admired him. Loved him, quietly at first, then desperately, then without shame.

Alastor had been his idol long before he’d been his equal.

And Vox had believed, truly believed, that the next step was inevitable. That affection, nurtured long enough, would turn into something more. All he needed was time.

But time had never been kind to him.

Alastor’s indifference, cool, absolute, unyielding, had cut deeper than hatred ever could. When Alastor had finally said it, calmly and without cruelty, that he did not feel the same, that it would be better if they kept their distance… Vox had smiled then, too. Had nodded. Had pretended he understood.

Inside, something had splintered.

He had loved him so completely that he hadn’t even noticed how little Alastor gave back. Had mistaken politeness for affection. Respect for intimacy. Silence for restraint.

And when Vox realized—too late—that Alastor would never choose him, that he would never look at him the way he now looked at her—

That was when everything broke.

That was when obsession twisted into something darker.

Something that led to recklessness. To cruelty. To a moment that could never be undone.

A leg was injured. A career altered. A limp that might last a lifetime.

“The only thing you needed to say was yes,” Vox murmured to himself, stopping just outside the academy doors. His voice was hollow, almost pleading. “Even for a few minutes. Even just for a damn kiss.”

Because he still remembered it.

That night.

The snowstorm. The way the world had gone quiet, swallowed in white, as he stood frozen across the street and watched Alastor kiss Charlie beneath the falling snow. Soft. Careful. Almost reverent.

Romantic in a way Vox had never been allowed to experience with him.

Something inside him had snapped then, too.

He had never admitted it (And he would never do) but even now, after everything he had done, after the damage he had caused, after the bitterness and the violence and the lies…

He still loved Alastor.

And the worst part?

Watching Alastor suffer because of him, watching that pain carve itself into the man he adored, had been the only thing that made Vox feel seen again. Acknowledged. Important.

Horrible. Yes.

True. Also yes.

Vox finally pushed the academy doors open and stepped out into the cold evening air. He didn’t look back.

He returned to the hotel room he’d been staying in since his arrival, closed the door behind him, and stood there in silence, alone with his thoughts, his regrets, and a love that had long since rotted into something unrecognizable.

And still… painfully… alive.

 

By the time the Q train screeched into the station at 7th Avenue, Charlie already felt like she had shed an old skin, one she didn’t want anymore.

She stood near the doors with Vaggie pressed lightly at her side, Angel across from them, Pentious and Cherry sitting together, a lil too close to each other, complaining under their breath about the lack of personal space (but secretly loving it). The rhythmic clatter of the train should’ve been calming. It usually was.

Tonight, it wasn’t.

Charlie stared at her reflection in the darkened window, eyes tired, shoulders held too tight, and made a decision right there.

I’m not thinking about him anymore.

Not Vox. Not the way his fingers had lingered. Not the way his voice had slid into her space as it belonged there. She didn’t want to think about how disgusting it felt, how trapped she’d been in Studio 3, how Tchaikovsky—beautiful, aching Tchaikovsky—had been playing while she wanted to crawl out of her own skin.

She swallowed, forcing the thought down.

The doors slid open with a hiss.

Angel was the first one out, practically bouncing onto the platform.
“Okayyy, my ladies—and Pentious,” he added quickly, glancing over his shoulder, “next stop: my place. We drop our stuff, change, and then we hit the bar— I mean—restaurant.”

Vaggie shot her a look, arms crossing immediately. “Angel. Be honest. Are we getting drunk?”

Angel gasped, offended. “Excuse you. This was supposed to be a classy evening.”

Cherry laughed, looping an arm through Vaggie’s. “You know better than that.”

“I said dinner and a bar,” Angel corrected, already walking. “A small bar. That my boyfriend owns.”

Pentious’ eyes widened behind his glasses. “—A bar? Your boyfriend owns a bar?”

Angel blinked, then looked away, cheeks coloring. “Well, yeah, and he knows how to make drinks too.”

Cherry leaned in dramatically. “Oh my god. Angie.”

Vaggie raised a brow. “So you’re dating someone with money.”

Angel waved it off. “Not like Charlie’s family-money,” he said quickly, glancing at her, then softer, “but yeah. He’s doing okay. And he works. Like, actually works. He had another job that I think you guys might may be surprised by .”

Charlie smiled at that, genuinely this time.

Vaggie noticed. She always did. She reached out, fingers brushing Charlie’s arm. “Well,” she said gently, “now I really want to meet him.” Then, pointedly, “Don’t you?”

Charlie nodded knowingly, her smile small but real.
“Yeah. I do, and all of us are so happy for you”

Angel beamed. By the time they reached her building, keys already in hand, she stopped in front of the door and took a breath.

“I’m really glad you guys are my friends,” she said, quieter now.

Then, just like that, her energy snapped back. “Alright! Upstairs, get ready, and look hot. The place isn’t far, so if any of my heels fit you, grab them.”

They laughed as they piled into the apartment.

The place exploded into motion.

Clothes were pulled from closets. Shoes were thrown across the floor. Cherry immediately claimed the mirror. Vaggie argued with Angel about eyeliner. Pentious emerged wearing something suspiciously stylish.

Angel had clothes for everyone, it was his style.

Charlie drifted more quietly, fingers brushing over hangers until something soft caught her eye.

A pink, off-the-shoulder top.

It was delicate. Almost romantic. Not flashy, not loud, gentle. She paired it with a simple black skirt and stepped out hesitantly.

When she stepped out wearing it, the room fell into a brief, thoughtful silence.

Vaggie tilted her head. “It’s pretty, Char. Really pretty. But…” She gestured vaguely. “You kind of look like you’re going to rehearsal.”

Cherry nodded. “Yeah. It’s very you. Just not very… club.”

Charlie laughed weakly.
“We’re not blacking out. We’re eating and having a lil drink .”

Cherry barked a laugh. “Sweetheart. This ends at a club for sure.”

Vaggie nodded. “Absolutely.”

Cherry said “It’s like you don’t know Angie”

Angel appeared in the doorway in a sparkly top and tight pants, looking Charlie up and down. “Oh no,” he said immediately. “Baby. not the ballet-core outfit.”

Charlie groaned.“It’s your closet!”

“I know,” Angel said, already rummaging for shoes. “And that’s why I’m saving you.” He thrust a pair of tall black boots toward her.“These. Fierce. Trust me.”

“I’d rather be comfortable—”

Vaggie smirked. “Or maybe you just don’t want to look too good.”

Cherry’s eyes lit up. “Oh? Why not?”

Vaggie glanced at Charlie, knowingly. “Because she’s already starting something serious with that Columbia guy.”

Cherry gasped dramatically. “THE RICH GIRL GOT A BOYFRIEND?”

Charlie froze. Her cheeks burned.
“I— It’s not—”

Angel wagged a finger playfully. “Next time we go out, you’re introducing him. Or her. Or whatever mysterious Columbia man you’re hiding.”

Charlie slipped the boots on, heart thudding, not from nerves about a night out, but from a name she refused to say.

“Okay,” she said softly, standing. “I’m ready.”

Angel clapped once. “Good. Let’s go before Pentious said that he is fucking hungry again.”

They laughed, gathering their things, spilling out into the hallway together—loud, chaotic, alive.

They walked a few more blocks before arriving at the place.

The sign above the entrance read ALTAR, glowing softly against the night—and, almost immediately, every single gaze in the group shifted straight to Angel.

Vaggie stopped walking and crossed her arms slowly, turning toward him with a look that could kill. “So,” she said, tilting her head, her voice dripping with sarcasm, “‘We’re going to eat first,’ huh? Interesting definition of first, Angel. Because this is very clearly a bar.”

Angel rolled his eyes, completely unbothered, a grin tugging at his lips. “You know what? I’m not even going to defend myself. You all know how I am.”

Pentious groaned dramatically, clutching his stomach.“Angel, I’m starving. If there isn’t food in there, I swear I will simply pass away on this sidewalk.”

Angel laughed and waved a dismissive hand. “Relax, drama king. Of course there’s food. I know the menu by heart. And,” he added, shooting Cherry a look, “you’ll also get to enjoy some of Cherry’s juices.”

Pentious immediately turned red.

Cherry blinked once, then punched Angel lightly in the shoulder. “Hey—what was that supposed to mean?”

Angel burst out laughing. “Relax! I told my boyfriend to add a new cocktail to the menu, and I suggested the name Cherry Bomb.”

Cherry’s expression softened into a grin. “Ohhh. That’s actually kind of sweet.”

“Obviously,” Angel replied, smirking. “Get your mind out of the gutter, pervert.”

Then he glanced at Vaggie and Charlie, clapping his hands together. “Well? What are we waiting for? We’ve got a table reserved!”

They went inside.

They moved toward the entrance together, the warmth and noise swallowing them whole as soon as they stepped inside. The place was gorgeous—low lights, dark wood, candles on tables, an altar-shaped bar glowing softly in the center. The atmosphere buzzed with laughter and music and something comfortably intimate.

Charlie felt her shoulders loosen just a bit.

Then she saw him.

Husk was seated at a table deeper inside, leaning back casually with a drink in hand. Angel noticed at the exact same moment—and immediately froze.

He lifted a hand, stopping everyone.

“Okay,” Angel said, suddenly serious. “Before we go any further—ground rules.”

Cherry blinked. “Uh-oh.”

Angel turned to face them fully. “I don’t want anyone to freak out. No weird looks. No whispers. No dramatic gasps. I cannot emotionally handle that tonight.”

Vaggie raised a brow. “Angel…”

“I’m serious,” he insisted. “Because—well—there is an age difference.”

Cherry shrugged easily. “Angel, we’re adults. You’re happy. He seems… stable so far. We’re not here to judge.”

Vaggie nodded. “Yeah, it’s not a big deal.”

Pentious, however, asked the question everyone else was thinking. “How big is the difference?”

Angel winced. “Uh… bigger than average.”

“Eight years?” Vaggie guessed.

Angel shook his head.

“Ten?” Cherry tried.

Another shake.

“Twelve?” Cherry added, narrowing her eyes. Angel swallowed. “Are we even close?”

“…Angel,” Pentious said slowly, “how old is he?”

Angel exhaled. “He’s forty.”

Silence.

Three mouths opened, just a little too wide.

Charlie felt her stomach drop, not because of Angel, but because she knew exactly how that silence could feel, especially if they knew who she was dating currently.

She stepped in immediately.

“And that’s not bad,” Charlie said firmly, voice gentle but steady. “It’s seventeen years. You’re all adults. Age is just a number.” She looked pointedly at each of them.“Right?”

Vaggie straightened, forcing herself to relax.
“You’re right. Sorry—that just caught me off guard.”

Cherry nodded. “Yeah. Same. Didn’t expect that, but… you seem happy, Angie, and that is what matters to us.”

Pentious cleared his throat and nodded as well.

Angel’s shoulders visibly relaxed.
“Thanks, guys. I just… wanted to say it first.”

He took a deep breath, then smiled again.“Okay. Now we can go.”

They walked the rest of the way, and Husk stood the moment he saw Angel.

He greeted him with an easy smile and a kiss on the cheek.

“Hey,” Husk said warmly.

Angel beamed. “Guys, this is Husk. You’ve probably seen him around the shoe department a few times.”

Husk chuckled. “Guilty.”

Angel continued proudly. “He owns this place—but he still works here sometimes. Loves it. Calls it his ‘side quests.’”

Vaggie’s eyes widened. “Oh my god—you’re him?”

Husk blinked. “I’m… him?”

“You helped me with my shoes last week!” Vaggie said. “Thank you so much, seriously. I needed that recommendation.”

Pentious nodded enthusiastically. “And thank you for telling me I was wearing the wrong size. I didn’t even know my shoes were too small.”

Husk smiled.“Happy to help.”

Cherry crossed her arms, studying him carefully… then nodded.“Thanks for taking care of Angie. His mood’s been way better lately.”

Husk glanced at Angel fondly. “That goes both ways.”

He then turned to Charlie.“Nice to see you again, Miss Morningstar. Thanks for keeping the secret.”

Charlie smiled softly.“Nice to see you too, Husk.”

The others turned to her instantly.

Vaggie: “You knew?”

Cherry: “You knew knew?”

Pentious: “Since when?!”

Charlie laughed nervously. “It was just… a small secret.”

They groaned in unison.

Angel clapped his hands again. “Okay! Enough interrogating, let’s sit before Pentious actually passes out.”

They all laughed, moving toward the table together.

The night unfolded the way nights like this usually did, slow at first, then all at once.

They got to know Husk properly, not just as the man who helped them measure ballet shoes or recommended better padding for bruised toes, but as a person. There were questions, half-joking and half-curious, about how long he had owned the place, how he managed both the bar and his other job, and how exactly he and Angel had ended up together. Husk answered most of them with dry humor, never oversharing, but clearly comfortable in their presence. It surprised them, all of them, to see this softer, steadier side of him.

After food finally arrived, and disappeared just as quickly, especially in Pentious’s case, the tension in everyone’s shoulders eased. Plates were pushed aside, laughter came more easily, and that was when the drinks started appearing at the table.

Husk insisted on it.

“House rules tonight,” he said, already signaling the bartender. “You’re Angel’s people. That means you don’t pay.”

Angel smiled at him and give him a quick kiss on the lips.

Maybe that generosity was what made them loosen up faster than usual. Or maybe it was just the exhaustion of the week finally catching up with them.

Either way, as more people began to fill the bar, the atmosphere shifted. Music got louder, conversations overlapped, and glasses clinked more often.

At some point, Vaggie leaned closer to Husk, raising her voice just enough to be heard over the noise.

“Hey—would it be okay if I invited someone else? Just one person.”

Husk glanced at Angel first, then back at Vaggie. “One’s fine.”

Vaggie didn’t hesitate. She pulled out her phone immediately.

Charlie noticed and groaned softly, resting her chin in her hand. “That’s not fair,” she said. “Now I’m going to be the only one here without a partner.”

Vaggie smirked at her. “That’s easily fixable.”

Charlie stiffened slightly. “No.”

“I didn’t even say anything yet.”

“You were going to tell me to call it.”

“And you could,” Vaggie replied, shrugging. “Right now.”

Charlie’s cheeks warmed instantly. “It’s not… it’s not time yet, its still… too recent.”

Vaggie lifted her hands in surrender. “Hey, that’s on you. I’m just saying the option exists.” Then she nudged a glass toward Charlie. “For now, drink with me.”

Charlie hesitated for a second—then picked it up.

Time blurred after that.

By the time Lute arrived, Vaggie was already a little tipsy, her laughter louder, her gestures less restrained. Still, she introduced Lute to everyone proudly, arm slung around her shoulder. Lute was quiet, reserved, clearly overwhelmed by the noise and the crowd, but no one pushed her. They welcomed her easily, naturally, and she seemed grateful for that.

The bar grew fuller. Louder. Warmer.

Drinks kept coming.

When Charlie finally glanced at her phone again, the time read 2:04 AM, and something about that made her stomach drop.

She tried to stand.

She couldn’t.

"Oh shit…"

Her legs felt disconnected from the rest of her body, heavy and uncooperative, as if the floor had suddenly tilted without warning. She laughed weakly at first, trying again, only to sink back into her chair.

That was bad.

She realized then just how much she’d drunk. Not because she wanted to party, not because she was celebrating, but because she had been trying, desperately, to drown out the tension that had lived under her skin all week. The knowledge about Vox. About Alastor. About what had been stolen from him. Every sip had been an attempt to quiet those thoughts.

It hadn’t worked.

A couple of men had offered to buy her drinks earlier, she remembered shaking her head, refusing politely, but even without those, she’d gone too far.

Her friends were still there, technically. But they were wrapped up in their own worlds now—Vaggie with Lute, Cherry and Pentious deep in conversation, Angel barely upright and clinging to Husk’s arm, laughing at something only the two of them seemed to understand.

Charlie felt oddly alone.

Angel stumbled over at some point, nearly tripping. “Char—come onnnn,” he slurred, pointing vaguely at the bar. “One more.”

Husk immediately intervened, steadying him and guiding him back to a chair. “No more for you,” he said firmly. Then he turned to Charlie, his expression shifting—more serious now. “Hey. Do you want to head home?”

Charlie blinked up at him, the room spinning slightly. “I’m… I’m fine,” she said, though even she could hear how unconvincing that sounded.

Husk didn’t argue. “I think it’d be better if you did. I don’t really want you sitting here alone like this, there can be some weirdos around, especially at this hour.”

She swallowed, hiccupping softly. “I’ll— I’ll call someone.”

He smiled gently. “Let me know who. I’ll make sure you get to them safely.”

Then Angel stood up again, somehow, and immediately tried to grab another drink, forcing Husk to turn away and deal with him.

Charlie reached for her phone.

Her hands trembled. The screen blurred. She squinted, swiping clumsily, her thumb pressing the first name that appeared without really thinking.

Only when the phone began to ring did she realize who she had called.

Alastor.

Her breath caught.

Too late to hang up now.

She pressed the phone to her ear, heart pounding, as the ringing echoed loudly in her head, waiting, hoping, needing him to answer.

Alastor had been asleep.

Not the light, half-conscious rest he often fell into when his leg ached too much or his thoughts refused to quiet, but real sleep—the kind that pulled him under so deeply that the ringing of his phone felt intrusive, almost unreal. The sound cut through the darkness of his bedroom, sharp and insistent, vibrating against the wooden nightstand.

He frowned, reaching out instinctively, then stopped.

He didn’t keep his phone out at night.

With a sigh, he pushed himself upright, the familiar stiffness in his leg making itself known as his feet touched the floor. He crossed the room slowly with cane on hand and opened the drawer where he kept the device, more out of habit than urgency, until he saw the name glowing on the screen.

Charlie Morningstar.

Any trace of annoyance vanished instantly.

He answered without a second thought.

“Charlie?” His voice was low, roughened by sleep, deeper than usual.

On the other end of the line, there was silence.

Not the awkward kind, more like someone breathing softly, as if they were gathering the courage to exist in the moment. Alastor’s brow furrowed.

“Darling?” he tried again, gentler now.

Still nothing.

He smiled faintly, already guessing. “You’ve called me in the middle of the night,” he said calmly, “which suggests either an emergency… or that you’re not entirely sober.”

A soft sound came through the speaker. A breath. Then a laugh—quiet, breathy, unfocused.

“Hi,” Charlie finally said.

Just that. One word. And somehow it wrapped around him.

Her voice was warm, loose, unmistakably drunk.

“You woke me,” he said, not accusing, just stating a fact.

“I know,” she replied, then paused. “I wanted to hear your voice.”

That did something to him.

Alastor closed his eyes briefly, leaning a shoulder against the dresser. “You’ve heard it now,” he said lightly. “Are you all right?”

Charlie hummed, as if considering the question. “Mhm. I think so. Maybe. I’m… a little dizzy.”

“A little,” he echoed.

She giggled. “I didn’t fall. Yet.”

He exhaled through his nose, the fondness unmistakable. “Where are you?”

There was another pause—longer this time.

“I’m in Brooklyn,” she said confidently.

“That narrows it down considerably,” he replied dryly.

She frowned, and he could almost picture it. “I know the place, I swear. It has lights. And music. And Angel is here, and my friends too ... Hold on let me ask” Charlie pulled the phone away from her ear and raised her voice, turning her head clumsily. “Huuusk!”

Alastor heard it clearly—her voice calling someone else’s name, a name he knew.

That did it.

Alastor straightened slightly. “You are in ALTAR” he said.

Charlie blinked. “How did you— I didn’t tell you that.”

“You didn’t have to,” he replied. “Stay where you are.”

“I didn’t even ask you to come get me,” she said, faintly offended.

“You didn’t need to,” he answered.

She smiled at that, even if he couldn’t see it. Then, suddenly, her tone shifted, playful, conspiratorial. “Some guys tried to buy me drinks.”

Alastor’s jaw tightened, though his voice remained smooth. “Did they?”

“Mhm. But I said no,” she added quickly. “I only take drinks from people I like.”

“And do you like them?” he asked.

“No,” she said immediately. “I like you.”

That one landed harder.

“I see,” he said after a beat. “You do realize you’re attempting to make me jealous.”

“Is it working?” she asked softly.

He smiled despite himself. “Perhaps a little.”

She laughed again, flushed and pleased, the alcohol making her feel warmer, looser, more daring than she had any right to be. Hearing his voice—knowing he was real, that he was coming—made her chest ache in a way she didn’t quite have words for.

“I don’t feel very steady,” she admitted quietly.

“That’s because you’ve had too much to drink,” Alastor said gently. “Sit down if you haven’t already. Don’t move.”

“I’m sitting,” she promised. “Husk told me not to wander.”

“Wise man,” Alastor muttered.

“I’ll see you soon?” she asked, suddenly small.

“Yes,” he said without hesitation. “I’m on my way.”

The call ended.

Charlie stared at her phone for a moment, the screen dark now, as if she needed proof that the conversation had really happened. Then she looked up just as Husk approached, concern etched into his features.

“You call someone?” he asked.

She nodded, hiccuping slightly. “Yesssss”

Husk relaxed a fraction. “Good. Don’t go anywhere.”

Angel, leaning far too heavily against the bar, turned toward them. “What? You’re leaving?” he slurred. “It’s only two! Girly pop you cant do this to meeee.”

“Husk says I’m doneeee,” Charlie replied.

Husk handed Angel a glass of water. “Drink. Slowly.”

Angel pouted but obeyed.

Charlie sat where Husk had left her, elbows braced on the table, phone glowing uselessly in her hands. Every few seconds her head dipped forward, chin nearly touching her chest, before she caught herself and straightened again with a small, embarrassed huff.

Stay awake, she told herself. Just a little longer.

The noise of the bar washed over her in waves—laughter, clinking glasses, music vibrating through the floor—but it all felt distant, muffled, like she was underwater. Her thoughts kept drifting, slipping away from whatever she was trying to focus on. She opened an app, closed it. Scrolled, forgot what she was scrolling for.

Husk appeared at her side again, steady as ever, setting a glass of water in front of her.

“Hydrate,” he said simply.

Charlie blinked up at him, squinting as if the world needed to refocus. “You’re… very good at this,” she murmured.

“At what?”

“Not letting people die at your bar.”

Husk snorted. “Perks of experience.”

She obediently took a few gulps of water, grimacing slightly, but didn’t argue. As she lowered the glass, she noticed movement in her peripheral vision, Vaggie and Lute weaving their way back toward the table. Now that she thinks of it, she didn’t knew if Cherry and Pentious were still here, but well, whatever.

Vaggie raised a hand in greeting, nearly missing the motion entirely as she stumbled. Lute caught her easily, one arm looping around her waist like it was second nature.

“Heyyy, Char,” Vaggie slurred, smiling far too wide. “There you are.”

Charlie smiled back, soft and sleepy. “Hi.”

Lute gave her a polite nod, her expression reserved but warm. “You okay?”

“Mm,” Charlie hummed. “I think so. The chair is… very supportive.”

Vaggie then said “I don’t want to be that type of friend, but I really need to go, I already told Angel about it, he got mad, but then he an I drank a shot” a lil laugh came out of her mouth after. “And also it’s a lil late, and my mood it’s kinda changing right now”

Charlie nodded immediately. “You should. Go. Absolutely go.”

Vaggie hesitated, then whispered, far too honestly, “If I don’t have sex right now, I might actually lose my mind.”

Charlie choked on a laugh, face flushing pink. “Okay, yeah. Go. Please go.”

Lute cleared her throat, trying—and failing—not to smile. “She’ll text you tomorrow.”

Vaggie squeezed Charlie’s hand. “Get home safe, okay? Love you.”

“Love you,” Charlie echoed.

Lute gave a small nod in farewell, and with that, they were gone, disappearing into the crowd, laughter trailing behind them.

Charlie watched them leave, then slowly leaned back in her chair.

The table felt suddenly too big. The bar too loud. The night too heavy.

And then Vaggie’s words caught up to her.

If I don’t have sex right now, I’ll lose my mind.

Charlie swallowed.

Because now that the thought had been planted, she couldn’t ignore it—couldn’t ignore the way her body felt warm and restless, how her thoughts kept drifting, uninvited but insistent, to Alastor. To his hands. His voice. The way he looked at her when he thought she wasn’t watching.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

God.

She needed him. Not tomorrow. Not later.

Now.

Her fingers tightened around her phone just as it vibrated in her hand.

She looked down.

Alastor.

Her breath hitched.

She answered immediately.

“H—hello?” she said, her voice softer than she meant it to be.

“I’m outside,” Alastor said, calm and steady. “Come to the entrance. There’s a taxi waiting.”

Relief washed over her so fast it almost made her dizzy. “You’re… you’re really here?”

“I wouldn’t have said it if I weren’t,” he replied gently. “Can you stand?”

Charlie nodded, forgetting he couldn’t see her. “Yeah. I think so.”

“Take your time,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She hung up and carefully gathered her bag, moving slowly, deliberately. Standing was… harder than expected. The room tilted. She grabbed the back of the chair for balance.

Before she could fully steady herself, a familiar presence was beside her again.

Husk.

“Alright,” he said, already assessing the situation. He glanced at Angel, who was half-slumped over the table, and guided him firmly back into his chair. “Sit. Don’t move. I’ll be back.”

Angel blinked up at him. “Charlie leavin’?”

“Yeah,” Husk said. “Say goodbye.”

Angel looked over, squinted, then smiled lazily. “Bye, babe. Text me when you’re alive again.”

Charlie smiled. “Night, Angel, see you tomorrow at practice ... I guess.”

She took Husk’s arm, grateful for the support as they made their way toward the exit. The cool air outside hit her immediately, sharp and refreshing—and that’s when she saw him.

Alastor stood near the curb, cane planted firmly against the pavement, coat buttoned neatly despite the late hour. Even slightly blurred, she recognized him instantly. His cane was unmistakable.

Her heart leapt.

She let go of Husk without thinking and crossed the remaining distance, nearly stumbling into Alastor’s arms. He caught her effortlessly, even only using one hand.

“Easy,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”

Charlie buried her face against his chest, breathing him in like oxygen. “You came.”

“Of course I did.”

He helped her into the taxi, moving with practiced care, making sure she was seated properly before turning back to Husk.

Husk studied him openly now, surprise written all over his face. “Didn’t expect this,” he admitted. “Didn’t peg you as the type.”

Alastor smiled faintly. “Life is full of surprises, my old friend.”

Husk huffed. “I’m not judging, I cant do that. Just… didn’t know.”

Alastor’s gaze sharpened slightly, not threatening, but firm. “I’m going to ask you for a favor.”

Husk raised an eyebrow. “Of course you are.”

“Don’t tell Angel,” Alastor said. “Or the others. This is Charlie’s decision to share, not anyone else’s, and I stand by that decision.”

Husk considered it for a moment, then nodded. “Fair enough.”

Alastor paused, smirking. “You still owe me, by the way.”

Husk groaned. “If this is about that blind date—”

“It is.”

“She left because she couldn’t stop staring at your cane.”

Alastor chuckled. “I figured.”

“Get outta here,” Husk said, waving him off. “Take care of her.”

“I will”

Alastor got into the taxi, closing the door gently behind him. Charlie leaned against his shoulder almost immediately, exhaustion and relief finally catching up to her.

As the car pulled away, she whispered, half-asleep, “Thank you for coming.”

“There was never a question,” he replied, brushing a kiss into her hair as the city lights blurred past them.

The ride back to Manhattan unfolded in a quiet that felt almost sacred.

The city passed by in blurred streaks of light beyond the taxi windows, neon reflections smearing across the glass like half-remembered dreams. Charlie had curled into Alastor’s side almost immediately, her head resting against his chest, her breath warm and uneven from the alcohol. At some point—he wasn’t sure when—she’d slipped fully into sleep, her body surrendering its weight to him without hesitation.

Alastor adjusted his arm around her instinctively, careful, protective. She fit against him too easily, as if she belonged there. He could feel the gentle rise and fall of her breathing, the faint scent of her perfume mixed with alcohol and cold night air. It struck him then, with quiet amusement and something softer beneath it, how someone so small and delicate could possibly have consumed that much alcohol and still be standing at all.

“She’s going to regret this in the morning,” he murmured under his breath, though his lips curved into a fond smile.

When the taxi finally stopped in front of his building, Alastor paid and carefully maneuvered himself out, bracing his cane against the pavement before turning back to her. Charlie stirred slightly as he gathered her into his arms, letting out a soft, incoherent sound, but she didn’t wake.

Getting her inside was… complicated.

Balancing her weight against his body while relying on his cane required more concentration than he would ever admit out loud. Still, years of ballet—of controlling every muscle, every shift of balance—served him well. He adjusted his grip, one arm firmly around her waist, the other keeping his cane steady, and guided them inside.

Once the door closed behind them, he helped her out of her coat. Charlie blinked up at him, eyes glassy, unfocused, a lazy smile spreading across her face.

“Well,” she slurred softly, voice low and playful, “this is… very gentlemanly of you.”

Alastor raised a brow, amused. “You’re in no state to be making observations like that, my dear.”

She laughed quietly, the sound loose and unguarded. “You say that, but you did bring me here.”

“Yes,” he replied calmly, guiding her toward the stairs, “because someone needed to make sure you didn’t attempt to befriend the sidewalk.”

He slipped an arm more securely around her waist and, to his own mild surprise, managed to lift her without much trouble. Carrying her up the stairs was slow but steady. Each step required focus, his cane tapping softly against the wood, but he didn’t falter. For the first time in a long while, he felt… capable. Strong. Useful in a way that wasn’t defined by a piano bench or a judging panel.

When they reached the bedroom, he gently set her down on the edge of the bed and turned on the lamp. The soft light revealed her flushed cheeks, her slightly mussed hair, her unfocused but undeniably affectionate gaze.

He knelt as best he could and began to remove her boots.

Charlie, however, seemed to misinterpret the gesture entirely.

“Oh,” she murmured, fingers already tugging at the fabric of her pink off-the-shoulder top, “so that’s how tonight’s going to, cause Im fucking ready-”

“Absolutely not.”

The firmness in Alastor’s voice cut through the haze just enough to make her pause. Before she could protest, or worse, unhook her bra, he gently but decisively wrapped her in the sheets, cocooning her like she might unravel otherwise.

She pouted. “You’re no fun.”

“I am plenty of fun,” he replied, turning off the light. “I am simply not irresponsible.”

She tried to wriggle free, failed, and groaned. “I would never take advantage of you.”

“I know,” he said softly, sitting beside her. “Which is precisely why I won’t take advantage of you.”

That quieted her.

She reached for him again, slower this time, more tired than bold. He lay down beside her, carefully positioning himself so she could rest against his chest without strain. When she sighed and settled, he brushed her hair back with gentle fingers.

“If I throw up,” she mumbled, “promise you’ll still like me.”

“I promise,” he said without hesitation. “And I will hold your hair. With dignity.”

That earned him a sleepy laugh.

“Good,” she whispered. “You’re the best.”

Within minutes, her breathing evened out, deep and peaceful. Alastor remained awake a while longer, listening, one hand resting lightly on her back. After some time, and checking that it was almost 4 AM he closed his eyes and also fall asleep there. 

 

Charlie woke with a blinding streak of sunlight cutting across her face, piercing through the half-open curtains. Her head throbbed as if a tiny marching band had taken residence inside her skull. She groaned, curling into a fetal position before realizing the exact catastrophe she had woken up in: she was still tipsy, and her hangover was absolute.

Her eyes drifted across the room to see Alastor already awake, perched on the edge of the bed with a book in hand and a steaming cup of coffee on the nightstand. He looked absurdly composed, the kind of terrifyingly efficient that made Charlie simultaneously want to cuddle into him and strangle him for how perfect he always seemed.

"Morning,” he said, adjusting his glasses without looking up.

Charlie groaned again, her voice hoarse and broken. “M-morning… what time is it?”

Alastor lifted an eyebrow. “Eleven. Not late. Not early. Perfectly civilized, specially after a night like that.”

Her stomach rebelled immediately. “Ugh… I need to… throw up,” she mumbled.

Alastor was already on his feet, cane in one hand, gently steadying her with the other. “Alright, we’ll make this quick. No dramatics… well, maybe just a little.”

Charlie barely had the chance to protest as she bolted toward the bathroom. Alastor followed closely, holding back her long, tangled hair while she emptied the remnants of last night’s drinks into the toilet. He handed her mouthwash once she was done and waited silently, a quiet presence that somehow made her feel both safe and ridiculously aware of how good he looked leaning over her, cane in hand, hair brushing the collar of his crisp shirt.

Twenty minutes later, she stumbled back to the bed, exhausted. She caught sight of herself in the mirror as she passed: bra still on, skirt wrinkled from the night before, hair tangled, eyes bloodshot. Her reflection looked like a warning sign—someone who had survived a battlefield of cocktails, tipsy friends, and internalized stress. She wasn’t angry at Alastor, but she was frustrated at herself. Nothing had happened between them last night, yet the closeness, the arms around her, and the feel of him carrying her lingered in a way that made her cheeks warm.

Alastor, still reading, noticed her collapse back onto the bed. Without looking up, he handed her a glass of water. “Drink. Hydration is your friend.”

Charlie took it, letting the cool liquid soothe her throat. “I shouldn’t have drunk so much… my brain… it hates me right now.”

Alastor smirked faintly, eyes never leaving the pages. “You overdid it. But then again, it’s not a crime to indulge. Just… respect your limits next time.”

Charlie huffed, glaring at him as she twisted her hair in frustration. “Limits? Alastor, it’s not like I’m some careless teenager—I have… responsibilities! Solos, pas de deux, classes… Vincent’s insufferably nice boy attitude… everything!”

After hearing that damn name, Alastor closed his book and gave her his full attention, eyes locking on hers. “I’ve noticed you’ve been… tense these past few days. Your body betrays you the moment the music ends. I may not have said it in my notes this week because it happens after the performance is over, but I see it in your eyes after it.”

Charlie groaned. “I can’t take it anymore… I feel like I’m about to explode. I can’t dance properly, Im forcing myself so hard to feel calm, I can’t relax… everything is just… too much!” Her voice cracked, and she buried her face in her hands, suddenly aware of how tipsy her body still felt.

Alastor reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. “You’ve been carrying a lot. And now… that you’re sober enough, I will not deny you any… impure desires you might have,” he said slowly, a teasing glint in his eyes.

Charlie blinked, her cheeks burning hotter. “Impure… desires?”

He tilted his head, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Yes. You know exactly what I mean. If your body is tense… if your mind is restless… I can help. I’m very… persuasive when necessary.”

Charlie’s lips parted slightly. Her thoughts were spinning faster than her head from last night’s drinks. “Well, I-I ... I” she didn’t know what to say anymore.

"And also," said Alastor, cutting her words, "Something is telling that you are frustrated that you couldn’t do anything last night, or am I wrong?" Charlie blushed when she heard that; she couldn't deny it, and that made Alastor let out a little laugh. "Well, my dear, let's fix that, shall we?"

Charlie couldn't say anything, because as soon as she opened her mouth, Alastor's lips were already on hers.

It was a good thing she had used plenty of that Listerine.

Charlie let herself be carried away by the kiss and wrapped her arms around his neck, feeling her body gradually relax.

She couldn't believe how much she needed his physical touch; it was like a drug, and she didn't want it to stop. Alastor knew that just a few touches had already aroused Charlie, and he smiled slightly when he heard her let out a small moan between kisses.

Alastor was on top of her; perhaps because it was a mattress, being in this position didn't hurt his lame leg. He continued kissing her but also touching areas that were now driving her wild: her waist, her hips, and that's when she heard a small sound, a click. She knew her bra had been unhooked, and she confirmed it when she felt one of his hands massage one of her breasts.

Alastor went to her neck, but didn't linger there any longer than necessary, moving lower when he knew the time was right.

Charlie simply let him do whatever he wanted; she allowed herself to be touched without restraint. She was content with the warmth of his touch on her skin. Feeling his mouth on one of her breasts made her moan a little louder than usual. Her body was so starved for warmth and touch that she even took his other free hand and placed it on her other breast, encouraging him to continue touching her, to continue devouring her.

"Oh, God," she moaned.

Alastor continued to please her, knowing the stress she was under and how overwhelmed she was, so he was focusing solely on her pleasure for the moment. He was going to give her release; he knew she desperately needed it.

Alastor continued his caresses, moving lower until he reached that place, the place where she still had her skirt and underwear on.

Alastor returned for a moment to one of her breasts, and with his other hand, he pulled down both her skirt and underwear in one swift motion. This surprised Charlie, and she had to ask, her voice more of a moan, "Are you... are you really going to do it?"

He smiled and tossed her clothes to the side of the bed. "Don't you want me to?"

"No, no, I didn't mean that... it's just... no one has ever... well..." Charlie didn't know how to say this without sounding so embarrassed. No one had ever put their mouth there; she was always the one who had to do it, not the other way around. But Alastor only smiled even more.

"Young people today only think about themselves and their own desires, not their partner's, but don't worry, my dear," he said, as he now brought his face closer to that place. "I know perfectly well how to balance these kinds of things... I also know where that place is that requires attention." Alastor then took his glasses off, and Charlie knew that this was in fact happening.

Charlie felt all her senses ignite when she felt Alastor's mouth lick that spot. She couldn't believe it; she was being given oral sex, and God, it felt so good.

She was so caught up in the moans and sensations that she couldn't think straight. She didn't know what to do with the rest of her body. She wanted to move, but she couldn't because his hands were on her legs, preventing her from moving or closing them. Her hands were gripping the sheets tightly, and her head was thrown back. Her eyes looked as if she were possessed.

She felt everything, she felt his tongue exploring that delicate area, how it explored and made movements that made her cry out involuntarily. How was it possible that she had never felt anything like this before? Something so pleasurable, so dirty, so hot. She couldn't forget something like this.

It was the moment she felt a nerve being caressed, and that made her jump, and then she felt another, and another, and each time it made her move with a little force.

Alastor stopped and looked at her, he saw how crazy with pleasure she was, he saw how one of her cheeks was a little wet, which meant she had cried from pure pleasure and satisfaction. That made him smile.

He went back to his work and was able to hit that nerve again. He knew it was her clit because she gave little jumps every time he touched it, either with his finger or his mouth.

Then he did something dangerous; he caressed it, but with a little more force.

"OH GOD, AL-... AHHH!" Her scream didn't quite come out because he had stopped, now with a very mischievous smile.

"I think you're enjoying this a little too much now, darling."

Charlie shush him, "Shut up and continue, or... I'm going to cry..."

Alastor then stood up laughing, and that left Charlie very bewildered. "We have to make this a little more interesting, don't you think?"

Charlie was about to say something else, she saw him sit down, and still didn't understand, but that's when he pulled her abruptly and made her sit in front of him, with her legs open.

That's when Charlie looked ahead, there was a large mirror in front of her, where she could see herself, completely naked and completely at his mercy. She could see how Alastor's smile darkened and became somewhat lustful, something she never thought she would see with such clarity. She saw how his hands now delicately outlined her body with the intention of provoking something more in her. Then she saw one of his hands stop exactly at her entrance, and the other on her left breast, while his face was nestled against her neck, and he whispered, "I can really tell you needed this... you're so wet it should be embarrassing."

Charlie blushed at that; she couldn't believe he was capable of saying things like that. "Next time, just cut to the chase and tell me what you need."

Alastor wasn't even using particularly vulgar language, but even so, it was making her even hornier than she already was, and it was so intense that her mind stopped working, and she blurted out the first thing that came to mind, "I'll be a good girl."

He was surprised, but he didn't react much.  In fact, this made it clear what she liked in every aspect of her life, not just sexually... and that was being appreciated. She liked to be praised, and a lot.

Alastor then decided to start doing what he had to do: masturbate her.

He had to make her climax; if he didn't, it would only cause her more unnecessary stress. He didn't want to think about what he had heard yesterday, about Vox's words, but they were real. Charlie's body was very tense, too tense, and something told him that everything she had said wasn't the whole reason for her current mental and physical state.

He began massaging one of her breasts, and with his other hand, he caressed that nerve that was now slightly swollen and protruding.

Charlie threw her head back, trying with all her might not to go crazy. The pleasure was reaching a very high level, and it made her moan so much that she no longer knew what she was saying.

Alastor began whispering things in her ear, words of praise.

Those words made Charlie even wetter and more aroused. Dirty talk was nothing compared to hearing Alastor, the person she admired so much and whose approval she always sought, say such sweet things as, "You're doing so well, Charlie," "You're being a good girl," "I love your enthusiasm," "You're the best."

It was like being in paradise.

And she could feel everything twice as intensely seeing herself in the mirror, how disheveled she was, with her hair a mess, her face and parts of her body red from his kisses.

And so much attention made her feel something very normal but surprising for her.

She was going to come at any moment, and she had to let him know.

"A-Alastor... I... oh... I... ahhh... I'm coming..." she said, trying to make sense of her words.

Alastor smiled and whispered, "You're close, my dear? Do you want me to release you?" Charlie nodded desperately. "Then let yourself be carried away by my touch."

Alastor quickened his hand and this time began massaging faster, especially that nerve, making Charlie scream so loudly that he was sure the elderly, hard-of-hearing neighbors could have heard it. He silenced her by kissing her, with tongue and all, but without taking his fingers out.

He moved his fingers in and out, trying to make her release and finally find some relief.

It didn't take more than three more minutes, because Charlie stopped kissing him and let out a scream. She had come, and she kept coming every time he moved his fingers; the sheets were soaked, as expected.

When it finally ended, she was trembling; she had never come like this before, in such a scandalous way. It wasn't something she thought possible, but life was showing her that even the most upright man can be corrupted using the right moves.

Her body rested against Alastor's chest, who was now stroking her hair.

"Do you feel better?"

Charlie just nodded, unable to speak.

Alastor then shifted his body so she could lie down more comfortably. He remained seated and took a cigarette from his nightstand and lit it.

"Well," he said before inhaling and then exhaling, "That was certainly an interesting breakfast."

Charlie glanced at him. They could call her shallow or crazy, but for her, Alastor was the most attractive man she had ever met. She simply couldn't believe he was real.

Then her gaze fell to his pants, and of course, as expected, Alastor had a very noticeable erection.

Charlie tried to get up, still trembling, and sat in front of him. She took the cigarette from his mouth and put it in hers. Alastor just looked at her, without showing any expression. Charlie inhaled a little and exhaled the smoke towards his face. That didn't seem to bother him; rather, it made him smile slightly.

She put the cigarette in the ashtray. "You say that we young people don't think about our partners' pleasure, and maybe you're right about the rest of the people... but not about me." Then she moved closer to him and managed to place her hand on his erection, which made him wince, showing his sensitivity. "I think it's my turn now, don't you think?"

Alastor smiled and pulled her closer. "Are you sure about what you're doing, princess?" That little compliment and nickname had caught her off guard, and despite everything that had happened, Charlie was still a girl who got nervous about the slightest thing.

"I'm sure I want to do it."

He smiled, and then looked at her again with those eyes that were new to her—lust, a lust she hadn't expected to see in him, a lust she hadn't seen the two previous times they'd been together, but which now came to the surface completely. "I have condoms in the second drawer of the nightstand."

Charlie then let that look of lust show in her eyes as well, knowing that now she had the complete confidence to be a little more herself with him.

Notes:

okay, I think I'm more proud of this smut!, I think it came out better, but let me know if you like it or if it was shiii xd

Like I said before, I like realism, so the place that I'm using here, ALTAR, it does exist in RL!! You can Google up, and if you see the menu, there's an actual drink that its called cherry bomb!! sadly Husk ins not the real owner xddddd, but its a cool place! they also have brunch

I will see you in the next part!!