Blake nodded, a bit smug. “They’re launching a couture line. You’re getting a custom capsule collection named after you. I pitched ‘Tiffany’s Tulle-tastrophe,’ but legal said no.”

She stared at him, slack-jawed. “I don’t know whether to hug you or sue you.”

“Hug him,” I said, stealing my soda back. “He bought me six floor-to-ceiling mirrors last week.”

“And ballet barres made of reclaimed oak,” he added proudly.

“You mean stolen from a rich man’s broken fence?”

“Repurposed,” he corrected. Then he leaned over and kissed my cheek, which was infuriating, mostly because I couldn’t stop watching him afterward. Like my body forgot what to do unless it was reacting to him.

This was my life now. Loud. Busy. Stupidly happy.

After the meltdown, the letters, the not-quite-a-kiss in the living room, and the kiss in the ocean—things settled.

We moved back to L.A., and Blake relocated ChimeIn’s main office to a building just down the street from my new dance studio.

He said it was for “logistical reasons,” but we all knew it was because he liked watching me through the window, always pretending he just happened to pass by with a coffee he “accidentally” bought two of. He stocked the studio with my favorite snacks. Replaced all the lightbulbs with the “cozy ones,” because apparently I once said the harsh white ones made me feel like I was “trapped in a Walgreens”. Bought me new slippers after I stepped on a splinter, then claimed it was “an act of self-preservation” because my rage had no off switch. The studio didn’t need new lightbulbs. It didn’t need snacks labeled with my initials, or slippers that cost more than kitchen chairs. But he still did all of it—quiet, relentless acts of apology disguised as affection.

Blake called it operational efficiency. Tiffany called it groveling.

He never stopped. At least once a day, sometimes twice, especially if I so much as seemed mildly annoyed.

He read my rehearsal notes like they were sacred texts. Tried to teach me Excel formulas at 9 p.m. when I was trying to nap on his chest. Held me like he was afraid I’ll vanish in the morning.

I loved the studio the way people love their first real apartment. It was mine. A little messy, full of cracked charm and possibility. I hosted weekly open classes for girls who couldn’t afford formal training—girls who walked in nervous and left laughing. Sometimes  Blake showed up and stood in the back, pretending he was just there for the playlist. Once, he tried to demonstrate a plié and nearly pulled his hamstring. I banned him for two weeks.