Page 186 of The Bittersweet Bond

“Ready?” he asked quietly as she moved into position. His hands hovered near her waist, strong yet precise, every movement deliberate. Evin gave a hesitant nod, though her legs already felt heavy, as if they were made of lead.

The coach gave the signal, and Rafael’s hands closed around her waist. His grip was firm, steady—an anchor. Evin knew what to do. Engage her muscles, hold her body, keep the tension.

But as he lifted her, she got lost.

Not in the moment.

In a memory.

It hit her so suddenly, so viscerally, that she almost felt it in her body.

Bas. His hands—not on her waist, but on her arms, steadying her when she had nearly fallen. His smile, the one that always caught her off guard no matter how hard she tried to ignore it. His breath, warm and close, as he had leaned down to whisper something to her.

The images were so vivid that she forgot where she was.

And she forgot the lift.

Rafael let out a quiet grunt, a strained sound, before lowering her again. The movement wasn’t smooth, wasn’t graceful—it was a sudden, awkward stop that filled the room like a mistake spoken too loudly.

“Stop!” Her coach’s voice cracked like a whip. “Evin, what was that? Did you forget how to hold yourself? You’re like a sack of potatoes. Again!”

Evin dropped her gaze, her cheeks burning. She felt exposed, laid bare under the watchful eyes of the other dancers. Especially Nele, whose gaze pierced through her with a mix of envy and satisfaction, sharp as needles.

“Come on, let’s try again,” Rafael said, his voice calm, though she could hear the tension beneath it. He was always polite, always composed—but she knew he was frustrated. She was the obstacle keeping him from perfection.

“Yeah,” she whispered, stepping back into position. Her legs felt like rubber, and inside her head, she was fighting—fighting to push the images of Bas away. She couldn’t think about him. Not now. Not here.

But it didn’t help.

As Rafael lifted her again, the thoughts came back.

Bas’s hands—warm, strong—on her waist that one time. His gaze, that flicker of mischief always there, even when he was teasing her. The memory was so clear that she could almost hear his voice.

“Evin, focus!” Rafael’s voice dragged her back to reality, but it was too late.

Her control slipped again. She felt it—the moment her muscles lost tension. Rafael lowered her, this time with less grace. He stepped back, shook his head, exhaled sharply.

“This isn’t working.”

Mrs. Wagner approached, the sound of her heels muffled against the cushioned dance floor. “Evin, I’m tired of repeating myself. If you can’t dance this scene properly, I will find someone who can. Do you understand me?”

A lump formed in Evin’s throat, but she nodded. Silent. Her hands trembled slightly as she stepped away from the center of the stage, retreating into the shadows at the edge. The other dancers threw her looks—some curious, some disdainful. Especially Nele, whose expression was sharp enough to cut.

Bas was paralyzing her.

He was everywhere. In her thoughts, in her memories, in every movement she made.

And as long as she couldn’t let go of him, she would keep failing.

She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and pressed her palms against the wall. You can do this. Get it together. It’s just a lift. It’s just a scene.

But the words felt empty, like a mantra that had lost its power.

The hum of voices behind the stage buzzed in the background—muted conversations, the soft scuff of shoes, the dull thud of someone knocking against a prop. Evin stood with her arms crossed against the wall, her breath slow but heavy. The failed run-through sat in her stomach like a weight, but she didn’t let it show.

Rafael appeared beside her without warning.

“Nice jump back there,” he remarked dryly, his eyes fixed on the stage.

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