Ours

Chapter 1 - My new partner

I was a flight risk,

with a fear of fallin'

Wondering why we bother with love,

if it never lasts

Mine - Taylor Swift

I couldn't take my eyes off the dancer.

There was something about the way she moved — unhurried, precise. I felt the familiar pull settle somewhere in my chest, that specific ache that lived between admiration and grief, and didn't bother fighting it.

"This is worse than I thought," said the boy next to me.

I didn't answer.

"How can you possibly enjoy this?"

"Because some of us have taste." I kept my eyes on the stage. "Keep your voice down."

He went quiet. I wasn't sure if it was because I'd asked or because he'd finally looked at the stage and found something worth looking at. Either way, I was grateful.

Leo Vega had many qualities. But an appreciation for ballet was not among them, and probably never would be — which made it somewhat ironic that we were here together.

Camila, my best friend, and I had been English partners since freshman year, and it worked beautifully — we both loved books, ballet, music. We could talk for hours about a movie, a play, even a comic. Then Bruno Álvarez happened. Bruno, part of the football team and Leo's former partner, asked her out, and in the span of about a week they were a couple. After hours of Camila begging me, the pairs reshuffled themselves with the particular efficiency of things nobody asked for, and suddenly here we were — Leo Vega and I, sent to watch a ballet together for a grade.

It could have been worse. Way worse. Being around Leo wasn't torture. It was just — different. And I wasn't good at different.

I didn't hold it against him — most people didn't get ballet. But most people hadn't spent years in a studio learning what it actually took to move like that.

I had. Once.

The dancer moved into a series of turns and I tracked every one without meaning to — counting, measuring, remembering things I'd told myself I'd forgotten. Old muscle memory, going nowhere.

I made myself stop.

Half an hour later we were walking through one of Georgetown's parks toward his car.

It had started with him asking something about the show — he didn't understand what the story was about, how the choreography worked, why it mattered which company performed it — just a casual and unhurried conversation, like he had all the time in the world. I'd answered the first one briefly. Then the second. And somewhere between the third and fourth I'd stopped being brief.

I was mid-explanation — something about the difference between the Bolshoi and Royal Ballet interpretations of Giselle, gesturing with both hands — when I realized we'd stopped walking. I wasn't sure when that had happened.

Leo was leaning against a planter a few feet away, hands in his pockets, head slightly tilted. Not bored. Just — watching.

"What?" I said.

"Nothing." He pushed off the planter and fell back into step beside me. "You were saying something about the second act."

I looked at him for a second. Then I kept walking, more carefully now.

"The point," I said, "is that the choreography tells you everything about what the character can't say out loud. If you know what to look for."

"And you know what to look for."

"I used to dance," I said. Simply, like it was nothing. Like it didn't still catch somewhere behind my ribs when I said it out loud.

He didn't push. Just nodded, like he was filing it somewhere.

We reached his car — an old blue Camaro that had clearly lived a full life, the kind of vehicle that told you more about its owner than any conversation could. I got in before he could reach for the door handle.

It smelled like old upholstery and engine grease and whatever garage he kept it in. Not unpleasant, exactly. Just very him.

"You're different when you talk about ballet," he said, once he'd settled behind the wheel.

I looked at him. "Meaning?"

He shrugged, starting the engine. "Just different." A beat. "It's not a bad thing."

I didn't answer.

"So," he said, pulling out. "The report."

"What about it."

"Let's make a deal. If you write it, I'll owe you something." He said it completely without shame. "You'll do it better than me and we both know it."

I looked at him.

"Obviously," I said.

He let out a breath like he'd been genuinely worried about the answer. "Great. Cool. Yeah."

We drove in silence for a moment. He turned the radio on low and left it there, which I appreciated more than I expected to.

"Where am I taking you?" he asked.

I gave him my address. He typed it into his phone without comment and kept driving.

"I didn't understand why Camila was so worried about you not having a partner for this," he said after a moment.

I looked at him. "What?"

"I heard her talking to Bruno about it. Something about you not having many friends." He shrugged, eyes on the road. "I didn't get it at first. You seem fine to me."

I kept my eyes on the window. "Goodbye."

"Well, I'm running out of friends lately so — I'm taking you under my wing. You're welcome."

"Why would I need another friend?" I asked.

"Well, summer is coming, and I refuse to be someone's third wheel so…" He glanced at me. "We'll have fun."

I looked at him like he was crazy. "Uh, yeah. Sure. Whatever." He seemed to take my sarcasm as enthusiasm.

Ten minutes later he pulled up to the corner of Road 324 and Fairway Ave. I had the door open before the car had fully stopped.

"Can I walk you to your—"

"No."

"Someone could—"

"Goodnight, Leo."

I closed the door and walked to my house without looking back. I heard the engine idle behind me — still there, still waiting — and I took my time finding my keys, more aware of it than I wanted to be.

It wasn't until I'd slipped in through the side door and closed it behind me that I heard him finally pull away.

Huh. Leo Vega had manners. Who knew.

"Will you ever forgive me?" Camila said — dark curly hair, deep skin, cherry red lips, and those green eyes currently doing their best impression of a puppy. That had to be the thousandth time.

"I'm not angry," I said. Also for the thousandth time.

"But was he even nice?" she asked. I shrugged.

"I guess."

"He took you home?"

"Yeah."

She hesitated for just a second. "To the corner?"

I looked at her. She looked back at me with that expression she had — the one that wasn't pity and wasn't quite worry either, just a quiet kind of understanding that she never made me explain.

"Yeah," I said. "To the corner."

She nodded once and didn't say anything else about it. That was the thing about Camila — she always knew exactly how much space to leave.

Just then we arrived at the English classroom. She squeezed my arm briefly before peeling off to sit next to Bruno, and I went to my usual seat.

Leo's chair was empty.

Of course it was.

"Good morning," Mrs. Voss said, sweeping in with that particular look she got when she had something up her sleeve. "I know you're all counting the minutes — so let's make them count. Oral exams, per partner, right now." She looked around the room. "Volunteers?"

My hand went up automatically.

She looked at the empty chair beside me. "Miss Navarro. Where's your partner?"

I took a breath, mentally cursing. "I don't know, Mrs. Voss."

"I'm sorry, but you know the rules. You'll wait until the end of class."

I nodded and said nothing.

The other pairs went one by one, finishing quickly, filing out into the first real day of summer vacation while I sat there watching them go.

Damn Leo Vega and his complete lack of punctuality.

My mind drifted to the moment we met, just a week before.

Camila had warned me that morning: after practice, they were going to introduce me to my new English partner.

What she hadn't mentioned was that the field would be a disaster from the rain the day before, or that basically the entire team looked like they'd been dragged through it.

Bruno spotted us and jogged over. It was easy to see why Camila had chosen him — he had that calm energy of someone with nothing to prove.

"Vera," he said. "Camila talks about you all the time."

"Same," I replied. Which was true.

We stayed like that for a few minutes — the three of us talking about nothing in particular, Camila glowing, Bruno attentive — and my guard was low enough that I was actually present. He was a good guy. You could tell.

Then Bruno glanced over my shoulder.

"Oh, perfect. Vera, this is Leo."

I turned.

Dark hair, broad shoulders, a smear of mud on his left cheek he clearly hadn't noticed. His eyes found mine and he smiled — easy, effortless, like he was genuinely glad to be exactly here.

The walls went back up on their own. It wasn't a conscious decision.

"Leo Vega," he said. "I've heard a lot about you."

I raised an eyebrow. "From Bruno?"

"From everyone." Still smiling. Like he hadn't said anything wrong. Like he hadn't registered that I wasn't returning it.

Right. Jason's friend. Star of the team. He already knew exactly who I was. Or thought he did.

"The performance is at five," I said. "I already have the tickets." I turned to Camila. "See you."

"See you there!" came from behind me, when I was already walking away.

I didn't look back.

The door swung open and that took me back to the present.

Leo came in looking like he'd run the whole way — cheeks flushed, he looked like he knew exactly how late he was and had decided to own it anyway.

He dropped into the seat beside me and I noticed, not for the first time, that he was taller than he looked from across a room. His eyes, when they met mine for just a second, were a warm amber brown, closer to honey than anything else.

Mrs. Voss glanced in his direction and nodded once.

"What happened to you?" I said, keeping my voice low.

"Robotics club ran late." He had the decency to look sheepish. "End of year stuff. You know how it is."

"I really don't." I said flatly. "Because of you we have to stay until the end."

"Right." He glanced around at the near-empty classroom, then out the window. "You and Camila are always first out, aren't you. That must be a disappointment."

"Deeply."

Through the window I could see Camila and Bruno walking away from the school, already halfway down the block, free. I watched them go and felt the very specific irritation of someone who should also be leaving right now.

"Oh, l'amour," Leo said, following my gaze.

I turned to look at him.

"What?"

"Camila and Bruno. They're cute together." He shrugged, completely unbothered.

I didn't dignify that with a response.

"You don't think so?" he pressed.

"I want to get out of here," I said. "Not fall in love."

He blinked. "You don't want to be in love?"

"I've had enough of relationships," I said, and looked back out the window.

A beat of silence. I could feel him deciding whether to ask. Before he could say anything else, Mrs. Voss called us up.

"Mr. Vega." She looked at him over her glasses. "You need at least a B minus to pass this course."

Leo smiled. I watched him and thought — how was he this calm? He'd barely looked at the stage last night.

"Miss Navarro," Mrs. Voss continued, "excellent report as always." She set it down. "Now. Mr. Vega — tell me about last night's show."

Leo talked.

He talked about Coppélia — the story, the choreography, specific moments in the performance — with the kind of easy confidence that suggested he'd been paying attention the whole time. Every point he made was something I'd said last night, standing in that park, mostly talking to myself because I'd assumed he wasn't listening.

He had been listening.

I didn't say anything. I just looked at him, and somewhere underneath the irritation of the last hour, something shifted — small and quiet and not entirely welcome.

With Leo, apparently, everything was a surprise.

"It's lucky for you that Miss Navarro is your partner, Mr. Vega," Mrs. Voss said.

Leo smiled broadly. "Thanks."

"That wasn't a compliment," I pointed out.

"Oh." He kept smiling anyway. I was almost certain I saw the corner of Mrs. Voss's mouth twitch.

"Miss Navarro — A. Mr. Vega — B minus."

Leo's smile only got bigger.

"Thank you, Mrs. Voss. See you next year," I said, gathering my things.

She looked at me with something that might have been warmth. "Enjoy your summer, Vera. You've earned it."

I walked out of the classroom and into the corridor, heading for the exit. The last day of school had that particular energy — everyone moving a little faster, laughing a little louder, the whole building exhaling.

"Vera!"

I turned. Leo was jogging down the corridor toward me, backpack half-hanging off one shoulder, grinning like he'd just won something.

"I approve of this whole situation," he announced when he caught up.

"Shocking," I said, and kept walking.

"And it's entirely your fault, so thank you."

"You're welcome, I guess."

"Can I take you home?"

I reached the doors and pushed through them without slowing down.

"No thanks, I'll walk."

He didn't follow me through the doors. I kept moving, half expecting to hear his footsteps behind me, but there was nothing — just the warm air and the sound of kids spilling out onto the street around me.

The park next to the school was full of life — mothers with strollers, kids chasing each other, the particular happiness of a Tuesday that felt like a Saturday. I stopped for a second and closed my eyes, letting the sun hit my face.

It was the first day of summer. That had to count for something.

The blue Camaro appeared at the curb beside me.

"Hey." Leo leaned out the window. "Can I take you home?"

"No." I kept walking.

He rolled alongside me at approximately three miles per hour. "I just want to say thank you."

"You're welcome." I didn't look at him. "Now go."

"I feel like you don't mean that."

"I absolutely mean that."

A car honked behind him. Then another. Leo remained completely unbothered, which somehow made it worse.

"Ice cream?" he offered.

"I'm not five."

"The ballet then." He said it like it had just occurred to him. "There's a show tonight. Swan Lake."

I stopped walking.

Swan Lake. My favorite — and I was almost certain I hadn't mentioned that. I replayed every conversation we'd had and came up empty.

Behind the Camaro, there were now approximately four cars backed up, one of which was getting creative with the horn.

"How did you know that was my favorite?" I asked.

He shrugged. "Shot in the dark."

I looked at the traffic. Then at him. Then at the traffic again.

The audacity of this guy.

"Fine," I said. "Take me home."

He unlocked the door before I'd finished the sentence.

He spent most of the drive trying to get me to talk — asking about my summer plans, my favorite movies, whether I'd seen any other ballets recently. I answered most of it in as few words as possible, which didn't seem to discourage him at all.

When the corner came into view I straightened up.

"Stop here."

He pulled over without arguing. I got out.

"Someday I'll figure out why you always make me stop at the corner," he said, almost to himself.

"Five o'clock," I said, ignoring that completely. "Here, at the corner. And if you park in front of my house I will actually end you."

He raised his hands in surrender, smiling. I turned and walked around to the side of the house and paused before going in, glancing back toward the corner just in time to see the Camaro pull away.

"I have to admit, this one was much better," Leo said as we walked out of the theater.

"That’s why it's my favorite," I said.

"I can totally see it." He said it simply, without performance, and I believed him. He hadn't experienced it the way I had — nobody who hadn't grown up with ballet really could — but he'd paid attention. That counted for something.

The lobby was still crowded — people moving slowly, programs in hand, conversations overlapping in that particular hum that follows a good show. We moved with the current toward the exit, shoulders occasionally bumping against strangers.

I stopped to look at one of the photographs on the wall — a production from years ago, the dancers mid-movement, frozen in something that looked impossible. I'd seen it on the way in but hadn't had time to look properly.

Leo stopped too. He didn't say anything, didn't rush me. Just stood there, looking at it alongside me like he had all the time in the world.

I glanced at him.

"Why do you keep insisting?" I asked. "The car, the ice cream, tonight. You don't even know me."

He didn't answer right away. Instead, he keep looking at the photograph.

"I don't do well with being alone," he said.

I frowned slightly. "What do you mean?"

He shrugged, still not looking at me. "I don't know. Everyone's busy with their own thing lately. My friends, I mean. And the only person I used to hang out with that much is at some camp until August."

A pause.

"So… yeah. I don't know."

It wasn't a grand gesture. It wasn't a line. It was just — true. And somehow that was harder to argue with than anything else he could have said.

"That's it?" I asked. He finally looked at me, straight in the eyes.

"That's it," he said simply.

"Fine," I said. "But I'm not easy to be friends with."

"Yeah," he said, almost to himself. "I can tell."

I almost smiled. Almost.

We kept walking toward the exit.

The night air hit us when we pushed through the doors — warm, with that particular stillness that June evenings had in Georgetown. I pulled my jacket a little tighter out of habit more than necessity.

"Thank you," I said. "For inviting me."

"I owed you one," he said, and smiled.

I smiled back, and we continued walking in silence toward the parking lot.

"So," he said, as we crossed the parking lot. "Summer vacation."

The lot was half empty by now, the asphalt still warm under our feet from a full day of sun. Our footsteps were the loudest thing around.

"Yeah."

"You don't sound excited."

"Summer just means being alone at home all day," I said, and immediately wondered why I'd said that out loud.

"This summer's going to be different," Leo said.

"Because…?"

He shrugged, like it didn’t matter. "First summer with Leo Vega in your life." I laughed despite myself.

"Right. Can't wait."

We found the Camaro at the far end of the lot, parked slightly crooked under one of the overhead lights. I looked at it for a second.

"You know," I said, "most people our age would've just taken the bus."

"Most people our age can't drive a Camaro," he said, unlocking it. The click of the locks echoed slightly in the quiet.

"How old are you, anyway?" I asked, leaning against the passenger side.

"Seventeen. Just turned, actually." He looked at me over the roof of the car. "You?"

"Sixteen," I said.

A slow smile spread across his face. "I'm chauffeuring a minor."

"You're barely seventeen."

"Barely seventeen with a license," he said, getting in. I rolled my eyes and got in too.

"How long have you had this car?" I asked, running my hand along the dashboard. The material was worn smooth in places, like it had been touched a thousand times before me.

"About a year now," he said. "Though they only recently started letting me take it out on my own."

"Did your parents give it to you?"

A beat.

"Or are you secretly rich and just didn't mention it?"

Leo laughed softly. "No. It was my brother's. He bought something newer and sold it to me."

"And where did you get the money?" I asked, settling into the seat and pulling the door shut.

"What are you, a detective?"

"Fine, I'll be quiet the whole way home."

He started the engine — a low, familiar rumble that seemed to settle into the car like it belonged there. A beat passed.

"I worked at a mechanic's shop," he said, pulling out of the lot.

"Doing what?" I asked.

"Fixing cars." He glanced at me. "What else would I do?"

"Sweep, clean, take out the trash…" I shrugged. "I'm just saying, there are options."

"Very funny," he said, and smiled.

We drove through town in something that was almost comfortable silence. The streets were quieter now, just the occasional car passing in the other direction, the glow of storefronts giving way to residential blocks the further we got from the theater. When the corner came into view he pulled over without being asked.

"Here you are. Corner of your street, as requested." He looked at me. "Weird girl."

"Thanks, Mr. Fix-it." I got out, then paused at the door. "And again, thank you. For tonight. I really wanted to see that show."

"Anytime." He leaned back in his seat. "See you Monday?"

"I don't know," I said. "My schedule's very busy."

"Make space." He said it simply, like it wasn't a question.

I smiled and started walking, raising one hand briefly in a wave without looking back.

I stood in the hallway for a second, replaying the evening in my head.

Somehow I'd talked more in the last few days than I usually did in a month. About the ballet, about summer, about nothing in particular — and I hadn't even noticed it was happening until it was already done. That was the thing about Leo and his stupid questions. They didn't feel like interrogation. They felt like conversation, and somewhere between the theater and the corner I'd forgotten to be careful.

I knew better than this.

I thought about Jason. About Oliver. About all the very good reasons I'd built those walls in the first place, and how long it had taken, and how much it had cost.

Leo Vega had been in my life for approximately forty-eight hours.

I needed to be more careful.

Because I recognized this. The easy questions, the patience, the way he made you forget you were being known. I'd felt it before — that slow, quiet thing that finds its way past every wall you've built before you notice it's already inside.

I knew how that story ended.

I went in through the side door and climbed the stairs slowly, already thinking about how much higher I was going to have to build my walls.