Chapter Text
It had been a week since the last check-up.
A week of slow mornings, careful movements, and pretending the waiting wasn’t eating her alive.
Sophia was already awake when the soft knock came at the door.
She always was.
The apartment was quiet, washed in early light, the city barely stirring outside. Sophia sat at the kitchen counter with a mug she hadn’t touched in ten minutes, her shoulder stiff beneath the thin fabric of her shirt. The bruise had faded from angry purple to something duller, yellowing at the edges, but it still throbbed when she shifted wrong. A reminder. A warning.
Another knock, gentler this time.
She stood, rolled her shoulder carefully, and crossed the room.
Daniela was there when the door opened, hoodie pulled up despite the mild morning, hair still slightly damp like she’d rushed out after a shower. It had become routine over the last week — Daniela showing up early, keys already in hand, like this was just… normal now.
“Morning,” Daniela said softly.
Sophia’s mouth curved before she could stop it. “You’re early.”
Daniela snorted. “You say that every time. And every time you’re already awake.”
“Occupational hazard.”
They stood there for a second too long, the doorway holding something unspoken between them. Then Daniela stepped inside, familiar now in a way that still surprised Sophia.
“How’s the shoulder?” Daniela asked, dropping her bag by the chair.
Sophia shrugged, immediately regretted it. “Better. Still stiff.”
Daniela watched her too closely, eyes narrowing just a fraction. “That didn’t look better.”
“I didn’t say perfect.”
That earned a small smile — fond, tired, restrained.
Daniela moved toward the kitchen, automatically grabbing another mug. She didn’t ask where things were anymore. That, too, had become routine.
“Big day,” she said, pouring coffee.
Sophia exhaled slowly. “Yeah.”
Monday morning. Medical center. Follow-up imaging, strength tests, range of motion. The kind of appointment that decided everything without ever asking how she felt about it.
Spielberg was in a week.
She hadn’t said it out loud yet, but the thought had been sitting in her chest since she woke up.
They didn’t talk much after that. Not because there was nothing to say — because there was too much.
The drive was quiet, the city sliding by through the windshield. Daniela drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on her thigh, fingers tapping absently in a rhythm that didn’t belong to the radio. Sophia noticed anyway. She always noticed.
“You nervous?” Daniela asked eventually.
Sophia’s gaze stayed on the road. “No.”
Daniela didn’t push. She just hummed softly, unconvinced.
The medical center was all white walls and low voices, the kind of place that smelled like disinfectant and patience. Sophia went through it all on autopilot — greeting staff she knew too well, slipping into familiar rooms, rolling her shoulder when asked even as her jaw tightened.
Daniela stayed close without hovering. Watching.
Listening.
The doctor talked through scans on a screen, pointing out progress with clinical calm.
“Ligament is healing well,” he said. “Inflammation’s down. Still some sensitivity.”
Sophia held her breath.
“We’re clearing you for light training,” he continued. “No full load. No aggressive steering yet. And we’ll reassess before Spielberg.”
There it was.
Light training.
Not a no. Not yet a yes.
Sophia nodded, professional, composed. “Understood.”
Daniela let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.
Later, while Sophia tested range of motion, lifting her arm slowly under supervision, Daniela noticed the bruise again — smaller now, but still unmistakable.
“You see?” the doctor said. “Healing. But you feel pain, you stop.”
Sophia smiled tightly. “I always do.”
Daniela knew that was a lie.
When it was over, when forms were signed and next appointments scheduled, Daniela walked her back to the car. Sophia moved carefully, favoring her shoulder without admitting it.
“You did good,” Daniela said once they were inside.
Sophia glanced at her. “I didn’t do anything.”
“You waited,” Daniela replied. “That counts for you.”
That made her laugh — quiet, reluctant.
Back at the apartment, Daniela helped her inside, lingering like she wasn’t sure if she should leave yet.
“You’re clear for light training,” she said again, like repeating it might make it safer.
“For now.”
Daniela nodded. “I’ve got rehearsal in an hour.”
Sophia leaned against the counter. “I know.”
There was a pause. One of those moments where something almost slipped.
“I’ll text you,” Daniela said finally. “Later.”
“Yeah.”
Daniela hesitated, then left.
The apartment felt too quiet after.
Daniela’s pov
Daniela barely heard the music once rehearsal started.
She went through the motions — counts, spacing, timing — muscle memory carrying her where her thoughts couldn’t. Every break, her phone was in her hand before she realized it.
No new messages.
Her thumb hovered over a name she shouldn’t be thinking about.
Jonah.
She told herself it was simpler this way. Safer. That whatever this thing with Sophia was — soft, dangerous, impossible — it wasn’t something she could afford.
Sophia needed stability. Someone solid. Someone who didn’t come with confusion and half-formed feelings.
Daniela wasn’t that person.
So she texted Jonah.
Something casual. Something normal.
When rehearsal ended, when the day stretched ahead of her like a question she didn’t want to answer, she agreed to meet him at a bar she barely liked.
The bar Jonah chose was dim and loud in the way that pretended to be intimate. Low ceilings, amber lights, music just a little too aggressive to allow for real conversation. Daniela noticed the sticky floor, the way people leaned too close to be heard, the stale mix of perfume and alcohol clinging to the air.
She arrived early. He didn’t.
By the time Jonah showed up, already smiling too wide, she was halfway through a drink she didn’t really want. He hugged her without asking, arm lingering around her shoulders just a beat longer than necessary.
“You look good,” he said, eyes scanning her in a way that made her shift.
“Thanks,” she replied, polite. Careful.
They talked about nothing important. His work. Her tour. He joked about how busy she must be, how she probably had people chasing her all the time. Daniela laughed at the right moments, nodded when expected, but the conversation felt hollow. Like she was watching herself from a distance.
She checked her phone once. No new messages.
Jonah noticed.
“You bored already?” he teased.
“No,” she said quickly. “Just tired.”
He leaned closer. “It’s loud in here. Want somewhere quieter?”
She hesitated. The word quieter settled wrong in her chest. Still, she didn’t want to make it awkward. Didn’t want to be dramatic. She told herself she was overthinking.
“Sure,” she said. “Just for a bit.”
The car smelled like leather and something sharp, artificial. The door closed with a heavy click that made her flinch before she could stop herself. Jonah turned the engine on but didn’t drive. The music outside dulled into a distant thrum.
They sat there, silence stretching.
He reached for her hand.
She let him, at first.
His thumb traced over her knuckles, slow, testing. Daniela shifted back slightly, trying to create space without making it obvious. He followed the movement instead of stopping.
“You’re tense,” he said. “Relax.”
His hand slid higher, resting on her thigh.
Daniela’s breath caught.
“Hey,” she said, gentle but firm. “I’m not—”
He laughed softly, like she’d made a joke. His hand moved again, closer, pressure increasing, fingers brushing somewhere that made her whole body go rigid.
“Jonah. Stop.”
This time, her voice was sharper.
He didn’t.
Her heart started to pound, loud enough she was sure he could hear it. She pushed his hand away, harder now.
“I said stop.”
His expression changed — annoyance flickering across his face. “Come on. It’s fine. Don’t be like that.”
She reached for the door handle.
That’s when he grabbed her wrist.
Not gentle.
Not playful.
Pain flared immediately, sharp and startling, and something cold flooded her chest.
“Let go,” she said, panic threading her voice.
He tightened his grip instead.
Something in her snapped.
Daniela twisted, pulling back with everything she had, nails scraping against his skin as she yanked her arm free. She shoved the door open and stumbled out, heart racing, lungs burning.
“Daniela—” he called after her, anger in his voice now. “This isn’t over.”
She didn’t answer.
She walked fast, then faster, then broke into a run, not stopping until the noise of the bar was far behind her and the city felt empty enough to breathe again.
By the time she reached her apartment, her wrist throbbed and her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
She locked the door. Leaned back against it. Slid down until she was sitting on the floor.
And all she could think about was Sophia.
How safe her apartment felt. How quiet. How warm.
She crawled into bed without changing, pulling the hoodie sleeves down over her wrists like armor, exhaustion crashing over her all at once.
Her phone buzzed once on the nightstand.
She didn’t look.
She closed her eyes, chest tight, and let sleep take her before she could think too much about the bruise already forming beneath the fabric.
Sophia’s pov
Sophia woke before her alarm, as she always did.
For a few seconds, she lay still in bed, staring at the ceiling of her apartment as pale morning light crept in through the curtains. Her shoulder throbbed dully — not sharp, not alarming, just present. A reminder. She rolled carefully onto her back and reached for her phone on instinct.
No message.
Her brow furrowed.
Daniela always texted in the morning. Even if it was just awake, or a stupid emoji, or a complaint about being tired. Especially lately. Especially after nights they didn’t spend together.
Sophia checked the time. Too early for rehearsal, but not too early for Daniela.
She typed, then erased, then typed again.
Sophia: Morning. You okay?
Sent.
She waited.
Nothing.
Sophia sat up slowly, feet touching the floor, unease settling low in her stomach. She told herself not to overreact. Daniela had a life. Interviews. Rehearsals.
Jonah.
The thought tightened something in her chest.
She showered, dressed, moved through her morning routine with mechanical precision. By the time she finished her coffee, her phone was still silent.
That’s when she grabbed her keys.
Daniela’s pov
Daniela woke with a headache and a heavy, hollow feeling in her chest.
She hadn’t slept well. Hadn’t really slept at all. Every time she closed her eyes, she felt hands on her wrist again, the pressure, the surprise of it. She pulled the hoodie tighter around herself, sleeves covering her arms down to her knuckles.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand.
Sophia.
Daniela stared at the screen for a long moment before turning it face-down again.
She couldn’t answer. Not yet. Not like this.
She sat up slowly, wincing as she moved her arm, then froze when she heard a knock at the door.
Soft. Hesitant.
Her heart skipped.
Another knock.
“Dani?” Sophia’s voice. Careful. Concerned.
Daniela swallowed. She considered pretending she wasn’t home. Considered hiding. Instead, she stood, legs unsteady, and walked to the door.
She opened it halfway.
Sophia was already there — hair still damp, jacket thrown on hastily, worry written openly across her face.
“You didn’t text,” Sophia said immediately. “I—”
She stopped when she really looked at her.
Daniela’s eyes were red. Her posture closed in on itself. The hoodie sleeves were pulled down far too deliberately.
“I’m fine,” Daniela said quickly, stepping aside. “You didn’t have to come.”
Sophia entered anyway.
The apartment was quiet, blinds still drawn, untouched since the night before. Sophia’s gaze flicked around automatically, then back to Daniela.
“You don’t look fine.”
Daniela shrugged, avoiding her eyes. “Didn’t sleep.”
Sophia moved closer, instinctively lowering her voice. “Did something happen?”
“No.”
The answer came too fast.
Sophia hesitated, then reached out — slow, giving Daniela time to pull away — and gently caught her wrist.
Daniela flinched.
Not dramatically. Just enough.
Sophia froze.
“Dani,” she said softly. “What is that?”
Daniela tried to pull her arm back. Sophia didn’t tighten her grip, but she didn’t let go either.
Sophia’s voice stayed calm, but her eyes didn’t.
When Daniela tried to pull her wrist away, Sophia’s grip tightened just enough to stop her — not forceful, but unyielding. Her gaze dropped to the edge of the sleeve, to the hint of discoloration already visible beneath the fabric.
“Who did this?” Sophia asked.
Daniela felt it then.
Not concern. Not pity.
Anger.
It was sharp and sudden, flashing across Sophia’s face before she could hide it — jaw locking, nostrils flaring slightly, something dark and dangerous settling behind her eyes. The kind of look Sophia wore on track when someone pushed too far, when instinct took over and mercy disappeared.
For a split second, Daniela was certain of one thing:
if she said Jonah’s name, Sophia would want to hurt him.
The realization made her chest tighten.
Not because she was afraid of Sophia — but because no one had ever looked at her like that before. Like she was something worth defending. Like someone crossing a line meant consequences.
“That doesn’t matter,” Daniela said quickly, yanking her arm back, pulling the sleeve down as if she could erase the look altogether.
Sophia didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
The anger stayed — quiet now, coiled, dangerous — and Daniela knew she’d seen too much.
“It does to me.”
Daniela laughed, sharp and brittle. “Why? You’re not responsible for me.”
Sophia’s voice dropped. “I didn’t say I was.”
They stood there, the air between them taut.
Daniela crossed her arms, sleeves still hiding everything. “You should go. You have training. Physio. A million things more important than—”
“Than you?” Sophia interrupted, quiet but firm.
Daniela snapped back, “Yes.”
The word hung between them, heavy and untrue.
Sophia took a step back like she’d been pushed. She nodded once, jaw clenched.
“Okay,” she said. “If that’s what you want.”
Daniela didn’t answer.
Sophia grabbed her keys, pausing at the door. “I’m here when you’re ready,” she added. “But don’t shut me out like this.”
Then she left.
The door clicked shut.
Daniela sank onto the couch, breath shaking, hands finally slipping free of the sleeves to reveal the darkening bruise around her wrist. She stared at it for a long time.
She hadn’t protected herself from hurting Sophia.
She’d just pushed her away.