“Oh, God. What have I done?”

Without the rose-tinted glasses of taking the first look at his new living and working space, and without a friendly shoulder at his side, Oscar hadn’t expected everything to crash into him at once.

He couldn’t untangle the knot of emotions that flooded him: fear, anticipation, frustration, nostalgia, and a certain sadness, too.

Oscar dropped his bucket of cleaning supplies by the door: mop, broom, window cleaner, and cloths. Everything he’d brought was going to see heavy use today.

The place was dirty—it had sat unused for a few months before going on the market, and then hadn’t sold for a few more. Dust had added to dust. How the hell could that much dust accumulate so fast?

He could see why the place hadn’t sold; the renovations were enough to put anyone off, and there were several yoga and dance studios already in the area. Pole was all the rage now, and the turf was thoroughly claimed by two pole studios.

And the studio apartment at the back. Oh, fuck. There was no way it was livable—the bathroom was moldy in corners, the kitchen was missing most of its appliances and cabinet doors, the bedrooms smelled funky, and one window needed repairs.

No wonder the seller had given him a break for coming in under list price “in respect of the renovations that were necessary,” as his realtor had put it. The surveyor had agreed. All those little flags Oscar had ignored, because it was in his price range and it felt like the right move to make.

But how much of that had been trying to run from his feelings of… what was it? Being a burden on others? Roman, in particular? His need to find something to keep himself busy? Well, this fit the bill. Even if he focused on the dance studio, he wasn’t a DIY expert. It would take at least two weeks to get into shape to actually start teaching classes.

And that was deliberately ignoring all the work to be done on the apartment. He could really only do one thing at once. Oscar’s brain skittered back and forth between the halves of the building, and the overwhelm threatened to choke him.

His phone buzzed, and his heart leapt. Roman? He’d gotten a text from him while he was at the hardware store about that asshole sniffing around—which had to be Jef—but Roman hadn’t texted again since then.

Oscar had spent a good half-hour feeling bad about not going with Roman, whatever Roman said. After all, he’d tried to turn down company before the meeting at which he’d been fired. Roman hadn’t listened. Maybe he should be better at not listening, too.

He had to squash the hope before it even had time to take root—the notification was a text message from Matt.

Xmas lunch in town. Last day before we hit the road! Get your ass over here.

It would look petty not to go, Oscar knew that. But he wasn’t sure he could handle seeing everyone hyped up with pre-tour jitters, half-focused on their own notes from the final rehearsals.

On the other hand, staying here didn’t sound like all that much fun when the newspaper-covered windows and dingy walls were closing in around him. He couldn’t stop fucking wasting his time thinking about Roman letting him move out. That wasn’t helping him do what he needed to do to get this place livable.

What did he have to lose?

On my way, he answered and spitefully nudged his bucket away from the door with his toe. “I’ll get around to it,” he said sullenly, answering the critic in his own head. “It’s only Christmas once.”

The weight in Oscar’s chest didn’t lift as he said it, and he tried not to feel like he was running away from his chance at a new life before he’d even gotten started.

It was just one lunch. Then he could deal with the future.

* * *

“Look what the cat dragged in.”

The uncomfortable laughter that followed Jef’s comment was subdued in an instant when Oscar turned his glare on them.

What the hell had happened in a few short weeks to the guys who had told him to knock it off?

“Matt’s allowed to say that,” Oscar told Jef, unafraid to meet his look. “You’re not.”

“Oh, excuse me, princess. Am I allowed to say hello?”

“No.” Oscar let his attention turn to the other dancers as he took the chair Matt had saved for him. It looked like everyone had eaten already, so he didn’t bother asking for a menu himself. “What’s been up, then? Final rehearsals going well?”

There were another few moments of uncomfortable silence. Okay, what the hell? Oscar looked around to catch Raj’s eye, but he wasn’t there. It was beginning to feel like he was outnumbered, and he didn’t like that feeling. He didn’t have a problem with anyone here but Jef, after all.

“Not bad, yeah,” Matt answered finally, looking weirdly embarrassed.

“Those of us with major roles,” said Alexei, with whom Oscar had never gotten along well, “have been hard at work for these weeks.” His English was less heavily accented than it had been when he’d first joined the company, but it was still sharp in the silence.

“Right. Yeah, that’s what I said,” Oscar said slowly, then glanced at Matt. Was he relegated to some background role?

Matt wouldn’t meet his gaze.

Finally, Gregory huffed a sigh. “Jesus. Don’t let this spoil the Christmas mood, guys.”

“Not my fault,” Jef spoke up from the end of the table. Someone reached out to touch his arm and someone else started talking to him quietly. Again, though, it felt less like defusing than people choosing sides.

Oscar gritted his jaw and looked over at Matt when conversation finally resumed slowly. “So you’re background scenery?”

“Pretty much,” Matt mumbled. “I might have gotten into an… argument.”

“Oh, Jesus. Not over me?” Matt’s silence confirmed it, and Oscar squeezed his arm. “Hon. No, your career comes first. Mine’s tanked. Don’t take yours down.” The guys around him—most of them, anyway—tried to disagree, but Oscar wouldn’t let them. “It’s not me being overly dramatic this time. It’s true. So I’m picking up teaching. I got the mortgage on a studio.”

The phrases “skulking around” and “poaching” were distinctly audible from the other end of the table.

Oscar snorted, unable to resist taking the bait. “My students’ ages and skill levels wouldn’t remotely be poaching from our—you guys. Or are you just worried about competition?” He smiled sweetly at Jef. “Speaking of skulking around, what were you doing talking to my boyfriend?”

Jef looked like he was considering arguing that it hadn’t been him.

Oscar raised a brow. “Don’t even try that. Be honest, for once in your life.”

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m done with this conversation,” Jef announced and rose to his feet. “Those of you I’ve pre-selected, please accompany me to the studio for one more debrief.”

It was a slap in the face: a reminder that Jef had all the power in the world over the company, and he intended to use it to undermine any friendships Oscar had left.

But Matt stood up, too. “No. I need to rest, and I’m going to do it while I catch up with an old friend.”

A few others nodded, but over half of the dancers started shifting, slowly rising to their feet with guilty expressions and gathering their thick winter coats. Getting dressed against the cold gave them an excuse not to look at Oscar.

Jef flagged down the waiter and gestured toward his end of the table. “All these checks as one, please.”

It became painfully obvious what was going on. Sure, principal dancers were responsible for setting the mood and building a sense of unity among the company, but this was beyond the pale.

“If you want to stay and damage your career prospects—” Jef started.

Matt just smiled. “You don’t have any power over me. You know why? I’m done. After this show, I’m out.”

Oscar choked on air for a second. Matt hadn’t had the same career trajectory as him, but he still had a good five to ten years left. What the fuck was he doing? He hissed and tugged Matt’s sleeve.

“It’s not just about Oscar. I made my mind up a long time ago,” Matt told him. “If people decided to be morons higher up and didn’t see what you’re doing to this company… if they let you sneak up the ranks—pay or fuck your way up, I don’t care how you did it—I’d leave and find my own way somewhere else. You’ve got talent, but not enough to rest that ego on. It’s going to topple the whole damn tower. I don’t blame all of you sticking by him. It’s smart,” he said, glancing down at Oscar. “Which is why this idiot is trying to tear my sleeve off,” he added. He affectionately ruffled Oscar’s hair to get him to let go.

It worked, and Oscar scowled at Matt as he patted his hair back into place. “You’re an idiot, too, but at least I can respect that.”

Jef glared at Matt. “Fine. Don’t be surprised to see yourself out of work.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Statement,” Jef said with a smooth smile.

Oscar cleared his throat. “Well, I’m going to need help at the new studio. I’d rather have a friendly face than someone who will use me until he gets a big break and then stab me in the back with a snake-oil smile.”

The waiter was frozen, lingering near Jef with the check in one hand and credit card machine in the other. The restaurant was quiet, other diners listening in.

“Oh, fuck you.” Jef’s composure finally snapped. He dug his wallet out. “I hope your pathetic little studio dies. No, worse: you get stuck teaching bratty ten-year-olds how to one-two-step at the county fair.” Jef shoved cash into the waiter’s hand and pushed past him, his expression tight. “I was trying to warn Oscar to go quietly to pasture, but it looks like I’ll have to fight him.”

“Like he can do a thing. He never did respect teachers,” Matt observed idly, his hand on Oscar’s shoulder.

Oscar resisted the urge to get the last word in. The anxiety and fear that had knotted his chest when he’d unlocked the studio earlier were gone now, replaced by the intense drive—the need, really—that had fueled his career until he’d lost it. He’d thought he’d never feel that again.

“Thanks.” Oscar cleared his throat and glanced around at the handful of guys who had stayed, too—all at Matt’s end of the table. There had obviously already been a division he hadn’t spotted. “And you guys, too.”

“Don’t mention it. I just wasn’t done my salad,” Jon said with a wink.

“I think I’m gonna take off in a minute, actually,” Oscar admitted, sinking into his chair. “I just picked up the keys, and… Jesus. The place is a mess.”

“Well…” Matt cast a crafty look around the table. “If you need some helping hands…”

“Oh, God. I can’t ask you guys to help, man.” Oscar knew what kind of shape their bodies were in after intensive rehearsals, and nightly performances ahead.

“No, but we can offer,” Matt told him. “Give us cloths or something. Let us polish something.”

“There you go, trying to polish my metal again,” Oscar joked to hide the tears he was blinking out of his eyes. “If you must.”

“I’ll come too,” Andy offered, and then Jon nodded. One by one, all the guys still sitting at the table joined in to say they’d help.

Oscar wiped his cheeks roughly and cleared his throat. “Right. Let me, uh, call a couple Ubers for you or whatever.”

He strode outside to do it so he could recover his composure, zipping up his jacket against the cold but smiling so hard it hurt.

Maybe it would feel like old times, just for a moment. And maybe that would be long enough.