Chapter Text
𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝒪𝓃𝑒: 𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝒩𝓊𝓉𝒸𝓇𝒶𝒸𝓀𝑒𝓇 𝒪𝒷𝓈𝑒𝓈𝓈𝒾𝑜𝓃
The smell of burnt toast filled the small apartment.
“Shit.”
Ilya Rozanov leaned over the stove, yanking the smoking slice of bread out of the toaster just as the fire alarm began its angry, high-pitched screaming. He muttered something under his breath in Russian and grabbed a dish towel, waving it frantically beneath the detector.
The apartment wasn’t big, just a two-bedroom place on the third floor of an old brick building but it was clean and lived-in in the way homes with children always were. A small kitchen opened into a cozy living room where toys seemed to multiply overnight. A worn gray couch sat beneath a window overlooking the street, and the coffee table was permanently cluttered with coloring books, crayons, and the occasional half-finished puzzle.
Against one wall stood a narrow bookshelf full of things that made the space feel like theirs; Yelena’s books, a few medical textbooks Ilya barely had time to read anymore, and framed photos of the two of them.
One showed a baby Yelena wrapped in a hospital blanket in Ilya’s arms.
Another showed a toddler Yelena covered in ice cream.
Every surface held evidence of their life together.
And currently, their life together included a very enthusiastic ballerina.
“Papa!”
Ilya turned just in time to see a small blur of pink socks spin across the kitchen floor.
Seven year old Yelena Rozanova twirled dramatically in the middle of the room, arms lifted high above her head like she’d seen dancers do.
Her long dark hair, almost the same deep brown as Ilya’s was pulled into a slightly crooked ponytail that was already coming loose. Wispy strands framed her face as she spun, cheeks flushed with excitement.
She was small for her age but full of energy, with big bright eyes that seemed permanently full of mischief and curiosity. Those eyes were the same sharp shade of blue as Ilya’s.
Right now they sparkled with determination.
“Watch!” she announced.
Before Ilya could respond, she launched into another spin.
Or at least attempted one.
She wobbled slightly but managed to stay upright, arms stretched wide.
“Ta-da!” she declared proudly.
Ilya leaned against the counter, exhausted but smiling despite himself.
“You’re going to fall,” he warned.
“I am not,” she insisted.
She immediately lost her balance and stumbled into the kitchen table.
Ilya caught her before she could hit the floor.
“See?” he said.
Yelena giggled.
“Real ballerinas fall sometimes too.”
“That makes me feel much better.”
The toaster popped again.
Another slice of toast; this one only slightly burnt jumped out.
Ilya grabbed it and placed it on a plate with the scrambled eggs he’d made earlier.
Breakfast was always a rushed affair. His shifts as a paramedic meant early mornings, late nights, and a schedule that changed constantly.
Today, luckily, was a late shift.
Which meant he had a few hours before he had to leave for the station.
And apparently those hours would be filled with ballet.
“Papa, watch this one.”
Yelena dashed into the living room.
Ilya sighed but followed her.
The living room was slightly brighter than the kitchen, sunlight streaming through the big front window and illuminating the chaos of a child’s imagination.
Yelena had pushed the coffee table aside to create a “stage.”
Two throw pillows had been arranged carefully in front of the couch like an audience.
“Sit,” she commanded.
Ilya obeyed, lowering himself heavily onto the couch.
He had slept maybe four hours the night before after a particularly rough shift.
But he’d still sit through a thousand performances if she asked.
Yelena stepped into the center of the room.
She took a deep breath.
Then lifted her arms gracefully.
“I am Clara,” she announced.
Ilya blinked, “Who?”
“From The Nutcracker, Papa!” she said, exasperated.
Right.
The source of the problem.
Earlier that week, Yelena’s school had taken a field trip to watch a performance of The Nutcracker.
Since then, his daughter had turned into a tiny spinning tornado.
Yelena began her performance.
She leapt.
She twirled.
She dramatically pointed toward an imaginary Christmas tree.
At one point she attempted what looked like a jump but turned into more of a very enthusiastic hop.
Ilya watched the entire thing with a soft smile tugging at his mouth.
She finished with another spin and a dramatic bow.
“Thank you, thank you,” she said, pretending to wave to an imaginary crowd.
Ilya clapped slowly.
“Very impressive.”
She beamed.
“Did you see the turn?”
“I saw many turns.”
“Ballerinas do that,” she said proudly.
Ilya rubbed a hand over his face.
“Yelena—”
“Papa,” she interrupted quickly, eyes widening.
Uh oh.
He knew that look.
She clasped her hands together.
“Can I take ballet classes?”
There it was.
The question she’d asked at least ten times already that week.
Ilya leaned back against the couch, thinking.
Ballet classes meant schedules.
Lessons.
Shoes.
Money.
His job paid well enough, but raising a child alone meant constantly calculating budgets.
Then there was time.
His shifts at the ambulance station were unpredictable.
And if he was being honest…
“I do not know anything about ballet,” he admitted.
Yelena climbed onto the couch beside him immediately.
“You don’t need to,” she said confidently.
“Really.”
“You just watch.”
That sounded suspicious.
“Classes cost money,” he said carefully.
She thought about that for a moment.
Then leaned closer.
“I can clean my room more.”
Ilya raised an eyebrow.
“More than never?”
She ignored that.
“Please, Papa.”
Her big gray eyes stared up at him.
Dangerous.
Very dangerous.
He resisted.
For almost three seconds.
“Please?” she tried again, softer this time.
Ilya sighed deeply.
He looked around the apartment.
At the small life they’d built together.
At the living room currently transformed into a ballet stage.
Then he looked at his daughter again.
Her entire face was hopeful.
Excited.
Bright.
And suddenly he remembered something a coworker once told him during a quiet night shift.
Kids don’t remember the things you buy them.
They remember the things you let them try.
Ilya rubbed the back of his neck.
“Fine,” he muttered.
Yelena gasped.
“Really?”
“We will look at classes.”
She launched herself at him so fast he barely caught her.
“Thank you thank you thank you!”
Ilya huffed out a laugh.
“Yes, yes. But we must find a place first.”
Yelena jumped off the couch and immediately began spinning again.
“I’m going to be a ballerina!”
Ilya watched her twirl across the living room.
Completely unaware that agreeing to ballet classes was about to change his life in ways he could never have expected.
Because somewhere in the city…
A ballet instructor named Shane Hollander was about to meet them.
And nothing would be the same after that.