Chapter Three:
The next day, she came to his place unannounced. She was in sweatpants, no makeup, hair in a messy bun. James opened the door with tired eyes, tension stiff in his posture.
"Hey," she said softly.
"Hey," he echoed, stepping aside.
She walked in slowly, like the air was heavy between them.
"Didn't mean to ghost you," she started, not meeting his eyes. "I was just... drained. Physically. Emotionally. Mentally."
James folded his arms. "I get that. But I'm not just someone you shut out when you're tired."
Her head snapped up. "I didn't shut you out."
"You disappeared."
Joyce stepped forward, frustration flashing in her eyes. "You always go there, James. Always assume the worst. One missed call and you think I've run off with someone else?"
"Can you blame me?" he snapped. "You're surrounded by guys who would do anything to have five minutes with you. And you're out late every night-dancing, rehearsing, hanging out. I'm supposed to just sit here and not feel anything?"
"Not feel anything?" she repeated, stunned. "James, I need you to feel with me, not against me."
Silence stretched between them.
"I'm tired of this," she said, voice shaking. "I love you so much it hurts, but I can't keep proving it every single day. You're not in competition with my dance. You're a part of my life. A big part. But you're not the only part."
James turned away, fists clenched at his sides. "You say that, but it always feels like I come second."
"Because you make it a game!" she cried. "You tally every hug I give someone, every laugh I share, like it's evidence in some twisted courtroom."
Tears brimmed in her eyes, but she blinked them back. "You don't trust me, James. That's the real problem."
That hit like a punch to the chest. He turned slowly to face her again. "I do trust you, Joyce. I don't trust them."
Her voice softened. "Then don't let their interest ruin what we have."
He stared at her-at the pain in her eyes, the weariness in her stance. She wasn't yelling anymore. She looked tired. Defeated. And he hated himself for putting that look on her face.
Without another word, he walked forward and pulled her into his arms.
She melted against him like she always did, burying her face in his neck. He held her tight, grounding himself in her warmth, her scent, her heartbeat against his chest.
"I don't want to lose you," he whispered.
"Then stop pushing me away," she whispered back.
That night, they stay quiet for so long without talking to each other and later began foreplay
There were no words-just gasps, slow touches, the sounds of two people trying to remember where they began and ended. James traced every line of her body like it was sacred scripture. Joyce kissed every inch of him like she was pouring apologies into his skin.
They didn't rush.
She rode him slowly, moaning his name like it was a song. He held her hips, eyes locked with hers, watching the way her face twisted in pleasure. Every movement was intentional, every moment filled with desperate reverence.
It wasn't sex.
It was about belonging.
It was about reminding each other: We are still us.
When they lay tangled in the sheets afterward, skin slick with sweat and hearts beating wildly, James kissed her shoulder and whispered, "I want to be better for you."
Joyce turned to him, brushing his hair back. "Then grow with me. Not against me."
In the weeks that followed, they made an effort-both of them.
James came to more of her rehearsals, not as a watchdog, but as a partner. He cheered her on, took photos, brought water. The more he immersed himself in her world, the more he realized-this wasn't about other people wanting her. This was about her chasing her passion, her identity, her joy.
And she let him in.
She shared the pressure, the fatigue, the self-doubt she never spoke of before. He saw her cry after a long rehearsal, frustrated with her own performance, scared of not being enough.
James held her through it. "You're everything," he told her. "And I'm proud of you."
She started bringing him up in interviews, on social media. Not to mark territory, but to honor their bond. "My boyfriend is my grounding," she said once on live. "He's my lens when I forget how far I've come."
Their love matured.
They still fought-of course. But the fights weren't as destructive. They learned to breathe, to listen, to wait.
James became less reactive. Joyce became more transparent.
They were learning the art of us-imperfect, fiery, but real.
Because love wasn't just fire.
It was tending the flame.