Page 53 of North’s Claim

“I’ve got a plan.” My voice is steady, even though the truth is I’m just stringing stubbornness into something that sounds like certainty. “Save up. Take some courses. Get my dance qualifications. I’m not asking North to foot the bill.”

“You could, though,” Cherry says softly. “Ask him.”

I shake my head before she even finishes. “I can’t. He’s done more than I deserve.” The words taste sharp on my tongue, bitter.

They don’t push.

Instead, Jules smirks and nudges me with her shoulder. “Well, if you change your mind, you can always join my side hustle. Pays cash, no experience necessary, and the clients tip better than most of the guys in here.”

I snort. “Please tell me it’s not stripping.”

“Exotic cardio,” she deadpans, and we all laugh, the sound spilling over the table like a relief valve.

But when they turn back to counting bills and swapping stories, I lean back in the booth, my smile still fixed but my mind a thousand miles away.

Every rejection email, every polite no, every job that won’t give me a chance, it’s starting to pile up. And I hate how much it feels like I’m standing still while the whole damn world keeps moving.

I want a life that’s mine. I just don’t know if I’ll get it without him.

And that scares me more than I want to admit.

By the time I leave the clubhouse, the air is getting chilly that makes you pull your jacket tighter even if you’re not cold.

North’s at the far end of the room when I glance back, arms crossed, head bent toward Rook and Soul, deep in whatever business the Saints' are chewing over tonight.

I tell myself I’m fine with slipping out without saying goodbye.

It’s not a lie, exactly.

The walk home feels longer than it should. Every step is a chance for my mind to chew on itself—on the rejections, the stupid pride, the way I keep building this wall between myself and asking for help.

The house is quiet when I step inside. I kick my boots off at the door, drop my jacket over the back of the couch, and head for the kitchen.

That’s when I see it.

A folder. A laptop. And a neat stack of glossy flyers spread across the table like someone laid out a hand of cards.

I freeze.

The flyers are for courses, both online and in-person. Dance pedagogy. Studio management. Early childhood movement education. The kind of qualifications the schools kept telling me I didn’t have.

The prices make my stomach drop. They’re not just expensive—they’re the kind of numbers you don’t even say out loud unless you’ve already made peace with the debt.

Right in the middle of it all, on top of the folder, is a yellow sticky note in his sharp, blocky handwriting. Two words: Do it.

My throat closes up before I can even blink.

The first tear slips hot down my cheek, then another, until I’m gripping the edge of the table just to keep from falling apart.

I’d been so sure he didn’t care. That if he wanted to help me, he would’ve already. That he was too busy, too distracted, too wrapped up in the hood. But he’d been giving me space. Letting me decide for myself.

And then showing me—without fanfare or a speech—that he’s there. Even through my stubbornness. Especially through it.

I swipe at my cheeks, but more tears follow.

The laptop’s already on, screen glowing with a blank application page. I sit down and start typing. Not just one form, but three. Every school that’s even remotely possible, I’m filling it in. My fingers hover over the last box, the one asking for a reference. A pocket name. I stare at it for a solid minute before I realize I can’t put North.

Looking through the tabs I realize he made sure to research everything, even on how to run a dance school. Licensing. Insurance. Rent. Mirrors. Floors. The whole damn thing.