On Forty-Second Street's sidewalk and in a staring match, I roll my eyes at Cal.

"Wow. I thought you were going to roll your eyes at me the second you opened your door. Or in the elevator." Cal smiles his glimmering teeth at me. "We made it all the way outside."

Crossing my arms, I angle my body away from Cal. It's only a matter of seconds before he circles around and faces me again.

I duck my head, letting my Mets cap shield my eyes from Cal. Cloaked in a pair of running pants and a Manhattan Dance Academy sweatshirt, my skin fights to stave off the chills of a too-early morning. I try not to shift on my feet, clad in my cute purple running shoes, and I focus my attention on the coffee cup that I hold.

"Do you like the coffee?" Cal asks. "I got it the way I heard you like it. Dark like your soul."

Begrudgingly, I tilt my head up to take a sip from the lidded cup. I should've rolled my eyes when Cal showed up outside of my door with a smirk and a cup of black coffee. As if I didn't make my own. The extra cup is chasing away my jitters, though, and I couldn't exactly complain when Cal handed it to me.

"It's fine," I return, shifting my body away from Cal again. How great could the coffee be? It's plain, dark-roasted coffee. The only thing great about it is that Cal brought it to me.

He's on the offensive this morning. Every time I look at Cal, he's smirking, looking at me like he's about to kick my ass. It's too early in the morning to wage psychological warfare on Cal.

I could always slap him.

"So, like a ten out of ten?" Cal asks.

"If you think it's so great," I drawl, "Maybe you'd like me to pour it on you."

Maybe if I aim my cup right, I can give Cal second-degree burns.

Chuckling, Cal tries to circle around me again, but I turn around myself so that I'm faced with the illuminated intersection of our street and Broadway. Maybe it's the caffeine, but the lights seem to pulse against the backdrop of early, early morning in New York City.

"The coffee's really getting you riled up, Mare. Maybe you should—"

Without ceremony, I wind up my arm and chuck the coffee cup across Forty-Second Street. I watch as the lid falls off mid-air, landing in the street. I'm not one for littering, but Cal has it coming.

"I get it, Cal. I humiliated you in front of the entire ballet Company, belittled your disgustingly big ego when we played Monopoly. I cut up your robe," I say, taunting him as if he hasn't heard it before. "And you can't stand losing, can you? Is this how badly you need redemption?"

"For the record, you won under false pretenses," Cal argues like I haven't heard it before. "As I've already told you, you would never win against me again. But you're too afraid to play me again, aren't you?" Amused, Cal laughs again. "But I thought we were just talking about coffee, Mare."

The low-pitched laugh provokes me.

I hate how I love that he always knows just what to say to piss me off.

I hate how he's let us fall back into our normal routine of banter, knowing that I don't want him to treat me differently because of what happened on Thursday night in the stairwell.

I glance up from the street and into his fiery eyes, and I can't help myself.

He still has it coming.

"You're going to lose the race," I hiss.

The next thing I know, I'm grabbing onto his shoulders, throwing my weight into the shove.

Through his own sweatshirt, I feel the heat of Cal's body against my palms. In slow motion, I watch as the playfulness gets sucked out of the beautiful bronze of his irises and replaced by momentary surprise as his eyes widen. His arms fly out, hands landing at my hips.

Pride swells in my chest to see Cal in such a state. Time Square shimmers around us, casting Cal's pretty face in electric colors. Cal's body tilts diagonally, falling towards the curb, towards the empty street.

I only notice now, that in all of our circling, Cal and I have come close to the curb. Not close enough to send either of us off it, but close enough to scare Cal, who can't see what's behind him.

About a half-second later, my contemporary teacher's uprighting himself, straightening his knees with a single small step backward. His feet stop at the edge of the sidewalk with two feet to spare. His eyes might've gone wide, but the shove barely got him to step back. He was just surprised that I tried to push him at all.

I, on the other hand, keep falling, falling, falling towards Cal, the momentum of his hands against my hips still pulling me forward.

With vengeance, Cal's hands tighten on my hips, the pads of his thumbs pressing into my lower stomach as he pushes back the way that I came. I wish I could say that the feeling at the bottom of my stomach was fear of the six-foot-two, two-hundred-something pound man. It's something much worse.

I stumble back away from Cal, but he doesn't let up his grip. Upright, I end up a couple of inches away from the large man, watching his now burning eyes and the displeased frown that graces his lips.

My own smirk stays. It's not like I forgot that Cal was double my weight and has the agility of a world-class dancer, but it was still fun to try and push him onto Forty-Second Street.

Thinking that I can pull the same move that I did at the penthouse while Cal's hands were occupied on my hips, I lift my hand from Cal's shoulder and draw back my arm again.

With wicked speed, Cal's own hand catches my wrist halfway through the air. His grip is gentle, even as I feel the brute strength in his arm that propels my own arm back down to my side. At the same time, he brings his free arm the rest of the way around my back, yanking me and both of my arms against him.

And just like that, I'm more or less hugging Cal again.

Breathing a bit heavily against me, Cal murmurs, "You didn't just try to push me off the curb and into the street, Mare. Please tell me you didn't just try to do that."

I giggle against his chest, my arms hanging limply between us.

"It must be the really bad coffee," I tell him.

Cal growls against my ear. "You seem to be developing an affinity for using physical violence against me. I'm going to have to find a way to get you to stop that. It doesn't seem like the push-ups are working anymore. I don't particularly enjoy using my height against you," Cal mutters with a breathy laugh, "but when you attack me, I hope you understand that I have to defend myself."

My toes curl in my running shoes at Cal's words, at the heat radiating off his body, at the way he has me pinned against him. I'm not kidding when I say that I'm still tired. Cal and I would be better off going back to my bedroom, sleeping for a while, and then warming up for—

I blink at the imagery that flashes through my mind.

Warming up. For class, obviously.

For the umpteenth time since Wednesday evening, I push Evangeline's accusations far, far away.

I swallow against Cal's chest, realizing the slippery slope that I was so quick to fall down. "It's not my fault that you're such an irritating bastard that can't handle losing," I tell him, pushing against Cal's chest with my palms. He feels like a wall of cement that's baked in the mid-day summer sun.

Cal releases me, stepping down off the curb and shoving his hands into his pockets. He keeps up that incessant smile, running a hand through his hair, blacker than night, as if I managed to mess it up.

He's still irritatingly tall.

Before I can do anything else stupid, a black Mercedes rolls around the corner. It comes from the north, from Billionaires' Row, specifically, but no passerby would know that. The car's bright golden lights illuminate the light layer of fog in the air, and through the front window, I see a grinning Anabel Lerolan and her own son, Mister Calore.

Cal returns up to the sidewalk, stepping past me so that he can open the car door for me. I refrain from another eyeroll as I walk to the car, offering Mister Calore—who wears a Mets cap of his own—a smile.

"Hey, Mare?" Cal asks.

I barely offer him a glance as I pass by him, making to duck into the car. "Yeah?"

"By the end of our next lesson, you're going to be begging me to go back to push-ups."

My stomach really does twist this time. I don't particularly enjoy doing push-ups on the stage floor in front of Cal. I don't want to imagine the pain that Cal plans on causing me.

"Whatever," I drawl. "That look on your face was worth a thousand push-ups."

"You two act like an old married couple," Anabel comments from the front passenger's seat.

Stuck halfway out of the backseat, I fume while arguing with Cal. He just had to tell his dad and grandma that I quote-unquote "assaulted" him on the street. I could barely enjoy the view of Manhattan on the way over the Brooklyn Bridge.

"Mare's the one who's always insisting on making things difficult," Cal tells his family. "I didn't ask her to be cold and rude and evil to me."

And I didn't ask Cal to be so—

I realize I have nowhere to go with that thought that helps my case against Cal.

My glare at Cal is broken when I tug off my sweatshirt to reveal a tight razorback tank and sports bra straps.

"I feel bad for whatever stupid lady ends up marrying Cal," I say, my words directed towards Anabel and my glare again directed at Cal.

Mister Calore and Anabel snicker. Actually, Tibe thinks I'm so funny that he doubles over laughing, his forehead nearly honking his car horn.

It's about an hour until the race starts. We're parked on the margin of a residential street in Brooklyn, where brownstones block the view of Manhattan far off across the harbor. Cal leans against the light post positioned just outside of the car door, fiddling with his race bib and the safety pins that come with it. Along with his sweatshirt, he's already stripped off his pants, exposing his grey shorts and a pair of tall, muscled legs.

I pull my pants off over my running shoes and toss them behind me in the backseat. They join my sweatshirt and phone in a little pile. I grab my Mets cap and don my steely expression as I heft myself out of the car and slam the door shut.

Meanwhile, Cal puts on an innocent look as his dad and Anabel get out from the front seats. Still, his gaze keeps flickering to his bib, and he keeps fumbling with the safety pins.

Anabel wastes no time crossing the few feet that separates us and enveloping me in a hug. I wrap my own arms around her back only out of reflex, but I let myself melt into it a little. Even though Tibe's well into adulthood, Anabel has a motherly touch that feels foreign but comforting. Her sweater is soft, but then it's gone as she pulls away from me.

"I'd wish you good luck, but I'm not worried about you losing, Mare," Anabel says to me while smirking at Cal. "My grandson likes lifting more than running. He has too much muscle on him to win against a ballerina like yourself."

Again, I can't decide whether or not she's insulting Cal.

Tibe comes around the car, hands stuffed in his jean pockets. Wearing a pullover sweatshirt, jeans, brown boots, and glasses, Mister Calore looks like he's from Brooklyn.

"Oh, yeah. This'll be a piece of cake for Mare. I mean, it's fairly obvious who's in better shape. I know, son, you're just doing this to get redemption for your damaged ego, but I don't think it's going to work. I think that Mare's just going to knock you further off your pedestal."

At that, Cal glowers.

"I don't have a pedestal," he mutters as he drops his hands to the side.

I laugh a little.

I do like tearing Cal off his pedestal. I remember the rush of adrenaline I got when he put his Monopoly Robe over my shoulders.

In between Anabel's chuckle, Mister Calore's grin, and Cal's scowl, I feel something else in the chilly air of October New York. It feels like family. I feel perfectly comfortable surrounded by the three Calores. Maybe it's just because of what happened with my family, but I feel like I'm at home. Tibe and Anabel pick on Cal the way any parents would on a child. Anabel hugs me just like a mom would.

Even in the chill, I feel oddly warm.

I glance back to Cal. He's given up on his safety pins. I already pinned my race bib to my tank back at the Academy and struggled with the safety pins a bit myself.

I realize that Cal can't open them. As though his hands are just a little too big.

Forcing myself to feign a little irritation, I huff as I regard Cal, stepping two steps closer. I snatch the bib out of his hand and put my other hand out.

"Give me the safety pins."

In the dim street light, I can't be sure whether or not Cal blushes. I could make fun of him for it, but I don't as he silently opens his palm to reveal four silvery pins.

I take the race bib, press it against the middle of Cal's stomach with my palm. I try to ignore the feeling beneath my hand as I focus on the pin, unclasping it the first time and poking it through the top right corner in the bib and Cal's shirt. With just one set of fingers, I close it again and move onto the second pin.

Cal keeps his palm open for me.

"Thanks," he whispers. Like it's a secret.

Behind us, Anabel shifts to our side, drawing her phone from her purse to take a picture.

Everything hurts.

The only thing that helps with the ache in my hips, the cramp in my side, are the glances at Cal in my periphery. Something hurts in him, too. I can tell by the barely repressed scowl on his face.

Ballet's gonna hurt like a bitch.

But it feels like I won't see Blonos for a million years. The pain in my bones dulls to a repressed murmur as I listen to Cal's steady footfalls. Because no matter how much it hurts, the pain is nothing to what it'll feel like to lose to Cal.

I only worry that he feels the same.

A few thousand people are running, and Cal and I are passing them at a rate that scares me a little. We have to be going too fast, but neither of us is willing to give and fall back just a little. Cal just laughs beneath his heavy breaths whenever I cut ahead of him. He never does the same, just takes a couple of bigger steps to catch up to my side.

Four miles in, and the sun isn't up. The view of the East River was cloaked in the shadows of night two miles back, and the view of Manhattan was too obscured by trees and old buildings to enjoy. Now, Cal and I race down a long stretch of avenue that's lined with tall wire fences and industrial-looking buildings. If there weren't hundreds of people—and Cal—in my immediate proximity, I'd be terrified out of my mind to be walking around Brooklyn's Navy Yards right before dawn.

And even though it's dark, I feel a chill in the air that's more than just that of an oncoming winter. The clouds overhead encroach on the approaching dawn, suppressing the first rays of sunlight on Saturday morning.

It's supposed to rain today.

It's supposed to storm, too.

I cringe at the idea of lightning striking Brooklyn mid-race and getting called off the course because of "safety precautions." For silly legal reasons, we can't race in lightning.

I didn't wake up at four in the morning, throw a cup of coffee across the street, or try to push Cal into the street for nothing.

In spite of the chill, the fire in Cal's eyes burns with determination. He can't stand the thought of being bested by me a second time. That thought drives him absolutely insane.

I huff a breath, forcing myself to gain another two paces on him.

Cal makes it up within a second.

I glance at him again before returning my eyes to the tarred street right in front of me. We're fighting a war of attrition, and the only problem is that I don't know if Cal's letting me set the pace or if he's actually struggling. He is a dancer. He knows how to act.

My thighs are starting to feel numb. I doubt Cal's thighs are cold.

But I don't let myself think about the pain.

Instead, I just wait for the sunrise so that I finally have something to look at instead of Cal.

I wait for the rain, too.