I don’t need to know to know it’s deserved.
In the common room, Cassian sets the speaker on the counter like it’s a bomb.
“Volume low,” he warns. “Turn down the lights too. People could be walking the tree line.”
“Oh, whatever. Set the volume yourself,” I chirp. “I trust your paranoia, Captain.”
He checks the blinds, fingertips parting them a centimeter. Outside, crows ripple across the eaves, black on black against the night. A few turn their heads in perfect unison when I enter, like they’ve been waiting for me to dance for them.
They haven’t, obviously.
It’s just their creepy stillness, that twitchy patience they have. But I’ll take it. Tonight, they can be my audience. Their owner hasn’t shown up to collect on my promise, so I don’t have a problem with them yet.
“Just to be clear,” Cassian says, “we’re not celebratinghim.”
“Oh no.” I lay the turntable down and snap the case open. The little arm gleams in the low light. “We’re celebrating me.”
“Good.” He looks almost satisfied with that answer. “If the volume spikes, I cut it.”
“Deal.”
I thumb through Talon’s crate of vinyl, one sleeve after another. He has punk rage, Motown nostalgia, a jazz record with a lipstick print... I spot Earth, Wind & Fire and know that’s the one.
“Do you remember,” I start to sing, then clamp my mouth shut. “What day it is? Never mind. It’s September somewhere.”
I set the record. The needle finds the groove. The song blooms, and I grin so hard it aches.
Cassian adjusts the volume until it becomes a happy thrum instead of a siren. He leans on the counter and watches me, eyes hooded.
I dance.
The towel slips against my skin as I move, bare feet sliding on tile, hips finding the rhythm before my mind does. I spin until the room smears and the towel whips out around me. I raise my hands high, wrists aching in time with the beat.
I was bound, and now I’m not.
Checkmate, universe.
Checkmate, Death.
Checkmate, Mark.
“Skye,” Cassian warns, his voice warm when I start sashaying my hips his way.
I giggle.
“I’m keeping it PG so you don’t spook,” I tell him, adding a tasteful shimmy. “But you could join me, you know…”
“No.”
“Cassian.”
“No.”
I close the distance, tilt my head, and give him the look. The one I learned by accident. The one that says: you can refuse, but think how bored you’ll be with yourself if you do.
He holds out for half a second longer than last time—progress—then sets both hands on my waist like he’s anchoring a buoy.
“This is not dancing,” he says as I fill the air with spirit fingers.
