"You don't have to do this," she says quietly.
"I want to."
She looks up at me, and something shifts in her expression. The guarded wariness she usually wears like armor cracks, just a little, and underneath I see the scared kid who just wants someone to show up for her.
"Thank you," she whispers.
I give her shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Thank me after we nail this lift. If I drop you, you're allowed to hate me forever."
That startles a laugh out of her. A real one, bright and surprised. One I want to hear more often from her.
"Deal," she whispers.
Ms. Langford gives us quick instructions: walk across the stage together, Zoe will do a pirouette, I lift her above my head, put her down, then exit stage left while she finishes her solo variation.
It's simple, but my heart is pounding like I'm about to compete in the goddamn Olympics.
The music starts, and I offer Zoe my arm. She takes it, her small hand resting lightly on my forearm, and we walk across the stage together. We reach center stage, and Zoe releases my arm. She executes a flawless pirouette, her wings flaring slightly for balance, and then she's in position for the lift.
I step behind her, hands on her waist, and lift her smoothly above my head. She extends her arms in a graceful arc, her wings shimmering under the lights, and holds the pose for a count of three.
I lower her carefully, and she lands on her toes with perfect control.
From the audience, I hear Rika's voice, clear and bright. "That's my girl!"
Zoe's face lights up. A real smile breaks across her face—not the guarded half smile she usually offers, but something radiant and unrestrained. I exit stage left as instructed, my heart still racing, and I watch from the wings as Zoe begins her solo.
She's transcendent.
She dances like she's flying, like gravity doesn't apply to her, like nothing in the world can hold her down. Every movement is precise and powerful, but there's joy in it too—a freedom I haven't seen in her before.
When her solo ends and she hits her final pose, the audience erupts. The applause is thunderous, echoing off the walls of the community center, and I find myself grinning like an idiot.
I make my way back to my seat, and the moment I sit down, Rika grabs my forearm. Her fingers are warm and firm, and she turns to me with a smile so big and bright and grateful it knocks the air out of my lungs. Her eyes are wet with tears she's not bothering to hide.
"Thank you," she mouths, squeezing my arm. "Thank you."
I'd do this a thousand times over if it meant Rika would ever look at me like that again.
I can't speak. Can't think. Can only stare at her and try to memorize the way she's looking at me, like I've done something extraordinary.
Matthew climbs into my lap without warning, wrapping his small arms around my neck and pressing his face against my shoulder.
"You were so cool, Noah," he whispers.
Rika's hand is still on my arm. Her thumb brushes against my skin, just once, just barely, but it feels like a thousand volts just went through my system.
I'm acutely aware of every point of contact: Rika's hand on my forearm, the faint brush of her wing against my shoulder.
This is dangerous territory. I know it is.
But I can't seem to make myself care.
"You didn't have to do that," Rika says quietly, her voice thick with emotion.
I meet her eyes, those sharp, beautiful, exhausted blue eyes, and I say the only thing I can.
"Yeah, I did."
