I move.
Badly.
She laughs—not mean, not mocking. Just delighted.
“You look like you’re trying to stomp out a fire.”
“Very helpful.”
“Relax,” she says, stepping closer. “Feel the rhythm.”
“That’s vague.”
She takes my hands.
“Follow me.”
And I do.
It’s clumsy at first. I miss a step. Nearly trip over my own boots. But she doesn’t let go. She adjusts, corrects, encourages.
“You’ve got it,” she says. “Don’t overthink it.”
“I always overthink it.”
“Not tonight.”
There’s something about the way she says it that settles in my chest.
The music swells. We start moving in sync with the group. A turn. A kick. A slide.
And suddenly, I’m not counting steps anymore.
I’m watching her.
The way she laughs when she spins.
The way her hair slips over her shoulder.
The way she looks at me like I’m not failing—I’m learning.
I can’t remember the last time someone looked at me like that.
By the second song, I’m not terrible.
By the third, I’m actually having fun.
She throws her hands up.
“See? You’re a natural.”
“Let’s not get carried away.”
The band’s lead singer squints out over the crowd.
“Well I’ll be damned,” he calls out. “We got ourselves a new couple who looks like they know what they’re doing.”
Mindy freezes.
