“You deserve everything.”
“You can’t know that.”
“I can.” His arms wrap around me, pulling me close. “I have three hundred years of experience evaluating human souls, and yours is one of the finest I’ve ever encountered. Complicated, yes. Wounded, certainly. But beautiful, Isadora. Achingly, devastatingly beautiful.”
I don’t have words. The tears I’d been holding back finally spill over, and for once, I don’t try to stop them. I just let myself be held in the darkness of my studio, surrounded by mirrors that reflect two figures wrapped around each other like they’re the only solid things in an uncertain world.
“Thank you,” I finally manage.
“For what?”
“For being here. For seeing me.” I pull back just enough to meet his eyes—those dark depths with their ever-present flicker of crimson. “For not running away when you saw the mess underneath the choreography.”
“I like the mess,” he says simply. “I like you. All of you. The perfectionist and the rebel. The teacher and the student. The woman who maintains absolute control and the one who dances alone at one in the morning because she can’t bear to feel contained for one more second.”
“Even the parts that are broken?”
“Especially those.” He presses a kiss to my forehead. “Those are the parts that let the light in.”
We stay on the floor until the sky outside starts to lighten. Talking. Not talking. Just existing in the same space without the pressure to perform or achieve or be anything other than exactly what we are.
At some point, I tell him about the competition where I came in second and cried for hours—not because I’d lost, but because my mother’s silence on the drive home felt worse than any criticism. He tells me about the first century of his contract, when he still believed he could find a loophole, and still thought freedom was just one clever bargain away.
We trade wounds like currency. Scars compared and cataloged. Fears admitted and held with gentle hands. By the time dawn paints the studio windows gold, I feel emptied out and somehow more full than I’ve ever been.
“I should go home,” I murmur against his shoulder. “Children’s class in three hours.”
“You could cancel.”
“I never cancel.”
“I know.” He sounds amused. “It was worth a try.”
“What about you? Don’t chaos demons need sleep?”
“Not as much as humans. I’ll be fine.” He shifts, helping me to my feet. “Walk you home?”
“It’s two blocks.”
“Two blocks is still walking distance.”
I don’t argue. My legs are stiff from sitting so long, and the morning air feels sharp against my tear-swollen eyes. His hand stays firmly in mine as we walk along the silent streets
At my door, he pauses.
“Isadora.”
“Yes?”
“Whatever happens with the showcase, with the contract, with any of it...” His expression is serious in a way I rarely see. “I need you to know that this—tonight, everything you shared—it means more to me than you’ll ever understand.”
“Even if it doesn’t count toward your freedom?”
“Especially then.” He cups my face in his hands. “I would choose this a thousand times. I would choose you a thousand times. Contract be damned.”
“Careful. That sounds dangerously close to sentiment.”
“It is sentiment.” He smiles, that crooked grin that makes my heart do complicated things. “Turns out three centuries of calculated bargains left me woefully unprepared for the experience of actually caring about someone.”
