I brush past him, catching another whiff of that strange smoke-and-sulfur scent. In the daylight streaming through the windows, his skin looks almost golden, and there are shadows under his eyes like he hasn’t been sleeping well. The bracelet is still there on his wrist, that crude leather band with its dull black stones, looking more out of place than ever against the fine fabric of his sleeve.
Stop noticing things about him. He’s a student. A means to an end.
“Shoes off,” I say, moving to the stereo. “We’re picking up where we left off.”
“The waltz of eternal suffering?”
“It’s a basic box step. Toddlers can do it.”
“Toddlers have lower centers of gravity. Unfair advantage.”
Despite myself, I feel my mouth twitch. I ruthlessly suppress it. “Center of the room. Frame position. Now.”
He sighs dramatically but complies, and we begin.
The first ten minutes are exactly as frustrating as I expected. He steps when he should slide, slides when he should pivot, and at one point attempts what I can only describe as a jazz walk in the middle of a foxtrot sequence. I correct, adjust, demonstrate, and resist the urge to grab his shoulders and physically move him into position.
But then?—
“No, weight on the ball of your foot—yes, like that. Now transfer, don’t hop—better. Again.”
He does it again. Correctly.
“Good. Now the turn—no, tighter—there. Hold it. Hold—good.”
The surprise must show on my face because he grins. “Told you I practiced.”
“You practiced by actually practicing?”
“Shocking, I know. There may be hope for me yet.”
There might be. The thought hits me sideways, unexpected and slightly alarming. Because underneath all the attitude and the improvisation and the deliberate chaos, Malachi Vexis has something. A natural grace that emerges when he stops fighting the structure and lets himself move with it. Raw talent, buried under layers of stubbornness.
We continue. He still makes mistakes, but the ratio of success to disaster is shifting. By the half-hour mark, we’ve completed an entire waltz sequence without him stepping on my feet once. It’s practically a miracle.
“Again,” I say. “From the top. And this time, try to?—”
“Feel the music, not just count it?”
I pause. “I was going to say maintain your frame through the turns, but yes. That too.”
He holds out his hand. After a moment, I take it.
The music begins—a slower piece, romantic and sweeping, something I usually save for intermediate students. His left hand settles against my shoulder blade with more confidence than he’s shown before, and when I step into the frame, our bodies align with surprising ease.
One-two-three.
We move.
It’s not perfect. His transitions are still rough, his footwork occasionally approximates rather than executes, and there’s a moment during the progressive turn where I’m fairly certain we’re both just guessing. But there’s something there. A connection I haven’t felt since?—
Since David.
The thought slices through me, sharp and unwelcome. I push it away, focusing on the physical mechanics. Weight transfer. Frame alignment. The pressure of his hand against my back, too warm, too solid, too present.
The music swells. He spins me—properly this time, with actual technique, his arm guiding rather than dragging. I come out of the turn and find myself closer than I expected, close enough to see the slight stubble on his jaw and the way his pupils have expanded in the low light.
“Better?” His voice is rougher than usual.
