“Isn’t it, though?” She waggles her eyebrows and disappears before I can throw something at her.
I stare at the wall for a long moment.
The red dress.
I haven’t worn it since my last competition, three years ago. It’s been hanging in my closet like a ghost, a reminder of a life I thought I’d left behind.
But maybe that’s exactly why I should wear it…
I find Mal in the main studio after hours, practicing the routine by himself.
He’s moving through the steps with the kind of intense concentration I usually only see during our lessons. His reflection multiplies across the mirrors—a dozen Malachis, all equally focused, all equally beautiful.
Beautiful.I let myself think it, just this once.
He catches sight of me and pauses mid-turn. “Spying on me, Ms. Solis?”
“Making sure you’re not destroying my floor with those designer shoes.”
“They have very soft soles.”
“They’re Italian leather.”
“Soft Italian leather.” He extends a hand toward me. “Dance with me?”
I should say no. I should maintain the careful distance I’ve been cultivating, the professional boundaries that have been eroding steadily since the first time he walked through my door.
Instead, I kick off my flats and cross the floor to him.
His hand finds my waist like it belongs there. Mine settles on his shoulder. We slip into a hold with the ease of partners who’ve practiced this a hundred times.
“Music?” I ask.
“Do we need it?”
We don’t. We never really have. There’s a rhythm between us that exists independently of any external beat—some internal music that only plays when we’re together.
We start moving. A slow waltz, improvised, nothing like the competition routine. Just movement for the sake of movement, connection for the sake of connection.
“I hear there’s a gala,” he says, after we’ve completed several rotations.
“News travels fast.”
“Nix told me. Apparently he overheard Bianca talking to the mailman.”
“Nix eavesdrops on the mailman?”
“Nix eavesdrops on everyone. He considers it his civic duty.”
I snort. “Of course he does.”
We dance in silence for another moment. The evening light is fading, turning the mirrors gold, and there’s something almost dreamlike about the way we’re moving—slow and close and completely out of time.
“Are you going?” he asks. “To the gala?”
“I have to. The studio is one of the sponsors.”
“Ah.”
