“He’s my dance partner,” I say carefully.
“For the Showcase?” This from Charles Jr., Mrs. Patterson’s grandson, who has clearly been absorbing his grandmother’s gossip. “My grandma says you’re going to get married.”
“Your grandma is?—”
“Getting ahead of herself,” Mal interrupts smoothly. “We haven’t even discussed flower arrangements yet.”
The children giggle. I shoot Mal a look that promises death, but he just winks.
“All right,” I say firmly. “Let’s begin with our warm-up. Everyone find a space.”
The next ten minutes are controlled chaos as I lead the class through stretches and basic footwork. Mal stays near the back of the room, watching, occasionally helping a child who’s struggling with positioning. To my surprise, he’s... not terrible at it.
He kneels down to address them at eye level. He keeps his voice low and encouraging. When little Amelia trips over her own feet and starts to cry, he’s there before I can even cross the room, offering a hand and a joke that makes her laugh instead.
“That was a very dramatic fall,” he tells her seriously. “Very theatrical. Have you considered a career in opera?”
Amelia giggles, tears forgotten. “I don’t know any operas.”
“Neither do I. We could learn together.”
I move through the room, adjusting arms and correcting posture, but I keep finding my attention drawn back to Mal. The way he talks to the children—patient, playful, never condescending. The way they respond to him, clustering around him like he’s some kind of magnet.
It shouldn’t surprise me. Charm has always been his gift. But this feels different. Less performance, more... genuine.
“Okay, everyone partner up!” I call out. “We’re going to practice our box step. Remember—frame, posture, count.”
The children scramble to find partners, and I suddenly remember I have an odd number today. Eleven kids, which means five pairs and one child left standing alone. It’s Oliver, a quiet boy with glasses who’s been attending classes for three months but still freezes up whenever he has to dance with someone. His parents enrolled him hoping it would help his social anxiety. So far, the results have been mixed.
“Mr. Malachi?” Oliver’s voice is barely above a whisper. “Will you be my partner?”
Mal looks at me. I nod.
“I would be honored,” he says, and the formal language makes Oliver stand a little straighter. “Though I should warn you—I’m still learning. You might have to help me.”
“Really?”
“Really. Miss Isadora gets very frustrated with me.”
“She gets frustrated with everyone,” Oliver confides. “But she’s nice about it.”
“That she is.”
I start the music and move through the room, offering corrections and encouragement. But my eyes keep drifting to the corner where Mal is dancing with Oliver. He’s bent almost in half to match Oliver’s height, his frame deliberately loose and playful. Oliver is counting under his breath, brow furrowed in concentration, and every time he completes a box step successfully, Mal gives him a small nod of approval.
“One-two-three, one-two-three—I did it!”
“You did. That was perfect.”
“Can we try going faster?”
“Let’s ask Miss Isadora.”
I realize I’ve been standing still for at least thirty seconds. The other children are looking at me expectantly.
“Uh—yes. Let’s try a slightly faster tempo.” I restart the music, increasing the speed, and Oliver’s face lights up with excitement.
The class continues. There are stumbles and missteps and at one point, a minor crisis when Emmalyn’s partner steps on her toe, but overall, it goes remarkably well. Better than I expected. Better than it has any right to go, given the circumstances.
