“And the bathroom needs to be completely rebuilt.”
“Isadora.”
I look up at him. “What?”
“Stop thinking about the floor.” He presses a kiss to the top of my head. “Just for tonight. Let it go.”
I want to argue. I want to point out that “letting it go” isn’t exactly my strong suit, that I’ve spent my entire life holding things together through sheer force of will.
But his hand is drawing lazy circles on my back, and his breathing is slowing, and for the first time in longer than I can remember, the voice in my head telling me everything I should be worrying about goes quiet.
“Okay,” I whisper.
“Okay?”
“Just for tonight.”
His arms tighten around me, and I close my eyes, and somewhere between one breath and the next, I fall asleep. The last thing I’m aware of is his lips against my hair and his voice, barely audible.
“I’m falling in love with you, Isadora Solis. Just so you know.”
I should respond. I should tell him I feel the same way, that I’ve felt it for weeks, that I’m terrified and exhilarated and completely, utterly lost in him. But sleep pulls me under before I can form the words.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“The Dance of Accord,” Mal says, spreading a yellowed piece of parchment across the studio floor, “is approximately eight hundred years old, originated in a court that no longer exists, and was traditionally performed during negotiations between rival supernatural houses.”
I crouch beside him, studying the faded ink. The notation is unlike anything I’ve learned—swooping symbols that look more like calligraphy than choreography, interspersed with words in a language I don’t recognize.
“And you want us to perform this at the Bellamy Cove Showcase.”
“I want us to adapt it for the showcase. The original version involves ritual blood offerings and a ceremonial sword.” He tilts his head. “I thought that might be a bit much for the judges.”
“Just a bit.”
It’s been three days since the flood. The bathroom is still under construction but the main studio has been restored. Three days of stolen glances and lingering touches and the growingcertainty that whatever’s happening between us is bigger than either of us planned for.
We haven’t talked about it. Not really. Every time I try to bring up what he said—I’m falling in love with you—something interrupts. A student arrives early. Bianca needs help with scheduling. Nix knocks over a display of ribbons and we spend twenty minutes chasing him through the storage closet.
It’s almost like the universe is conspiring to keep us from having the conversation. Or maybe I’m conspiring to avoid it.
Coward, my inner voice whispers. I ignore it.
“Walk me through the basics,” I say instead, focusing on the parchment. “Forget the blood and swords. What’s the structure?”
He shifts to sit cross-legged beside me, close enough that his shoulder brushes mine. “It’s a negotiation dance. Two people coming together to forge an alliance. The choreography mirrors the stages of building trust—approach, testing, retreat, acceptance.”
“That sounds...” I trail off.
“Familiar?”
Yes. It sounds exactly like what’s been happening between us for weeks.
“I was going to say interesting.”
His smile tells me he knows I’m lying. “The dance starts with distance. Each partner on opposite ends of the floor, circling. Assessing. Then the first cautious approach. One partner extends a hand.”
“And the other?”
