Page 80 of The Pakhans’ Curvy Prize

"You're really good at this," I say, slightly breathless.

"I had a strict teacher." Alex's hand is firm at my waist, keeping me balanced as we move. "She didn't tolerate mistakes."

"Your mother?"

"My grandmother." Something flickers across his face, there and gone too quickly to read. "She believed every man should know how to dance properly."

Russ watches us from near the fireplace, shaking his head. “Show-off."

"Jealous?" Alex asks without looking at him.

"Of your boring technique? Not even a little."

They trade places after the song ends, and we go through several more rounds. Russ makes me laugh until my sides hurt with his deliberately exaggerated movements and terrible singing along to the Russian lyrics. Alex corrects my posture with the patience of someone teaching a combat technique. The music shifts between fast and slow, traditional and modern, and I find myself relaxing into the rhythm of it.

Nick remains near the window the entire time, arms crossed, watching us with an expression that suggests he thinks we've all lost our minds.

"Nick!" I call during a break between songs. "Your turn!"

"I don't dance."

"Bullshit," Russ says. "Everyone dances."

"I don't."

"Come on." I cross to him, emboldened by the music and the laughter still bubbling in my chest. "Just one song."

"No."

"You're standing there like an angry bodyguard. It's depressing." I grab his hand, tugging gently. "Please? For me?"

His green eyes narrow, but after a long moment, he allows me to pull him toward the fireplace. He moves stiffly at first, clearly uncomfortable, but as the music picks up tempo, something shifts. His movements are economical and controlled, nothing wasted, like he's fighting rather than dancing.

Russ takes one look at Nick's serious expression and completely loses it. He doubles over laughing, actually wheezing, tears streaming down his face. "Holy shit. You look like you're about to murder someone."

"Shut up," Nick growls.

"You're supposed to be having fun, not planning an execution!"

Even Alex cracks a smile at that, and I feel my own laughter building again. Nick shoots Russ a look that probably would terrify most people, but Russ just laughs harder, collapsing onto the couch and gasping for breath.

"I hate both of you," Nick mutters, but there's no real heat behind it.

The dancing eventually dissolves into drinking games and another round of cards, this time with all four of us playing. We argue about the rules, accuse each other of cheating, and make increasingly ridiculous bets. At some point, the conversation shifts to food, and Russ declares that American comfort food is garbage compared to Russian cuisine.

"Grilled cheese is a perfectly respectable meal," I argue.

"It's bread and cheese. That's not a meal, that's an insult."

"It's delicious!"

"It's lazy." Russ gestures dramatically. "Real comfort food takes effort and skill."

"Oh, please." I roll my eyes. "You're just being snobby."

Alex stands from the table with a thoughtful expression. "Do you have any ground meat in your fridge?"

"Maybe? Why?"