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Of course they do. Esme constantly mocks herself, insisting she’s clumsy. I’ve never seen it. She’s inexperienced and unused to things, but I’ve seen her gliding grace when she Light Walks. I offer her my hand. “Dance with me.”

Her eyes go wide. “I don’t dance.”

Not yet, maybe. I waggle my fingers. “I’ll teach you.”

She stares at my hand like it might bite her. “I’ll step on your feet.”

Her fingers are cold when I pull her toward the dancers. “Stop thinking. Just do what I do.”

She’s terrible. Stiff as a board, she counts steps under her breath instead of feeling the music. Within the first minute, she treads on my toes twice.

Still, I don’t let go. “Look at me. Not the ground. Me.”

Esme’s eyes reflect the firelight, appearing golden and uncertain.

“Good. Now stop thinking and feel the beat.” I spin her, our arms stretched over our heads.

She laughs as the music drums through my chest. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Sure it does.” We hop together, and I lead her through the footwork. Her small hands disappear into mine, and I hold them delicately to ensure I don’t crush them. Everything about her reminds me of how easily I could break her, but tonight, I don’t want to think of dark things. Only the light in Esme’s eyes. “You’re already doing it!”

The fiddle climbs through a bright sequence. The drum answers with a steady pulse. The other dancers twirl around us, laughing and spinning, completely unconcerned with technique.

The tempo picks up, becoming more complicated as the dance grows bigger and bolder, the hops transforming into jumps and the steps quickening.

I adjust our pattern to match, spinning Esme until her hair whips around her face.

Her body follows my lead without hesitation. Instead of fighting the rotations, she leans into them, and as the song builds to a crescendo, I sweep her into a lift.

She tosses back her head, her amusement winging away into the sky. Pure, unadulterated joy bridles her face, and in that moment, I’d do anything to keep it there.

When I set her down, her hands slide from my shoulders to my chest. Her own chest heaves, her cheeks flushed red. Hair falls loose from its braid to frame her face in dark waves.

Magnificent.

No other word does her justice.

The music ends, and the breathless dancers applaud.

Someone kicks off a new, slower tune, and couples break apart, some scattering into the festival, some staying to sing along.

Esme gazes up at me with gleaming eyes, her hands still resting on my chest.

I hold her waist. “Remind me, how old are you again?”

“Twenty-one.” She doesn’t glance away. Doesn’t rear back. Sparks bloom where we touch, spooling down my body as if they seek to draw us closer.

Nine years. Not an impossible gap. But big enough, considering how little of life Esme has known. Those nine years contain decades of experiences. “Too young.”

And I should never be anyone’s first.

Her eyebrows draw together in confusion. “For what?”

For me. For what I want to do to you. For what would happen if I stopped fighting this.

I remove my hands from her waist, add some distance, and point to one of the tables. “For the kind of drinks they’re serving over there. Let’s get some meat pockets first, then I want some fried dough.”

She skips along behind me, not seeming to notice my rejection.