“What are you doing?”
“Dancing.” He spins me—actually spins me, without warning, without proper technique, his hand catching mine and pulling me into a turn that I only survive through sheer reflex. “Can’t you feel it? The music wants us to move like this.”
“The music wants you to count to three!”
“Music doesn’t count. Musicbreathes.” He dips me again, and I grab his shoulder to keep from toppling. His face is inches from mine, those amber-threaded eyes bright with something that might be mischief or might be madness. “You’re so focused on the steps that you’re not feeling the dance.”
I shove myself upright, breaking his hold. My heart is pounding—from the near-fall, obviously. From the physical exertion. Absolutely not from the way he looked at me like he could see straight through to something I keep carefully hidden.
“This isn’t about feeling. This is about technique.”
“But—”
“You hired me to teach you to dance. If you wanted to just... flail around to music, you could do that at home. For free.” I fold my arms. “So either learn the steps I’m teaching you, or we’re done here.”
He’s quiet for a moment. The music continues playing, a gentle one-two-three that suddenly sounds absurdly inadequate. His expression is unreadable, all that playful arrogance stripped away to reveal something more complicated underneath.
Then he sighs. “Very well. Show me again.”
We try again. And again. And again.
He’s still terrible, but somewhere around the seventh attempt, I notice that he’s actually trying. The improvisation has scaled back, replaced by a genuine effort to follow my instructions. His feet still land in the wrong places and his frame still collapses at inopportune moments, but there’s a concentration in his face that wasn’t there before.
“Better,” I admit grudgingly.
“High praise indeed.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late. My head is already enormously swollen with pride.” He grins, and despite everything, I feel the corner of my mouth twitch. “See? I saw that. You nearly smiled.”
“I did not.”
“You did. It was small and brief, like a butterfly landing on a cactus, but I witnessed it.”
“That’s a terrible metaphor.”
“I have many more. Would you like to hear them?”
“Absolutely not.”
We continue. The sun shifts through the windows, casting long shadows across the studio floor. I lose track of time, which almost never happens—I’m usually hyper-aware of every passing minute, mentally cataloging what I should be doing next, what tasks are waiting, what deadlines are approaching.
But teaching Malachi requires my full attention. Not because he’s difficult, although he is, but because there’s something hypnotic about trying to get through to him. Like he’s a puzzle that keeps rearranging itself every time I think I’ve found a piece that fits.
By the time I call the session to a close, we’ve covered approximately one-tenth of what I’d planned, my voice is hoarse from counting out loud, and I have a headache forming behind my left eye.
“Same time tomorrow?” He’s pulling on his ridiculously expensive shoes, somehow making even that look like a modeling pose.
“No. I have an opening at 10:00 AM for a private lesson.”
“Ten o’clock? In the morning?” He gave me a horrified look.
“If you insist on these lessons.”
“Oh, I insist.” He stands, and for a moment he just looks at me, that strange intensity back in his gaze. “You’re not what I expected, Isadora Solis.”
“What did you expect?”
