Or was it earlier than that—some moment I didn’t even notice, when he stopped being an obstacle and started being necessary?
I close my eyes and try to quiet the storm in my head.
The showcase choreography is perfect. We’ve rehearsed it until my muscles know every step without conscious thought. The music is loaded. The costumes are pressed. Everything that can be prepared has been prepared.
But the Dance of Accord isn’t about preparation.
It’s about truth.
Mal explained it to me weeks ago, back when I thought I understood. The dance requires genuine emotional connection. Authentic acceptance. Not performed intimacy, but the real thing—two souls choosing each other without reservation.
At the time, I thought that would be the easy part.
Fool.
Because now, sitting here in the dark with nothing to distract me from my own thoughts, I’m forced to confront a truth I’ve been avoiding:
I still don’t know if I can do it.
Not the steps. The steps are simple.
But the surrender? The complete, unconditional acceptance of another person into my life? The willingness to be vulnerable, to trust, to let go of control?
That terrifies me more than any demon ever could.
A soft sound at the door.
I don’t open my eyes. I know who it is. I’d know the rhythm of those footsteps anywhere now—the particular way Mal moves, graceful and deliberate, like every step is a choice rather than a habit.
“I thought you went home.”
“I did.” His voice is closer than I expected. “Then I came back.”
“Why?”
The floor creaks as he sits down beside me. Not touching, but close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from his body.
“Because you’re here.”
Such a simple answer. Such an enormous truth contained in four small words.
I open my eyes.
He’s watching me with an expression I can’t quite read. Concern, yes. Affection, certainly. But something else underneath—something raw and uncertain that I’ve never seen on him before.
Mal is always confident. Always charming. Always in control of any situation, even when the situation involves imp-induced chaos or demonic sabotage.
Tonight, he looks... scared.
“You’re worried about tomorrow,” I say.
“Aren’t you?”
“I’m terrified.”
The admission slips out before I can stop it. So much for maintaining composure.
But Mal doesn’t look surprised. He just nods slowly, like I’ve confirmed something he already knew.
