“Genuinely. I’m proud.”
I swat at his arm, but I’m smiling too. “Come on. Help me close up.”
The studio looks different in the evening light. Softer. The mirrors that dominate one wall reflect the sunset through the windows, painting everything in shades of gold and rose. The wooden floor gleams, recently refinished as part of the renovations I finally allowed myself to invest in. New speakers. New lighting system. Fresh paint on the walls—a warm cream that makes the space feel larger.
It’s still the same studio, underneath. Still the place where my mother taught me to count in eights, where I learned to turn heartbreak into arabesques, where I fell in love with dance and then fell in love with the demon who disrupted my beginner ballroom class.
But it’s also different. It’s also mine.
I move through the closing routine on autopilot—checking the windows, adjusting the thermostat, collecting forgotten water bottles. Mal follows, occasionally helpful, mostly just watching me with an expression I can’t quite read.
“What?”
“Nothing.” He catches me by the waist as I pass him. “Just thinking.”
“About?”
“About how much I love watching you in your element.” His hands settle on my hips. “You move differently in here. More confidently. More yourself.”
“I’m always myself.”
“You’re always careful.” He pulls me closer. “In here, you’re free.”
The studio is empty now. Silent except for the distant sound of the ocean and the tick of the clock on the wall. The sunset has deepened to purple at the edges, twilight creeping in through the windows.
“Dance with me.”
The words come out before I can think about them.
He raises an eyebrow. “Now?”
“Why not?” I step out of his arms, moving toward the sound system. “No students. No judges. No showcase to prepare for.”
“No music?”
“I have music.” I pull up a playlist I made last week of slow, romantic songs, the kind of music I never let myself listen to because it wasn’t useful for teaching. “I have extremely good music.”
The first notes fill the studio. Something soft and acoustic, a singer with a voice like honey describing a love that feels inevitable.
I turn back to Mal. He’s standing in the center of the floor, illuminated by the last rays of sunset, looking at me like I’m the most extraordinary thing he’s ever seen.
“Come here.”
He meets me in the middle.
Dancing with Mal has always felt natural. Even back at the beginning, when he was ignoring choreography and driving me slowly insane—there was something about the way our bodies moved together that just worked.
Now it’s effortless.
His hand finds the small of my back. Mine rests on his shoulder. We fall into a basic waltz pattern without discussing it, because we don’t need to discuss it anymore. Our bodies know each other too well for words.
“Remember our first lesson?” His voice is low, intimate.
“You mean the one where you refused to follow a single instruction and I considered committing murder?”
“That’s the one.” He spins me, catches me. “I knew then.”
“Knew what?”
