“Miss Izzie underestimated my devotion to this particular group of tiny humans.” Mal attempts to walk toward me, Amelia still firmly attached. He manages a reasonably dignified shuffle. “I brought snacks.”
The word “snacks” acts like a summoning spell. The remaining nine children in my Junior Ballroom class abandon their positions and swarm toward him, and I watch my carefully organized lesson dissolve into chaos.
Three mothers and one grandmother are observing from the chairs along the wall. I can feel their attention shift from me to Mal and practically hear their mental calculations. Why is this ridiculously handsome man bringing my child organic fruit snacks?
Because of course they’re organic. I caught the label as he pulled them from his jacket pocket—some expensive brand I’ve seen at the fancy grocery store in town, the one where a single apple costs more than my usual lunch.
“Everyone, back to your positions,” I call out, but my heart isn’t in it.
Because Mal is currently crouched down to Amelia’s height, listening with apparent fascination as she explains her new light-up sneakers. His expression is patient and engaged in a way I wouldn’t have expected from a three-hundred-and-fifty-year-old chaos demon.
“They change colors,” Amelia says earnestly. “Pink and purple and blue.”
“Remarkable. Do they help you dance better?”
“Miss Izzie says shoes don’t make the dancer.” Amelia’s tone suggests she finds this philosophy questionable.
“Miss Izzie is very wise.” Mal glances up at me, and something warm passes between us. “Though I suspect those shoes are rather magical regardless.”
Magical. The word lands differently now.
“All right, munchkins.” I clap my hands. “Back to positions. Mr. Mal can observe, but we have work to do.”
The children groan but comply. Amelia reluctantly trudges back to her spot, casting mournful looks over her shoulder as if she’s being forced into exile. Mal straightens, brushing off his knees, and moves to stand beside the observation chairs. Jennifer, Amelia’s mother, immediately shifts to make room for him, and he sits down with the easy grace of someone who’s had three centuries to perfect social navigation.
“You’re Isadora’s dance partner,” Jennifer says. It’s not a question.
“Guilty as charged.”
“For the showcase.”
“Among other things.”
I can hear the subtext in his voice, the layered meaning meant for me. Among other things indeed.
“Okay, let’s review what we learned last week.” I position myself in the center of the room, pushing down the awareness of Mal’s gaze on my back. “Who remembers the three rules of ballroom?”
Twelve hands shoot up. Amelia’s waves so enthusiastically she nearly loses her balance.
“Amelia?”
“Posture! Partnership! Practice!”
“Excellent. And today we’re going to focus on partnership.” I gesture for them to pair up. “Find your dance buddy, please.”
Oliver gives Mal a quick glance but takes Emmalyn’s hand with more assurance than he’s ever shown before. The next thirty minutes pass in a blur of small feet and smaller attention spans. I correct posture, demonstrate hand positions, and remind Charles for the fourth time that stepping on your partner’s toes is not, in fact, a legitimate dance move.
Through it all, I feel Mal watching.
Not in a creepy way. More like... an anchoring presence. A warmth at the edges of my awareness that makes me stand taller, enunciate clearer, smile more easily. When Amelia finally executes a passable box step with her reluctant partner, I catch Mal’s eye across the room.
He’s grinning. Not the sharp, knowing grin he uses when he’s about to say something infuriating. Something softer. Something that makes my chest tight.
This is what it could look like.
The thought unfurls in my mind like a flower opening to sunlight. A future. A partnership that extends beyond the dance floor. Saturday mornings with children’s classes while he sits in the corner, dispensing organic snacks and patient attention. Evening rehearsals that end with dinner together. Ordinary moments made extraordinary by the fact that he’s in them.
I stumble over my own feet.
