The music fades into the next track—”A Change Is Gonna Come”—and I let Sam Cooke’s voice wrap around me like ablanket. My movements stay loose, organic, nothing like the precise technique I’ve drilled into my body over decades.
When I finally turn, Mal is standing just inside the doorway.
He’s still in his suit from the party, though the jacket is gone and his sleeves are rolled to his elbows. His hair is disheveled in a way that suggests he’s been running his hands through it, and his expression...
I can’t read his expression which is unusual. Mal’s emotions are typically broadcast across his face like a neon sign—amusement, frustration, desire, all of it visible and deliberate. But right now, he’s looking at me like he’s never seen me before.
“How long have you been there?”
“Long enough.” His voice is rough. “I saw the lights were on when I drove past. I wanted to make sure everything was alright.”
“The lights aren’t on.”
“I know.” A pause. “But I can see in the dark.”
Right. Demon. I keep forgetting.
“I couldn’t sleep,” I say, though he didn’t ask. “After everything tonight, I just needed to move.”
“You should do this more often.”
“Do what?”
“Dance like that.” He takes a slow step forward. Then another. Moving like he’s approaching a wild animal that might bolt if he comes too close. “Like you’re not worried about what anyone thinks. Like you’re doing it purely for yourself.”
“I don’t—” The words catch in my throat. “I don’t let people see this.”
“I noticed.” He stops a few feet away, close enough that I can see the red flicker deep in his eyes. “Why did you let me?”
It’s a good question. The answer should be simple—he surprised me, I didn’t know he was there, force of circumstance. But that’s not the truth, and we both know it.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “Maybe I’m tired of hiding.”
“From me?”
“From everyone.” I turn away, wrapping my arms around myself. The music has shifted to something quieter, almost inaudible. “My whole life, I’ve been performing. In competitions, in classes, at family gatherings. There’s always a version of myself that I’m supposed to present. The perfect student. The accomplished dancer. The responsible business owner.” I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Even my breakdowns are choreographed.”
“Not that one.”
“No.” I face him again. “Not that one.”
He’s closer now. When did he move? His hand reaches out, hesitates, then settles gently on my shoulder.
“Tell me,” he says quietly. “Tell me what you’re hiding from.”
We end up on the floor. Not dancing. Just sitting against the mirrored wall, legs stretched out in front of us, shoulders barely touching. The music has stopped. I don’t remember turning it off, but the silence feels appropriate.
“I was three when I started dancing,” I begin. “Not lessons—just moving to music at home. My mother says I used to dance before I could walk properly. Toddling around the living room, falling over constantly, getting back up and doing it all again.”
“Sounds adorable.”
“It was. According to the photos.” I pick at a loose thread on my leggings. “Then my father died.”
Mal goes very still beside me.
“I don’t remember it. I was too young. But I remember after. The way the house changed. The way my mother changed. Suddenly everything had to be perfect. Controlled. She enrolled me in formal dance classes before I turned four. Competition training by five.”
“That’s young.”
