“No.”
“Wow. You really did predict that.”
“I do not dance.”
“You said Vakutans sing military songs. Surely somebody dances.”
“Not like that.”
“Like what?”
He glances at the dance floor as if it is an active combat zone. “Publicly. Without purpose.”
“The purpose is fun.”
“That is not a purpose.”
“That is the saddest thing you have ever said, and I have heard you discuss refrigeration.”
He does not move.
I lean closer, softening because this is not about stubbornness. Not only. “We don’t have to.”
His gaze returns to mine.
“I mean it,” I say. “I’m teasing because I like teasing you, not because I want you miserable. We can skip dancing.”
The tension in his shoulders eases slightly. That should be the end of it.
Instead, he stands.
Slowly. Like a man rising to face execution.
“Kauss?”
“One dance.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
“Are you sure?”
“No.”
I smile. “That is honest.”
He offers his hand with formal gravity, and I take it.
His palm swallows mine. Warm. Scaled. Careful. The contact shoots through me with a force no drink can explain. He leads me to the edge of the dance floor as if escorting me across contested territory. A few people glance our way. One couple gives us space without being asked. The song changes to something slower, heavy with bass and smoky strings.
Kauss stands in front of me, looking genuinely lost.
I place one of his hands at my waist. His fingers spread, then freeze.
“You can hold me,” I say.
His voice drops. “I am.”
