Page 45 of Ice Dance

“Sure.” I came in too fast, took his hand too hard and caught his flinch. “Shit, sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

We did a few steady, excruciatingly slow steps, but I was too wired for slow. I needed fast and hungry. I pulled free and circled the space. “Sorry, I’m . . .”

I couldn’t look at him. His stillness made my skin itch.

“Cha-cha-cha?” he said.

“What?” I stopped pacing.

He arched an eyebrow. “You know it?”

“Of course.”

“Alright. Måneskin, ‘Beggin’.’ Cue it up.” His tone had changed, matched mine, cutting, fast and hard. He rolled his shoulders, making his muscles roll.

Yes. This was good. Cha-cha-cha. The hips, the steps, the pace. I found the song on my phone, cranked the volume, and set it to play.

He met me in the middle of the floor. Eye to eye. Opposites in everything. We weren’t touching, not yet. Then his hand came up, mine slotted in. Hand on my hip. The singer’s throaty vocals filled the room. “Put your loving hands on me . . .” The beat kicked in, and we moved fast. The dance was basic, one we both knew. But it required precision on the beats, and his hands to touch hard, to lead with confidence. I knew within a few steps that we were on fire. I felt it, felt him, sensed him everywhere, all around. His hands working fast. My hips, shoulders, waist. The holds, transitions. He was a goddamn dream. The song ended too soon, the dance over. My hand stayed in his, his on the back of my neck somehow. We panted hard, chest to chest, eye to eye. The corner of his mouth ticked.

He’d known exactly what I’d needed and given it to me without my asking.

“Woo!” Saga applauded. “Holy shit, mon beau. That was fire!”

Hasegawa stepped back, withdrawing. His typical coolness rushed back in to fill where the hunger had been in his eyes. Real hunger, not just heat, but a thirst for more.

Breathless from the dance, I held out a hand toward Saga, who was still clapping. “Hasegawa, this is Saga. We’re in his studio.”

“Ah, I have you to thank for this fine establishment.”

Saga’s entire body turned to liquid. He sashayed over and extended his hand. The man was an impossible flirt. “Charmed,” he said, putting on an awful English accent.

They shook, and Saga came away with a wink that Hasegawa didn’t see.

I bent double, catching my breath.

“Well, don’t let me keep you two from your very important work.” He sauntered out.

He made everything sound suggestive. Which was going to be interesting around a cishet like Hasegawa. “He takes a little getting used to.”

Hasegawa smiled and tossed me a towel. “I’ve been around enough dance studios that your friend won’t faze me. Are you feeling better?”

I dried my face and the back of my neck, then tugged my shirt off altogether. It was too damn hot in here. I tossed the towel and the shirt onto the bench. “Better, yeah. Thanks.”

Our reflections in the mirrors told two stories. He was wrapped in black and grey. All put together. Tall, composed.

I was shirtless, wet, inked up. Everything he was not. I nodded toward the mirror, because he’d turned away, and the portraits of us in the glass were worth noting. “You see that? You and me?”

He tightened the top on his water bottle, taking a few seconds to drag his gaze to the mirror.

“That’s what everyone else sees. Opposites. You, refined. Me, chaotic.”

“We’re not so different.”

I tilted my head. “No?”

“It’s just that you wear your scars on the outside.”