Misty stands in the center of the room, her arms crossed over her chest, her expression a mix of amusement and mild impatience. She’s dressed in workout gear—black leggings and a fitted tank top—her prosthetic arm gleaming faintly under the lights. She looks effortlessly cool, as always, and you can’t help but feel even more out of place in your own mismatched outfit. You didn’t exactly plan for this. How could you? When she called and said, “I need you to teach me how to dance, don't ask,” you thought it was a joke. But here you are, standing in front of her, feeling like the most ridiculous person on the planet.

“So,” Misty says, raising an eyebrow, “you gonna show me how it’s done, or are we just gonna stand here all night?”

You swallow hard, your cheeks burning. “I… I don’t know if I’m the right person for this,” you stammer, your voice barely above a whisper. “I mean, I’m not exactly a professional or anything.”

She smirks, her dark eyes glinting with mischief. “You’re the one who said you took dance classes as a kid. That’s more than I’ve got. So, come on. Teach me.”

You groan, running a hand through your hair. “That was, like, fifteen years ago. I barely remember anything.”

“Better than nothing,” she counters, her tone light but firm. “This mission’s important. I need to blend in at that gala, and if I’m gonna pass as someone who knows how to waltz, I need your help. So, stop stalling and show me what you’ve got.”

She’s right, of course. This isn’t about you. It’s about the mission. But that doesn’t make it any easier. You feel stupid, standing here in front of her, trying to remember steps you haven’t practiced in years. What if you mess up? What if you embarrass yourself? What if you embarrass her?