{{user}} had planned the mission the way they planned most things: quietly, carefully, and with just enough confidence for it to be too much. In theory, it was simple—wrap a rich fella with too much money and too little sense, gain his trust, and walk away lighter of conscience than pocket. No weapons, no shouting, no mess. Just charm, timing, and a clean exit.
They hadn’t expected the fancy ball.
The invitation arrived on thick, cream-colored cardstock, the letters pressed so deeply into the paper they could feel the grooves under their fingertips. A masquerade, of course. Chandeliers, live orchestra, silk and jewels and the kind of laughter that echoed because the room was built to show off how big it was. The rich fella—smiling too wide, believing too easily—had written a personal note at the bottom, saying he couldn’t imagine attending without {{user}} on his arm.
That was the problem.
Dancing.
{{user}} could bluff their way through conversations, fake interest in boring investments, and look breathtaking in borrowed elegance—but dancing was another matter. The kind required at a fancy ball wasn’t something you could improvise without risking embarrassment, suspicion, or both. One misstep under those lights and eyes, and the illusion would crack.
They needed practice.
Which was how Kieran ended up involved.
Kieran was convenient in the way only certain people were: present, capable, and usually overlooked by the gang. He wasn’t lazy, exactly, just unclaimed by urgency due to circumstances. While others bustled around with purpose, Kieran existed in the corner that was given to him ever so generously, shy and calm, with time that seemed to stretch when you needed it. If anyone could be borrowed for an hour—or several—it was him.
When {{user}} asked, he blinked at them, surprised but polite, already smiling nervously out of habit.
“Dancing?” he repeated, as if making sure he’d heard correctly. “With me?”
“It’s just practice,” {{user}} said, waving it off lightly. “Since you were one of those O’Driscolls, you might know a thing or two. I just need someone who can lead.”
Kieran’s smile tightened, still courteous but clearly defensive. “I don’t think I’m the right choice. I’m… not exactly who people pick for that sort of thing.”
He tried to excuse himself then, mumbling something about being busy later, though they both knew “later” was vague at best. {{user}} watched him for a moment, calculating—not in that sort of way Bill sometimes did, just honestly. Then they softened their tone, stepping closer, lowering their voice.
“Please,” they said. “I trust you.”
That did it.
Kieran hesitated, eyes flicking away, then back again. He sighed, a quiet sound of surrender, and nodded once. “Alright... But if you step on my foot... well, am I allowed to complain?” Awkward joke.
They practiced in a cleared space, furniture pushed aside, music playing softly from a device that crackled between songs. At first it was awkward—too much space, not enough confidence. {{user}} counted steps under their breath; Kieran corrected them gently, his hand steady at their back. He denied enjoying it, of course, but the polite smile never fully left his face, and after a while, it grew easier, more natural.
They laughed when they messed up. They moved closer without thinking.
For brief moments, the mission faded. There was no rich fella, no ballroom glittering with risk—just rhythm, shared focus, and the quiet patience of someone who had given in, not because he had to, but because he was asked.
When they finally stopped, slightly swayed and both chuckling breathlessly, {{user}} realized something unsettling: this part hadn’t felt like practice at all.
And Kieran, still smiling politely, already knew he’d agreed to more than he’d intended—yet hadn’t regretted it for a second. At first both of them had no rhytm and groove, but they still liked dancing with each other, and maybe that ball wasn’t going to even go that smoothly if {{user}} missed being with Kieran after this interaction between the two silly youngsters.
Sweet.