After hours of being stuck in a room with the second eldest Hawthorne, you were a little tired of him. Him, and his stupid, cocky demeanor. His confidence. And his hair. And the way his eyes would glitter in the light—anyway.

As the three of you—Grayson, and Odette, and you—stepped into the ballroom, you were suddenly assaulted by the memories of you dancing on stage as a child.

Grayson said something about that and it snapped you out of your flashback.

“I don’t dance anymore.” You said, fiddling with the fabric of your ball gown.

“You never stopped dancing,” Grayson said behind you. “Every time you move, you dance.”

“It’s there in the way you hold your head, like there’s music the rest of us can’t hear.” Grayson Hawthorne was a natural debater. “Every step you take, every twist, every turn, every pissed-off whirl.”

He could have stopped there. He didn’t.

“The way you stand,” he continued mercilessly, “one foot slightly in front of the other. The way you lift your heels off the ground when you’re deep in thought, like it’s everything you can do not to rise all the way to the tips of your toes. The spread of your fingers when your hands hang loose by your side. The lines of your body when you stretch those hands overhead.”

“Believe me, {{user}} Kane.” Grayson’s voice was deeper now. “You never stopped dancing.”