𝑬𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝑺𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝑵𝒆𝒘 𝒀𝒐𝒓𝒌 {𝑯.𝑺}

Chapter Forty One | Dance Lessons And Ikea

"Harry watch this!"

"Harry, look!"

"Did you see what I just did? Cool right?"

"Watch me, not her!"

I guess I hadn't thought this plan entirely through.

We were currently at my dance studio, struggling to control the excited buzz as my students fawned over Harry. They were out of control, doing new tricks and techniques that they refused to do whenever I previously asked. Yet, now that Harry was here, they all seemed to have enough courage to try them. If I wasn't so flustered, I would have found this situation comical. But I didn't.

My students worshipped him like he was a God descending from the holy heavens. I hadn't seen them so loyal-so desperate for attention and approval-in a long time.

"Okay, everyone. Please give him space." I said, pulling Harry away from them. They pouted like the starstruck teenagers that they were, looking at me with disappointment.

"Sorry about this," I mumbled sheepishly, glancing up at Harry. "I don't know why I thought this would be a good idea."

"No, no, It's okay." He reassured, sending me a smile. "I've always wanted to see this part of your life."

I nodded, glancing at the room around us. My walls were plastered with poster boards and pictures, all dance related; mostly consisting of me and my kids.

This room was where I found solace. I always felt excited whenever I was given an opportunity to teach a new class. Right now, we were knee deep in competition season, so I hadn't been able to teach new material in a while. I was already starting to become burned out by a few of our competition pieces, but I knew that we'd be able to switch things up in due time.

"Is this you?" Harry asked, snapping me out of my thoughts. I hadn't even realized that he walked away from me. He was staring at a wall full of pictures right behind my desk.

I trudged over to him, gazing at the photograph in question.

It was a recital of mine a few years ago, during my last year of college. It had been my favorite picture of that night.

The photographer managed to catch me in the midst of my tilt drop, right leg extended as my arms stretched out above me. The costume I wore was a sequined maroon unitard with a cut out on the back. My face was painted with stage makeup, heavy and bright under the lights.

"Wow." Harry murmured, staring at the picture longer than necessary. "You didn't tell me that you were this talented."

I laughed. "It's only a picture, Harry."

"I can tell by strength in that pose." He titled his head slightly, looking at it from a different angle. "The passion on your face."

A warmth spread in my chest at his words. I was a mediocre dancer. My instructors didn't care me for me much when it came to technique. In college, most of my peers had been studio dancers their entire life, so I had a lot to make up for.

But I also had passion and raw talent, which my instructors loved.

I performed their theatrical pieces because it was easy to lose myself in them. I completely embodied my characters, from feisty mistress to a smitten lover.