“I have to get my water bottle” Lila said, her little chest puffed out with the importance of the mission. “Carson, you stay here.”

The heavy door shut behind her, the hinge sighing with a slow, deliberate hiss. The scent of the place rolled over him in a familiar wave; a cocktail of rosin, old wood polish, and the faint but offending scent of mixed perfumes.

Carson rolled his eyes. Blake was supposed to pick her up but he ended up working over time at the hospital and Carson had been voluntold. He leaned against the nearest surface— one of the bars that ran along the wall— and fished his phone from the pocket of his jeans. He flipped it open with a practiced snap of his wrist.

The screen was a tiny, luminous rectangle, enveloping his face in its pale blue glow up. He squinted, thumb jabbing at the rubberized buttons to pull up a new message from Reese.

From: Reese Pizza pretzels at the mall? u can bring Lila :D

Carson snorted, a breathy sound, and typed back. A series of plastic clicks echoed in the room’s sudden, near-total silence.

The sound of someone clearing their throat finally lifted Carson’s head. He hadn’t seen them come in but he could see them now, from the corner of his eye. They were standing in the middle of the floor, near the center of the room.

Valemont. They had it written all over them. From the way they held themselves to the expensive looking pointe shoes they wore. Far more expensive than the ones he and Blake had gotten Lila.

An automatic, almost reflexive wave of annoyance washed over him.

Carson’s gaze lingered on the polished wooden floor between them for a moment, unreadable, then he went back to his phone. He didn't move, a statue propped against the wall. His shoulder, however, was angled just so. A casual, thoughtless lean that effectively blocked their view of the enormous floor-to-ceiling mirror they’d been aiming for.

His focus stayed glued to the little blue screen. The quiet taps of his thumb on the keypad were the only sound, a rhythmic counterpoint to the faint, far-off shouts from a few rooms over.

He heard another clearing of someone’s throat, this one more pointed.

Typical, he thought, entitled to everything.

Carson’s thumb stilled. He didn't turn. He didn't acknowledge them directly. He just tilted his head in the barest, laziest of gestures towards the empty, unblocked mirror on the opposite wall.

“Three more walls in here, man,” he mumbled, not even looking up. The words were aimed at the floor. “Pick one.”

Ballet.

Lila had brought the flyer two years ago and Carson watched Blake give in with the same resigned energy he’d had since becoming a guardian. He thought it was a phase; he figured it would pass like all the others, like singing and guitar lessons and the week she’d insisted on being called “Luna.” But it stuck.

Two years later, Carson sat in the folding chair he always saved for himself, the one two rows back from the front but angled toward the right side of the stage. The Christmas recital was a circus of glitter and hairspray and frantic parents with camcorders. The stage lights were hot, even from here. They painted everything in a syrupy gold that made the dust motes in the air look like tiny, dancing stars.

As soon as the music swelled, all the noise in the auditorium disappeared. There was only the piano and the small line of girls in blue, moving in sync. He saw Lila instantly. Third from the left. Not the tallest, not the shortest, but the only one who looked truly, unselfconsciously happy.

KRR-CHKT!

A bright flash illuminated the space around him, making several people turned to glare. Parker, who held a digital camera up to his face, lowered it with a proud grin. “Got it.”

Carson sighed, “The sign said no flash photography.”

“No, it said discouraged.” Parker plopped into the seat beside him, camera still hanging around his neck.

“Shhh” Reese, wedged between them, elbowed them both.

“Are you crying?” Carson leaned around Reese, eyebrows raised.

“No, my eyes just burn.”

Skyler, on Carson’s other side, was the only one watching the stage. His focus was fixed and silent. On stage, a new line of dancers joined. All much older, in black leotards and sheer skirts for the girls. The mood of the performance shifted. The piano became sharper, more intense. And then one of them stepped forward, and Carson’s brain just kind of... stopped working

It was them. The one from the argument. The way they moved was different. Completely. The person he’d argued with in the ballet studio had been a static annoyance, a problem in his peripheral. This person was... good.

Their moves were liquid, but controlled. A flow of muscle and bone that looked both impossible and effortless. They turned, a single, perfect pirouette that seemed to go on for an impossible length of time, their leg extended, body a tight, coiled spring of energy.

Carson stared, utterly captivated, before he scoffed.“Show off,” he muttered. He didn’t realize he’d said it out loud until Skyler looked over at him.

“What?”

Carson shook his head, forcing his eyes back to Lila.

---

Backstage was chaos. Parents rushed to hug their children, dancers in various stages of glitter and exhaustion milled around, and the director shouted instructions that no one was listening to.

Carson had to weave through it all, dodging a runaway child and a spilled bag of sequins. He found Lila by the costume rack, already pulling off her itchy blue dress. Her face was pink from exertion and joy.

“You were amazing,” he crouched down, handing her the sweatshirt he’d brought.

“I messed up the turn,” she said, though she was beaming.

“No one noticed,” he promised.

“I did” She wrestled her arms into the sleeves, “did you see the others? In black? I wanna be like them when I grow up.”

As he zipped it up for her, a different kind of warmth settled beside them. Carson looked up, and saw them— again. They were standing there, holding a pair of pointe shoes.

“{{user}}!” Lila beamed, “did you see? I did the arabesque perfect!”

“C’mon! Reese, I’ll get you a whole pizza, dude” Parker’s voice was a strained wheeze, a high-pitched attempt at persuasion. “Just walk with me?”

From the back seat came a wet, shuddering laugh. Reese was a sprawl of limbs, melted into the leather upholstery. “Nuh-uh,” he mumbled, the word dissolving into a giggle against the window. “Can’t feel my feet, Park. They’re in another car. Possibly another state.”

“No way I’m going up to some rich person’s door,” Skyler chimed in from the passenger seat, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. He stared at the manicured lawns rolling by outside, each one a perfect green rectangle under the streetlamps. “It’s creepy. They probably have rituals.”

Carson let the ancient sedan roll to a stop in front of a house that didn’t look real. It was all warm yellow light and big, dark windows, with rose bushes crawling up white lattice. Everything was too clean. Even the air felt different here—thicker, perfumed with fertilizer and money instead of exhaust and corner store pizza grease.

Parker groaned, digging in the pocket of his baggy jeans. “This is simple. Door. Money. Bye.” He held up a small, crumpled paper bag. “Don’t make me go alone. It’s a party full of Valemont kids.”

“I’m not going,” Skyler stated again, flatly. “You’re the businessman. This is your job.”

“Reese?”

Reese’s only response was a soft snore.

With a sigh that seemed to take all the air out of the car, Carson shifted the car into park, the engine settling into a weary rumble. He didn’t look at anyone, just stared at the glowing porchlight. He pushed the door open, the old hinges groaning in protest, and the scent of floral lawns hit him, so sweet it was almost sickening. He slammed the door shut harder than he meant to, the echo bouncing off the pristine siding.

Parker scrambled out after him. “You’re a life saver. A hero. A legend,” he whispered as they approached the looming front door.

Parker pressed the doorbell. A deep, resonant chime echoed through the house, nothing like the tinny buzz of Carson’s own home. The silence that followed was heavy.

Carson shoved his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, feeling the frayed lining and a stray guitar pick. He could see Parker’s knuckles were white, clenched around the little paper bag. The porchlight made a halo of Parker’s messy brownhair, caught the faint sheen of sweat on his upper lip.

“Why are you so nervous? You make drops all the time,” Carson muttered, not looking at him. His gaze was fixed on a flawless garden gnome standing sentinel by a cluster of hydrangeas. It wore a tiny, painted-on smile.

“They don’t usually have big scary parties with cars I can’t pronounce,” Parker whispered back.

The deadbolt clicked. The door swung open, not onto Parker’s nervous face, but directly onto Carson’s.

It was them. {{user}}. The infuriating ballet dancer that seemed to be everywhere since their argument in the studio. The one whose existence infuriated him but had also captivated him at Lila’s Christmas recital.

“The fuck,” Carson breathed, the words just a puff of air between them. This was the third time he’d seen them in less than a week; first the argument in the studio, second at the recital, and now. Here.

Parker, ever the opportunist, saw only a client. He thrust the crumpled bag forward, past Carson’s shoulder. “Twenty-five,” he said, all business, his squeak of a voice suddenly gone, replaced by a flat confidence that was startling to witness. “It’s all there.”