The dance studio emptied. Lights dimmed to evening mode.
“You still don’t trust your balance,” she said.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re guarded.”
She stepped behind me, hands settling on my hips to adjust stance — firm, precise, lingering a second longer than instruction required.
“Dancing,” she murmured near my ear, “is guided surrender.”
“I thought it was technique.”
“That’s what beginners think.”
She turned me to face her without removing her hands.
“Follow,” she said softly — and didn’t move.
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