In the mirror, Heather watches a smile steal across Alejandro’s face. “Mucho mejor, mi amor," he praises softly. “Not a single misstep, and you finally started to sell the drama, too.”
Heather doesn’t respond. Her eyes are glued to their reflections. His hand still rests on her hipbone, but she can hardly feel the pressure of it through the fabric of her sweatpants. As she imagines Alejandro easily slipping his hand underneath the waistband, her tongue swipes along her bottom lip.
— the truth is just a rule that you can bend (dancing with our hands tied, c14)









