"I can’t believe we’re actually doing this" - Jonsa
Jon was furious.
“Sansa! This is not a beginner class!”
Sansa had talked him into the “four weeks free” offer her dance studio had for salsa classes.
He’d agreed because his Wednesday nights were open, now that his LSAT class was over. He could “use the break” as his gorgeous, red-headed, completely platonic roommate kept reminding him.
Also, honestly, because the thought of being close to her made his head swim.
In the good way.
At least he thought it was the good way, until he’d stepped onto the “floating bamboo floor”, whatever that was. He heard the teacher rattle off a rapid-fire eight count and realized he was coming in at the middle of a four-week session, not the beginning.
And these people definitely knew how to dance.
The teacher was a stunner too - a lithe and striking man with muscles defined in places Jon didn’t even know existed.
Sansa nudged him. “See, the teacher’s as short as you!”
“You are not helping,” he hissed.
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The teacher invited all of them to face the mirror, and Jon got a look at how out of place he seemed. T shirt, black jeans, sneakers with rubber soles the teacher had let slide for today. All the girls were in skirts and strappy heels and the guys were wearing dress shoes. Jon had heard some mention of “crepe soles” and knew he was in way over his head.
The teacher was joking that “as you all know, I had to learn how to dance to make up for the fact that I’m short and ugly.”
Jon got the sense it was a line he used a lot. All the girls in their skirts and high heels tittered. The guys did not.
Actually, you’re handsome as fuck, plus you can dance, asshole, Jon thought.
Sansa squeezed his hand discretely. “Stop glaring at the teacher,” she whispered.
Jon felt genuine fear when the combos started. Cross body leads with inside turns. Multiple spins into “C” dips, whatever those were. The class took it all in organically and couples started to move.
“Sansa, really, I can’t-”
“You can, Jon.”
“But I don’t how how to lead!”
“So I’ll back lead you,” she said with a shrug that made her cotton shirt drop off one shoulder.
Not helping my concentration here, Jon thought.
“What does that even mean, Sansa?”
“You get to pretend you have all the experience. You’ll look like you’re leading. But just pay attention to the tug of my hands.”
“Is this that rubber band stuff the teacher mentioned when the class started?”
“Jon.” Sansa had her Serious Face on. “Try it. Give me your hand.”
They finally found the right level of tension. They weren’t yanking each other across the room. They didn’t have what the instructor had called “noodle arms” either - no connection at all.
“So you feel it?” Sansa looked at him shyly.
Her hands were warm and soft in his and he did feel it, that level of give that was enough for him to figure out what she was trying to get him to do.
He nodded. His mouth was dry.
“All right, when I step back you step forward. It’ll look like you’re leading me.”
The class thankfully started with a slow number and he got the basic rhythm down. He still had to count under his breath, but Sansa didn’t mind.
It might have been his first class, but it was Sansa’s second year of dancing, and she did, in fact, make him look like he knew what he was doing. So much so that some of the other girls were giving him approving glances.
She felt good, too, this close to him. Very good. He had to focus on counting to keep from getting wrapped up in how beautiful she was when she danced. She was flushed, with a few strands of hair clinging to her neck. Her blue eyes were a shade darker when she concentrated and-
“Ow! Pay attention, Jon!”
“Sorry,” he muttered. He’d managed to step on her foot but she gave him a decisive tug and soon they were into the flow of the dance again.
Sansa had told him she loved following, because it gave her a chance to let go of her “usual bossy self” and just feel the music. The guy did all the work of planning the next moves. Jon felt bad that Sansa had to play both roles here - leading him while looking like she was following.
The teacher clapped his hands at the end of the song.
“Okay everybody rotate!”
Jon froze as people started to mill around.
“Sansa, there’s no way-”
“Let me handle it.”
The next guy came over for her, a tall, blond fellow who’d seemed adept at spinning his partners. He was ready to take Sansa’s hand.
“Oh I’m sorry,” Sansa said over her shoulder with a smile. “We’’re a dedicated couple, can you skip over us?” The guy didn’t look happy but he walked on.
Dedicated couple.
“What does that mean?” Jon asked cautiously.
Sansa shrugged. “Just that we’re a couple who goes out dancing together and we’re here to practice with each other.”
Jon wasn’t quite sure what to say to that.
“Are you complaining, Jon?” Sansa looked irritated.
“No, no,” he said, though he had a dozen questions running through his head. The music began again.
Before he knew it, the class was over and everyone was swigging from their water bottles. Sansa offered him hers and he took it gratefully.
When they stepped into the hallway, Sansa greeted dancers she knew who were on their way to other classes.
There sure was a lot of hugging and kissing on the cheek in the salsa community, Jon thought.
The two of them finally made it to the lobby. Jon sat on the red velvet couch next to Sansa while she changed her shoes. She knew what crepe soled shoes were, and owned a pair.
Apparently they came with their own bag.
Jon felt a twinge of inadequacy as she gracefully slipped on her sandals. He still had the same old sneakers on.
“Why bother Sansa?” He blurted. “Why bother with this?”
She looked up at him. She seemed genuinely hurt.
“We don’t have to come back, Jon. I just thought you might like it.” She’d slung her bag over her shoulder and looked perfectly at home in the lobby of the studio.
“I mean, why bother with me? There’s a bunch of guys in there ready to dance with you, really dance with you, they’re naturals at this.”
Sansa busied herself with the strap of her sandal. Jon tried not to notice how long her legs were.
He failed. Miserably.
“Maybe I’d rather dance with you,” she said.
“Even if you have to lead me the whole time?”
“You got better at the end,” she murmured.
He had. He’d even spun her around a few times all on his own. He’d felt inordinately proud of himself.
“But why?”
Sansa pushed strands of hair away from her forehead.
“God, you’re stubborn. Fine. Because you’re frustrating and annoying and you bug the crap out of me sometimes-”
This is not headed where I thought it would go, Jon thought.
“But…” She bit her lip. That was even more distracting than her shirt slipping off her shoulder.
“I trust you, Jon. You won’t get grabby, the way these guys sometimes can. You won’t yank me too hard. It’s tough, to find a partner who respects you. Who isn’t just out to spin you around a zillion times and leave you dizzy.”
“I’m not sure I could spin you around that many times.”
Sansa smiled at him and he saw it, then, the softness in her eyes. He’d missed it before but there it was, plain as day. His stomach did a slow flip.
“I know,” she said. “Not yet. But you could, eventually. And you wouldn’t, because you’d stop first. Which is why I trust you. Like I said.”
She was going out on a limb for him here. And he probably owed her an answer.
“I’d come back, if you wanted, Sansa. I’d try.”
“You promise not to complain about me pretending we’re a dedicated couple?”
“No. I can live with that.” More than live with it, he thought. I like it. But he didn’t want to get ahead of himself. Or her.
Or them. If there was a them now?
“Jon, you’re overthinking. I can hear you from across the couch.” Sansa smirked at him.
“Hey, I’ve got an exam in a month. I’m entitled to overthink.”
Sansa hesitantly took his hand. “Can you…not overthink here? Maybe we could just dance?”
He swallowed. He wasn’t sure there was any “just” dancing with Sansa. At least not as far as he was concerned. But he wasn’t going to spoil the moment.
“Sure. Yeah. So this is every week?”
Sansa nodded. “Same time, same place. You might have to do a little catch up. It’ll be a good breather for you when you’re studying. We can take five minutes and dance in the kitchen. You know. For practice.”
Of course. Like completely platonic roommates do. “Right. Sounds like a plan.”
***
Three weeks later, he mustered up the courage to tuck her hair behind her ear, at the end of a “practice” session next to the dishwasher. As she leaned in to kiss him, he decided he was grateful, after all, to the short dance teacher with the bad jokes. Because if it weren’t for him, Sansa Stark wouldn’t be sighing into his mouth and holding onto his shoulders.
Then he forgot everything except for how soft her lips were and how he had the chance, again, to see her eyes turn that darker shade of blue. Turns out, he’d learned, the change meant she was happy, not just that she was concentrating.
And that was, by far, his favorite fact of the year.
