She’s leaning it. Red lips close – so tantalising close it’s fucking taunting her and it’s fucking unfair. So fucking unfair. Because her heart’s pounding, her hands are already on her hips and her throat is so dry it could be a fucking desert.
And it’s so fucking unfair because this is not how it’s supposed to go, and how can her body just betray her like that, just give in to temptation wrapped in a black dress and with positively thirsty eyes?
South hated dance classes as a
child. Ballet, especially, was infuriating – she wasn’t allowed to run and
shout and jump but had to stand at the barre with everyone else, back straight,
chin up, arm just so. Every class
more rigid and structured than the last, until Quetlyn called her
“sausage-legs” and South punched her in the face. And, well, that was the end
of ballet classes.
(“Good job,” North had whispered
to her afterwards, so serious already at ten years old. Their parents had felt