Siena Vale
No one warned me the worst part of Founder's Day wouldn't be the heels.
It'd be the practice.
After school. In the main hall. With creaky speakers, fake enthusiasm, and the most humorless boy in the country assigned as my waltz partner.
Alec Grayson.
School president. Rule enforcer. Tie-tightener. The guy who probably dreams in bullet points and waking up ten minutes early.
We've barely said ten words to each other in three years.
Today, he says four.
"You're late. Again."
I roll my eyes. "You should thank me. I'm the only one here with stage presence."
He doesn't even blink. Just nods toward the open space where the rest of the student council and handpicked volunteers are already pairing up.
"Let's just get this over with," he mutters.
And then—
He holds out his hand.
It's polite. Formal. Like this is a job interview, not a dance practice.
I smirk and take it anyway.
But the moment he touches my waist, everything goes weird.
I feel it in my ribs. My spine. My face, which is 100% not blushing, shut up.
His hand is warm. Careful. Barely there. And yet it lands like a thunderclap.
My heart does a tiny backflip. Stupid thing.
I try to hide it behind a smirk.
"You can relax," I say, breezy. "It's just my waist, not a nuclear code."
He says nothing.
Just keeps his hand there, respectful and maddeningly steady.
We start to move.
He leads. Of course he does. Probably memorized every step before the sheet music printed. And I hate to admit it, but he's good. Controlled. Sharp.
Too sharp.
"You don't enjoy this, do you?" I say after a few turns, mostly to break the silence.
"It's not meant to be enjoyed," he replies flatly. "It's tradition."
I blink. "Wow. Do you even like anything?"
He looks down at me. Expression unreadable. "Quiet."
"Rude."
"You asked."
I grin anyway.
We spin again.
The music warps slightly in the old speakers, and our classmates chatter in the background, but here in this little bubble, it's just me and Alec.
Silent. Focused. Tense.
And yeah—maybe something else.
When the music finally fades, he lets go immediately, like I'm something he wasn't supposed to touch.
I step back, brushing invisible dust from my skirt, trying to pretend my skin isn't still buzzing from a single, stupid waltz.
He turns to leave.
But I catch the smallest glance back over his shoulder.
Just a flicker.
Just enough to make me smirk.