They took the floor. She skated fast under the mirror ball, red wheels finding their old language.
"Coming through!" she called, laughing, because some lines were worth keeping like heirlooms that still worked.
Jake glided—mostly forward now, with backward flourishes when the music asked for swagger—and called back,
"Hey!"
She smirked over her shoulder.
"Keep up, satin."
He caught up, stubble and feathered hair and the grin that had learned humility without losing play.
"Satin's a classic."